The Beast of the Camargue (25 page)

“Why didn't you go with Bordeaux?”

“We don't work with them any more. Too many foul-ups.”

“So let's wait for the labs. They're the real police these days.”

The skin of Marceau's face was so taut that his skull protruded clearly. He went over to the corpse while Mattei was lifting its scalp. As he pondered, he clenched his teeth, and his jaw muscles bulged when he did so. A cold gleam glazed his eyes.

It had been raining since the middle of the night. The water had gathered black trails of dust on streets and pavements overheated by the sun.

The day before, de Palma had had the stitches removed from his shoulder wound. Apart from a slight tugging on his skin, he no longer felt a thing.

As soon as he emerged from the automatic gate of Résidence Paul Verlaine, he felt the touch of eyes from across the street.

He could not tell where the danger lurked, but he could sense it. For the coming night, he had decided to sleep at Maistre's place. After that, he would see.

If he was sure of one thing, it was that Morini would not let up. He had gone too far: his visit to Lornec and then the threats he had made in Aix were too much to swallow. But it was a long step from there to taking out a contract, even if Morini had built his empire on the basis of incredible violence. Even if he had wiped out rival gangs like a butcher. He was a psycho who enjoyed just two things: getting himself invited to the orgies of the great and good, and offing someone. All the same, he never did so without a good reason.

As he turned into rue Laugier, he looked in his rearview mirror and saw a Scenic following him. He made out the driver's face, and he had seen enough gangsters in his life to realize that the man on his tail was no part-timer.

He accelerated suddenly, putting a good fifty meters between them, then found himself face to face with the number 18 bus that was coming up avenue de la Capelette. Behind him, the Scenic's driver picked up his mobile.

De Palma turned off the avenue and drove the wrong way up rue Saint-Jean. The car was no longer there in his mirror. He stopped, checked the clip in his Bodyguard, picked up his .45, racked the slide and laid in on the passenger seat.

Was he succumbing to hallucinations again?

He was still wondering about that when, thirty meters away, he saw a motorcycle heading straight for him with two men in the saddle.

De Palma floored the pedal and drove straight at them. They swerved to avoid him.

In front of Saint John's church, he just missed a couple of kids who were kicking a football.

He wrenched the wheel to the left, like someone on a stunt-driving course, then drove along the railway track, the Alfa hugging the tarmac.

Left again, in a screech of tires.

On the pavements of the old industrial estate there were holes, burned-out mattresses, wrecked fridges, a blind T.V.

The old pith helmet factories, scheduled for demolition for years, were still standing. A glance in the mirror: no one.

The Baron parked his Giulietta in front of the watchman's hut, by a time clock now swollen with rust.

At that moment the motorbike braked. De Palma threw himself out of his car, rolled over and stood up, legs bent, aiming his Colt at the target, his left palm bracing the butt.

The gun jumped in his hands, like a toy with a mind of its own.

The first two bullets made little volcanoes of dust in the walls of the electric plant.

The driver tipped his bike over and crouched behind it. The other ran in a circle to outflank de Palma.

A third shot. A direct hit. Under the impact of the 11.43, the bike shuddered.

One hit. Two. The shells hit metal. CLANG. CLANG.

And then a great BOOM.

Heat everywhere. Hydrocarbons and benzene combined.

The black leather-clad body rose into the sky and bounced off the gray stones of the wall. Then it fell back, one leg over its head, disjointed by the explosion.

The Baron bent double and scurried behind the watchman's hut.

A pile of rubble hid him from the old works canteen. It smelled of tramp shit and dog piss. The fetid stench started to crawl over his skin and invade each pore.

A T.V. set wobbled under a burst of fire. The Baron felt the first kiss of death. Right in the shoulder. In the same place as last time, but deeper. He fell to the ground and saw the blood oozing between his fingers. Drops of life on his finger nails.

One bullet. Two. Three. And click.

