Murderous Mistral

by Cay Rademacher

  “Loose contact on the starter. It’ll happen again one of these days. It’s just one of the dodgy construction errors.”

  “Thanks a lot for doing me the favor.”

  “You did me the favor, letting me fiddle around with the engine. Nothing I enjoy more.” Riou climbed back into his vintage sports car and roared off.

  * * *

  Blanc finally got to the gendarmerie fifteen minutes later than he had intended, but nobody seemed to notice. Tonon wasn’t there yet. The door to Nkoulou’s office was closed, as was the door to the judge’s office. There was an e-mail from Fabienne Souillard blinking on the screen of his monitor, sent from her cell phone the previous evening.

  My partner and I have been discussing the case. She’s from around here and knew Moréas. She has a little dinghy down at the harbor in Saint-César, and Moréas also had an old tub down there, a fishing boat. A wreck according to my partner. Then she mentioned that around noon of the day he was murdered, Moréas had an almighty row down there. She doesn’t know what it was about, but she does know who it was with: Pascal Fuligni. My partner’s boat was at the next mooring and she recognized him. He’s a local builder. Never been in trouble with the police, as far as I know. You can get his address on Google. Kisses,

  Fabienne

  Blanc’s computer was so slow it took him several minutes to locate Fuligni’s address: a house just a few hundred yards beyond Gadet. According to Google it was both his business and private address. He did not have his own Web site.

  Minutes later the blue patrol car’s tires were rolling down the gravel driveway of a newly built, imposing pink-plastered villa. To the left a single-story extension rather contradicted the swanky impression of the house. Next to the plain door of the extension a brass plate said FULIGNI ET FILS, MAÇONNERIE GÉNÉRALE—Fuligni and Son, General Masonry. Blanc knocked on the door before opening it into a brightly lit office. A young woman was playing with her smartphone behind a desk littered with copies of Paris Match. After a few seconds she gave him a bored glance, then suddenly did a double take when she saw the police car outside.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked in an East European accent, her voice trembling slightly. Blanc wondered if her identity papers were in order. He gave her the once-over: midtwenties, long hair dyed blond, dark eyes, lots of makeup, big bust, legs that went on forever, obscenely short skirt. The sort of girl you found hanging around on the corners of the dark lanes in the Bois de Boulogne in Paris. He said hello and introduced himself. There was no reason to be impolite. “What is your name, Mademoiselle?”

  She hesitated for a second, obviously wondering whether to use her own name. “Nastasia Constantinescu,” she eventually managed to say. “I’m Monsieur Fuligni’s secretary.”

  “I’d like a few words with your boss.”

  As soon as she realized he wasn’t interested in her, she gave him a warm smile, then said, “Monsieur Fuligni is on vacation. We only start taking orders again in August. I’m only here in case someone calls or there’s mail.”

  “Has your boss gone away?”

  She gestured vaguely toward the house. “He always stays at home for the summer. But his car isn’t in the drive. I don’t know where he’s gone. Or when he’ll be back.”

  “Do you have his cell phone number?”

  Yet again she hesitated, then handed him a business card. “All his numbers are on there.”

  As Blanc was leaving the office, an old white Peugeot 306 convertible drove in, braking so hard it sent the gravel flying from beneath its tires. The paintwork was so polished that it was almost blinding. Behind the wheel was a woman of about fifty, elegantly fighting off the depredations of age with discreet and effective makeup. She had a body that suggested long hours in the gym over the years and was wearing an elegant beige summer dress, her hair covered with a headscarf to protect against the wind while driving. He couldn’t make out the expression on her face behind the large sunglasses. There was a tennis bag lying on the backseat. “Madame Fuligni?” Blanc called out.

  She climbed out and shook his hand. A strong handshake, his hand held just a fraction too long. “Miette Fuligni. Have I been speeding again?” She nodded at the patrol car. “Take pity on me, mon Inspecteur.”

  She’s flirting with me, Blanc thought with a smile. “I’m not an inspector and you haven’t been speeding, at least not as far as I know.” He told her why he was there.

  “Pascal is down at the harbor with his boat,” she replied, almost sounding disappointed. “In Saint-César. It’s only a little harbor. Ask around when you get there. Everybody knows my husband. What’s he been up to?”

