Marceau came out of his house, at 10 rue des Halles, at 11:45. It was his fifth day on leave, and he still had a few details to sort out before going abroad. This year it was Mexico.
He bought his newspaper from the kiosk over the road then went to the Café du Globe, where he ordered a coffee, just as he had done every day since being posted to the commissariat in Tarascon.
Motionless, the man observed him, the 200 mm in his right hand. If all went according to plan, Marceau should emerge again in less than fifteen minutes, time enough to drink his coffee and perhaps order another, as he had done the day before yesterday. There’d be time to take one or two snapshots.
But, today, Marceau was not working. The man had known this since last night.
“The commandant is on leave. You can contact him at the end of the month,” a young female voice had said on the telephone.
He approached the stationer’s opposite the bar, and pretended to be choosing a postcard in case the cop decided to change direction and move faster, as he sometimes did for no apparent reason.
Marceau emerged after just one coffee. He took a single snapshot, face on. Then the cop turned left at once and, instead of going home, walked up rue de l’Hôtel de Ville toward the theater.
The man followed him. He was certain that his prey could not escape him.
On arriving at the theater, Marceau looked around in all directions. He did not see the man who had just had time to slip into a doorway. Marceau stood still for a while before producing a bunch of keys and going inside the building which contained William Steinert’s office.
This was unexpected. But never mind, the man knew how to improvise. He gave himself a few minutes’ thought, and finally made up his mind to wait. Marceau was a daunting target.
It took a good half an hour before the door opened once more and Marceau reappeared. They both walked off.
The man told himself that today was not the day. Definitely not. The day seemed to be full of surprises. Unless luck smiled at him.
And that is what happened.
Instead of going home, Marceau stopped to make some photocopies. Then he returned to put back the documents he had taken from Steinert’s office. Another thirty minutes went by. Marceau came out and threw into the gutter what looked to the man to be a pair of gloves. It did not matter.
After that, for some unexpected reason, Marceau decided to take the ring road. When he had almost reached the place where the man’s car was parked, its owner came up next to him.
Everything speeded up. The man pulled his automatic on Marceau and forced him to put his hands behind his back. Then he put the cuffs on and removed the gun from his target’s belt.
Thirty minutes later, he was driving through the byways of the Camargue.
Moracchini was savoring the fruits of her work. In less than forty-eight hours, she had managed to obtain the D.N.A. results, using charm and the promise of more.
And the tests were talking: the traces of saliva found in the wounds of Christian Rey and Morini came from the same source.
The fragments of D.N.A. found in the reed hut matched Rey and Morini. In this case, it was the genetic records department that had made the match, as both of the mobsters already featured there among the police’s bar codes and alleles.
The conclusion was that both of the gangsters had spent time in that hole. She could almost reconstruct their last days: no water, no food and total darkness. The forensic report was definite.
Furthermore, Mattei was equally definite: both bodies had been bitten by a pair of outsize jaws, such as those of a crocodile. He recommended comparing them with any animals that the two men might have come into contact with. This seemed surprising, but it was his department’s expert opinion.
Moracchini and Romero had then gone to grill Lornec about his possible connections with Marceau. The gangster had told them nothing, but had seemed put out. Moracchini was never wrong about that. Nor was her teammate.
Gouirand, the head of the Knights of the Tarasque, had been questioned twice. But both sessions had been disappointing. Moracchini had been expecting a lot, especially when she had discovered Gouirand’s CV in police records: he had been caught twice red-handed during hold-ups with his pal Rey. The two men had been friends. But the trail stopped there. Still, she remained optimistic.
“We’ve made pretty good progress, haven’t we?”
Through the bay window of the department’s photocopying room, de Palma stared at the dome of La Major which was glowing in the sunlight.
“Yes, great! Now I think we should go through the names of the characters involved in property deals with S.O.D.E.G.I.M. around Maussane, Eygalières … even as far as the Camargue. I mean projects such as entertainment parks, leisure centers and so on.”
“Is that all?”
Moracchini had put her hair up and pinned it with a ballpoint pen. She was wearing a light dress and strappy sandals.
“Yes my dear, we’re going to have to get down to it!”
“We’ve got time.”
“In the force, we never really have time.”
“I know, but when it comes to the Steinert affair, no letter rogatory has been issued to allow us to take evidence. In fact, we’re working on the fringes of legality. I could claim it to be a personal initiative, but I don’t hold out much hope there.”
“It’s tricky. We’re dealing with village secrets here, things that go on behind our backs that are unbeknown to us. It would be logical enough for Morini to take out Steinert so as to get hold of his land. But then there’s Bérard. Was it necessary to kill him, too? Why didn’t Morini’s henchmen go and see the old man and talk him into selling? It’s all pretty weird, isn’t it? And why not do the same with Steinert? I can only wonder if we’ll ever find out.”
Moracchini untied her hair and shook it back.
“So you think these are family secrets?”
“Not only that! Do you have Gouirand’s phone number?”
“Yes.”
“Call him and ask if he knew Morini.”
