The Beast of the Camargue (24 page)

A chest. Arms without hands. And a head, which was weirdly intact. The body had been severed across the torso.

Gaping wounds. Bones sticking out. Marceau noticed a vertebra and a rib, cut clean through by what he supposed must be a machine.

The face gave out a ghastly impression. The cheeks were phenomenally hollow, as though there was nothing left but leather over the jaws. The teeth stuck out, while the eyes seemed to be still biting into what remained of the visible world.

Marceau had rarely experienced such a sensation of animal terror. It felt like being transported years back, to Paris, when he was a young inspector and doing his apprenticeship in horror.

Rey's skin was still pink. There was no trace of decay, while the blood had already coagulated on the surface of the wounds.

The police officer examined the skull, but saw no wound. There was no round hole, the sign of a bullet. No ecchymoses or hematomas either.

Marceau took a step back.

“I'll leave you to it,” he said to one of the team. “We'll see during the autopsy.”

He went back, carefully placing his feet in the traces of the outward journey.

“So?” Larousse asked.

“So, you'd have to be a genius to say what exactly Rey died of. Whatever it was, it wasn't a good old 11.43.”

“You're thinking of something in particular?” the deputy prosecutor said.

“Yes. A machine. Only a machine could amputate a body like that. Something like a huge pair of shears.”

“And that's not going to happen in the context of a gangland killing?”

“That's not what makes me wonder. Because they don't always gun each other down.”

“So what's the problem?”

“The Tarasque.”

“The what?”

“The Tarasque.”

“Oh right, that nasty great thing over there.”

“Michel? Jean-Claude here. I've got a stiff on my hands. A Christian Rey. Does that ring any bells?”

“Jesus, Christian Rey. There's definitely a time and a place for everything. And some people will be saying that it was high time.”

“Yeah, but there's a catch.”

“What's that?”

“He was found practically in the mouth of the Tarasque. This morning.”

The Baron let a silence pass by.

“And what are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking it's more than just a gangland killing. What about you?”

“I don't know. It's all news to me. Have you got anyone who's talking?”

“The one who discovered the body. He told me that Rey was a Knight of the Tarasque.”

“A what?”

“One of the people who push the thing when they take it out for the carnival.”

“The Tarasque, you say!”

For a few seconds, the Baron hesitated. Ideas were spinning through his mind.

“Is the prosecutor there?”

“His deputy. A skirt. She's new and she looks to me as thick as they come.”

“And where are you at with Steinert?”

“The case has been closed. I've just heard the news. Officially, there's no more Steinert case.”

“But I still think he was killed.”

“The only thing that's certain about it is that the prosecutor's closed the case.”

“O.K., we need an urgent talk, Jean-Claude.”

“Why urgent?”

“See you later, my lad. I'll be there this afternoon.”

Marceau's office stank of stale Gitanes and sweat. He was sitting in front of his computer, with his feet on the table. De Palma was standing in front of him, staring intently, his face tense.

“And you're telling me that you went to see Morini, just like that, with Maistre?”

The Baron did not respond.

“And then you tell me that it won't be the last time. That you've been shot at and you've got some names!”

“Affirmative,” de Palma said, his voice slightly muted.

Marceau suddenly stood up.

“Affirmative, my ass! I reckon that you're operating more and more like a cowboy and that you're putting your fellow officers in danger. You have an influence on Maistre, don't abuse it! He's a father. I thought I'd just remind you of that, in case you'd forgotten.”

De Palma relaxed.

“I hope you still have a scrap of conscience left, to show you the possible consequences of your foul-ups.”

“I needed to know. That's all there is to it.”

“What did you expect Morini to tell you? In the police we don't always know everything. That's the way it is.”

“And you can live with that?”

“For ages now, I've learned to live with small truths and big lies. And with more and more unknowns in this big equation of shit.”

De Palma folded his arms over his chest. He glanced at the missing persons notices stuck up on the walls. Steinert's was still there.

