The First Fingerprint (12 page)

“Never seen her before. There aren't that many women who come to my bar, and I know them all.”

Vidal was nervy for a Monday morning. He had not slept much. That weekend's conquest, picked up on Le Prado beach, had taken him to a ragga party at a warehouse in the docks. This young police recruit, fresh from his native Aveyron, had found himself among hoodie-wearers rolling joints and writhing to the synthesized noise of a Massilia Sound System.

“Le commando fada est avec toi …”

He'd kept his leather jacket on all night to conceal his service Manurhin.

“Commando fada, c'est terrible!”

Two spliffs later, Vidal was singing the praises of Olympique de Marseille and Provençal food—the city was beginning to take him in its embrace.

“Le commando fada est avec toi …”

He and the girl had parted at about 6:00 a.m. As they said goodbye,
she touched the cold barrel of his 357. He'd had to come clean, but she just whispered: “Not now, phone me this evening.”

“Commando fada, c'est terrible!”

That week he had found out a great deal about the victim: she was born on April 4, 1957, in Versailles, to Pierre Autran—a civil engineer, deceased 1970—and Martine Combes—a housewife, deceased 1982. Her father had been transferred, and the family moved to Marseille—from where the couple originally came—and set up home at 36 rue de la Bruyère in Mazargues. Christine had left school in 1975, lived at 23 rue Falque in the town center, before finding lodgings in Aix—address as yet unknown—and then rented a flat on boulevard Chave, her last known address.

Vidal had been into all the shops on rue Emile Zola and boulevard de la Concorde. Nothing. It was nearly 12:00, and all he had left was the Autran family's former address. As he turned into rue de la Bruyère, he saw two old boys sunning themselves like lizards, sitting back to front on wicker chairs with their weary arms supported by the backrests.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Vidal began, trying to sound as pleasant as possible. “Sorry to disturb you, but I'm trying to find out about some people who lived in this street over twenty years ago, the Autran family. Does the name mean anything to you?”

One of the old men looked at him with suspicion, his face etched with wrinkles.

“Are you from the police?”

“Murder squad, I'm investigating a homicide.”

“Really?”

“Christine Autran has been murdered.”

The old boy stood up hurriedly and stared at the policeman.

“Murdered, you say?”

“Yes, it was all in the papers.”

“I haven't read a paper in years … I can't believe it! Such a lovely little girl!”

“I'm sorry.”

“The Autrans lived there, at number 36, next door to me. We were neighbors. But that's going back a bit.”

“And you are Monsieur …”

“Allegrini, Dominique.”

“And you, Sir?”

“Robert Libri, but why do you need to know?”

“Don't worry, it's just for the report.”

Maxime took a long look at number 36. It was a two-story '30s house, flanked by a couple of crooked pines and a Judas tree. The shutters were closed.

“The Autrans had a lovely house!”

“Oh yes, they were a good family,” Allegrini replied. “The father was a civil servant, but high up. He was a big cheese.”

“Did you have much contact with him?”

“Not really. He wasn't much of a talker. We knew his wife better. She's dead now too, but a long time after him. I can't really remember any more. It was all so long ago.”

“What about you, Monsieur Libri?”

“I didn't know them. I don't live here. I'm in rue Enjouvin. I must have seen them from time to time, but I can't remember.”

“They weren't like us. They spoke very little, except to say good morning and good evening. But I do remember that the father died falling off a table. He was trying to change a lightbulb and he fell.”

“That was in 1970?”

“Yes, at the latest. At the time, I was still working in shipbuilding, and that was a long time ago. We hardly saw them after that. The girl moved away, and then her brother died. He'd been ill for some time … No, we never used to see him.”

“So only the mother was left?”

“That's right. She died later on, in a car accident. There was hardly anyone at the funeral, except for the daughter. I remember my wife went.”

“Can I see your wife?”

“If you want, but she's as deaf as a post.”

The old boy slowly turned round.

“Lucienne! Hey, Lucienne!”

An old Corsican woman, dressed in black, appeared on the threshold.

“Do you remember the Autrans?”

“Of course I do, we were neighbors.”

“There's a police officer here asking questions. Apparently the daughter's dead, murdered.”

“Good heavens!”

Lucienne raised her hand to her forehead. She tried to say something, but was overcome with sadness. She took a handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and dried her eyes.

Vidal approached her and introduced himself. Lucienne stared at the ground.

“Christine was a sweet girl … for her to die like that … Lord, I can picture her standing there …”

Huge tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Monsieur Autran was a good man, he really was! He took good care of his children. Every weekend he took them camping in the creeks. My God, the poor little things. I can just see them there with their rucksacks and big boots.”

“What about his wife?”

“She wasn't a good woman. She didn't look after her children properly. How can I put it? She was very strict with her son—all that mattered to her was her daughter. She disciplined her boy as though he were in the army. Even though they were twins.”

“Really, they were twins?”

“Yes, but what does that matter?” Lucienne said, waving her arms. “As far as I'm concerned, she ignored the fact that she had two. All she wanted was a daughter, so she mistreated her son. God save her soul, she wasn't a good woman.”

“All the same, you went to her funeral.”

“Yes, of course!”

“My wife goes to all the funerals in the neighborhood!” observed Dominique Allegrini.

“Do you remember that day?”

“Her funeral? There weren't many others, apart from her daughter Christine and me.”

“What about her son?”

“That was the day Christine told me he was dead.”

“Do you know what he died of?”

“An illness, I think, but I don't know what was wrong exactly. He became ill after his father died, then things went from bad to worse.”

“While Madame Autran was living here alone, did she have any visitors?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Did her children come to see her?”

“Hardly ever. Christine came from time to time, but never the son. I remember, when his father died, he was sent to boarding school. I don't think he ever forgave her. You know, twins shouldn't be separated like that.”

