The sea rolled over its secrets. It mocked the prehistory it had swallowed as it tickled the rocks covered with red and violet seaweed, the paradise of gobi, dartfish, cowardly dwarf crabs and razor-sharp mussels.
The gulls had come to rest on the superstructure of Le Torpilleur, like stiff-necked sailors on parade. They seemed to have calmed down for now, but anything would be enough to set them off again.
De Palma’s gaze lost itself in the horizon. He did not understand a thing. He felt small and alone in this mineral world, which sent back a hazy reflection. There were only two things he could be sure of: that the victim knew her killer, and that Le Guen’s Cave was at the center of this affair. In other words, practically nothing.
He could hear the forensic technicians in the distance as they began their slow progression toward the far end of the creek. Glancing down at this far-off scene, he had the impression that there were three long tracks running from the foot of the cliff-face down to the sea. He clambered up on to another rock to get a better view. He was right: three barely visible lines crossed the center of the beach from one side to the other. The gravel, which was finer at this point, had been turned over, and he could now see that it was not as level as elsewhere.
He was going to have to ask the technicians to inspect the limestone of the cliffs, especially the nooks where rain and violent winds had bitten into the soft rock, leaving tiny protrusions as sharp as needles. He was hoping that a hair or something else from the victim or killer, might have been trapped there.
“Autran was without doubt murdered here, and not by hanging, but leave that aside for the moment. Her body was dragged down to the beach and thrown into the sea. It then drifted over to Le Torpilleur. Luccioni was murdered here too, but in the water. The crime was then made to look like a diving accident. But why? If there is any connection between the crook and the scientist, it must be extremely tenuous. We were stupid not to look into Luccioni’s case. But then we’re always being stupid.”
The boys from forensics arrived. De Palma got out his exercise book and sketched the scene as accurately as he could. He drew the cliff, the long tracks on the beach and finally the sea. In the imaginary blue he wrote: “Le Guen’s Cave, 35 meters down.”
The village of Les Goudes looked distinctly Sicilian: hostile and deserted, and hunched up in the harsh sunlight. At 3:00 p.m. Vidal went down toward the port, passing modest buildings crowded in beside the sea: two ancient bars, fish restaurants with signs which read “Authentic Bouillabaisse,” and Charles Le Guen’s diving club, which was closed.
He zigzagged between upturned boats and worn ropes. The sun glared off slabs of concrete, and Vidal thought of de Palma who must still be trudging around Sugiton creek. From behind a heap of nets, he heard the nasal sound of a radio; the air resonated with a hit from the ’60s. Two fishermen, presumably father and son, were pulling in their net and talking in low voices. They fell silent as Vidal approached.
“Good afternoon, Messieurs. I’m looking for Charles Le Guen.”
“He’s on his boat over there, at the end of the first jetty,” said the older man, glancing at him with hostility.
Between two decrepit yawls, Vidal identified the boat belonging to the Grande Bleue Club, an old trawler converted for diving. A man of about fifty was giving a lick of paint to the fore rail. Vidal climbed on to the jetty and went over to Charles Le Guen.
“Good afternoon … Monsieur Le Guen?”
The diver turned round.
“That’s me. Can I help you?”
“My name is Maxime Vidal, from the murder squad. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Le Guen laid his brush on the pot of blue paint and looked at the policeman warily.
“Is it about the woman they found in Sugiton?”
“Exactly, did you know her?”
Le Guen slowly wiped his hands, put down his cloth and stood up. He was a short, stocky man, with a face weathered by the sea and the sun. A few gray hairs highlighted the blackness of his crew cut.
“I met Christine Autran when I first discovered the cave. She was just one specialist among many. And not particularly likable.”
He jumped on to the jetty.
“Did you see her again?”
“Off and on. She barely spoke to me. You know what these scientists are like …”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re a shabby bunch. When they needed me, they made use of me, then after that, nothing. Apart from Professor Palestro, the other lot …”
“You seem angry with them. Did something happen?”
“No, nothing. They just froze me out. It was hard to swallow …”
“Especially when you’d made such a discovery!”
“Yeah, but they couldn’t give a damn about me. All that mattered to them was their careers. Autran was no different.”
Vidal glanced at the quay. The two fishermen had gone. The port looked more deserted than ever. The yachts rolled in the slight breeze.
“East wind,” Le Guen remarked. “It’ll blow up tomorrow morning. I don’t know if we’ll be able to go out this week.”
Vidal took from his jacket a police photo of Franck Luccioni and handed it to Le Guen.
“What are you showing me now, some crook?”
“Do you know him?”
“I don’t hang around with people like that.”
“That’s not what I meant. He was also a diver, so I thought you might have seen him. Am I mistaken?”
Le Guen took a long look at the photo and frowned.
“I think I may have seen him, but where? I couldn’t tell you.”
“His name was Franck Luccioni.”
“Wasn’t he the one they found by Le Torpilleur last summer?”
“That’s right. How did you know that?”
“Word gets round in the diving world, especially when there’s been an accident.”
