The Beast of the Camargue (27 page)

“Are you a connoisseur, Michel?”

“An old memory from history at university. I loved Greek art.”

“Oh, I see …”

She drew nearer to him, as though seeking greater closeness.

“Would you like another glass of Muscat?”

“Yes please,” he replied, without taking his eyes off the kouros.

“Come and sit down. Laura will bring us the necessary.”

She sat down in an armchair and crossed her legs. Slightly embarrassed by her stare, which never left him, the Baron sat down opposite her.

“Why did you join the police, Michel?”

“It's funny. Every time I trot out the little culture I possess, I'm asked the same question.”

“That's fair enough, isn't?”

“Yes, perhaps …”

“But you still haven't answered.”

“Because I come from a poor neighborhood in Marseille, and I didn't have much choice.”

“I think we always have a choice.”

“Maybe. But you may have to be more courageous than I am.”

“It isn't a question of courage. But why did you stay?”

It was an ordinary question, but it took him unawares.

“Perhaps because of a girl who looked strangely like you.”

“Could you explain?”

“I can't.”

“She's dead, isn't she?”

Laura arrived carrying a tray with two glasses of Muscat. De Palma took one, and took his chance to stand up.

“She's dead and you never found her killer. Am I right?”

“I … I'd rather not talk about it. If you don't mind.”

“I quite understand. Come on, I'll show you something.”

At the far end of the room, there was an art deco-style table with curved legs, on which Ingrid had placed a whole pile of papers and photographs.

The photographs were shots of the Camargue. De Palma saw lagoons that disappeared over the horizon in the light of dawn or dusk. There were also some shots of birds: raptors, herons, and other species he did not know.

He paused over some photographs of large white birds.

“They're white spoonbills. The last pictures he took, as far as I know. Laura went to fetch them from Tarascon today.”

“They're magnificent.”

“Yes they are, aren't they?”

“Did the photographer say which day your husband dropped the film off?”

“The day he disappeared. June 24. I thought that might tell you things.”

“And you're quite right. So we're now sure that he vanished on the 24th. What are these documents?”

“They're notes he left in his car. The police didn't take them away.”

De Palma read:

1—
La Capelière. At the far end of the large meadow? Turn left then right toward the dead tree in the water. Ten meters to the left. In the coppice
.
2—
From the guardian's hut, toward the marsh
.

“They look like directions, don't they, Michel?”

“One of them gives the exact place where he was found.”

“I hadn't noticed that.”

On another piece of paper, which was folded in four, Steinert had written:

Rush hut number 2, well hidden after the reed bed. A good place for sunrise. Mention it to Christophe
.

“Did your husband often make notes like this?”

“All the time. His memory wasn't very good, he was always forgetting things, so he kept notes.”

“Do you know this Christophe?”

“It's Texeira, the director of the reserve. We've met once or twice.”

She put the photographs back into their envelope.

“There, that's all I wanted to show you. The rest is just snippets of his existence, nothing of any great interest.”

“In a life, everything is of interest.”

She stared at him with a little girl's eyes.

“Come on, Michel. Let's have some of that famous pistou soup. We'll talk about something cheerful. William wouldn't have liked us to be sad.”

Maistre's investigations into the career of the SIG had so far not been conclusive, except in discovering that the proper series number had not been recorded on the list of exhibits from the grocery holdup. That was why he'd had trouble locating it. The number recorded by the police differed from that used in court. In the paperwork of criminal justice and the police, the weapon no longer existed. Maistre had never seen such a disappearing act.

This was also why he had decided to take his time, and avoid arousing colleagues' suspicions. Because one of them was involved in this story, and sooner or later he knew that he would find him.

Late in the afternoon, the Baron was driving through the sweltering heat of the Vaccarès reserve. Texeira had called him: the voices had returned.

Along the banks of the lagoon, there was an overwhelming smell of dead algae and dried-up slime. Every available space along the road was occupied by a mobile home or caravan. Some holidaymakers were Dutch, others were German, with red thighs and faces consumed by the sun.

He turned onto the road to La Capelière before parking the 205 between two tourist coaches.

The reed bed was rustling in the furnace. The tips of the reddened canes swayed almost imperceptibly, moved by an invisible breeze.

Texeira was standing in the middle of a group. He was handing out brochures and visitors' guides to the reserve. When he looked up, he saw de Palma waving at him.

“I'm coming, I'm coming …”

De Palma signaled him to take his time, before retreating from
the sun into the ecology museum. Texeira joined him a few minutes later.

“Good afternoon, M. de Palma. I'm up to my neck right now. But come to my office in five minutes' time and we can talk.”

The Baron decided to explore the museum a little. He had a good look at an exhibit showing the composition of the flora in the marshes. He had had no idea that there were so many different species of plants, and especially algae.

When he had finished, he bought a plan of the reserve, a brochure about the birds of the Camargue and an ordnance survey map of the area.

Texeira was in his office looking through his binoculars when the Baron appeared in the doorway.

“We've now got all the time we need. I suppose you're here about the voices.”

“That's right.”

The biologist stowed away the Petri dishes that were scattered over the draining board. Then he placed both his hands on his binoculars.

“I heard voices. It was past one o'clock. They were coming from the far side of the marsh, from around the old hut. There were voices and footsteps.”

“And what were they saying, these voices?”

“It's very hard to say!”

“Why?”

“Because I think it was in Provençal, or something like that.”

“Provençal?”

“Yes, they said:
La Tarasco, la Tarasco … Lou Castéou
. The Tarasque, in other words. That much I understood. And it does sound like Provençal, don't you think? The rest, I can't tell you. I just can't remember.”

