Maistre’s investigations into the career of the SIG had so far not been conclusive, except in discovering that the proper series number had not been recorded on the list of exhibits from the grocery holdup. That was why he’d had trouble locating it. The number recorded by the police differed from that used in court. In the paperwork of criminal justice and the police, the weapon no longer existed. Maistre had never seen such a disappearing act.
This was also why he had decided to take his time, and avoid arousing colleagues’ suspicions. Because one of them was involved in this story, and sooner or later he knew that he would find him.
Late in the afternoon, the Baron was driving through the sweltering heat of the Vaccarès reserve. Texeira had called him: the voices had returned.
Along the banks of the lagoon, there was an overwhelming smell of dead algae and dried-up slime. Every available space along the road was occupied by a mobile home or caravan. Some holidaymakers were Dutch, others were German, with red thighs and faces consumed by the sun.
He turned onto the road to La Capelière before parking the 205 between two tourist coaches.
The reed bed was rustling in the furnace. The tips of the reddened canes swayed almost imperceptibly, moved by an invisible breeze.
Texeira was standing in the middle of a group. He was handing out brochures and visitors’ guides to the reserve. When he looked up, he saw de Palma waving at him.
“I’m coming, I’m coming …”
De Palma signaled him to take his time, before retreating from the sun into the ecology museum. Texeira joined him a few minutes later.
“Good afternoon, M. de Palma. I’m up to my neck right now. But come to my office in five minutes’ time and we can talk.”
The Baron decided to explore the museum a little. He had a good look at an exhibit showing the composition of the flora in the marshes. He had had no idea that there were so many different species of plants, and especially algae.
When he had finished, he bought a plan of the reserve, a brochure about the birds of the Camargue and an ordnance survey map of the area.
Texeira was in his office looking through his binoculars when the Baron appeared in the doorway.
“We’ve now got all the time we need. I suppose you’re here about the voices.”
“That’s right.”
The biologist stowed away the Petri dishes that were scattered over the draining board. Then he placed both his hands on his binoculars.
“I heard voices. It was past one o’clock. They were coming from the far side of the marsh, from around the old hut. There were voices and footsteps.”
“And what were they saying, these voices?”
“It’s very hard to say!”
“Why?”
“Because I think it was in Provençal, or something like that.”
“Provençal?”
“Yes, they said: La Tarasco, la Tarasco … Lou Castéou. The Tarasque, in other words. That much I understood. And it does sound like Provençal, don’t you think? The rest, I can’t tell you. I just can’t remember.”
“One voice or several?”
“I think there were two, because one was high and the other lower.”
“Did Steinert mention these voices to you?”
“No, why?”
Texeira sat down on a swivel-chair. He folded his arms and raised his shoulders.
“I did say I’d keep you informed. But I don’t see what can be important about all this. There are just some idiots who come here to kick up a din at night. There are so many loonies around these days.”
“Another thing: why didn’t you tell me right away that you knew Steinert well?”
“I was cross with myself afterward. I was being selfish. I didn’t want any trouble, that’s all. Anyway, what I know about him is quite irrelevant.”
The Baron gestured broadly to tell him to stop making excuses.
“Tell me about him instead. What was he like?”
Texeira took off his glasses and started to clean the lenses with the lapels of his white coat.
“He was a very impressive character, even if you didn’t quite know who he was. When he turned up here in the evening, before bivouacking in the marshes, he used to speak about all sorts of things and—how can I put it?—he was radiant. He had a presence, with quite exceptional magnetism. A great, very great man …”
“You seem to have respected him.”
“We had the same opinions about ecology, the protection of animals …”
“Meaning?”
“He thought, like me, that we can’t ignore the human factor, that ecology is a whole, and that protecting nature also means protecting a region’s cultural and human heritage. I know that he fought hard for that, especially when it came to archaeology. He was always up in arms against this or that mayor of some town in the backwoods of Provence. If wanted to, he had the means to make their lives difficult, but he always preferred to negotiate. He was a good listener. When I spoke to him, he attended to what I said as though he was a student. It was rather impressive when you bear in mind that he was a real capitaine of industry in his country.”
“Do you know his wife?”
“No. In fact, he never mentioned her.”
“But she says that she’s met you!”
“Honestly, I don’t remember that.”
“You mentioned his campaigns. Could you tell me anything more about that, or give me some examples?”
“That will be hard, he was quite discreet about his concrete actions. But I do know that he forced the gendarmes to investigate the world of seasonal workers. There are loads of illegal immigrants around here. It’s a real form of slavery.”
De Palma leaned against the bookcase, and a dark gleam lit up his face.
“Did he come here alone?”
“Yes, always alone. He would park his huge 4×4 beside my car then come up to see me. But he never came here when there was a crowd.”
“Did you ever wonder why?”
“I asked him and he told me that he didn’t like the company of tourists. They were what he hated the most.”
De Palma went over to the window and looked out at the marshes.
“M. Texeira, do you still have my phone number?”
“Yes, of course. It’s in my diary.”
“If you ever hear these voices again, call me at once.”
“O.K. As you want. Is it that important?”
“I don’t know. But I do think that it’s far more important than you imagine.”
The Baron wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
“Are you here every night at that time?”
“Yes, usually.”
“And are you asleep then?”
“I never go to bed before about half-past one or two.”
“Now, could you show the place where these voices were coming from?”
“Follow me.”
On the path that ran beside the reed bed, the earth was as hard as old cement, and covered in cracks despite the recent rain. Texeira strode ahead rapidly. From time to time, he glanced toward the creek.
“The level is going down,” he said, pointing at the water which was frothing like detergent.
They entered a clump of ash trees. Texeira turned left, went up some wooden steps that were hidden among the trees and vanished into a hide. Panting, de Palma did likewise.
“Here we are. The voices came from the far side of the marsh. Over there, in that large reed bed.”
“What exactly did you hear?”
“As I told you, two voices, some words in Provençal, and some noises.”
“What sort of noises?”
“Splashing, the sound of feet in water …”
“And then?”
“That’s all. They sang, then everything stopped.”
“They sang?”
Texeira looked annoyed by the officer’s avalanche of questions.
“Yes, so what?” he said with a sigh.
“Look, M. Texeira, you hear voices in a place where no one can go, then you tell me that people were singing, and after that, that there were sounds of splashing … and all this subsequent to someone being found dead on your reserve in extremely suspicious circumstances. You also forget to tell me that you knew this person. Do you see now why I’m asking questions?”
“I’m sorry, M. de Palma, really I am, but I thought these kinds of detail wouldn’t really interest you, and then I didn’t want to have to deal with you.”
“How can someone get over there?”
“Actually, I’ve never been there and don’t see how anyone could without getting soaked.”
“In a boat, perhaps?”
“We’ll take the reserve’s punt.”