  “I just want to ask a few questions of Monsieur Fuligni.”

  “It’s always worrying when policemen say things like that.” She sighed and waved good-bye to him. She didn’t look particularly worried.

  * * *

  Blanc drove along the back roads. He was gradually building a map in his head of the local roads so he wouldn’t have to keep staring at the GPS on his cell phone to find his way. He turned onto the route départementale 16B. Pine trees and oaks on either side. Pleasantly shady. No cars, just a lone cyclist in a ridiculously bright outfit, struggling up the hill, his face getting ever redder. As he drove past, the captain noticed the words Domaine de Bernard, the winery belonging to the Michelettis, Bruno and Sylvie. But all he could see was trees and garigue shrubbery. It could hardly be a very big vineyard.

  The road led over the brow of a hill then curved downward. He crossed under the railway line via an old underpass hardly wide enough for two cars, then suddenly the horizon opened up ahead of him. The dimpled water of the Étang de Berre shimmering blue and silver like fish skin. A yacht was sailing along, its sails barely ruffled. A dozen little kids with tiny windsurf boards with yellow and red sails kept falling over practicing near the shore. An open fishing boat near a black buoy with a shirtless man struggling with a net. Across the lake, the wooded heights of Istres, a dark green wall with a few ancient, dilapidated villas. On his right a hill crowned with a ruin: Miramas-le-Vieux. And straight ahead Saint-César, a knot of ochre houses with pale red roofs and an imposing church tower. Steep, rocky hills enclosed the town on either side, linked at a breathtaking height by a stone bridge with a clock tower and supports soaring high above the little town.

  Blanc navigated his way down the alleys, which had cars parked everywhere, even more chaotic than in Paris, he thought. Beautiful young women in summer dresses carrying white plastic bags. Old men in straw hats with baskets. Kids with water pistols. A market on the big square next to the church: pyramids of watermelons, heaps of red cherries, beans, eggplants. A line of olive oil bottles, their contents glittering gold in the sun, like polished bronze. A bakery with the door left open in the heat; the smell of fresh baguettes made him hungry. Coffee, fresh bread, a seat somewhere in the shade, to sit and watch people pass by. Later, he told himself. Later.

  It wasn’t hard to find the harbor: He just had to follow the alleyways toward the lake until he came to a grubby little square next to a few stone warehouses. A couple of jetties, a boatyard. It was a harbor for fishermen. A few yards along the quayside he spotted a wall of aluminum and wood and the masts of yachts. He parked by the side of the road, as close as possible to some six-foot bushes, which provided the only shade. He only noticed too late that the bushes were covered in sharp thorns and had scratched the patrol car’s paintwork. He shrugged and closed the door.

  Blanc walked along the hedge until he came to a gate with an electronic code entry lock. He swung one long leg over, the sole of his shoe squeaking on the asphalt on the other side, where a few cars were parked in the hot sunshine. On his left was a tall crane, a concrete slipway, a few yachts out of the water, leaning to one side, looking sorry for themselves. A few little piers made of wood and steel jutted out into the water, with boats crammed together all along them. Little open-topped motorboats, dilapidated fiberglass yachts, new sailing boats. A
nd out farther where the water was deeper, the heavyweights: an elegant white motor yacht the size of a corvette, a well-kept twin-masted sailing ship, two huge catamarans, anchored to buoys. There were people on every other one, working at rigging, tinkering with outboard motors, spreading out sails, or just sitting in the sun drinking coffee. Blanc looked around. In the shade of the only tree, on the edge of the square, were two construction trailers, stacked one on top of the other, one with CAPITAINERIE written on a sun-bleached sign. The harbormaster’s office.

  He climbed up the steps to the door of the upper trailer and went into the office. The room was made of steel and the walls were radiating heat. In one corner an air conditioner unit was straining at full capacity. A bald-headed man of indistinguishable age looked up at him. “Sorry, no moorings free right now. Not a one. In summer we’re as tight as an oyster.”

  “I’m a gendarme.”

  “I’m afraid we still can’t squeeze you in.”

