The Beast of the Camargue (41 page)

“No, but while we've been talking, I've been downstairs to check the observation log. The day was June 28th. I received the photos a few days later.”

“And how does that fit with the voices?”

“Well … Jesus, it was practically the same day, or somewhere close. Do you think that …”

“I'm not thinking, Christophe. I'm observing! It could mean nothing.”

“Hang on, you're starting to scare me!”

“Oh, you're in no danger. No danger at all!”

Ingrid had stood up and was staring intently at de Palma. Her cotton dress filtered her tall, firm figure in the morning light that slanted through the windows.

De Palma thought hard. All this was not really taking him anywhere, but it had him so excited that gusts of heat were rising inside him. He wanted to act and was desperate for the means to do so, or concrete lines of investigation. He had to admit the truth: he was standing on the threshold of a room in total darkness, and didn't know how to turn the light on. But another door had just opened.

Ingrid came over, sat down beside him and opened another notebook, which had cardboard covers and was bound like a real book. Their shoulders touched. He was hypnotized by her long fingers as they turned over the pages.

“I looked at this one yesterday,” she murmured. “I think you should look at it, Michel.”

She turned over another three pages and passed him the notebook. He felt her breast lie gently on his forearm for a second.

“When I found this last night, it really scared me.”

She laid her hand on his shoulder.

“Read it, Michel.”

It has been said that the Tarasque, half-human and half-reptile from the Jurassic, symbolizes the Roman dominator settled in Provence over a long period
.

For the Vokae who lived on the right bank of the Rhône and the Salluvii who were spread out between Monaco and Marseille, Rome could be symbolized by a monster. It is something one can easily imagine: a beast emerging straight out of the imagination of peoples subjected to the
Pax Romana.
This monster could symbolize this domineering Rome. But there is more to it than that
.

The Tarasque is a reptile. Some have seen in it a representation of mankind's basest instincts (the reptilian brain), others have seen it as the gods of paganism tamed by Saint Martha
.

But can it not also be viewed as the representation of a bane that really existed? Bérard says that the truth lies there and that tarasques existed. Back to Roman times: the Roman legion that occupied and administered the region of Tarascon was based in Nîmes. Its emblem was … a crocodile
.

Bérard says that the Romans brought with them those huge reptiles captured in the Egyptian Nile. They are said to have used them as mascots. What is much more certain is that they used them in the arenas of Nîmes and Arles …

What is more, the crocodiles of the Nile could readily adapt to the climate and habitat of the Camargue, in many ways similar to that of the banks of the Nile
.

From this point on, Steinert had written fast, his hand so fine and spidery that it was barely legible.

This could explain the spoor I saw yesterday in the marshland of La Capelière. I had never seen anything so big and so impressive. It was not made by an animal listed among the fauna of the
Camargue. I mentioned this to Bérard. He told me: “She's back, I called her and here she is.” The look in his eyes was frightening …

I'm going back into the marshes tomorrow at nightfall to check these marks. I don't want anyone to spot me. After that, I'll show it all to Texeira
.

NB: Bérard seemed out of his mind
.

De Palma looked up from the notebook and let his mind wander through the maze of clues that now lay before him.

He had just read what must be William Steinert's last words. Ingrid had laid her hand on his arm.

“I don't know why, but I've made the connection with what I've been reading in the press. You know, those mutilated bodies. The crocodile, the Tarasque …”

“It's the presence of Bérard that worries me most. I think we're in great danger.”

De Palma concentrated. He wanted to burst his head open, the ideas were hurting so much. He mumbled, pointing his index finger at some imaginary point on the table.

“Bérard, the Tarasque, William …”

He wanted to add: “and the Germans,” but restrained himself.

“Bérard, the Tarasque, William, the birds … The Tarasque, the birds … Bérard and the Tarasque.”

She put a hand on his shoulder and gently squeezed the muscle that bulged beneath his shirt.