The marsh was a good hundred meters wide by two hundred long. It lay amid practically virgin territory, which seemed to be returning to life as the sun set.
At the far side of the pool, an egret took flight, slapping the surface of the water with the tips of its wings.
Texeira stood up in the flat-bottomed punt and pushed with a long pole, which sank deep into the silt, making wide brown stains in the greenish water.
In under five minutes, they arrived at the edge of the reed bed. De Palma made to stand up, but Texeira stopped him short.
“Watch out, there’s quicksand around here. Let’s look for a patch of solid earth then move slowly. If you see any birds on the ground, try not to frighten them. They’ve taken up their quarters for the night.”
They crept around the reed bed in a northerly direction. Texeira tested the ground on the bank, meter by meter. It was only after a hundred meters that the punt touched bottom.
Texeira prodded a few more times, then nodded: they were now on a sand bank that emerged from the water in the middle of the reed bed.
When they leaped over board, de Palma laid his hand on Texeira’s shoulder.
“Thanks for all this. Now we’ll have to keep our eyes peeled. The slightest thing you find unusual, please show me.”
“No problem.”
“I’ll follow in your footsteps. Take your time, because you’ll probably notice things that I wouldn’t. I’m counting on you.”
Texeira advanced slowly. Soon they were standing in about ten centimeters of water. All around, the Baron observed hordes of creatures that were unknown to him. All around him, the marsh was crawling with life.
Suddenly, Texeira stopped.
“There are some footprints here.”
De Palma walked over and saw on a strip of earth that rose above the water the trace of a footprint: a man’s, with size eight or nine shoes. There was just one, because the person who left it must have walked through the water, just as they were doing now. A footprint made by a sole with crampons, and which was easily recognizable to a knowledgeable eye—Vibram soles.
“This is a real surprise,” Texeira said. “You can’t come here unless you really know the place well.”
De Palma regretted not having brought a camera with him. He removed a piece of paper from his pocket and stuck it on a reed stalk. Then he produced his notepad and made a rough sketch showing the direction of the foot: just about due north, according to Texeira’s indications.
“Let’s go on.”
“We can’t be that far from the hut.”
They walked on a few meters further. The reeds grew less dense and opened out onto a second marsh, smaller than the first. In the distance, a reed hut with rather dingy white walls stood on a mound of earth between two poplars.
“How many huts are there like this one?”
“Just two.”
“And have you ever been inside this one?”
“No, I must admit I haven’t. It’s silly, but that’s the way it is. One of my students went in last year. And he told me that there wasn’t much there. It’s just another hut. Also, it’s not in a very good position for observation. Ever since they’ve dammed the stream you saw earlier, the water has risen here and you can’t get to it by foot.”
“O.K.,” de Palma said. “Let’s try it anyway.”
“In that case, we’ll go back to the punt and carry it to here.”
Half an hour later, de Palma and Texeira set foot on the mound and went over to the hut. They walked all around it before going inside.
It was an oval room. In the middle stood an old table gnawed by wood lice. There were three chairs with broken straw seats, an ancient haversack and some glasses full of dust.
De Palma scrutinized every nook and cranny. The only thing of interest that he found were traces of a recent presence. Very recent, judging by the marks that could be seen, especially in the dust on the table.
The earth floor had been swept, and then the traces of the broom removed. When he bent down, he saw that it had been cleaned recently.
No more than three or four days ago, he thought.
Texeira called him from outside.
On the bank, the earth had been turned over and the sand below the water plowed up by someone or something.
“It’s as if a large animal has been blundering around.”
“Which would explain the sounds of splashing,” Texeira said, pointing at the marks.
“And you heard that noise the second time?”
“No, probably because I was further away. Or maybe because I didn’t pay attention.”
The traces on the bank were also recent. They went down into the water and vanished into the silt. And yet some hollow, wedgeshaped marks could still be seen. The water of the marsh had dug deeper around the marks.
De Palma noticed that on the bank everything that might have been recognizable had been wiped away. That much was clear.
A heron landed on a dead tree which was rocking on the gray waters. At that moment, the natural world quivered. On the tips of the reeds, a pink light glittered briefly. The sun was setting, in the distance, on the far bank of the Vaccarès.
“No, Michel, I can’t answer that! I don’t know if William was a freemason or not. He was very discreet about his private life. And don’t imagine that I was part of his private life.”
Mme. Steinert was agitated. Her hair was still damp. She had tied it up over her neck, and secured it with an ebony chopstick.
After leaving the Vaccarès, de Palma had gone to see her at La Balme. He had warned Maistre that he would be back late that night. Maistre had grumbled, Moracchini had thrown a fit of jealousy, and the Baron had done as he pleased.
“I’m sorry to disturb you for so little reason. I’ll go.”
“You’re not disturbing me, Michel. I want you to stay to dinner.”
“I’m afraid of upsetting you with all my questions.”
“Not at all. Don’t forget that I was the one who put you in this position.”
De Palma squirmed in his chair.
“Have you heard from Chandeler?”
“No, not since I decided to dispense with his services.”
“And may I ask why you decided to fire him?”
“Quite simply because he was too greedy. Too voracious. In fact, he only handled a tiny part of the family’s business.”
From her frown, de Palma guessed that Chandeler had probably tried his luck with her and had been turned down.
“Can you tell me more about the Downlands?”
“We could go for a stroll there.”
“But it’s nighttime!”
“Then we’ll go tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“That is, if you agree to sleep over at the farmhouse. There’s plenty of room to spare, you know.”
All the Baron did in answer was to gaze up at the white dry stone walls pierced by little windows. The house had three floors. On the top one, a few of the windows glowed in the darkness. They must be the servants’ quarters.
“Did you ever wonder why your husband was so determined to keep this place as it is?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Why he didn’t want to change anything, or hardly anything?”
The question had caught her unawares. She seemed almost upset, as though he had just made her realize that she had never really worried about her husband’s strange behavior.
“I don’t know. I think that he was very concerned about authenticity.”
“There was more to it than that.”
Her turquoise eyes peered at him cautiously. Then, slowly, she picked up a cigarette, placed it in her lips and flicked open her lighter.
“It’s because William was the son of the house’s former owner, Mme. Maurel.”
Ingrid put her lighter down slowly, and looked at him hard. Clearly, she had not known the truth. She looked away. He saw that her eyes were shining.
“I didn’t want to shock you, but I think I owe you the truth.”
She undid her hair and let it tumble down, still damp, onto her golden shoulders. Then she folded her hands over her chest with a gesture of self-protection and squeezed hard.
“I’m not blaming you. That was the real problem with William. He hid so much from me. I think you can now understand … life with him wasn’t easy.”
She stood up and paced toward the swimming pool. Her dark shadow undulated over the blue surface.
“It was Bérard who told you that, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“He knows a lot of things about my husband.”