Le Guen took a few steps along the jetty toward the quay, where a man in blue overalls was waving at him.
“Afternoon, Loule. O.K.?” said Le Guen.
“I’m going to start on the crane … strip it down …”
“When?”
“Right away.”
“About time!”
Le Guen placed a foot on the edge of his boat. He seemed more relaxed.
“At the time, I was bringing a group of divers back from Riou. We’d been diving beneath the cliffs … When we passed by Jarre, I spotted La Bonne Mère heading toward Cape Morgiou. I radioed them to ask if they needed a hand. They told me they didn’t. That was it.”
“But had you ever met Luccioni?”
“I think so. But I can’t remember where.”
Beneath his appearance of a placid sailor, Le Guen was a nervy type, and he was starting to get impatient. He went aboard his boat, picked up his brush and added a few drops of solvent to the paint. He looked up at Vidal with even more distrust.
“Do you ever get clients who ask you to show them the entrance to the cave?”
“Loads of them, every weekend. One of your colleagues phoned me up the other day, and I had another request only last weekend.”
“Did you go?”
“No.”
“Why, because it’s dangerous?”
“No, it isn’t dangerous, there’s just nothing to see. People from the ministry put a grating and huge blocks of concrete over the entrance. There’s no point going to look at that. What’s more, you have to be a very good diver to get to the bottom at this time of year. You wouldn’t imagine it, but the water is really cold at ten meters and deeper.”
“So it’s impossible to get into the cave?”
“Absolutely. After the final research session in 1993, they put up the blocks of concrete. You’d have to be pretty smart to get inside. They’ve put up a ‘Keep out’ sign!”
“Have you been to Sugiton recently?”
“I often go there.”
“Were you there in early December?”
<
br /> “Yes, for sure. When I take people to Les Pierres Tombées or L’Oule, I go that way.”
“You didn’t notice anything?”
“That’s a strange question. There’s just the sea!”
“Apparently Autran’s body was in the water for a long time. It’s strange no-one saw her.”
“I went to Sugiton at the beginning of December, and I can assure you that there were no drowned bodies near Le Torpilleur then.”
“You’re sure?”
“Definitely. We dived all around it. We’d have seen her.”
“Do you remember the date?”
“It was the first weekend in December. I can’t remember the exact date.”
“Did you return there later on in December?”
“No, I didn’t. I go on holiday at that time of year. But I should be going back there next weekend, as long as there’s no east wind.”
Vidal handed him his card. Le Guen examined it, then put it in the pocket of his overalls.
“We’re in the fog right now. If you hear anything, or notice anything, call me.”
“Yeah, O.K.”
Le Guen crouched down, put a few more drops of solvent into his paint and watched Vidal walk back along the creaky jetty. As he stirred the royal blue liquid, he observed the police officer standing for a long while in front of an old rigger, a fifteen-meter-long wooden ketch, the only beautiful boat in the port of Les Goudes.
12.
The sea was relatively calm in the port of Marseille. During the night, clouds had moved across the sky. It was gloomy. Early that morning, a fine drizzle, whipped up by the sea breeze, had dampened the red roofs of the city.
Passing by Maire point, the east wind slapped La Bonne Mère, and a wave lifted the coastguards’ ship starboard. The chief petty officer waited for a second wave, slid the bar between his hands and changed tack. La Bonne Mère picked up speed again to the rhythm of the current.
A larger wave flooded the bridge. De Palma raised the collar of his jacket and took shelter in the steer-house. Whenever he was on water he fell silent, in communion with this liquid element. Vidal was leaning against the partition of the cabin and looking at the frothing sea with half-dead eyes. He was as white as a sheet, and trying not to bring up the coffee and croissant he had had at Le Zanzi.
As they passed the islands of Plane and Jarre to starboard, the waves grew less insistent. Further off they could see Cape Morgiou. Vidal was about to go out for a breath of fresh air, but the chief petty officer stopped him.
“You could get swept overboard. If you’re feeling sick, there are some plastic bags in the cupboard behind you.”
Once beyond Jarre, La Bonne Mère began to dance furiously in the waves. Leaving the cliffs of Riou to starboard it headed toward Cape Morgiou, and twenty minutes later it was sailing into Sugiton creek in the shelter of Le Torpilleur. Vidal managed to hold out until then.
De Palma went to the bow of the boat. Two coastguards had just put on their wetsuits and were spitting in their masks to prevent mist forming when they were underwater.
“First of all,” de Palma said, “check that the entrance hasn’t been forced open in some way. Then, try to find any trace of attempted break-ins—torn seaweed, any other signs—and collect any unusual objects you find on the bottom. And don’t forget to photograph everything.”
The divers strapped their tanks on to their backs, adjusted their lead belts and checked their regulators by letting a little air escape. De Palma was about to add something, but the two men, equipped with powerful lamps, had dropped backward into the sea.
The two forms went slowly down before they vanished into the gray water. A few moments later, only their air bubbles agitated the surface. They would be down for at least half an hour.
Another group of divers was preparing to explore the depths where Autran and Luccioni had been found.
