The Beast of the Camargue (32 page)

Outside, the night had stretched its canvas. He waited for there to be nobody near his building, for the stairwell and hall to be plunged in darkness, then he walked out into the gloom of Marseille.

Thirty minutes later, he was bounding up the stone staircase that led through the prickly pears to Maistre's patio.

He served himself a kir then sat down on the low wall that overlooked
the little houses of L'Etraque. In the distance, the sea was like a vast black slick running from the harbor wall as far as Maïre and then to the flickering star of the Planier lighthouse.

Maitre was browsing through a boat supplies catalog. The murmur of the city could be heard from afar.

“Do you think we'll ever find our fishing boat, Michel?”

The Baron answered with a grunt.

Controller General Lamastre had been regional head of the P.J. in Marseille for five years. He was rather a stylish man, he was in the town hall's good books, and didn't like disciplinary scandals.

That morning, Lamastre was getting impatient. He picked up the F.B.I. special agent badge which he always kept on his desk; it was a souvenir from his stay in Quantico years before, when he had decided to try to adapt the American super-cops' profiling techniques to French procedures. The badge had been given to him by James Lehane Jr., one of the best manhunters in the U.S.A.

“Take a seat, Michel. I don't like having to talk to you like this, but I have no choice. How are things?”

“Fine, sir. I've completely recovered. And I'm longing to get back to work.”

“You knew Lehane too, didn't you?”

“Yes. He was a great guy. I've read both of his books and must admit that I've used his ideas a lot.”

“Indeed,” Lamastre said, putting down the badge. “Quite a detective. Let's drink to his health before I give you a scolding.”

Lamastre came from Normandy. His blue deep-set eyes, perpetual three-day beard and a complexion fired by alcohol did not undermine his natural elegance. He produced a bottle of Jim Beam and two glasses from his desk drawer.

“The news isn't good,” he said as he poured out the bourbon. “Certain people around here want your balls on a plate, Michel.”

“I know.”

“In this country, cops like you are becoming a rare commodity …
and certain people like that fact. To be quite honest, I'm seeing what can be done to avoid your being charged.”

“They've got nothing against me, I've done nothing wrong.”

“The problem is that you were seen having a rather physical conversation with that bastard Morini, just a few days before he passed on. Do you follow?”

“Of course I do, but …”

“Don't try to explain yourself, Michel. I know full well that it wasn't you who cut him in half and I've already rejected any such insinuations. Don't forget, however, that they exist. But the snag is that we have a statement from a customer of Morini's bar. He saw you and he's willing to sign, with his elbows if need be.”

“I don't follow you …”

“Leave it out, Michel. I'm not out to get you.”

Lamastre handed him the official report.

“They want your ass, and they'll get it if you carry on like this. Our friend here apparently saw everything. Just read the statement! It's highly detailed.”

“O.K., so I talked with Morini and I handcuffed his bodyguard.”

“And both of them died within the next few days …”

The Baron sat back in his chair. Lamastre picked up his badge again.

“I need to know why, Michel.”

“It's a bit complicated. I don't know where to begin.”

“I've got all the time in the world, and there's plenty of bourbon left. This is a friend asking, Michel!”

Caught in the trap, the Baron stayed silent for a while. He was going to have to talk, but first he wanted to find out exactly how much his boss knew. When he reached out his hand to take the report, Lamastre gripped it.

“Don't play silly buggers now. The report is mostly about Lopez. The man you blew to pieces not far from where you live. It's all rather messy, isn't it? As for the rest, I honestly couldn't give a damn!”

He raised his hand.

“Who cares if you put the shits up that fucker Morini? But for
two magistrates who specialize in organized crime to try to pin the death of good old Lopez on you—that I can't abide. So I need your version of the truth. And it had better be truer than that of our learned friends. Message received?”

“Loud and clear.”

De Palma knew that Lamastre was extremely rigorous, absolutely honest and quite ready to stick his neck out for his men. So he had to play it straight while also hiding both his strengths and his weaknesses. Otherwise, the trap might close on him for good.