“Yes, it would seem so. I think you should go and see him.”
Suddenly, she looked fragile. She trembled. A wrinkle appeared on her forehead. She stubbed out her cigarette.
“I … stay here tonight, Michel. This … this isn’t an invitation, it’s a demand. Do me this service …”
“I don’t want you to consider it as a service.”
“In my world … I mean, in my … Um … I feel really clumsy this evening.”
She put her hand back onto her cigarette case and took out another, which she lit and dragged on deeply. De Palma realized that he did not like seeing her smoke. It made her seem too familiar. He looked away.
“One day, I was summoned to what we call the scene of the crime. It was years ago. When I’d just joined the force. I was in Paris. And I can remember it like it was yesterday.
“Her name was Isabelle Mercier. She was sixteen. Blond … a beautiful girl. Or rather, I didn’t know that till later, if you see what I mean. When I saw the photos and films that her father agreed to show us.
“I’ve searched for a long time. A very long time. Without ever letting up. I have entire books full of notes and statements. Ever since, I’ve been out to get the person who made her suffer what she went through … And I might die like this! But I’ll never stop searching. I’ll construct a thousand different scenarios. I may never find the right one, but that’s just too bad. You know, it’s rather like an endless quest.”
She drew heavily on her cigarette then stubbed it out in the ashtray.
“She looked like you, Ingrid. The resemblance is terrible. Terrible.”
“Stop it, Michel, you’re scaring me.”
She crossed the living room then stopped in a doorway that presumably led to what she called her “private domain.”
“Goodnight, Michel. You’ll find your room on the first floor, opposite the lounge you’re already familiar with. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She let her arm drop down beside her, then vanished into her own quarters.
Morini tried to lift himself up on his arms, but failed. His muscles had melted away. His legs were barely responding any longer.
He remembered the voices that he had heard the day before, or just now. This morning or last night. It made no difference.
The voices had been so distant it was as if they were being filtered through thick layers of cotton. He remembered yelling out, but he wondered if his voice had not remained stuck to his lips, or in the depths of his burning throat.
After that, he had drunk his urine and his thirst had eased off for a while. But only for a while. Before long, an acidic slime had built up in his mouth and on the edge of his tongue.
But he could clearly remember the voices. One had said: “Everything’s been cleaned up here,” or something like that. And the other one: “There are still some traces in the water.” They were two men who did not know each other very well, to judge by the way they spoke.
Of that he was sure.
He fell asleep, exhausted by this effort of recall. An enormous racket woke him up. A sound of splashing in the water, just on the other side of his prison wall.
And then a song surged up into the darkness. As high-pitched as a child’s voice.
“Lagadigadeu, la tarasco, lagadigadeu …”
And then a second, far deeper voice. Like the cry of a farmer calling in his herd.
“Laïssa passa la vieio masco … Laïssa passa que vaï dansa …”
The two voices then blended into a strange duet:
“La tarasco dou casteu, la tarasco dou casteu …”
This chant brought back fond memories. It was the song that the Knights of the Tarasque sang when pushing their papier-mâché monster through the streets of Tarascon, before charging the terrified crowd.
And him, Morini, in the pure white uniform of the Knights, with a musketeer’s hat. He had been a little boy the first time he had seen the Tarasque, raised on tiptoe, his chin resting on the windowsill.
He swore that if he ever got out of this alive, then the amusement park would be named after the Tarasque. He was Le Grand. The person everyone listened to. Whom everyone obeyed.
He would have liked to remain a Knight of the Tarasque … if prison hadn’t interfered with his fate. Since he had left the monster, there had been a void in his life. That was why he had put so much effort into the Big South.
The park must carry the stamp of the monster. Or at least its image. With entertainments wholly devoted to it. His father would have liked that idea. Not his mother, but he did not care about that.
The ceiling of the prison opened suddenly. Earth fell down onto his face.
A fierce light struck his eyes like a slap. A superhuman force seized him and dragged him up into the dark sky.
De Palma woke early. The farmhouse was deserted. He went out onto the patio and savored the fading freshness of the morning. The farm workers had gathered around a huge tractor in the garage and were discussing the coming day’s work.
An intense light surged up between the breasts of the Alpilles. In under an hour, La Balme would be inside the furnace.
He looked at his watch and found that it had stopped during the night; it still said 11:30, the time he had gone to bed.
He took out his mobile, switched it on and found that he had nine messages. The recorded voice told him that the first message had been left at eighteen minutes past midnight.
“M. de Palma, Christophe Texeira. I’m sorry to bother you so late, but the voices are back again. Call me back as soon as you get this message.”
He cursed himself for having turned off his telephone while in Ingrid’s company.
He listened to the others. They were all from Texeira, who had tried to contact him all night at various times; the last message had been at 2:19 a.m.
He telephoned him back at once.
“I heard them around midnight.”
“Midnight?”
“Yes, that’s right. The same routine in Provençal again. But this time I had a great idea: I recorded them.”
“How’s the result?”
“Come and listen!”
De Palma did not wait to say goodbye to Mme. Steinert. He got into the 205 and made straight for La Capelière.
There was thunder in the air. Clouds were drifting up from the sea and gathering over the vast meadows of La Crau and the swamps of the Camargue.
When he turned into chemin de la Capelière, heavy drops exploded onto the Peugeot’s dusty bonnet.
Texeira was waiting in the little museum’s doorway. De Palma ran over to him.
“Good to see you, M. de Palma!”
“Good to see you too!”
“Let’s not waste any time, come inside.”
Texeira placed a small tape recorder on his desk, of the kind the Baron had often seen in old-fashioned listening devices.
“It’s a Nagra,” Texeira said with a hint of pride in his voice. “And here’s the magic microphone.”
He showed him a long mike, rather like the ones used by the police during stakeouts. It had SENNHEISER printed on its body in chrome letters.
“It’s old, but when used with this parabola the results are quite extraordinary. We use it to record birdsong.”
“Great,” said de Palma, who was losing his patience.
“An ancient piece of kit, but effective! And here’s what I recorded.”
He pressed “play.”
The first sounds were of footfalls and breathing. Like someone in a big hurry.
“That’s me, running to get as near to the voices as possible.”
Then, suddenly, the footsteps stopped … Texeira’s panting could still be heard, then nothing. The biologist had presumably turned the mike in the opposite direction.
“Here we go.”
At first, there was the sound of a heavy tread through fairly deep water. Someone or something was going through the marsh at a distance that de Palma couldn’t estimate. Then the sound stopped, just a faint splashing before the first voice started up. It was so sharp and strange that de Palma recoiled from the machine:
“Lagadigadeu, la tarasco, lagadigadeu …”
There was a loud noise of water, as though something was stirring in the depths of the swamp, followed by a second far deeper voice:
“Laïssa passa la vieio masco … Laïssa passa que vaï dansa …”
The two voices joined together like a terrifying choir in the middle of the night and the marshes.