  “I’m not looking for a mooring.”

  The man sighed. “Most people are. The door’s forever opening and closing, like a railway station bathroom. Firemen and pilots from Marignane come here looking for a few inches of space for their little boats. Why not a policeman too?”

  “I’m a landlubber. I’m here to speak to Monsieur Fuligni.”

  “Pascal’s Mercedes is baking in the sun, so that means he’s on his yacht. First pier on the right. Walk about halfway down and you’ll find the sailor on board. The Amzeri. The code for the pier gate is A4837X.”

  Blanc stepped out of the steaming trailer and looked around. There was only one Mercedes among all the cars on the square. Fuligni’s business must be doing well.

  * * *

  He found the yacht without difficulty: a relatively new white Beneteau 42, its massive stern squeezed between the smaller boats on either side like a rugby player on the Métro using his elbows to find a seat. “Monsieur Fuligni, may I come on board?”

  A man in his midfifties clambered out of the depths of the cabin in shorts and T-shirt, a pair of reading glasses on a leather strap hanging from his neck. Dark, swept-back hair, held in place with gel. Two-day stubble, dark eyes, medium height, slim. The type who’s strong without being muscle-bound. “Bonjour.” A smoker’s voice, Midi accent. Surprisingly charming.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions.” Blanc sat down on a bench near the wheel. Something splashed in the water behind him. He turned around nervously.

  “Just a fish,” the builder reassured him. “When it’s hot like this, they leap out of the water. Don’t ask me why.”

  There was a strong smell of brackish water, but also a cool breeze. Seagulls circled in the endless sky above them. A little sailing ship glided silently toward the mouth of the harbor. He could hear the creaking of wood as the Amzeri gently swayed. I could get to like this, Blanc told himself. “Do you know Monsieur Charles Moréas?”

  Fuligni stared at him a moment, taken aback, then nodded. “We’ve bumped into each other from time to time,” he answered cautiously.

  “Last Sunday for example?”

  “Afraid I can’t remember.”

  “You had a row. Here, at the harbor.”

  Fuligni smiled. A charmer, taken by surprise. “It wasn’t a row, just a discussion.”

  “A very loud discussion.”

  “We’re in the Midi, mon Capitaine. Things are normally loud. Even in the confessional box. I can’t imagine anyone’s complained about it. And I can’t see Charles going to the police.” He laughed, just slightly nervously.

  “What was this discussion about?”

  “Come with me. I’ll show you. You’ll agree with me.”

  The builder led him down to the end of the pier. “The water here is deeper,” he said. “It’s easier to get into the channel out of the harbor. Saint-César is at the end of the Étang de Berre. It’s a big bathtub of brackish water. It’s okay if you’re a fisherman or have a tiny boat. Very tiny. But if you have a real yacht and want to take it out into the Mediterranean, you have to sail as far as the lifting bridge at Martigues and through the canal to reach the open sea. The easier it is to get out of the harbor here, the quicker you get to the bridge. Now look.” He pointed to the boat at the last mooring on the pier, a wooden motorboat with a cabin. The light blue paintwork was faded, there were gashes in some of the decking, both outboard motors were rusty, and strips of weeds as long as a man’s arm clung to the hull below the waterline.

  “That wreck belongs to Moréas. He inherited the little fishing boat from his father. But he hasn’t moved it in years.” He pointed at the mooring ropes, which were green with algae. “You’d need a knife to cut that thing loose, there’s no way those knots could be untied now.”

  “But Moréas comes down to the harbor.”

  “Now and then. He sits in the cabin and drinks.”

  Blanc thought about what the harbormaster had told him, the fat belly of the Beneteau yacht. “You want his mooring?” he suggested.

  “I offered him a swap. If he wants to block up a mooring space with the corpse of a boat, then why of all spaces does he need the best in the harbor? Merde, I’ve offered the man money to change spaces. The harbormaster said he had no problems with the deal. It’s been going on for years. But the man is a Corsican donkey.”

  “Not anymore, he’s not,” the captain sighed, pulling his Nokia from his pocket, and calling the gendarmerie back in Gadet. “I need the crime scene team,” he told Baressi. “I want them to check out a boat in the harbor down at Saint-César.” Then he turned back to Fuligni. “Moréas is dead,” he told him.