Shit, the spare clip was in the car.

He pulled out his Bodyguard.

A .38 special. The famous police issue.

He moved forward, his pistol in his left hand. Nothing.

He waited in the silence.

How much time had gone by? Hours. An eternity. Just a few seconds. De Palma knew how time dilated.

He cocked an ear. Someone was running down the slope away from the factory, fleeing toward the ruins of the sulfur plant.

De Palma went back to the driver. With the tip of his gun, he lifted up the helmet's visor. The right eye was puffy. Vincent Lopez. Final contract.

Suddenly, he heard sirens toiling through the traffic down below, in La Capelette.

He took a few steps and sat down on the pavement. There was a smell of melted leather and petrol fumes.

When his colleagues zoomed in, de Palma stood up on his long legs, produced his police card and put his hands up.

Anne Moracchini came into the hospital room with Maistre just behind her.

“How's it going, Michel?”

She planted a kiss on his forehead. She was wearing the same musky perfume as on their night at the opera.

“It hurts, but the quack says it's nothing and I can go home tomorrow if I want.”

“In any case, you shouldn't stay here, as long as this hasn't been sorted. I'm afraid the hacks have not only mentioned your name, but also the hospital where you're being treated.”

“Kind of them. I hope they've also published the room number.”

“You're staying at my place,” Moracchini said.

“Don't take advantage …”

She took a chair and drew it up next to him. Delicately, she placed her hand on his.

“As soon as we found out, we went on a little trip to Aix,” she said softly. “Maistre, Romero and I.”

“He was there?”

“No,” Maistre murmured.

“And?”

Moracchini lowered her eyes.

“His thug told us that he hasn't been seen since yesterday.”

“The poor lad must be worried!”

“And so he should be,” Maistre said. “Just imagine, you're sitting talking to someone, you get up for a slash, you hang around a bit because you're taking a dump as well, and when you come out again, no Morini!”

“You're kidding me!”

“You heard correctly,” Moracchini said. “The heavy's name is Serge Mondolini, remember him? He's one of our regulars.”

The Baron frowned.

“So, he goes to the crapper, and when he comes back Morini has vanished in a puff of smoke. He's making it up.”

“I don't think so. Really I don't. He even told us that he feared the worst and would give us all the help we needed.”

“I'll go and see him, in a few days' time.”

“That's right, go and put your oar in,” Maistre said, glancing out of the window. “Tell us where you'd like to be buried.”

“Next to my father.”

Moracchini stood up.

“Michel, you're going to have to choose between your friends and
your bullshit. When you get out of here, you're coming to my place. And I don't want to see you hanging around La Capelette. As for Morini, we'll deal with him.”

“Who knew that I lived at 102, boulevard Mireille Lauze?”

“They know lots of things.”

“No, there are very few people who know that. Very, very few. Except for my close friends.”

“They simply tailed you, you dummy.”

“Except that, since going to see Morini, I've been really careful. I go home via traverse de la Barnière by jumping over the wall. After that, no one can see me. So what do you think?”

“I … I don't know.”

“Well, I do! Some fucker has been out for my blood ever since I took an interest in this case.”

De Palma stopped for breath. An arrow of pain pierced his shoulder.

“This is serious, Anne. Very serious. It goes deeper than just the no-good local mob.”

“Obviously what you're saying fits in with the first attempt too.”

“No it doesn't.”

“Why not?”

“When you use a SIG, you don't miss.”

“What do you …” Maistre stammered. “The first time was to scare me. This time it was to kill me.”

“That's all very well, Michel, but you haven't even asked who's in charge of your case.”

“And so?”

“I am,” Moracchini said, with a glint of defiance in her eyes.

He looked at Maistre, who seemed lost in very distant memories.

“And our initial investigations have turned up a bullet from a SIG.”

“Where did you find it?”