“La tarasco dou casteu, la tarasco dou casteu …”
There were other sounds that de Palma could not really identify. It sounded like footsteps in mud, but he wasn’t sure.
The two voices rose again in the night.
“La tarasco dou casteu, la tarasco dou casteu …”
De Palma noticed that the two men had apparently moved; their voices had grown muffled. They had moved away from the mike, either going into the undergrowth or behind a wall.
“They went into the hut,” he exclaimed.
“You think so?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Hang on, the worst is yet to come.”
Texeira turned up the volume.
“This microphone can often pick up things that are inaudible to the human ear.”
There was a strangled cry. It was barely discernible, but de Palma knew it at once: the last screams of a man being put to death.
Texeira stopped the tape. His hand was trembling.
“That’s all. There’s nothing after that.”
“Can you play the last minute again?”
The Baron listened with his eyes closed. He mentally reconstructed the scene, as captured by the mike in the darkness of the swamp.
“Christophe, have you been back to the hut?”
“No, I remembered what you told me.”
“I think that you’ve just saved your life.”
“Really?”
“One hundred percent sure.”
Texeira looked him up and down.
“I suggest we take a look at the hut. Do you have time?”
“Not really. But I must admit that I’m dying with curiosity.”
For over an hour, the sea breeze had been driving the stink of the cellulose factory on the Rhône back up toward Tarascon.
Despite the few drops of storm rain, it was still hot. The heat seemed trapped in a bag that nothing could penetrate.
When he saw the crowd that had gathered, Marceau quickly wiped the sweat from his forehead. He had some trouble making his way through the onlookers before finally reaching the heavy doors of Saint Martha’s church.
The officer who opened them for him was looking suitably grim. Once inside, an old veteran whom Marceau had known from the territorial brigade pointed to where the action had happened.
At the far end of the apse, the forensic team had stretched a yellow tape across and placed a few markers. The gate leading to the crypt was open. Marceau noticed blue glimmers rising from the underground depths of the church: the technicians were using a CrimeScope to scan the scene on wavelengths invisible to the naked eye.
Marceau kept his distance, allowing the forensics team to finish its painstaking work.
“Oh, you’re here!” Larousse said, looking as rough as he always did when something important had happened. “We’ve managed to limit the damage in the press.”
“What have you told them?”
“That a visitor had discovered the lifeless body of a tourist, and for the moment the police are pursuing their investigations.”
“Why, isn’t that true?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“I was on leave yesterday.”
Larousse took Marceau by the arm and drew him to one side.
“It’s the same scenario as last time.”
“Christian Rey?”
Larousse nodded.
“The body was discovered by a visitor, just after opening time. A Danish tourist called Thomas Nielsen. But this time we’ve got a really big fish on our hands. Morini. How does that grab you?”
“Morini!”
“Indeed. After Rey, his lieutenant, we now have the boss himself. Who’s going to be next?”
“So you think we’ve got a serial killer on our hands?”
“What would you call it?”
Marceau glanced round at the crypt. Larousse turned toward him.
“Where are you at with Rey?”
“We’ve got the D.N.A. results.”
“And?”
“Unknown D.N.A. on the wounds.”
“And so?”
“So we have some totally unknown D.N.A.”
“What do you mean by that?” Larousse snapped.
“I mean that it is traces of saliva that were found.”
Larousse stared up toward the ceiling of the church. He took a deep breath.
“And you have made all the necessary comparisons with other D.N.A…. I don’t know, say …”
“Saliva on a wound generally indicates a bite.”
“Do you realize the size of the wound, Marceau?”
Jean-Claude raised his hands before letting them drop again.
“I called Nantes last night. They do very good work, but this time they have no idea. No idea at all.”
“What about the genetic records?”
“Nothing doing either. D.N.A. unknown.”
A member of the forensic team appeared in the entry to the crypt. He took off his gloves and mask and threw them into a yellow box. After that, he beckoned to Larousse and Marceau.
“Hi, Jean-Claude, how are things?”
“I’m getting by. How about you?”
“It’s not a pretty sight down there. Jesus, I’ve never seen anything like it!”
“Can we go down?”
“Right away. We’ve just finished.”
Larousse and Marceau put on their gloves and overshoes then walked through the Gothic door.
As they went down the steps, Marceau felt the stench grip his throat. He stopped and put on the gasmask that the technician held out to him.
“What a fucking stink.”
Larousse was behind Marceau and squinting over his mask, which gave him a pig’s snout.
A little lower down, the photographer was taking several pictures of a bloodstain on the railings of the tomb of the chevalier Jean de Cossa.
When they got to the crypt, Marceau stopped dead.
Morini’s body was placed in front of the sarcophagus that contained the remains of Saint Martha. His head lay with its left cheek pressed against the flagstones, looking toward the monument with bulging eyes. The bottom of his torso and his legs were missing. Marceau’s gaze was liquid and brimming with anger.
“Have you got anything to tell me?” he asked the technician.
“Sure, where would you like me to begin?”
“Tell me about the wound. I’ll read the report for the rest of it.”
“It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a wound like that,” the technician replied, shaking his head. “Just look.”
“You get the impression that the flesh has been torn away. The inner organs have gone. It’s a completely empty torso.”
Marceau pointed at a whitish gleam on the blood.
“And what’s that?”
“It looks like either saliva or sperm, I can’t tell yet. But I’d say it was saliva.”
Larousse was standing to one side and looking away from the body. Marceau stood up slowly and stared at Saint Martha laid out on her deathbed: her fine, delicate figure draped in marble. Her face was spattered with blood and her body crisscrossed with brown marks, as though the madman who had desecrated the shrine had tried to scratch the stone.
“The death certainly occurred last night. I think the body was left here early this morning. Probably between eight and nine o’clock.”
“Are you sure?”
“Almost. Some of the bloodstains aren’t quite dry yet.”
“Not coagulated?”
“Yes, coagulated, but not completely dry.”
“Which means that the body was brought here just after the murder. At most thirty or forty minutes later. Otherwise, the blood would already have coagulated and there wouldn’t be all these stains.”
“I completely agree.”
“Also, he transported it in a bag or something like that. There are no traces anywhere else.”
“Good point,” said Larousse. “So what’s your conclusion?”
“I don’t have one,” Marceau said, gravely. “Nothing at all. Morini must have been slaughtered not far from here, then his body was brought here and staged like this. Where’s the priest?”
“He’s in the sacristy. Delmastro is questioning him.”
“I want to see him at once.”
Above the saint’s head, the inscription Sollicita non turbatur had been crossed out with several streaks of blood.
“Sollicita non turbatur?” Marceau read. “Does anyone know what that means?”
