The First Fingerprint (20 page)

“I don't have much to tell you, apart from the fact that it was a particularly violent murder. Skull crushed, intestines removed, amputation of one of the lower limbs with a knife or similar implement. For the moment, we don't have the slightest clue, except for the painted hand we found near the body.”

“You're not telling me that you don't even have an inkling.”

“This time I am. Nothing at all. Except for a piece of flint, half a fingerprint on the armrest of a chair, and the hand … which means that he either knew the victim or had conducted detailed observations of the scene. Anyway, we'll have to wait for the lab report.”

Paulin turned toward Vidal. “What about you? Nothing?”

“The same as de Palma,” Vidal answered. “It's obviously the work of a sadist. Apart from that …”

“You're going to have to find him for me, and fast. I won't conceal the fact that the press is already sniffing around, asking for explanations. You will accept that the results of the murder squad have not been that good of late. It's not your fault de Palma, nor yours Vidal, but since little Samir's death, we haven't solved a single crime. Not to mention the gangland killings. What about the Autran case?”

“We're making progress, Commissaire, we're making progress. Things will no doubt be clearer in a few days.”

“I hope these cases aren't connected. That really would be the icing on the cake.”

Paulin picked up his paperweight and twisted it around.

“They aren't, Commissaire, rest assured about that.”

“And why do you say that?”

“Not the same
modus operandi
.”

“My instinct is to trust you, de Palma. You're going to work with Vidal on both cases. And I'd like you to take Anne Moracchini along with you. She's the only person on the squad with any time to spare. The others are all up to their eyes in gangland vendettas. In Paris they want results, so down here we're having to put all our men on investigations into hoods blowing each other away. So, let's be clear about this. Try to get something for me in the next ten days.”

“Whatever happens, Commissaire, you shouldn't tell the press anything for the moment. This kind of killer is always out for publicity. It gives them wings.”

“You think he'll strike again?”

“I'm sure of it.”

“Why?”

“Because of the way he mutilates and guts his victims … and the hand, of course. We've had cases like this in the past. He's a killer who has a system. When I first joined the murder squad, we had the Ruggero affair, which was pretty similar. Do you remember?”

“I was still in Paris at the time. But you're right. We're faced with someone who's sick.”

“And I hope he'll get going again as soon as possible. Ruggero waited years before starting once more. It all depends on their relative mental stability.”

“You obviously think it's linked to the Cadenet murder?”

“Of course I do,” de Palma replied. “But I don't know much about the Cadenet murder. And the gendarmerie are running that investigation. In other words, the whole situation's a mess!”

“You're not going to resurrect the war between the forces again. The gendarmes do very good work, especially their Institut de Recherches Criminelles … Let's try to proceed amicably. Have you contacted the gendarmerie?”

“Yes, or rather, I was contacted by them.”

“So you know, then.”

“Know what?”

“It's the main reason I called you in. Because, of course, the two cases
are
linked. Never mind. I just wanted to tell you that the gendarmerie are making progress, despite everything … They've found a witness: a man aged about fifty who was passing that night and saw a woman getting into a gray Mercedes. Unfortunately, he didn't see the driver's face. So, I hear you ask, how did he recognize the woman? Well, he also lives in rue Boulegon, like her, and he'd had his eye on her for some time, if you see what I mean.”

“Extremely interesting!” said de Palma, pretending to find the news a real scoop.

“Most interesting of all is that she was being treated by a psychiatrist, who owns, no prizes for guessing …”

“A gray Mercedes,” Vidal answered, for the sake of saying something.

Paulin slumped back in his chair looking pleased with himself.

“A 500 SL,” de Palma added, after a few moments' silence.

Paulin went extremely red, put down his upturned doornail and stared at him furiously.

“How do you know that, de Palma?”

“A good friend of mine's a gendarme in Cadenet. I called him just now on the way over here. He filled me in. You know, Commissaire, police infighting isn't my cup of tea.”