“Bérard and the Tarasque …”

He looked for an unusual detail. Boyer, his father figure on the murder squad, had taught them that technique: an element that does not seem to fit into the jigsaw and that finally completes it. He rapped his hand on the table.

“Was the shepherd interested in the occult arts?”

She searched in his face.

“I think he was. William used to say that he was a bit of a
Zauberer
… a sorcerer! He nursed his sheep with plants that he alone knew about. Sometimes he told William about impossible
things … William even told me that he had had some incredibly intense esoteric experiences with Bérard.”

“Why haven't you told me this before?”

She moved even closer to him.

“I don't know. I never took it very seriously. William was a mystic about nature, I have trouble believing in God.”

De Palma put his arm round her shoulder and hugged her hard. She let her body lean against his chest.

“I believe you, Ingrid.”

He relaxed his embrace.

“Can I offer you something to drink?”

Through the window, he stared at the spectacle of trees under the sun. She smiled at him gently, then produced two glasses.

“I've opened another bottle of Muscat, Michel. I know how much you like it.”

They drank the sweet white wine and spoke at length, first about William Steinert, then about the few notions of magic that de Palma possessed. Then the conversation drifted on for over an hour. She opened a second bottle. The wine came from the old vines alongside the Downlands.

They played at exposing their lives, taking care never to say everything, until their minds ran out and a strange sensation of joy arose between them.

She was standing beside the window, and it seemed that the forms of her body had suddenly been highlighted by a watercolorist's brush. Irresistibly he went over to her, and took her hands. She did not resist and offered him her lips. He lost himself in the warmth of her face. It was as if she had been born from the sun.

Her breasts were hard under the cotton of her dress. He raised his hands along her sides and then her back; her skin was bathed in her woman's heat.

The sultry humidity had been rising for some time.

Chandeler reckoned that the sun must be approaching its zenith or possibly past it. The sounds of drawers and cupboard doors being opened and closed reached him through the wooden slats of the trapdoor.

Suddenly, he heard a door slam with a heavier noise, different from the others. The man who was keeping him prisoner must have just gone out. This was not the first time. On each occasion, the lawyer had noticed that his jailer returned after a period he reckoned at over an hour.

He went over to the trapdoor, guided by the tiny point of light that glinted through the shadows, then he started to bang on the wood, first with his shoulder, then with his heels. His keeper gave no sign of life, which gave him courage.

He braced his hands on the floor for maximum support, then drew his knees up to his chin and kicked out hard. A violent pain shot from the tips of his toes to his spine. He slipped his nails between the edges of the door and noticed that there was now a little give. He crouched back down and kicked, again and again.

The pain in his feet and legs was becoming unbearable.

He clenched his teeth. Tears were in his eyes.

Another blow.

The trapdoor gave way.

He threw himself at the aperture.

He was free. Blinded by light.

On a desk in front of the trapdoor was a huge computer with a
screensaver showing large white birds. The cries of birds emerged from the loudspeakers. On the other side of the room, to either side of the window, stood two stuffed white birds the size of storks, the same as the ones on the monitor.

On the walls there were photographs pinned up. In snapshots taken with a zoom lens, Chandeler recognized Morini, his former client, taken at a three-quarters angle, sitting in his bar. In two other shots, a man was walking in the street. Above it a Post-it read: Jean-Claude Marceau.

Chandeler began to tremble. Thirst was constricting his throat, but he did not take the time to look for water. He gathered the little strength he had left and headed toward the door. It was locked from the outside. A huge bunch of keys hung from the door jamb. His fingers shaking, he tried the keys one after the other. Twice the bunch fell from his hands. His feet hurt as if they had been beaten by canes. About a dozen keys later, he found the one that turned.