“I lost my Latin years ago,” Larousse replied.
“But it seems to have meant something to him. Look at how he crossed out the words.”
“Whatever happens, not a word to the press for now,” said Larousse. “I don’t want to see a single hack in the vicinity.”
The Commissaire turned on his heels and went back upstairs. Marceau stepped back and observed the entire scene. This was a vision like none he had ever witnessed before. Morini had been left like a sacrifice at the feet of a saint who was particularly loved in Tarascon. This staging must contain the answer to this slaughter.
Back on the surface, Marceau tore off his mask and gloves.
“I’ve just had a call from the prosecutor,” Larousse told him. “This case is being given to the Police Judiciaire. There’s nothing more for us to do here.”
“I was expecting that.” Marceau cursed as he threw away the gloves.
“They’ll be here any moment now.”
“Who’s on it?”
“Moracchini. Plus someone I don’t know called Romero.”
“I know Moracchini, but not the other.”
“Sorry, Marceau, but this is too big for us. This is the second gangster we’ve found half eaten. We don’t have the resources for this kind of thing. The prosecutor’s right. It’s a case for the P.J. At least that way we’re in the clear.”
De Palma took an initial photograph of the sandbank, then a second of the thin band of earth that wove through the reed bed.
Texeira had lent him the digital camera that belonged to the reserve. The Baron checked the image, then walked on.
“Same principle as last time, Christophe. The slightest detail could be important. Even the smallest.”
Texeira stared at the ground and frowned. A quarter of an hour later, they were standing in front of the footprint they had discovered the day before. No one had touched the marker de Palma had left there.
He took three more photographs, then he placed the measuring rod that Texeira handed him next to the print and took another snapshot.
After a further fifteen minutes, they reached the stretch of water that lay between them and the reed hut.
There was not the slightest breath of air. The only sounds being made by the rotting life of the swamp came from bubbles rising from the depths of the silt and bursting on the surface.
The Baron signaled to Texeira to crouch down.
“Look closely,” he said. “Has anything changed?”
Texeira gazed toward the hut. He took his time before answering.
“The door,” he said.
“Exactly.”
“Last time, it was closed. I shut it, in fact.”
Half an hour later, they set foot on the mound of earth that the hut stood on. The Baron took out his Cobra and motioned to Texeira to hang back.
He walked on gingerly, almost in slow motion, as tense as a big cat.
The ground around the hut had been meticulously cleaned. On the bank, he found the same traces as during their first visit. He decided not to linger over such details and instead go straight inside.
Gently, he pushed the door open with his foot, pointing his gun into the gloom of the hut. The door creaked loudly. Texeira followed him inside.
On the table, he noticed some finger marks. He looked closer and saw that the person who had left them had taken the precaution of wearing gloves. The dirt floor had been swept.
“I don’t understand,” Texeira said.
“Well I’m starting to get an idea.”
“Lucky you!”
“On the tape, you can clearly hear that the voices fade away, or they’re muffled.”
“That’s right, just before the scream.”
“So let’s picture the scenario: two men come in here with a third person. They are on the bank when they’re singing, then they come inside.”
The Baron gestured to illustrate his version.
“Why two men?”
“It’s very clear on the recording, when the scream is heard. So there are three voices.”
“That’s true, you don’t hear the third one before.”
“No, you don’t hear …” the Baron repeated thoughtfully.
“What you say is perfectly obvious when you think about it.”
“Before … Jesus, the third person was already here!”
“Are you sure?”
“It seems the most likely scenario.”
The Baron retreated to the door, took several paces outside, then came in again.
“They come in singing, then, at that moment, they strike down the person who’s in here.”
“Strike down?”
“And maybe killed him. Look, they’ve cleaned everything up.”
He gazed around the floor. Then he bent down to peer beneath the table. The ground was marked with what looked like wide sweeps of a broom. He retreated again to the room as a whole, then moved closer again to peer at the traces from different angles. He took the measuring rod and scratched the floor in several places.
“It’s really odd,” he said. “Really it is.”
Texeira observed him tensely. He didn’t miss one of the policeman’s gestures.
“Weird…”
All at once, the Baron drew some long lines in the dirt. He did it several times in all directions, and lifted some earth. He kept going until the tip of the rod hit an obstacle. Then he kneeled down and rubbed at the place the rod had hit. In less than thirty seconds, he had uncovered a trapdoor.
He stood up abruptly and pushed the table aside.
“Help me lift this thing up. Or rather, lift it up in front of me, while I keep my gun trained on what’s inside. You never know.”
Texeira raised the panel of wood. A fetid smell invaded the room. De Palma recognized the stench of decomposing human excrement.
Texeira produced a torch from his pocket and handed it to the Baron.
The trapdoor led to a long tunnel about a meter wide. In the torch beam, de Palma could see the entrance to an underground room at the end of the tunnel; a sort of cellar dug out of the raw earth.
“Can you see anything?”
“Nothing that exciting. We’ll have to go down and see. But we won’t be doing that for the moment.”
He retreated, and took two snapshots. Then he photographed the interior of the passage, while Texeira held open the trap.
“We’re going to leave everything as we found it, so that no one will guess that we’ve been here.”
Ten minutes later, they crossed back over the stretch of sleeping water. De Palma stared at the reed hut, which danced before his eyes each time Texeira pushed with his pole.
In the humid light, a buzzard emerged from a clump of stunted ash trees and poplars; it beat its wings heavily then glided above the surface of the reed bed before vanishing behind the curtain of rushes.
The bells of Saint Martha’s church were ringing the angelus when Anne Moracchini and Daniel Romero parked their unmarked Xsara in front of the building.
They presented their tricolor cards to the guard on the door, who was looking increasingly confused.
“Commissaire Larousse?”
“He’s just left.”
“Commandant Marceau?”
“They left together in fact.”
“Perfect,” Moracchini said. “The P.J. always gets a warm welcome. How nice.”
She went inside the church and headed straight for the entrance to the crypt.
The forensic team had put away their equipment, and the cleanup teams were ready to start.
“It’s been taken away, just five minutes ago.”
“I see,” Moracchini said. “They haven’t heard the last of this.”
She went down the crypt steps, followed by Romero. It was Romero’s first real investigation with the brigade, and the squabbles had already begun.
When Moracchini saw the bloodstains on the statue of Saint Martha, she paused for breath, went over slowly and tried to picture the placing of Morini’s body.
As the technicians had removed their powerful lamps, the saint’s burial place had returned to its sepulchral gloom. The smell of the corpse had practically vanished.
A brigadier from the Tarascon commissariat arrived in the crypt.
“Who took the body away?”
“The emergency services. They took it to Marseille for the autopsy.”
“I mean, who gave the order to move it?”
“It was Marceau, he …”
“O.K., O.K…. What time was that?”