Moracchini picked up her mobile and telephoned Gouirand. She spent less than a minute on the telephone, but, from the expression on her face, he guessed that he had been spot on: Morini had been a Knight of the Tarasque in the 1980s, at the same time as Rey.
Marc Gouirand was standing in front of the town hall, cleaning the windscreen of the mayor’s Safrane. He was wearing dark glasses, cotton trousers and a flowery shirt that opened to reveal his chest. Moracchini had been watching him for some time, sitting over a coffee in the Bar du Centre.
When he put down the chamois, she got to her feet and went over to him.
“Monsieur Gouirand, do you recognize me? I’m Anne Moracchini, from the Marseille P.J.”
The head of the Tarascaires straightened and looked her up and down.
“I wanted to ask you a few questions about the death of Christian Rey.”
“Now?”
“If it’s possible.”
Gouirand glanced at his watch.
“The mayor’s still in a meeting. It should take about another three quarters of an hour. Is that enough?”
“It’s up to you to make yourself available to the police, sir, and not the other way round. Are we clear?”
Gouirand’s smile vanished and he lowered his gaze.
“Perhaps you’d rather come to the station in Marseille with me?”
“Fine, so tell me, when exactly did you first meet Rey?”
“That’s easy: in primary school. We’d known each other as long as I can remember.”
She pretended to note this down.
“And what about Morini?”
“The same goes for him. We were all the same age.”
“You know he’s dead?”
Gouirand simply nodded before giving the windscreen of the Safrane another wipe with the sponge.
“And they both used to be Knights of the Tarasque, like you?”
“Yes, we all started together.”
“Then what happened?”
“I don’t really know. After that, we all went our separate ways. They became crooks, and I got a job at the town hall.”
She stared up at the building: it was very old, made of dressed stone that dated back to the Middle Ages, and covered with mullions, diamond-shaped stained-glass windows and extravagant sculptures.
“And have you been working here long?”
“Since 1987.”
“Can I ask you what you do exactly?”
“I’m the mayor’s chauffeur.”
“I know that, but I’ve also heard that you organize the distribution of election posters and can use your fists a bit.”
Gouirand shrugged. She glanced at the back seat of the Safrane and saw the handle of a blackjack sticking out of the pocket of an evening jacket.
“What’s the blackjack for, opening bottles?”
“It’s just in case the mayor gets into danger.”
“So you’re also his bodyguard?”
“Not really, but you never know.”
“I think you’ll be called in for questioning in a few days’ time. So stay in Tarascon, O.K.?”
“Very well, Madame.”
“De Palma, I’m a police officer.”
The blond at the door of Chandeler & Associés blinked, and her lips formed a pout.
“Do you have an appointment?” she said at last, observing the visitor over her glasses.
“Is Maître Chandeler seeing a client?”
“No, I mean yes …”
De Palma opened the door, the secretary followed him in.
“Sir, this gentleman …”
“That’s alright, that’s alright… you can leave us. I know M. de Palma.”
She had barely closed the double doors when she heard a slap and a cry resound behind her.
Chandeler was on his knees, his spectacles in his hands. He paused for a moment, sniffed back the blood that was pouring from his nose, and got to his feet. The Baron stepped back and gave him a kick in the guts that bent him in two.
Chandeler rolled over before standing up again. He was about to call out when he noticed with terror that the Baron was holding a gun on him. A handsome Cobra with a cold, gleaming barrel, just two meters away from him.
“Sit down, you piece of shit.”
Chandeler raised his hands in a gesture of appeasement and walked over to his chair.
“No, not there, here,” de Palma barked, pointing at the seat intended for clients.
“Think about what you’re doing, Commandant. You’ve already committed an action that will have serious consequences for you. Don’t make matters worse.”
The Baron went over to Chandeler and scrutinized his adversary’s every tic. When he came in reach of the lawyer he let fly a punch that knocked his glasses back off.
“You’re going to pay for that.”
“You know that the old shepherd’s dead?”
“I don’t know what you’re …”
Another slap shot out.
“Listen to me. We’ve got everything we need on you. We’ve even got a photo of you in Bérard’s place with your pal Morini.”
“So either you start singing or I’ll put the word out that I roughed you up a bit and you gave up all the others. To look at you now, I reckon that they’ll all believe me.”
“I’m only a cog in the machine.”
“And a Knight too, as I see.”
“Just a cog. There are big interests at stake, very big …”
“A Knight who is also an intellectual!”
“They’re … it’s a financial group … with …”
The Baron came over to him. He hunched up even more.
“A group of people with …”
“With Morini among them.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You know that you’re starting to get on my tits, telling me things I know already!”
The telephone rang.
“Answer and tell your secretary to go home. Anyway, it’s time.”
Chandeler did so, while drying the blood that was dripping from the corner of his mouth.
“O.K., let’s try again. Morini isn’t a scoop. I hope you’ve got something better …”
The Baron decided to play a card he wasn’t sure of. He made a gesture, a simple gesture: he ran his index finger over his belly as though he was cutting through his torso with an imaginary weapon.