“The slightest object could be vital,” Vidal told them. “Pick up everything within a radius of ten meters. Even if it looks insignificant.”
“That won’t be easy … there are loads of rocks where Autran was found, and it’s impossible to get between them.”
“I know, I know …” said de Palma, resigned.
The chief petty officer pointed out the place where Autran’s body had been fished out.
“She was there, under that darkish spike.”
“What about Luccioni?”
“He was much farther out, at the end of Le Torpilleur, by that cavity over there.”
“O.K., I see …” said de Palma as he turned to the divers: “Concentrate more on where Luccioni was found. That’s where we stand the best chance of finding something.”
“Why?”
“Because there must have been a struggle, a fight underwater … you can’t drown a good diver like Luccioni just like that.”
*
The first group of divers reached the entrance to Le Guen’s Cave. In the beams of their lamps, they could see the huge blocks that marked the start of the tunnel. A solitary grouper had taken up residence between two concrete cubes, in a hole no bigger than thirty centimeters across.
Visibility was now down to a few meters. They saw hardly any fish. The storm had shaken everything up and there was still a lot of silt suspended in the water. The frogmen swam around the blocks several times, but nothing attracted their attention.
The entrance didn’t appear to have been forced open. None of the seaweed had been torn away, and there were no marks of a pick or any other metal tool which might have been used on the gate or concrete. They each took a photograph of the site, then went down until their masks were almost touching the seabed.
Suddenly, the diver on the right signaled to his colleague and kicked his flippers: he had noticed that one of the blocks was colored differently. It seemed less dark. Close up, he observed that the layer of marine deposits was finer than on the other blocks. He moved a little way off, took a photograph, then swam back up to it.
This concrete cube was right in front of the gate. Unlike the others, it was marked with several scratches, one corner had been broken off and it was clear that someone had tried to use a crowbar to move it.
The two divers took a few photographs, then enlarged the circumference of their investigations. But half an hour later they had found nothing else.
They began to come up, one decompression stop at a time.
Vidal sat on the bridge of La Bonne Mère in a sorry state. De Palma allowed himself to be rocked by the motion of the sea as he gazed at the little beach in Sugiton creek. From time to time, he looked up at the huge cliff that overhung it. He thought of the wall paintings that slept in that fortress of stone, of the truths it concealed and refused to divulge.
At the place where Franck Luccioni had been found, there was not much in the way of a seabed. The rock formed a shelf of about twelve meters by six, then fell away into the dark depths. The coastguards rapidly covered the surface of the shelf. Amid the dartfish and rainbow wrasse, they found nothing of any interest.
After about a quarter of an hour, they began to go down the rock-face side by side, separated by a distance of two meters. Five minutes later, the diver to the left spotted a metallic glint between two anemones. He swam over to it and saw the tip of a small torch poking out of a red actiniaria. Having taken several photographs from different angles, he delicately picked up the torch and stowed it in a net on his belt before joining his companion.
The dive lasted another half an hour. The deeper they went, the colder the water became and now it looked almost blue. When they reached the bottom, at a depth of forty meters, they searched the base of the cliff with a fine-tooth comb. Nothing. They swam a little further away from the undersea cliff and stayed two meters from the bottom aiming their lamps at the gray floor. Just then one of the divers spotted an underwater hunter’s knife lying on a rocky mound. He took a photograph before placing it in his net. He then made a note of the exact position and looked at his watch: they h
ad been down for almost three quarters of an hour. He signaled their return to the surface.
Aboard La Bonne Mère, the first two had already dressed in fleeces and given their report. Vidal noted down their conclusions before going back to the steer-house, his face reddened by the chill air.
Fifteen minutes later, two moving patches of color could be made out in the gray water, before their shapes became distinct and the second group resurfaced.
Once on board, the divers put down their cylinders, took off their flippers and handed their nets to de Palma.
“We found them just below the location of the body. The torch was twenty meters down, and the knife right on the bottom, in other words just under forty meters. They hadn’t been there for very long … there wasn’t much deposit on them.”
Vidal noted down these details at once. De Palma examined the torch and the knife for a few seconds, then handed them to his colleague, who placed them in two plastic bags.
“Not a bad find, Michel!”
“I hope so, son, I hope so.”
“He might have lost them while fighting with Luccioni.”
“Maybe … But it might be the other way round …”
The east wind softened abruptly. A few gulls let themselves be carried as far as the rock which overhung La Bonne Mère. They squinted at the crew, on the lookout for something to eat.
De Palma and Vidal debated whether to continue looking or go back. They would not have another chance like this for a long time. The investigating magistrate had already made a great deal of fuss about this diving trip, and it had taken a lot of persuasion to convince him. They decided to take the photos, torch and knife to forensics to see if they could be made “to talk.”
As La Bonne Mère left Sugiton creek, the Baron leaned on the rail and gazed once more at the sea. All it sent back to him was a reflection of his own uncertainties. He looked up at the rocks and told himself that this creek would not teach him a thing. The truth lay elsewhere.
The First Fingerprint Page 10