  “Oh no,” the builder exclaimed, throwing up his hands defensively. “I didn’t beat him to death just to get hold of his mooring space.”

  “I didn’t say you did, and anyhow ‘beaten’ is hardly the word. Let’s go back to your boat.”

  Sitting back on board the Amzeri, Blanc took a long, hard look at the man opposite. Would anybody really riddle a man with a Kalashnikov and then set his body on fire simply because he wanted his mooring space? People had been murdered for less. Fuligni looked nervous. “Was your argument on Sunday about the mooring space again?”

  The builder rubbed his brow. “Yes, of course. What else would I have to discuss with someone like Moréas?”

  “How much did you know about him?”

  “Next to nothing. He was asocial. A man who enjoyed treading on other people’s toes. It took me a long time to realize that he might just have sold the boat for drink if I hadn’t been stupid enough to make an issue of the mooring. He realized that he could annoy me simply by turning up here every now and then to make sure the wreck didn’t just fall to pieces. Just to prove to me that I would never get hold of his space.”

  “Did you ever threaten him?”

  “Charles wasn’t the sort of man it was wise to threaten.”

  Blanc recalled the Kalashnikov under his bed and the samurai sword hanging on his wall. “Did he ever threaten you?”

  “Not directly, but in a way.”

  “Did he do so last Sunday?”

  “I offered him five thousand euros. Five thousand euros, just for swapping moorings! His answer was to grin, jump back into his boat, and flip me the bird. I called him names, ‘connard,’ and so forth. The sort of things people say in that situation. Then I came back to my yacht, and later went home.”

  “Do you have any witnesses?”

  “Of our argument? Half the harbor must have heard us.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I didn’t look at my watch.”

  “Morning or afternoon?”

  “Morning. I set out from home about nine A.M., and must have got here about a quarter past. Then I spent some time working on the yacht, maybe an hour or two. Eventually I spotted Moréas coming down the pier and went over to speak to him. It was definitely before lunch.”

  “Did Moréas stay long down here?”

  Fuligni shook his head. “We had ou
r exchange of opinions—don’t ask me how long it lasted, but not that long. Then he disappeared belowdecks on his boat, but after half an hour at most he was off down the pier again. It was as if he had just been looking for something on board. I didn’t exactly wave good-bye to him.”

  “What did you do after your argument? Where were you Sunday afternoon and evening?”

  “Why do you need to know? Do I need an alibi? I had something to eat on the boat, then worked on my radio transmitter until it was dark. Then I went home.”

  “Do you have witnesses who can confirm that?”

  “That I went home? My wife, of course, and…” He hesitated. “My secretary. She could confirm it too.”

  * * *

  A little later three less-than-thrilled crime scene experts arrived. Blanc greeted them on the pier and took them down to Moréas’s wreck of a boat. “Fits with his house,” said one of them, groaning as he pulled on his white protective clothing. “I can’t promise we’re going to find any meaningful evidence. It’s damp so close to the water. And anybody who was on the pier could have been on board.”

  “As long as they knew the access code at the pier gate.”

  “Or paddled their way across the harbor on a raft. You’ll have to be very careful how you treat anything we find, if we find anything at all.”

  “Send me your report. Moréas wasn’t on board very long on Sunday. Maybe he was looking for something, maybe he wanted to leave something here. Call me if you come across anything unusual.” Blanc gave him his cell phone number. As he headed down the pier he touched the brim of his baseball cap in farewell to Fuligni, who was walking up and down the deck of his yacht, talking excitedly on his phone.

  * * *

  The captain drove back to Caillouteaux. There was an older middle-aged woman on duty at the town hall and she sighed theatrically at having to get up from her seat in front of a fan. Blanc had her take him to the commune archive, which was housed in a windowless vaulted room that had a musty smell but was relatively cool. He set to work going through land registers, meeting minutes, and official letters. If there was one thing he had learned in Paris it was that nowhere is there a better source of clues than paperwork. He was looking for any references that might link Fuligni and Moréas. Maybe they had quarreled over more than just the mooring?