The Beast of the Camargue by Xavier-Marie Bonnot Page B

Isabelle Mercier. De Palma saw it as a sign, something that had risen up from the chaos in order to drive him forward. Hewas also intrigued by the fact that she had personally sought him out, after the blunt refusal he had made to Chandeler. Something in her story rang false, and de Palma could sense the turbulence in these big-money cases like a weather radar.
    The rain redoubled, and he suddenly had the impression of being inside the belly of a snare drum during a parade on July 14, which made him slow down even more, and thus increased his irritation.
    He hated this long road, as straight as an American freeway, punctuated with chip vendors, sellers of melons and other local produce, and whores in caravans who serviced truck drivers by the edge of meadows as flat as the sea.
    Each time he took the R.N. 568 it was always for some shady affair: bar owners murdered by slot-machine racketeers, or some settling of scores among the gypsies of Arles and its outskirts. All he needed now was a migraine to ruin his day completely.
    When he reached Tarascon, by now on Route Départementale 99, the rain stopped abruptly. He parked on rue du Viaduc in front of the commissariat, in one of the spaces reserved for police officers. Straight away the security guard, wrapped in his royal blue outfit, hurried over.
    â€œDe Palma, Marseille P.J.,” he said, flashing his tricolor card. “I’m here to see Jean-Claude Marceau.”
    â€œOh, right. Talk to my colleague then.”
    The second security guard behind the grille was not so bad: brunette, about twenty, with an angular build, an inviting smile and big dark worried-looking eyes. The first hint of charm on this gloomy morning.
    â€œCapitaine Marceau? Yes, stay there; I’ll see if he’s free,” she said, poring over her list of telephone numbers.
    The hall of the commissariat smelled of stale tobacco and the sour breath of its hundreds of visitors. A winding staircase, pockmarked with chewing gum and cigarette burns, led up to the first floor, where the departments of investigation and public safety lay in a curving corridor with a low ceiling and brick walls. Voices broke out from behind the wall of the drug squad.
    â€œOn my mother’s life, it wasn’t me …”
    â€œFuck your mother, asshole. We’ve been tailing you for six months. Can’t you see yourself in the fucking photos?”
    â€œOn my mother’s life …”
    That morning, in the Cité des Rosoirs, the drugs squad of the
Service d’Investigation et de recherches de la sécurité publique
had nabbed a housing estate baron with 40 kilos of dope in the boot of his car, some of it in his son’s cot and the rest in his wife’s vanity case.
    De Palma arrived at the door to the investigation rooms.
    â€œHide everything! The P.J.’s here!” a voice wrecked by filterless Gitanes yelled from behind the half-closed door.
    De Palma shoved it open.
    â€œHi, Jean-Claude, sounds like things are heating up next door!”
    â€œReally? It’s never them, you know how they are …”
    Marceau greeted the Baron with a hug and took a long look at him.
    â€œJesus, Michel de Palma. The Baron … you can’t imagine how pleased I am to see you. It’s been ages.”
    â€œYou haven’t changed.”
    â€œAnd you’ve still got just as much imagination! How are things?”
    Jean-Claude Marceau was a year younger than de Palma, and had kept the look of an eternally melancholy teenager, into hard rock and dope. Of course he was into neither, just an excellent police officer who was now rotting in a small commissariat after a brilliant start to his career with de Palma and Maistre in Paris. It had all been down to a fit of nostalgia.
    In the early 1990s, Marceau had decided to go back to Tarascon, his home town. He wanted to find his roots again, to unlock the Provence that lay deep inside his body and soul. He had