“This customer's statement is a tissue of lies,” he said.

“That's not what I want to hear, Michel.”

“Between you and me, boss, this is pure perjury. But, O.K., I'll tell you everything.”

He started at the beginning: the meeting with Mme. Steinert, the shot in the dark … He also mentioned the grass who had put him on the track of Morini.

Lamastre listened, still clutching his badge.

“You're in it up to your neck,” he said. “You know what being charged means for a police officer?”

“I know, Chief.”

The Controller General threw his badge down on a file marked “De Palma.”

“As far as I'm concerned—I mean the Marseille P.J.—I'm going to give you a clean slate. When do you start work again?”

“Next Monday.”

“O.K., let's say that de Palma's great return is going to be postponed slightly. Get yourself another month or so of sick leave. Time enough to let things run their course. We'll see how things stand when autumn comes. And I'm going to visit your friend the prefect later today.”

“Say hello from me.”

“It's lucky for you that you've been friends these twenty years.”

“We go back to our days on the
Brigade Criminelle
.”

“I know, I know, the pests in Paris. There's more to life than Maigret, you know.”

“He was a young Commissaire at the time.”

“Stop, you're bringing tears to my eyes.”

Lamastre poured out two more shots of Jim Beam.

“So, Steinert you say?”

“Yes, boss.”

“That case stinks, don't you think?”

“It isn't a case. I mean, everything possible has been done to turn it cold.”

“Yes, I heard they'd decided he drowned.”

“It was a murder. As sure as two and two make four. And someone big was behind it: property deals and so forth!”

“I'm ready to believe you, but it won't wash. People are judged on the facts, not on intellectual constructions.”

Lamastre knocked his glass back in one and grimaced as he felt the burn go down.

“There are hundreds of poor bastards who get murdered and are put down as suicides. Do you know why?”

The Baron shrugged and picked up the F.B.I. badge.

“Because there's a two-gear justice—everyone knows that. And a two-gear police system. A D.N.A. test costs between 300 and 800 euros, do you follow me, de Palma?”

“Of course …”

“I know, I'm stating the blindingly obvious …”

He poured himself another shot.

“And I advise you to lay off the Steinert case during the month on sick leave you're going to take.”

When he emerged into the courtyard of police headquarters, de Palma tried in vain to contact Marceau on his mobile. So instead he telephoned the commissariat, only to be told that his old colleague had gone on holiday abroad two days before.

The Baron was about to pull away in Maistre's 205, when Romero's head appeared at the window.

“Good day, boss. How are things?”

“I've just seen Lamastre. He'd rather I stayed ill for a while.”

“No surprise there. You're much talked of right now, and not all of it good!”

“That's nothing new.”

“Things are drifting up to the surface.”

“Who cares?”

Romero stuck his head into the car.

“I went to see Maistre yesterday. As we got nothing out of Lornec, we took a little trip to the Belle de Mai to see what we could find out about those old hold-ups.”

“Anything new?”

“Not much. But there's one thing of interest. At the time, it was Marceau who was in charge of the investigation. You should give him a call.”

“That's right. He was on the B.R.B.
*
at the time. I should have thought of that. The snag is that he's on leave right now. The bugger's abroad and no one knows where. We'll have to wait for the end of August.”

“Shit, that's a shame.”

“That's one way of putting it. Anyway, nothing is panning out at the moment.”

“Anne's here. Do you want to speak to her?”

“No, my lad. I feel as though I stink of something dead right now.”

“Come on, Michel, forget it!”

“You don't know them. They're as jealous as divas.”

“Whatever. Let's try and get together as soon as possible. O.K.?”

“No problem. See you around.”

The Canadair banked over the summits of the Alpilles before swooping toward the Downlands, barely thirty meters above the ground.

With tears in his eyes, Bérard watched it fly in line with the lavender fields, which were half hidden by the black smoke. Madame Steinert had taken the old shepherd by the arm because he could not keep still.