“Is there anyone living at number 36 now?”

“Yes, the Alessandri family. An old couple like us. But they're not here at the moment.”

“Do you know when they'll be back?”

“After the winter, as always, sometime in May. They always spend the winter at their house in Corsica, on Ile Rousse. When the tourists arrive, they come back to Marseille. Do you want their phone number?”

“Why not? You never know.”

Lucienne disappeared into her house for a moment, then reemerged with a piece of paper, on which she had carefully noted down the Alessandris' address and phone number in old-fashioned handwriting.

“It's come back to me. The boy's name was Thomas.”

“Thank you.”

“I can't believe she's dead just like that. Do you know how …”

“No, for the moment we don't know anything.”

“What a shame. Oh lord, what a shame!”

Thirty minutes later, Vidal arrived at 23 rue Falque, in the center of Marseille. This time, he was not so lucky. No-one there remembered a young woman called Christine Autran.

Standing motionless on a beak of limestone which jutted out from the Sugiton pass, de Palma could not believe his ears. For a quarter of an hour he had been listening to Sugiton creek echoing with a strident cry. Someone with less keen hearing would have heard nothing above
the vulgar screeching of yellow-legged seagulls in the air above the rocks.

It was a fine Monday morning; there was scarcely a breath of wind and the sun beat down on the white rocks, bringing out subtle fragrances from the small celadon leaves of the sandwort which mingled with hints of pine, the scent of thyme and a number of other unidentifiable elements. Below, between the promontories of gray and white rock-faces, the sea stretched out like a vast oil slick as far as the opposite shore of the Mediterranean.

De Palma had decided to go to the site of the murder alone, one hour ahead of the team from forensics. He turned toward the surrounding walls of Sugiton creek and once again heard that strident cry. It was a Bonelli's eagle. His father had taught him to recognize it during the days they had spent walking among the creeks.

He took the downward path and, a few minutes later, stood facing Le Torpilleur, just opposite where the coastguards had found Christine Autran. He sat down to think. A diver friend had told him that there was no current at this point, which led him to conclude that Christine had been thrown into the water from the shore. He had an inexplicable feeling that she had not come by boat. She couldn't have.

“Why would she have come here by sea?” he repeated out loud. “It would take longer, for one thing. And then landing here …”

The forensic surgeon had found some round pebbles in Christine's jacket pocket. De Palma had an idea about that. He made his way around the creek, from rock to rock, then leaped down to the spot where the murder was supposed to have been committed: the beach was indeed covered with the same pebbles rounded slowly by the sea into perfect shapes. The fact that some had been found in Christine's pockets could have meant that she had been dragged along head first.

He sat for a while on the edge of a rock. Nothing occurred to him. Not the slightest trace of anything at all, apart from the certainty of seeing the same scene as the victim. He was sure that Autran's killer had placed her body here on purpose. Like a sort of rendezvous. He wanted her to be found.

But the body had been found a month later. Why not before? There were plenty of walkers, especially at weekends. She had been half devoured, so she must have spent a long time in the water.

Something did not fit.

Down below, thirty meters above the seabed, was Le Guen's Cave. There was a connection between the cave and the murder. The victim and the killer knew each other. Maybe even very well. They knew the creeks like the backs of their hands. But why?

These were the beginnings of a logical hypothesis. But still he felt powerless. And he didn't like it. The creek had taught him next to nothing. He knew that he had to find the answer to just one question: why had Christine Autran come here?

The entrance to the cave was underwater. Otherwise, just rocks, cliffs, fallen stones, this beach of gravel … Nothing of interest to a prehistorian out for a stroll.

Nothing.

The gulls were still haranguing each other. Some of them had landed a few meters behind him and strutted about with petulant, distrustful expressions. Their white, impeccable outfits made them look like a gang of Mafiosi at a conference for organized crime. What ill deeds were these seaboard mobsters plotting?

Christine Autran came here. With an objective. A clear plan. That had to be the case. She did not come here by chance. Her killer knew she was coming here. Either she had told him, or he followed her.

So why didn't he kill her before? Among the rocks? Or elsewhere, at her home, in the street … But a different location would have been impossible because he could not have transported her. Apart from that, he had wanted to take something to its logical conclusion, or check something else. For example, what Christine had come here to do. Yes … that's it.

A Bonelli's eagle glided above a ridge in supple, fluid flight, then corrected its direction with a twitch of its wings to find one of the few thermals on this windless day. It was carrying something in its claws, presumably a mouse which had not had time to hide under the scree. After a broad sweep, the eagle headed for its eyrie, where its ravenous nestlings were waiting.

And what about Franck Luccioni? The forensic surgeon had declared that it was a diving accident—it appears it was a fake, a grotesque piece of subterfuge. But why in the same place?

Is it the cave? Had Luccioni intended to go into it? De Palma had checked with a marine archaeologist at the D.R.A.S.M., la Direction des recherches archéologiques sous-marines, and had been told that it was impossible to enter Le Guen's Cave. Ab-so-lute-ly, the specialist had said.

That afternoon, Vidal was going to pay Charles Le Guen a visit. Maybe the diver would be able to supply some additional information about all of this.

It had been eight years now. Eight years since anyone had gone into the cave …

He thought about the divers who had been found dead, about the rumors in the press and the libellous campaign against Le Guen and the scientists in Marseille. All those haughty opinions and scornful declarations. A spectrum of contempt. Le Guen had suffered terribly.

At the time the newspapers, and especially
Paris Match
, had told the story using numerous photos of hands, horses and bison and illustrations which showed how the sea had submerged that prehistoric Provençal world. De Palma thought to himself that he would have preferred to do Christine Autran's job instead of hunting down human game all year round.