“Does Morini come from Tarascon?” he asked, opening his pad.

“He was born in rue des Archives, and he's still got plenty of friends in the neighborhood. What's more, he does a lot of business round here. I'd advise you to watch your back in these parts. Tarascon is a bit like his manor.”

“Born in 1943 in Tarascon, Bouches-du-Rhône,” de Palma said laconically. “Arrested for armed robbery in 1963, then for procuring and so on and so forth. The irresistible rise of an asshole. A big lie, as you put it, on legs.”

“What do you expect me to do about it? They say that he lunches with the mayor and mixes with freemasons as casually as you go to the barber's … People say a lot of things about Morini.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“He's got a huge villa in Maussane, just in front of the village. And land all around it. Enough to spot an enemy coming.”

“That must make a change from his lousy little bar in Aix. Because he can't spot an enemy coming there. Can you show me on the map where the fucker lives?”

“I've got it on my machine.”

Marceau clicked his computer mouse to open a file.

“Here, that's where it is. On the road to Eygalières. Just by this big forest to the right on the way up.”

De Palma suddenly realized that he meant the Downlands. In other words, Steinert and Morini had been neighbors of a sort.

Marceau sat down again.

“They say that he runs all the one-arm bandits from Nîmes to Toulon, including all the small towns to the north as far as Valence, and maybe even Lyon. Plus the whores, and the nightclubs. He's not much into drugs, as far as I know. Morini's thing is gambling. Christian
Rey was one of his men, by the way. He used to be the local debt collector.”

Marceau lit a Gitane and watched its blue smoke rise toward the ceiling.

“Him and another guy, an ex-cop called Bernard Dominguez.”

“I know him,” said de Palma. “He was a good officer until he started screwing whores all day long.”

“I'd just love to nail him … Anyway, apart from that, there isn't much to say about Morini. In the end, he's a classic godfather. He's got a hell of a reputation, but in fact he's just like the rest of them.”

He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette.

“Which is bad enough already!”

Marceau suddenly looked tired. He seemed sad and empty. He closed the windows on his computer screen and lit another Gitane.

“I haven't forgotten Isabelle either. Sometimes I realize that I haven't thought about her for the past two or three days and I feel guilty. Jesus, do I feel guilty.”

That day, there was a space between the two men that nothing could fill, not even their memories.

“It was you who gave Chandeler my number.”

Marceau simply raised a hand and lowered his eyes, while trying to look indifferent.

“I'm not holding it against you, Jean-Claude.”

A long silence.

“And Maistre, what does he say?”

“You know Jean-Louis. It all goes on inside. He's not much of a talker.”

There was quite a crowd on place de l'Hôtel de Ville in Aix. It was market day. Marc Morini was sitting on the terrace of his bar, with his bodyguard in front of him. The man took out his 200 mm and took two photographs.

Just like last time, the man noticed that the nearest stall to Morini's bar was an Italian cheese seller. He went over and ordered five hundred grams of parmesan and a chunk of mozzarella. From there, he had a three-quarters view of Morini. He took a third photograph.

The clock chimed eleven in the town hall belfry.

The last time he'd come, he had seen some policemen he did not know go into the bar. They had stayed for a good fifteen minutes and then had come out with stern faces. Some time later, a bunch of shady characters turned up.

So Morini wasn't easy to get at.

This seemed to be the same situation. Morini was sitting in the same position.

He picked up his portions of parmesan and mozzarella and went back into the center of the market. One more anonymous face.

He bought some candied almonds and was opening the box when he saw Morini's bodyguard stand up and go inside the bar.

Le Grand was alone. Still with his back to the street. The man did not wait a moment longer. He felt buoyed up by all the wonders that the Beast had revealed to him. He got out his Colt .45 and made straight for his prey, his gun pressed against his right thigh.

