From afar, the Baron glimpsed the white turret that he wanted to see. From here, it looked like a big limestone cube jutting up from the ground, with four pine trees at its feet, twisted by the agony of fire.
He parked the Nissan Patrol in the shelter of two rocks, then set off on foot, moving at a trot. He knew that there would soon be helicopter patrols in the sky, checking that the fire had not been rekindled.
Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at the base of the rock in a sweat and started his explorations.
Bérard had mentioned old stones, and he could more or less recall the topographical charts he had seen in Steinert’s study.
Above all, he had the few translations that Ingrid had made for him. All of the notes he had read spoke of this “white tower,” a clear landmark in the valley, and of the village that was supposed to have existed at its feet during the first century B.C. According to Ingrid, this was where the large sarcophagus which now stood in the farmyard of La Balme had originally come from.
De Palma knew that he was going to have to act quickly to determine if the land ravaged by the blaze still contained any Greco-Roman ruins which might have blocked, or at least delayed, certain real estate projects.
He soon found what the shepherd had called the old stones. The fire had in fact revealed what had previously been hidden by the forest’s undergrowth: perfectly carved blocks of varied dimensions, half buried in the earth.
They formed something like a limestone wall that led away toward La Crau before disappearing into the ground.
Old Karl Steinert had been right. There had been dwellings here. The text translated by Ingrid read:
… According to Canon Malvan (the digs date from the nineteenth century), in the place called “La Tour Blanche” there are houses and a line of large stones which could well have been a boundary wall, but this has not been proved.
The houses are not organized according to an orthogonal plan, but instead scattered around in complex plots, all quite different from each other. Presumably the initial construction was relatively recent, dating back to 30 or 40 B.C., and it was a house arranged around a courtyard with a portico …
Toward the south, there was perhaps a large garden or a vast area set aside for games and displays. But its current state does not allow us to say more, because the rather dense vegetation precludes the possibility of taking samples …
The text then described several ceramics which had been found in the vicinity, some of which went back to the second century B.C.
… On a limestone block there is a carving of a quite unusual monster: half man and half crocodile, it looks strangely like the Tarasque of Tarascon … This stone is situated at map reference 26 N / 84 E …
… This discovery, or rather rediscovery, was made by Monsieur Bérard, a farmer living in Eygalières, who owns the land. Monsieur Bérard has told me on a number of occasions that this land used not to be wooded, at least not as it is today.
Furthermore, I have Monsieur Bérard’s agreement to make this land available if ever a dig were to be carried out.
Steinert, October 23, 1938.
Brambles and shrubs covered the edges of the ancient walls. It was impossible to get near them without pruning them back. The Baron took several photographs. Most of the stones were swamped by tree roots and scorched bushes. He walked once more around the rock, but saw nothing else of interest. It was only when he gained a little height that he saw the lines in the ground: squares, rectangles, and a few curves.
He took another set of photographs and decided to return home.
As he got back into the Nissan, he suddenly realized why the wood had been burned down, and above all who had done it.
At that very moment, the whirr of a helicopter arose above the Alpilles and spread out across the plain of La Crau.
22.
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?”
“No, no, it’s alright!”
“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.”
Chandeler doubled over.
“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.”
&
nbsp; 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.
“Why not do a deal …”
“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.”
The Beast of the Camargue Page 27