Once past the Route de Maussane, the Canadair dropped its tons of water over the burning torches of resin and oak, before vanishing into the blue sky smeared with black.

“M. Bérard, you can't stay here. The firemen are telling us to leave.”

The old man did not move. He murmured something inaudible, like an incantation, as he watched the inferno advance on a turret of limestone.

A quartermaster of the Marseille fire brigade shouted above the tumult and the cracking of tree trunks torn apart by the flames.

“You can't stay here,” he called, unrolling a hosepipe. “Move away! This is no place for you.”

Madame Steinert guided the shepherd to the other side of the road. The wind drove the smoke toward them. In a swirl of fury, everything grew dark and sparks danced in the scorched air. She took him by the shoulder and led him toward her car. It was at that moment that she saw de Palma emerge from behind a fire engine.

“You've got to go,” he said. “Get into the car, M. Bérard, you'll make yourself ill. The air is toxic.”

The Baron motioned to Ingrid to take the driver's side, then he sat Bérard down in the passenger seat. The old boy was like a puppet. He no longer reacted to what was going on around him.

The Baron sat in the rear of the Mercedes 4×4, and they drove off toward Eygalières. The firemen had set up their command post in front of Morini's house and were fighting the blaze just a hundred meters away from the façade.

“Let's take M. Bérard home.”

She nodded and overtook a Maussane firemen's ambulance.

“Where is your flock, M. Bérard?”

The old man did not reply. De Palma saw that he was crying, his eyes wide with terror.

When they arrived in the courtyard of Les Fontaines, Matelot the sheepdog didn't move. De Palma realized that something terrible had happened before or during the fire. He motioned to Ingrid to stay in the car.

“Drive off as soon as I'm out.”

Ingrid had her hands clamped on the wheel. Bérard was staring ahead, as though what was happening no longer touched him.

The Baron threw himself out of the car and ran over to the dog's kennel, his Bodyguard drawn. Ingrid pulled away at once.

Matelot had been shot in the head. His skull had exploded, scattering brain matter all over the kennel.

De Palma went into the barn and listened. He heard the Mercedes leave the farmhouse turning and head toward Eygalières. Then there was silence.

Les Fontaines was in a state of stunned suspense. Flies were buzzing around in the heavy air. The sheep were gone. The gate of their pen was wide open. On the ground, the straw had been disturbed and scattered over the yard. It made a long yellow track that led toward the fields. The herd had been stampeded. Behind a manger, a lamb was breathing feebly, its back broken when the herd had trampled over it in panic.

He pushed open the front door of the house and pointed his gun inside. He smelled the old man's odor, newly mingled with the smell of wood ash that clung to the ancient furnishings. The overwhelming stillness had something disturbing about it. The only sign of life was the ticking of the clock.

He walked slowly inside, still on his guard.

The pantry door was open and a tin of biscuits had been spilled over the floor. Beside it lay some papers which looked like bills and a few carefully folded ten-euro notes.

The Baron glanced into the cupboard. It contained three shelves. The top one contained a line of bottles of liqueur and empty jars. Beneath it, a pile of dishcloths had been ransacked, leaving an empty space beside it; presumably where the tin had been. On the bottom shelf there were some cans and bars of chocolate, which had also been turned over.

He went all around the room then headed for the only door, which was in the far wall. It was closed. He turned the handle but could not open it. It was either locked or jammed. He tried again, and gave it an angry kick, but it wouldn't budge. He realized that it must be locked from the inside.

A meow broke the silence. A cat appeared in the front doorway, no doubt the only surviving witness of the terrible scene that had played out in the farm.

The big clock chimed six p.m. Outside, the air smelled scorched. The wind had risen and was blowing the smell of the fire toward Les Fontaines.

The Baron was about to leave when he heard the sound of a body hitting the ground. He just had time to duck when two gunshots rang out. A window shattered. Then there was a sound of rapid steps. A man was running toward the far side of the buildings. The Baron stood up and took aim.