“On that pile of rubble, in a big lump of plaster. It had been fired in a south–north direction. In other words, it came from the one who got behind you. Not the driver, but the passenger!”

“That's the news of the day.”

He took the remote control in his good hand and raised his bed to the sitting position. The doctor on duty came in.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine, it just tugs a bit.”

“That's normal, it's the stitches.”

The doctor raised the dressing and adjusted his glasses.

“Is there anyone at home who can change dressings?”

“Yes,” Moracchini said. “I've had experience.”

“O.K., so you can go home if you want. I'll take out the stitches next week.”

Moracchini's living room led out to a cool garden with two huge oaks at the bottom, on the bank of an old irrigation canal. She had planted some rambling roses and wisteria, as well as strewing potted plants all around it.

De Palma felt good. He watched his colleague and realized that it was the first time that he had seen her at home and entered her personal space.

She sat down next to him, with some lint and gel. As she changed the dressing, he felt her breath on the nape of his neck.

“He shot you just where he hit you the first time. He's a maniac.”

She put on the lint and two strips of plaster, then rolled down his sleeve.

“Do you want a drink?”

“Yes, something strong, I've earned it.”

She mixed a jug of Morito, with crushed ice and fresh mint. They drank in silence, savoring the chilled liquid.

She had bunched her hair up over her neck, which highlighted her features and made her look like a young girl. De Palma said so, and she smiled with affection.

She told him about her father, who often paid her compliments. He was a man of few words and unfinished sentences. She had spent much of her teenage life trying to make sense of this man, whom she adored more than anything, and what he meant by the words he left hanging. He was a lawyer, born in Algeria, who reserved his eloquence for the courts.

So she came to realize that she was a woman destined for silence and contemplation.

“It's strange that you're now telling me about your father!”

She slapped him on his good shoulder.

“It's because you impress me, M. de Palma! So I have to defend myself as best I can.”

“I impress you, do I?”

“Yes, and sometimes you should realize that.”

She stood up and winked at him.

“Come on, let's go back inside. We'll be more comfortable.”

She lay back on the sofa, propped up on her elbows.

“Now, you can tell me something about yourself.”

“There's nothing to tell.”

“What were you like as a little boy?”

De Palma rarely thought about his childhood and what he had been through with his brother. It plunged him into unending sadness. His brother had died of leukemia, and he had nursed a sense of guilt that still had not left him: guilty of failure to help, a terrible feeling, and one that haunted him. He had never spoken about it to anyone.

“There's one memory I have of those days, it was when we used to come out of the conservatoire on place Carli after our music lessons. Our heads were full of demi-semiquavers. I don't know why, but in my memories, the sun is always setting … Anyway, we'd walk down to the opera house with our friends. It was magic. We went by the Gare de l'Est and bought slices of pizza from the Italian place that used to be on the corner of the Canebière. Then we'd eat them as we went through the red-light district, staring at the whores in thigh boots who would wink at us.”

“Why did you go to the opera?”

“I was an extra.”

“You used to sing?!”

“Extras don't sing, Anne. They're just part of the crowd, priests, guards or pages, or whatever. They play no part, but without them the show lacks sparkle. They're magnificently pointless. Can you imagine
Aïda
without the soldiers? I was a high priest with a ropy wig and foundation all over my face, standing right next to Radames. On another occasion, we executed Mario in
Tosca
…”

He fell silent. In the half-light, he was looking for an attitude of pride, something to hide behind while his feelings had time to subside.

He regaled her with tales from the stage: the terrible flops, when screwed-up programs and loose change would rain down on the boards like drops of humiliation, and the splendid successes that made the lines of velvet seats explode.

He had spent more than eleven years on the boards of the municipal theater; eleven years of electric warmth in the dark, secretive wings; in the white lights of the Svobodas; the warm shadings of liquid blue and ochre in the distance, stage left or right, or else on the proscenium, the only place where the gleaming, serious, anonymous faces of the audience can be seen.