The Beast of the Camargue by Xavier-Marie Bonnot

children. Don’t say a word.”
    â€œNo, Jean-Luc, I’m a Capitaine now!” Moracchini said, to cool things down a little.
    A little girl wearing a blue-flowered dressing gown over her bony shoulders and foam slippers on her feet was standing in the kitchen doorway.
    â€œHello,” Moracchini said, as simply as possible, smiling at the wide-eyed girl.
    â€œHello, Madame.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œShe’s called Marion,” Casetti butted in proudly.
    â€œYou had a son too, no? A big lad …”
    â€œChristophe? He’s in jail.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause he takes after his prick of a father.”
    â€œFor a long stretch?”
    â€œTen years.”
    â€œJesus, ten years, Jean-Luc! That’s no life.”
    Despite her years on the force, it still riled her when a crook spoke so coolly about his family’s troubles. The verdicts seemed to rain down on the Casetti family without ever teaching them anything. They went in and out of prison and seemed to accept these return trips between the free world and “inside” as if they were the terms of a contract. A contract often settled by a bullet.
    â€œWe’re going to search the house, Jean-Luc. Have you got anything to tell me before we begin, and find it ourselves?”
    â€œThere’s nothing here. Zilch,” he said, gesturing at the corridor from which his wife had just emerged, with the family’s latest addition in her arms.
    â€œHere’s our youngest—Pierre. He’s just turned three.”
    Moracchini and Romero looked at each other in silence. Casetti’swife, her eyes still red with sleep, put her son down. The child immediately went over to his father and grabbed him by the handcuffs, beaming widely. Romero looked away.
    â€œO.K., Jean-Luc. We’re going to have you spit on some blotting paper, so as to take your genetic imprint. You know, your D.N.A…. Then you’ll come along with us, and if you’re clean you’ll be back home tomorrow morning. O.K.?”
    â€œJesus, you turn up mob-handed with all that artillery! It’s like the Napoleonic wars in here. That one over there’s got a pumpgun loaded with buckshot, and you ask me if I’m O.K.?”
    â€œThat’s right!” Madame Casetti almost screamed, raising her hand toward Bonniol. “The last time you turned up, there were just two of you. With that big copper, the one who was in the paper. What’s his name again?”
    â€œCommandant de Palma.”
    â€œYes, him. He’s a real man. He risks his life. Everyone knows that. He’s got respect for people. No need to come with a squad. I’ve got nothing against you, Madame. I know you’re on the level. But him”—she pointed at a guard from the B.R.I.—“aren’t you ashamed of pointing a gun at children?”
    Bonniol made to open his big mouth, but Moracchini glared at him.
    Five years ago, on the orders of a nervy magistrate, she and de Palma had come to fetch Casetti on suspicion of murder, but nothing had come of it. Forty-eight hours later, they had taken back home “Casetti the Gangland Killer” as an inspired sub-editor had dubbed him.
    â€œIn fact, we nearly brought the T.V. cameras along,” she said, to lower the pressure.
    â€œThat’s all we need! The last time, for the lad, we had those local telly shitheads round. I thought it was just the new police procedure to film everything. Then two months later, they showed the boy on T.V., and everyone knew. Fuck the lot of them!”
    Moracchini’s mobile rang. She went out into the garden.
    â€œAnne? It’s Michel.”
    â€œWhat’s up with you? Insomnia?”
    â€œI’m not waking you up, am I?”
    â€œThanks for the kind thought. It’s six thirty, and you’ll never guess where I am.”
    â€œGo on.”
    â€œAt Casetti’s. Don’t