Paulin was lost for words. Vidal laughed silently, keeping his head down so as not to show any disrespect to his superior.

“So, pleased with your little routine, de Palma?”

“Not at all, boss. It's just professional curiosity. I wanted to compare your version with the one I'd been given. And they're the same. I'm wary about the gendarmerie. They haven't always been straight with us, as you know only too well.”

The Baron was furious. The gendarmes had just won the first set. Now he had just annoyed his Commissaire for no reason and he was going to have to make good with a large piece of soft soap.

“And I think you're absolutely right. We should work in collaboration. But with the gendarmes, that's not going to be so easy.”

Paulin picked up his doornail again.

“I called Barbieri earlier. He wants us to work together, in tandem with the gendarmes. He too thinks that the cases are connected. I asked him to get the investigation transferred, but he refused, saying that they had already made more progress than we have, and should be arresting someone soon. He doesn't want to screw it all up.”

“Arrest who? A psychiatrist who picks up his victims in his car in the middle of the street? Don't make me laugh! I can smell a red herring from a mile off, or else my name's not de Palma!”

“You never know, de Palma. You never know. Sometimes things aren't as complicated as we like to believe. Murderers make mistakes too …”

“Not murderers like this one. Or at least, not that sort of mistake.”

Vidal nodded vigorously and looked out of the window. Paulin's office had a view of the quays. The
Danièle-Casanova
was just setting off for Corsica, her bridge and fo'c'sle glimmering with a thousand black and turquoise reflections. It was like a fairy-tale vision moving across a sheet of glittering water. In the distance,
the lighthouse on the Sainte-Marie strait was emitting its bright red flashes.

“I didn't hear you, Vidal. What do you think about all this?”

“I think Michel's right. Things are never easy with the gendarmerie.”

“What else would you suggest?”

“That we should get on with our work independently until the two investigations link up. Let's wait and see what comes of their arrest. Not much, I should think.”

“I think that's the wisest course of action.”

De Palma lowered his head and said nothing. It was becoming more and more complicated to be a good policeman.

It was 7:00 p.m. when he pushed open the door of Le Zanzi, followed by Vidal. The bar was almost empty.

“Hi Dédé, a bit dead tonight?”

“As a doornail.”

“What's going on?”

“There's a match on.”

Dédé waved his bulky hand over the counter, his palm turned toward the ceiling.

“And what's up with you two?” he went on. “You look terrible.”

“It's nothing. Work.”

Two Ricards immediately arrived on the zinc. De Palma swilled his down in one, without any water.

“You haven't seen Maistre by any chance …”

“No, he hasn't been in today. Maybe he'll be along in a minute. This is the time he usually comes.”

“Come off it, he's got a wife and kids.”

“But the kids are big now!”

“True.”

The Baron's mobile rang. It was Sylvie Maurel.

“I've been trying to get hold of you all day. Can I see you this evening?”

“Of course, where are you?”

“In Marseille, by Fort Saint-Jean, at the marine archaeology laboratory. I'd like to show it to you. What do you think?”

“I'll be there in fifteen minutes. O.K.?”

“I'll be waiting for you outside the main door, at the foot of the tower. Do you know where I mean?”

“Absolutely. See you there.”

De Palma had completely forgotten about Sylvie Maurel. He had another Ricard, knocked it back in one and turned toward Vidal, who was still staring at the yellow contents of his glass. Dédé had vanished into his kitchen.

“You never told me where that canal leads to.”

“It ends in a tunnel, but you can't get down it.”

“So?”

“So, I followed his tracks and realized that he must have climbed over a wall … and guess where I ended up?”

“Tell me.”

“In Saint-Julien cemetery.”

“So what do you conclude?”

“I'm too knackered to conclude anything at all. Sorry, Michel.”

“There's one thing we can be sure of.”

“What's that?”

“He knows the area intimately.”

“You reckon?”