The brigadier walked over to the light to look at his watch.
“Just half an hour ago.”
The two officers looked at each other in silence.
“Pick up all the details you can, Daniel. I’m going to try and get hold of Michel. I’d like him to have a look.”
“O.K., Anne. Do you want me to take some photos?”
“In this light?”
“I’ve got flash.”
“Try it, and if not you ask them to put the juice back on.”
The team of cleaners appeared in the doorway, two black figures in the blue gleam.
“Don’t touch anything,” Moracchini said, pointing at them. “Go back upstairs at once.”
“Commandant Marceau …”
“I don’t give a shit about your Commandant Whatsisname. We’re from the P.J. and I’ve been mandated by the prosecutor of Tarascon, clear? And I’m ordering you to go back upstairs.”
The two officers did not wait to be told twice.
“Do you want me to call Marceau, Madame?” the brigadier asked.
“I’ll have him sent for … if he wants to play games like this, then I’ll get him summonsed by the magistrate as soon as possible. He’s going to see who’s in command here!”
Moracchini found a quiet spot in the car park in front of Saint Martha’s church, just a few meters away from King René’s Castle, and dialed de Palma’s mobile. In vain. She tried his home and got the answering machine but did not leave a message.
Furiously, she stuffed her mobile into the back pocket of her jeans and went back inside Saint Martha’s.
Father Favier was pacing around the sacristy, utterly bewildered. From time to time, he stopped, opened drawers that contained various sacred objects, then closed them again with a nervous twitch.
“Try and calm down, Father,” Romero said. “We need you to tell us everything you know.”
“Sorry, but I don’t know anything at all. Nothing! During my ten years on emergency wards, I never saw such viciousness. It’s unspeakable.”
“I know,” Moracchini said, glancing over at Romero. “We’re just trying to put your movements together. After that we’ll leave you be, alright?”
The priest came to a halt.
“Alright.”
“What time did you discover the body?”
“I didn’t. It was a visitor.”
“Never mind! We’ll get his statement later.”
“It must have been about nine o’clock. But I’m not sure.”
“What time did you call the police?”
“Straight away.”
Romero noted down all these answers carefully, as well as any details that seemed important to him, such as Favier’s attitude on being asked each question.
“Did you hear a noise or anything earlier?”
“No, not that morning.”
“But yes, you did before?”
“Two days ago. I had the impression that someone had slipped into the church. But there was nobody there.”
“You mean that you heard sounds suggesting an alien presence, or something unusual, is that it?”
Father Favier nodded then started pacing up and down once more.
“We’ll leave you in peace, then talk to you again later, O.K.?”
Favier muttered something that neither of the officers could hear.
The judge immediately sent a warrant to the offices of the Brigade Criminelle in Marseille, giving permission to search Morini’s residence. Moracchini and Romero arrived just after the gendarmes, who had surrounded the gangster’s house.
“I’m Commandant Bonin, of the Tarascon company,” said the gendarme, shaking the capitaine’s hand. “We were expecting you.”
Morini’s wife had just been informed of her husband’s death. She was hysterical. Moracchini made her sit down in the living room. Without waiting for reinforcements from Marseille or the local boys from Tarascon, she started the search.
“It’s 1400 hours, Daniel. Note down: Began search in the presence of Mme. Morini.”
The two floors of Morini’s home must have measured a good three hundred square meters.
On the ground floor, there was a huge entrance hall, decorated soberly, with white walls, a few paintings by minor Provençal artists, two classical sculptures and green plants everywhere. To the right, it led into a vast living room with pale green walls, several leather sofas of different styles, padded armchairs and heavy curtains with huge pastel flowers.
On the walls, the crime boss had hung a series of photographs of old Tarascon featuring the center and the castle before the reconstruction work had been done on the river and the town. Above one of the sofas hung a poster for the Tarascon carnival, dated 1932. Beside that, a sepia photograph depicted the Tarasque surrounded by its Knights. A Regency glass case contained a set of miniature bronze or ceramic Tarasques, as well as a collection of various monsters made of terracotta or copper.
At the back of the room, there was a bar of real zinc, which the gangster must have picked up somewhere shady. An antique one-armed bandit stood beside it.
The bay window looked out on a twenty-meter pool and a neoclassic-style pool-house. Further on, there was a forest of pines and oaks: the part of the Downlands that belonged to Morini.
On the first floor, seven bedrooms were laid out as suites complete with jacuzzi and desk each in a different style.
“We’ll start with the bedrooms, Daniel. Let’s get going.”
Only two of them were used regularly: one contained Morini’s personal belongings, the other his wife’s.
“So the two of them didn’t sleep together!” Romero said.
“You know, mobsters aren’t people like the rest of us!”
The two officers went through everything in the wife’s room. They found nothing except a collection of lingerie that made Romero blush.
Then they searched Morini’s study, where they came across a few telephone numbers jotted down on Post-its. Moracchini placed them in a plastic envelope. The four mobile phones that lay on the bedside tables were also seized, as well as Mme. Morini’s address book.
Moracchini went back downstairs to the entrance hall. She gave instructions to the reinforcements that had just arrived, then went to see Morini’s widow. The young woman was sitting on a thick leather sofa, her eyeliner running down her cheeks. She smelled distinctly of gin.
“Can we speak to you Mme. Morini? Are you feeling any better?”
She must have been a good twenty years younger than her husband. Her black hair was tied up over her fragile neck by a knotted velvet ribbon. She wore a white dressing gown, over her suntanned skin, and beneath it a bikini with bright red and yellow flowers.
“You can ask me whatever you like. I know nothing. He never told me anything …”
She spoke with a slight Marseille accent.
“What’s your name?”
“Stéphanie. And that’s practically all I can remember about myself!”
She looked up at Moracchini and stared into her eyes. She was quivering with rage.
“Anyway, I suppose it had to happen sooner or later.”
Moracchini sat down next to her.
“Had he received any threats?”
“He seemed more nervy than usual, but you never really knew with him. It depended on what business he was doing.”
“When did you see him last?”
“About a week ago. I can hardly remember, in fact! It’s a bit like living in a parallel world. He said he was going to Aix and would be home in the evening. He never came back.”
Moracchini guessed that Stéphanie must have been taking large quantities of some sort of dope to put up with a pig like Morini.
“Did he phone you to tell you he wouldn’t be home?”
The young woman pouted cynically.
“Are you joking or what? When he didn’t come home, he never said anything. But, this time, he said he’d be home.”
“I mean, since his disappearance, have you received any calls from him, or anyone else?”
“No, Madame, nothing. But I do remember, on the day before he disappeared, he wasn’t in his normal state of mind. He stayed for ages in his bedroom whispering into his telephone.”
“And that wasn’t usual, if I understand you correctly?”
