The Beast of the Camargue (23 page)

“What happened?”

“They shaved the head of Mme. Maurel, the owner of the farmhouse, and they shot one of her brothers. If you go into the farmyard, you can still see the bullet marks in the barn wall, to the right of the door.”

Bérard thumped down his empty glass and stared into space. The clock chimed the half-hour. He removed a deckle-edged photo from the pile. It showed a young woman of about twenty, with a beautiful face lit up by rather a fixed smile and tender eyes.

“This is Simone Maurel … I could do nothing to help them. Not a thing. Poor old Emile. His body had been torn apart by the time I got there.”

“What about Mme. Maurel?”

“She died shortly afterward. Of shame … How can you live with that?”

The shepherd sat back down. His figure had shrunk once more. Through the window, he watched the dust in the yard rise up toward the sun.

“You'll have another one, won't you?” he asked, pouring out a fresh glass without waiting for a reply.

“What about the other brother?”

“He died too. But much later … A tractor accident. He'd got a job on the Janson farm.”

The shepherd finished his sentence with a gesture that de Palma did not understand. Evoking the past had evidently upset him. He was an emotional man concealing a long-standing anger.

Outside, the two tall olive trees in the yard were changing color in the evening light. The dog went out and growled.

“In 1946, a man came to see me. I never learned his name. He simply told me that Steinert had sent him and that he was going to buy La Balme. Then he asked me if I'd agree to look after the land. And I did so for several years. I don't have much in the way of land myself! After my wife died, in the 1980s, they bought the Downlands. William arranged the purchase. His poor father was already dead.”

“And you knew there was this real estate scheme?”

Bérard's eyes filled with anger.

“If they ever do that …”

“So long as the Downlands aren't for sale, they won't be able to do anything!”

“Don't you believe it! I own part of it, and I'm very old. I'd left everything to William. But now he's dead and they could turn us out if they want. They make the laws, and adapt them as they want. And now William's gone. He knew what he was doing, plus he had money and lawyers. No one argued with him! But poor people like us … we count for nothing!”

“And is the mayor of Eygalières in on this?”

“Of course he is! All the big cheeses are in the know. Anyway, I'd rather not say any more. There's no one left to save our little corner of Provence.”

“There's still William's wife! She's very rich too, and the Downlands are hers now.”

“I don't know if she'll stay. I don't think so, without her husband …”

Bérard had spoken as though he was expecting an answer.

“His wife intends to stay.”

“I don't know if William told her.”

“Told her what?”

“William was Simone Maurel's son. He was born in 1942. It was poor Simone's only sin: having the child of a man she had loved during the war.”

De Palma was lost for words. The light had changed. In the cooler air, the birds were starting to sing, while the sheep had fallen silent. There was a smell of sweat, rancid wool and strong milk.

“She died and left her son behind … When she was shamed like that, she sent him to his father, in Germany …”

Bérard shivered. These memories were exciting his heart. For a moment, his features changed; his face emptied of the remnant of life that had been driving him on just a few minutes before.

“What I've just told you, no one else knows. William found out when he was much older. I told him. When his mother died, he was only three. He didn't remember her.”

Bérard blew his nose loudly.

“William was like a son to me.”

On the road that led down toward Fontvieille, de Palma tried to put his ideas in order. The day before, he had learned nothing from Morini, except for the confirmation of what he already knew: the mob in Aix was laundering money in business deals such as this amusement park. There was nothing surprising about that. The only detail that provided any progress was Morini's origins: he came from Tarascon. One day, that could turn out to be relevant.

On the other hand, this meeting with Bérard had sent his mind into a panic. He had been expecting anything but that, and suddenly whole sections of the mystery had fallen. He now understood why La Balme farmhouse had meant so much to Steinert and why he had changed nothing in most of its rooms.

He stopped beside the vines that grew along the Downlands. To the right, between the white crests of the rocks that rose up as far as the fortress of Les Baux, the sky was still red from the sun. In the valley, a silvery light flattened out the contours.

The Baron went in among the pines, took a few steps, then stopped. There was a smell of warmth and roots. As far as the eye could see, there were the twisted trunks of oaks and stumps rotting on a bed
of needles. As the night fell, the pines and mastic trees stood like threatening sentinels.

The Baron retraced his steps. In the distance, he could hear cars driving up to Les Baux, and a solitary cuckoo among the creaking branches.

It must be warm on the beach
.

The sand is golden with pink and violet glints
.

The image is slightly hazy
,

Stippled by time
.

Isabelle is in her swimsuit
.

She's fifteen and a half
.

She's walking across the sand like a clown
.

Close-up. A smile at the camera
.

She's just been for a swim. Her swimsuit is taut
.

Her breasts are hard
.

She has sand on her calves and the tops of her thighs
.

Her grandmother is watching her and waving at the lens
.

Then the letters and numbers stand out on the white background
.

Maistre turns off the projector
.

Marceau stands up
.

De Palma doesn't move
.

He's turned round his chair and leaned his forearms on the back rest
.

He yawns
.

“What's the time, Jean-Claude?”

“Three o'clock. I'm knackered.”

“Me too,” Maistre adds
.

“You coming, Michel? Let's go and get a bite to eat at the Pied de Cochon.”

The Baron grimaces
.

“You want to eat after what we've just seen?”

“Yes, Michel, I still want to eat. Because we have to keep our strength up if we want to find that fucker.”

That night, de Palma leafed through the pages of his notebooks,
looking for a truth that was receding a little more each day. Isabelle Mercier had been his only failure. He had found answers to all the other investigations, even if the courts had not always delivered the verdicts he was hoping for. There were policing certainties and then there were judicial truths.