“Obviously! How else would he know that there's a canal behind the cemetery which leads to Julia's house? He must be a local, or something! I tell you, we're starting to move in on him.”

Vidal grimaced. Dédé returned from his kitchen.

“O.K., kid,” de Palma said, “I'm off now. We'll talk about it tomorrow. Try to get some sleep. I know it isn't easy, but do your best.”

“Don't worry, Michel. I'm starting to get used to it.”

“That's what they all say. See you around, Dédé.”

He turned on his heel and left Le Zanzi.

“Are you going out later?”

“I have a date with a friend around nine …”

Sylvie Maurel was radiant in a straight, cream-colored shantung skirt, a silk top and a cashmere scarf thrown over her shoulder.

“So you just have time to show me your laboratory and its marvels,” said de Palma.

“Oh, it's not that impressive. Come and see for yourself. But we'll have to be quick. The caretaker locks up in an hour.”

He followed Sylvie into the courtyard of Fort Saint-Jean. It was the first time he had been inside the place, and he felt a twitch of emotion. When he was a kid, it had seemed to him that the fort contained profound secrets behind its high wall, buffeted by the sea. Going inside at nightfall only heightened his curiosity.

But he was disappointed. The inner courtyard looked abandoned. He had the impression of crossing a narrow stretch of wasteland surrounded by ageless fortifications. Against the black sky, he could make out the shape of a pine tree growing in the wall, between what looked like battlements. It had improvised a place for itself in this hostile universe and, indifferent to its ill fortune, was now rising up toward the sky above the old port.

De Palma stopped for a moment.

“Sylvie, do you know that it's the first time I've been in here? It's an odd feeling. I was expecting something better. In fact, it smells horrible and it's ugly.”

“I know, I know … I found it strange the first time too. The local council has been trying to renovate the place for the past twenty years, but I don't think it's ever going to happen. There are other priorities in Marseille. The heritage commission we have here is …”

“I quite agree. But this is something else! It reminds me of La Vieille Charité when my father took me there. I must have been seven or eight at the time … it was like a shanty town, right in the middle of Le Panier. There were weeds everywhere, and tramps … But they did renovate it in the end. You just have to be patient.”

De Palma and Sylvie walked up a short slope leading to the terrace which overlooked the courtyard, offering a view of the Palais du Pharo and, further to the right, Château d'If floating in the yellow glow of the floodlights which illuminated it. Sylvie led him toward a row of small, stone buildings with large windows fortified by cast-iron bars. They stopped outside a reinforced door, where she entered her code into the alarm panel.

A long corridor cluttered with amphorae and numbered boxes led to a large room crammed with old, civil-service-style oak cupboards. On a table in the middle, three brand-new computers, on standby, were the sole touch of modernity in this dated universe.

“Here's where I work,” Sylvie said, gazing around.

“How charming,” de Palma admitted.

“You think so? In winter we freeze to death, and in summer we boil. Anyway … at least we've got
L'Archéonaute
to go out to sea in from time to time.”

“Do you often work here?”

“Practically every day, when I'm not in Aix. Look, this was Christine's computer.”

“Really?”

“I know what you're thinking, Monsieur Policeman. But it's practically empty. It's new. We only got them in mid-November, and she never used hers.”

De Palma eyed the cupboards.

“Is this where you keep your treasures?”

“Yes. I'll show you.”

Sylvie opened the double doors of the first cupboard to the left. It contained ten shelves holding small, black plastic boxes. She took down one of them and put it on the table.

“Here's what we collect … old stones.”

De Palma looked at a collection of flints laid out on yellow ticking.

“They're small flints found in the La Triperie Cave, at Cape Morgiou. Palestro led the explorations at the time, in the mid '60s.”

“The La Triperie Cave?”

“It's not far from Le Guen's Cave, at the tip of Cape Morgiou, in the middle of the hook … you know, it forms a sort of hook, and there's a huge, grayish vault beneath the cliff-face.”