“Exactly. But, you know, when you live with someone like that, you soon learn to be like the three little monkeys: you hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil …”
Moracchini could not stop herself from looking scornful.
“O.K. You stay here. I’ll be back to question you again later. In the meantime, get dressed.”
She then went out into the garden and made a long telephone call to de Palma.
It was just after midday when the Baron turned into the driveway of La Balme farmhouse. The heat was stifling and he had problems keeping his grip on the steering wheel of the 205.
For the first time in a while, he noticed one of the young woman’s bodyguards, who vanished behind one of the buildings when he approached. Mme. Steinert must have seen him coming, because she was waiting for him on the patio, with a stern expression on her face.
“We missed you this morning for breakfast.”
“I’m sorry I had to leave you like that. But I had to make a trip to the Camargue.”
“Oh really?” she said, crossing her legs.
“Yes, one or two routine checks, as they say.”
“And ideas like that suddenly grab you! I know, I’ll go and check some details in the Camargue …”
As she spoke, she snapped her fingers in the air. Her voice had grown metallic.
“You’ve arrived at the right time, Michel. I’ve sent my chauffeur Georg to go and fetch M. Bérard for a lunchtime drink. And here he comes.”
The Mercedes 4×4 steered a wide circle in the courtyard. The Baron recognized Georg. He was the bodyguard he’d spotted the first time he had seen her in Marseille. He was wearing sunglasses.
Bérard would not let the bodyguard help him out of the car. Bent double, he then came to shake Ingrid’s hand. When he saw the Baron, who was standing to one side, he whistled softly.
“So the policeman is here too!”
“A policeman, but above all a friend,” Ingrid said, still clutching his hand. “Come on, we’re going to have something to drink.”
“Oh, I can’t stay long. Especially in this weather. You know, my charges are waiting for me. Quand plòu en Avoust, tout òli e tout moust.”
“What does that mean?” Ingrid asked with a smile.
“When it rains in August, all is oil and grape must.”
“That’s good news, isn’t it?”
He stared at her, then twitched his head with a twist of his lips.
“Don’t you think so?” she asked.
“It’s the beginning of August. And there was thunder this morning. Good God! Quand trono lou matin marco d’auro. You don’t understand!”
She raised her hands then let them drop to her sides.
“When there’s thunder like this morning, it’s often a sign of wind. Sweet Jesus, I’m afraid it’ll start blowing, and what with all those fires around here …”
“Fängt der August mit Donnern an, er’s bis zum End’ nicht lassen kann: if it thunders at the beginning of August, it will continue to the end of the month,” she replied.
Bérard lowered his eyes and stared at his feet for a moment. Then he adjusted his beret, uncovering a lock of silver hair.
“Goodness, William understood patois.”
“It’s true, he had learned Provençal.”
“He spoke it better than I do,” said Bérard with a whistle. “He had really studied our language.”
“Come on, M. Bérard. Let’s have a drink in the shade. You’ll feel better.”
“Oh, don’t worry. The sun doesn’t bother me.”
Bérard was feeling embarrassed. He was glancing around darkly. De Palma was impressed by the vigorous aura given off by this man who was almost a hundred years old.
“So you asked me to come to tell you about the former owners?”
He looked at the Baron.
“I thought it preferable for Mme. Steinert to know what you told me when we last met. But it wasn’t me who asked you to come today.”
Bérard gave Ingrid a long stare.
“It’s all ancient history. Especially now the poor soul’s dead.”
“Did you know his father?” she asked.
“Oh yes. In the prewar days, before everything fell to pieces. He used to come here in search of antiquities and, as I knew a lot about such things, he used to ask me questions. Sometimes, we went for a walk together and I showed him places.”
“Such as the Downlands,” de Palma said.
“Yes indeed. We went there … I remember as if it were yesterday. He was walking behind me, on a day like today. Really muggy! We started on the Fontvieille road then went as far as the big oak up there. That’s where I showed him the old stones, as we call them.”
“That’s where the statue of Hercules was?”
Bérard looked up at the Baron.
“He called him Heracles. That’s the Greek name. Because in fact the stones came from Greece. The Romans only arrived later. I read that in books.”
Bérard wetted his dry lips with his pastis. Then he took an olive.
“Ah, Carpentras black. They’re excellent!”
“We’re going to plant some more.”
“Wait for the spring then put them in that large plot you have by the road up there. It’s neither too damp nor too dry.”
Bérard took a good swig of pastis, then looked with interest at Ingrid.
“If you mean to plant, does that mean you’re going to stay?”
“Why, were you afraid that I’d leave?”
“Yes, after William’s death, I was really afraid of that.”
“No, we’re staying.”
“Well, in that case …” Bérard said, flapping his hand.
De Palma waited for a moment.
“What do you mean by that, M. Bérard?”
“Some people aren’t going to be best pleased.”
Mme. Steinert was about to say something, but the Baron motioned to her to stay out of this.
“Who do you mean?”
“The ones who want to open the park. They came to see me the other day. I told them that I wouldn’t sell them an inch of land. That they’d have to wait till I was gone. And that anyway, I’d left everything to William.”
“Can you describe these men to me?”
“They looked very respectable. One of them told me his name. It sounded German or something. Not like a name from these parts.”
Ingrid started.
“Not M. Chandeler, by any chance?”
“What was that?”
“Chan—de—ler.”
“It could well have been that.”
“What did he look like?”
“Tall, very tall. With nicely combed hair. Forever smiling, like a salesman. Like, like … the people who work in banks. Know what I mean? They’re always trying to sell you something. But don’t worry, they left me a calling card. I’ll show it to you. But I reckon it was the same name as the one you just mentioned.”
“And the other?”
“The other man was fat. He was a tall man too, but fat. And he looked like a real crook.”
“Did he give you his name?”
“No, no. He didn’t say much. And outside there was another one waiting in the car.”
De Palma’s head was racing. There was nothing surprising about Chandeler being there. He was simply a lawyer who was trying his luck. But who was he working for? And who was the fat man who came with him?
“Tell me, M. Bérard. Do you remember what day this was?”
“Goodness, no. I sometimes lose track of time a bit. I might tell you something wrong.”
“But it wasn’t yesterday?”
“Definitely not,” he replied, raising his hands. “It was a few days after poor William’s death.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
The shepherd took another swig of pastis, then stood up.
“I must go back, my flock is waiting.”
Ingrid took both his hands. She looked at him affectionately.
“Can I come to see you one of these days?”
“Oh, my house is a poor place, you know! Only William used to come by, he didn’t mind. My wife’s dead and gone these twenty years now. So things aren’t kept as they should be.”
“It doesn’t matter … Or else I’ll come to see you while you’re watching your sheep.”
“Alright. I’ll be by the rocks a little later, when it’s not so hot.”
The Baron’s mobile rang.
“Where are you, Michel?”