Morini did not have time to say or do anything at all. His predator's instinct deserted him the moment the Beast's servant stuck the barrel of the .45 into his fat neck.

“On your feet, shit-face. And quick.”

Morini did so in silence. Lucky for him, or the man would have had to finish him off there and then.

“Hands behind your back.”

“But you can't do this. Who are you?”

“I'm the police,” the man said, flashing a tricolor card.

They walked some thirty meters along the square then ducked into an old 406 estate.

When Morini saw a parking ticket was stuck behind the left-hand windscreen wiper, he knew instinctively that there would be no official questioning or police custody at the end of this journey.

This was the end of the line for his life as a predator. He had been expecting it for a long time, but not like this.

Marceau's clearest memory of Christian Rey went back to his time with the
Brigade de Grand Banditisme
in Marseille. Rey had been questioned about a gangland killing. He was suspected of having
offed the rebellious owner of Le Nain Jaune, a bar in central Avignon. Judge Bonnardi wanted the gangster questioned, and the gangster had been questioned. Nothing had come of it.

Today, Rey had been half eaten by some infernal machine and was lying on the chrome-plated dissection table of the forensic surgeon at La Timone hospital.

With Dr. Mattei in charge. The doctor of the dead.

“There's not much left of our friend.”

“What do you make of this wound?” Marceau asked.

“Hard to say.”

“Could it be from a machine, such as a grinder or something of that sort?”

“Maybe yes, maybe no … it looks to me more like a bite.”

“Hang on, Mattei. I might have told you that it was found in front of the Tarasque, but there's no need to start telling stories.”

“I mean it, Jean-Claude … I really do.”

Mattei stood back from the table, both arms raised, a scalpel in his left hand.

“I saw this kind of bite wound when I was working in Mauritius, just after I'd qualified. It was a fisherman who'd been attacked by a shark, in the lagoon. He'd been half eaten. Just like this.”

Marceau ran his hand over the nape of his neck to wipe away the sweat that was dripping down his back.

“Leave it out, Mattei. There aren't any sharks in Tarascon. What else have you found?”

“Lots of interesting things: algae, traces of earth under the fingernails, and so on …”

“You said algae?”

“Yes, and silt. But from fresh water, I'd say. There are no traces of salt or anything that might suggest sea water.”

“So what are your conclusions?”

“That our customer spent some time underwater. Stagnant water probably. A bit like the one the other day.”

“William Steinert?”

“Spot on. Except that Steinert drowned.”

“You're sure about that?”

“Of course I am! There can't be any doubt about it. Steinert died of drowning just as surely as this one died of being eaten by something. Got it?”

“Loud and clear, boss.”

Marceau looked at Rey's body. He tried to recall the mobster he had encountered when he was in custody: his face had shrunk, it no longer looked the same, Marceau was sure of it. In his memories, Rey had been fairly chubby, though without a belly, tall, and built like a prop forward. The half man that they had in front of them must have suffered horribly, suffered a gangster's Passion, followed a scumbag's stations of the cross.

“He was tortured before being finished off,” he said, as though throwing a card down on the table.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Tortured. No water or anything else for days. Look at his cheeks.” Mattei turned toward Marceau.

“You'll end up getting my job one of these days, Jean-Claude!”

“Not yet, doctor death. But I'm working on it.”

Mattei pointed out traces of burns on Rey's wrists. One or two old scars. A tattoo on his shoulder.

“Nice tattoo,” he said.

Marceau leaned over to see.

“What is it?”

“An impossible monster: a Tarasque. That fits with what Gouirand told me.”

With a twirl of his scalpel, Mattei drew a circle around Rey's skull and asked his assistant for the saw.

“I don't think I'll find out much more today. We'll have to wait for the D.N.A. results and chemical tests.”

“How long?”

“For the chemistry, tomorrow at the latest. It's being done in Marseille. But I'm sending the D.N.A. to Nantes, so it could take some time.”