The door opened out onto a narrow path that retreated through a reed bed. He walked as fast as he could, trying not to scream each time his feet touched the ground. Most of the rushes had to be over three meters high. He turned round and saw that his prison was no more than a tiny farmhouse, half engulfed by ivy, concealed in a grove of ash trees and reeds. It was absolutely invisible in its jungle sanctuary.

Father Favier's fingers were long and gnarled, as though one-euro coins had been slipped in between the phalanges. His hands were in constant motion, which Moracchini read as a sign of nerves.

“You're telling me that just before the death of Christian Rey you spoke to Gouirand in your church!”

“That's right, yes. But why are you asking me these questions again?”

She ignored the priest's reply, went over to him and tossed her hair back provocatively. Favier did not even notice her gesture.

“Never mind about your discussion. You then state that once Gouirand had left your church, you heard some noises, is that right?”

“As I've already explained several times: Gouirand had come to fetch the Tarasque to clean it. When he had gone, I closed the door behind him. Everything seemed quiet, then I heard those noises. I couldn't find out where they came from, but I'm sure I heard them! Someone was there, and then that someone left. I'm sure of it!”

“As if with the help of the Holy Ghost?”

The priest smiled with mild disdain.

“You could put it like that.”

She stood up and stretched. She was wearing tight jeans and a T-shirt she had won at the police marksmanship competition.

“So what do you think about all this, Father?”

“I don't know what to reply. Of course, I don't believe all these stories that are going around in Tarascon! Just imagine it, only yesterday some more people came to ask me to say masses to fend off the evil spell. Masses to fight the Tarasque … Some people believe in a curse, others are asking for processions through the places of the legend of the Tarasque. Do you see me telling the bishop that I'm off on a procession to the castle of Tarascon or in the marshes of the Camargue? Not to mention what the journalists would have to say.”

“Yes, I can quite understand!”

“Oh no you can't! I've had official requests addressed to me to go and bless the waters of the marshlands. It's as if the people in the town were possessed by this demon. Even the young lads from North Africa are talking about the Tarasque, can you believe that? I mean, it's not even part of their culture … My predecessor did warn me, but I never thought it would go this far.”

She continued to stare at him, trying to catch his attention with female wiles, which had to be bothering him, but he did not show it.

“Each to his own monster. You have the Tarasque, we have the city football team.”

She pointed at the window.

“And do you know where this Gouirand is right now?”

“No, honestly, I don't,” he replied, turning his hands up toward the ceiling. “I think he may have simply gone away on holiday.”

She turned back toward her computer and clicked on the criminal records file.

“O.K., I don't see any reason to detain you. Thanks for coming in.”

“I have nothing to add except to say that this is the work of a madman!”

De Palma appeared in the doorway and tapped on the frame.

“Come in, Michel. I think you know Father Favier.”

De Palma held out his hand. Moracchini placed herself between the two men.

“I just wanted to check a few details again with the priest of Saint Martha,” she said. “But I'm through now.”

The priest got to his feet and picked up an old battered leather briefcase, which he had placed on her desk.

“Your colleague in Tarascon also questioned me twice.”

“The Tarasque ate him too!”

The priest stopped playing with his fingers and stared back at de Palma. He was wearing a curious expression, both eyebrows raised at a slant.

“It isn't funny to say that, sir, really not funny.”

De Palma placed a hand on the priest's back and guided him gently to the door.

“You're absolutely right, it's no joke.”

The man of God slipped out like a shadow and disappeared down the green corridor.

“We've got to lay hands on Gouirand. I'll have him brought in.”

“Bérard too was a Knight of the Tarasque.”

“Really? I'm going to end up wondering who wasn't.”

He handed her a sheet of paper, on which he had made a series of notes:

White spoonbill (Platalea leucorodia)
.

Shape and size of a pure white heron. Long black bill, shaped like a spoon at the end. The adult has an orange strip on its chest and, in spring, a long orange/yellow head crest. Immature: no strip, black wingtips, pink bill. Silent except during the breeding season when it produces a groaning call
.