“In Provence, Anne.”
“Still with Ingrid?”
“There’s no hiding anything from you.”
“Go straight away to the forensic unit in La Timone.”
“Why?”
“They’ve taken Morini there. But we’re on the case.”
“I’m on my way.”
“But don’t go inside, Michel! Remember, officially you’re not involved in this investigation.”
“O.K. I’ll join you in a couple of hours’ time.”
He arranged to meet her in a café on boulevard Baille, just by the hospital.
Bérard sat back down on a wicker chair. De Palma noticed that Ingrid’s eyes were wet with emotion.
“See, what did I tell you? The wind’s rising. That’s not good.”
A greenish light fell from the neon lamps in the dissection room. Moracchini and Romero, dressed in green overalls and with masks on their faces, were standing behind Doctor Mattei and his assistant.
Mattei looked at Moracchini and pointed his scissor’s at Morini’s injuries.
“There’s saliva on the wounds. The same saliva as last time, at least I think so.”
The doctor of the dead indicated a dangling strip of flesh.
“Look, his dermis, epidermis and muscles have been completely ripped apart! As if something had bitten him, then pulled to remove the piece.”
Moracchini looked at Romero. Above her white mask, her eyes looked anxious.
“Any ideas, Doctor?”
“None.”
“I think that the D.N.A. will help us out once again. And I’m ready to bet we’ll find the same as last time.”
“So?”
“He’s been fed to something. That’s how he died. What do you think, Mattei?”
“I can’t think of anything at this level. I can’t imagine jaws that powerful. Unless there were several animals at the same time.”
Mattei bent down once more to examine Morini’s wounds, almost touching them with his nose. He frowned and held his breath.
“The spinal column has been bitten in two by jaws. It’s not possible otherwise. It’s just like a dog bite, but ten times bigger. And it reminds me of men I saw in the tropics, who’d been attacked by sharks …”
Mattei had slit open the thorax and neck up to the chin. He had levered the thoracic cage open before removing the lungs and heart.
“There was adrenalin in the heart and water in the lungs. I also found some algae on the body.”
“So it’s just the same scenario as with Christian Rey. Exactly the same … The guy is dropped in water, then he gets eaten.”
“And it’s fresh water, too. So no sharks … A crocodile maybe …”
“Why not a Komodo Dragon? What a headache! I just don’t get it.”
She looked at Romero and noticed that his eyes had glazed over. She had not known her new colleague very long, but she had worked out that this was the sign of intense mental activity.
“The Tarasque,” de Palma murmured.
Moracchini’s eyes were red with fatigue and disgust. She had picked up the Baron and was driving down the motorway toward Château-Gombert.
“What are you muttering about?”
“The Tarasque. That’s all.”
“You wouldn’t be starting to lose it, by any chance?”
“No, no…”
“But the Tarasque doesn’t exist!”
“Perhaps not. But someone is crazy enough to play the monster for us.”
The overhead metro overtook them. She noticed a group of youths horsing around in the last carriage.
“Someone is staging a scenario? Now that’s more like it!”
“The bite, the algae … it all fits together. There’s someone somewhere who wants to resurrect the Tarasque.”
“That’s one possibility. But what might also have happened is that Morini and Rey were quite simply snuffed by their little chums in gangland. There wouldn’t be anything very surprising about that either.”
“Not the right modus operandi.”
“How can you be sure, Michel? They’re getting crazier and crazier, you know that as well as I do.”
The Baron waved away her suggestion and pursed his lips. His face was almost ashen and a headache was starting to grow at the base of his forehead.
“Romero’s gone back to Tarascon to pick up Marceau’s report. The bastard, he couldn’t bear us being given the case. He’d had our friend removed before we got there.”
“It doesn’t really matter, Anne.”
“What are you talking about? We’ve got nothing and he’s maybe hiding things to keep us slaving away like idiots.”
She drove under the metro line and accelerated suddenly, as though she was fleeing something. Her hands were clenched on the steering wheel and the headlamps of the cars on the other side of the road glittered in her damp eyes.
The next evening, at 7 p.m., the Baron leaped over the surrounding wall of the Résidence Paul Verlaine, drew his Cobra and made a panoramic scan.
He let a neighbor from the third floor go by, holding his son by the hand. Then, when no one else was in sight, he went along the path leading to his building, careful to stay close to the pines and the shrubs that bordered it. The Cobra was tight against his thigh. In case of sudden danger.
It was the first time he had been home for three days. It smelled musty and full of bad memories.
The answering machine flashed up ten messages. Two of them were people hanging up, while the other eight were from his mother, whom he had not called for a week.
Without wasting any time, he went into the bedroom, grabbed a traveling bag and threw in two pairs of jeans, a pair of trainers, a few T-shirts and a drawer-full of boxer shorts and socks. In the wardrobe, he noticed the box in which he kept a hoard of souvenirs. He looked inside and found a notebook that contained a photograph of Isabelle Mercier. He examined it for a moment, before noticing something that had hitherto escaped him, despite the scores of times he had stared at it: she had a beauty spot shaped like the ace of spades just between her ear and the angle of her jaw.
He had spotted this detail only today. And he knew why. Because he had also seen it somewhere else. On Ingrid Steinert’s cheek.
He lay down on the bed and sank into the dark waters of his memories. As ever, all he could see was a face that no longer existed, and a body already stiffened by death. A single eye that still stared at him over all those years and sleepless nights.
For a long time, he stayed in the shadows of his bedroom, watching the daylight gradually fade away between the slats of the shutters. Isabelle had been the first victim, but how many more corpses had he seen since then in his life as a detective?
At least three hundred. Maybe more.
The number made his head spin.
At the beginning, he had thought that he should hang on to all of them and hold them in his memory. It was his debt to the dead, because the dead know that they exist so long as someone pictures them. And if they are forgotten, it is all over.
As a little boy, he would sometimes walk in the alleys of Saint Peter’s cemetery. He liked to read the names of the deceased on the slabs of granite and to invent their life stories, little novels in a nutshell telling of their vanished destinies, instant dramas in which love and wonders played leading roles.
Starring roles.
He jumped up, closed his bag and headed for the door.
Outside, the night had stretched its canvas. He waited for there to be nobody near his building, for the stairwell and hall to be plunged in darkness, then he walked out into the gloom of Marseille.
Thirty minutes later, he was bounding up the stone staircase that led through the prickly pears to Maistre’s patio.
He served himself a kir then sat down on the low wall that overlooked the little houses of L’Etraque. In the distance, the sea was like a vast black slick running from the harbor wall as far as Maïre and then to the flickering star of the Planier lighthouse.
Maitre was browsing through a boat supplies catalog. The murmur of the city could be heard from afar.
“Do you think we’ll ever find our fishing boat, Michel?”
The Baron answered with a grunt.