He had sent to prison a countless number of people who had committed bloody crimes. Most had received maximum sentences: a life behind bars, as well as few executions when he was a young officer.

Each time, the truth had emerged, and that was what really mattered for him.

Except for Isabelle Mercier.

He remembered the feeling of powerlessness that had gripped him and which he had shared with Maistre and Marceau. He felt the same way now. He did not understand why Steinert had died. The little voice that whispered to him that it was for a few hectares of land did not satisfy him. Morini did not kill people without knowing the whys and wherefores of his action. That much he was sure of.

On the day of the billionaire's funeral, he had glimpsed a truth: Steinert had died accidentally. Yet he knew that the context of this accident had not been natural. Around the edges of that accident he could vaguely discern a meshing of events that went beyond the harshnesses of life and had made death inevitable.

Tuesday, July 29. 10 a.m.

Marceau was the first on the scene. He was alone, having intercepted an urgent message on the Homicide frequency. The call had mentioned the cleaning and maintenance depot of the town of Tarascon. The operator had then specified: “In the municipal garage.”

A patrol was on its way.

The first thing Marceau saw was the Tarasque, then Marc Gouirand and, sitting beside him, Father Favier, who had raised the alarm. The monster had been placed amidst a stack of equipment, in the very place where Gouirand had left it the day before to treat it to a wash and brush-up. In front of its maw lay a horribly mutilated body: a torso, a head and an arm caught in its wooden teeth.

Like a barbaric offering to the hideous creature.

“Have you touched anything?”

Father Favier advanced toward him.

“No, nothing, sir. I was a doctor before I became a priest. I know the police's methods.”

“What about you, sir?”

Gouirand did not respond. He was sitting on a low wall, his head in his hands.

Favier took Marceau by the arm.

“I think it would be better to wait. He's still in shock.”

A patrol arrived and started to trample over the scene of the crime, before coming to a halt at the sight of the corpse. Marceau shooed them away at once. He did not approach the body straight away, but stood for some time in silent observation. Then he took
out his mobile, asked for the forensic unit in Marseille, hung up and turned toward Favier.

“O.K., Father. Can you tell me exactly what happened, between the moment when you discovered this horror and now?”

Favier took a deep breath.

“I was about to go through my sermon for this evening's mess one last time, when I got a phone call: it was Marc Gouirand, to tell me …”

“What did he say precisely?”

“Not much.”

“Try to remember.”

“He was having trouble speaking. All I understood was Tarasque and municipal garage. That's all.”

“But you realized that something was wrong?”

“I used to be an emergency doctor. I'm very familiar with accidents and tragedies.”

“And then?”

“Then, I came here. Marc was sitting just as you see him now. He hasn't moved since. I saw the corpse and called the police. Three minutes later, you got here.”

Marceau looked at his watch. It was now 10:20 a.m. Favier's version of events fitted perfectly. He looked at Gouirand, who still had not moved. In a few minutes' time he would question him.

Meanwhile, he went back to his car and radioed to ask where the Marseille forensics team was.

“On their way,” yelled the voice on the radio.

At 10:45, Larousse arrived, accompanied by the deputy public prosecutor: a pretty and slender brunette with square glasses and a little upturned nose decked with freckles. Marceau had never seen her before.

Larousse introduced them.

“What do you think, Marceau?”

He scratched his head.

“A real act of barbarism. The work of a lunatic. I haven't seen anything this vile for ages. This is Father Favier, who alerted us.”

The young deputy prosecutor tried to move closer to the body, but Larousse held her back by the arm.

“We'd best stay here in case we disturb something. Let's wait for the technicians. They should be here soon.”

Marceau glanced at Gouirand. He noticed that he had now raised his head and was staring into space. The detective decided that it was time to ask a few questions. He went and sat down beside him.

“How do you feel?”

Marceau held out his hand, but Gouirand took no notice.

“That's Christian in front of the Tarasque.”

“Christian who?”

“Rey. A former knight.”

Marceau offered him a cigarette, but he refused with a shake of his head.

“And did you know this Rey well?”

“He's a childhood friend.”

Marceau drew a little nearer to Gouirand.

“And you said he was a knight?”

“A Knight of the Tarasque! One of those who push her and attend to her.”

Gouirand raised his eyes and looked at the corpse which was just a few meters away. A smell of panic and death hung over the municipal garage.

“What happened when you got here earlier?”

“I discovered him, just as you see him now. I didn't touch anything. Can you imagine?”

Gouirand buried his head back in his hands. Marceau saw that he was not going to get anything more out of him. He stood up, gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder, and went back to Commissaire Larousse.

“You know who that is in front of the Tarasque?”

“No.”

“Rey.”

“Christian Rey?”

“That's right.”

“Can you explain?” the deputy prosecutor butted in, a hint of authority in her voice.

“An old acquaintance of ours,” Larousse replied. “Christian Rey:
pimping and illegal gambling machines. We also long suspected him of being the local mob's executioner. That's who.”

“Do you think this could be a settling of scores?”

“Why not? That would be the classic scenario.”

“I don't think so,” Marceau replied.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Well, we'll see,” Larousse concluded coldly.

The team arrived from Marseille. Marceau gave them a very brief run-down, then he put on some gloves and overshoes before following the technicians toward Rey's body.

After each step, the technician in charge placed a yellow marker on the ground with a big black number written on it. Behind him, his colleague took a photo of each one.

A couple of minutes later, they were two steps away from the corpse and bent down to catch their breath.