“One voice or several?”

“I think there were two, because one was high and the other lower.”

“Did Steinert mention these voices to you?”

“No, why?”

“Just asking.”

Texeira sat down on a swivel-chair. He folded his arms and raised his shoulders.

“I did say I'd keep you informed. But I don't see what can be important about all this. There are just some idiots who come here to kick up a din at night. There are so many loonies around these days.”

“Another thing: why didn't you tell me right away that you knew Steinert well?”

“I was cross with myself afterward. I was being selfish. I didn't want any trouble, that's all. Anyway, what I know about him is quite irrelevant.”

The Baron gestured broadly to tell him to stop making excuses.

“Tell me about him instead. What was he like?”

Texeira took off his glasses and started to clean the lenses with the lapels of his white coat.

“He was a very impressive character, even if you didn't quite know who he was. When he turned up here in the evening, before bivouacking in the marshes, he used to speak about all sorts of things and—how can I put it?—he was radiant. He had a presence, with quite exceptional magnetism. A great, very great man …”

“You seem to have respected him.”

“We had the same opinions about ecology, the protection of animals …”

“Meaning?”

“He thought, like me, that we can't ignore the human factor, that ecology is a whole, and that protecting nature also means protecting a region's cultural and human heritage. I know that he fought hard for that, especially when it came to archaeology. He was always up in arms against this or that mayor of some town in the backwoods of Provence. If wanted to, he had the means to make their lives difficult, but he always preferred to negotiate. He was a good listener. When I spoke to him, he attended to what I said as though he was a student. It was rather impressive when you bear in mind that he was a real capitaine of industry in his country.”

“Do you know his wife?”

“No. In fact, he never mentioned her.”

“But she says that she's met you!”

“Honestly, I don't remember that.”

“You mentioned his campaigns. Could you tell me anything more about that, or give me some examples?”

“That will be hard, he was quite discreet about his concrete actions. But I do know that he forced the gendarmes to investigate the world of seasonal workers. There are loads of illegal immigrants around here. It's a real form of slavery.”

De Palma leaned against the bookcase, and a dark gleam lit up his face.

“Did he come here alone?”

“Yes, always alone. He would park his huge 4×4 beside my car then come up to see me. But he never came here when there was a crowd.”

“Did you ever wonder why?”

“I asked him and he told me that he didn't like the company of tourists. They were what he hated the most.”

De Palma went over to the window and looked out at the marshes.

“M. Texeira, do you still have my phone number?”

“Yes, of course. It's in my diary.”

“If you ever hear these voices again, call me at once.”

“O.K. As you want. Is it that important?”

“I don't know. But I do think that it's far more important than you imagine.”

The Baron wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

“Are you here every night at that time?”

“Yes, usually.”

“And are you asleep then?”

“I never go to bed before about half-past one or two.”

“Now, could you show the place where these voices were coming from?”

“Follow me.”

On the path that ran beside the reed bed, the earth was as hard as old cement, and covered in cracks despite the recent rain. Texeira strode ahead rapidly. From time to time, he glanced toward the creek.

“The level is going down,” he said, pointing at the water which was frothing like detergent.

They entered a clump of ash trees. Texeira turned left, went up some wooden steps that were hidden among the trees and vanished into a hide. Panting, de Palma did likewise.

“Here we are. The voices came from the far side of the marsh. Over there, in that large reed bed.”

“What exactly did you hear?”

“As I told you, two voices, some words in Provençal, and some noises.”

“What sort of noises?”

“Splashing, the sound of feet in water …”

“And then?”

“That's all. They sang, then everything stopped.”

“They sang?”

Texeira looked annoyed by the officer's avalanche of questions.

“Yes, so what?” he said with a sigh.

“Look, M. Texeira, you hear voices in a place where no one can go, then you tell me that people were singing, and after that, that there were sounds of splashing … and all this subsequent to someone being found dead on your reserve in extremely suspicious circumstances. You also forget to tell me that you knew this person. Do you see now why I'm asking questions?”

“I'm sorry, M. de Palma, really I am, but I thought these kinds of detail wouldn't really interest you, and then I didn't want to have to deal with you.”

“How can someone get over there?”

“Actually, I've never been there and don't see how anyone could without getting soaked.”

“In a boat, perhaps?”

“We'll take the reserve's punt.”

The marsh was a good hundred meters wide by two hundred long. It lay amid practically virgin territory, which seemed to be returning to life as the sun set.

At the far side of the pool, an egret took flight, slapping the surface of the water with the tips of its wings.

Texeira stood up in the flat-bottomed punt and pushed with a long pole, which sank deep into the silt, making wide brown stains in the greenish water.

In under five minutes, they arrived at the edge of the reed bed. De Palma made to stand up, but Texeira stopped him short.

“Watch out, there's quicksand around here. Let's look for a patch of solid earth then move slowly. If you see any birds on the ground, try not to frighten them. They've taken up their quarters for the night.”

They crept around the reed bed in a northerly direction. Texeira tested the ground on the bank, meter by meter. It was only after a hundred meters that the punt touched bottom.

Texeira prodded a few more times, then nodded: they were now on a sand bank that emerged from the water in the middle of the reed bed.

When they leaped over board, de Palma laid his hand on Texeira's shoulder.

“Thanks for all this. Now we'll have to keep our eyes peeled. The slightest thing you find unusual, please show me.”

“No problem.”

“I'll follow in your footsteps. Take your time, because you'll probably notice things that I wouldn't. I'm counting on you.”