Chandeler opened his eyes wide and started to tremble all over.
“The problem is they don’t want to sell, and in the region it’s the only place where such a project can be carried out.”
“What’s all this nonsense? You can build a park wherever you want.”
“Check out who owns all the land around the site, and you’ll understand.”
“Names, Chandeler, I want names … You know them, they’re your clients.”
“If I tell you, I’m a dead man.”
The Baron grinned.
“And also if you don’t,” he half murmured.
“A man has just died. He has to be avenged.”
“O.K., there are some people from around here, then some Italians and Americans …”
“I want a list.”
Chandeler went over to his desk, opened a file and handed a sheet of paper to de Palma.
“It’s all there,” he said, looking away.
“You see, where there’s a will …”
He looked at the list of names. Morini’s was not on it, but he recognized one or two cronies amenable to laundering his money.
“I just hope that the beast doesn’t eat you, too!”
“I too have received the mark.”
The Baron nodded as though he knew what he was talking about.
“Show me,” he said.
Chandeler stared at the Baron with his eyebrows raised. He slowly opened a desk drawer and removed a plain white feather. It was just like the one de Palma had seen in Steinert’s office.
“Who else received this mark?”
“We all have.”
“All the rich bastards on your list?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Pray to the god of swine like you that the police you despise get him before he gets you.”
The Baron backed away to the door, opened it and left.
Maistre was standing bolt upright facing the sea. It looked as though he were savoring infinity. After a while, he came alive again and poured red wine into a plastic cup.
“I’ve got the truth at last … or at least, part of it.”
Maistre did not turn round. He kept his eyes fixed on the horizon which was still red with the fury of the sun. The siren of a roll-on roll-off boomed in the terminal of Mourepiane.
“If I’m not mistaken, the whole business was actually quite banal.”
“That’s often the way it goes, Baron. You think you’re up against exceptional villains who are pulling off incredible capers, and generally you end up with a couple of pricks not worth getting up in the morning for.”
Maistre looked at his watch. Moracchini appeared at the end of the patio. She was wearing a linen dress that revealed her shoulders and slender ankles. She took off her sandals and walked barefoot across the limestone tiles.
“Delpiano already knows that you’ve given Chandeler a pull.”
“Why, are they in the same chapel, I mean lodge?”
“He’s just told me about it on the phone. He wants your hide, Michel. I have no idea why he’s got it in for you so much, but it scares me.”
She sat down just beside him. De Palma sensed his body turn electric from the stealthy contact with her dress. He quickly stood up, removing the sheet of paper Chandeler had given him from the rear pocket of his jeans. Moracchini took it and read it carefully.
“There are some people I know in here!”
“Yes, and some others you don’t. It doesn’t matter! But they all have a point in common.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone has sent them a feather like this.”
“And what does it mean?”
“Not much for the moment, except that when I mentioned bodies that had been sliced in half to Chandeler, he practically shat himself.”
Maistre picked up the paper and stared at the list.
“Jesus, there are two or three here that the financial brigade would like to nab: Grimaud, Landrace, Rossi … fuck me!”
“They’re the ones who wanted to buy up Steinert’s land, the patch they didn’t want to sell, the famous Downlands. It belonged to his father, and Bérard presumably sold it to him before the war.”
“You mean the woods that burned down yesterday?”
“That’s right. But they weren’t involved in the arson.”
“Who was it then?”
“Bérard himself. He wanted everyone to know that there are Greco-Roman ruins in the forest so that no one could build anything there.”
Moracchini was rubbing her forearms as if she was cold.
“And you think that’s why they killed Steinert?”
“It might look that way, but I don’t think so. The problem is that I’m not sure we’ll ever get to the bottom of this business. Unless we get a stroke of good luck at last.”
Maistre lit a cigarette and drew on it nervously.
“There’s something I don’t understand,” he said.
“These people have got enough dosh to build their damned park where they want.”
“You’re right, Jean-Louis. But I think there are one or two things we’re still missing. Around here, it was just about the only viable site. There are lots of tourists, and everyone had something to gain. The people selling the land could name their price. A plot where you can get planning permission in this Bermuda Triangle is worth a fortune: as much as 4,000 euros per square meter! Did you realize that?”
“Maybe so, but there’s still the coast and everything. I mean, it’s the back of beyond out there.”
“I reckon that there’s subsidy on offer, but above all it was a group of guys who’d known each other since childhood. A sort of clan. Morini and Rey were old pals!”
“Yes, but one was the godfather and the other the stooge!”
“You’re right, Le Gros. We’ve now got to uncover their connections with the others.”
Maistre stood up and got out two bottles of wine. He put three glasses on the table and uncorked the first bottle. The roll-on roll-off which was sailing out of Mourepiane gave another blast of its siren.
“Some guys who are rolling in it get rid of a troublesome billionaire. That works. Especially when you see the names on the list. But still you say that it’s something else!”
“Yes, something else.”