Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Alfredbooks
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
by Alfred Bekker A new case for Commissaire Marquanteur and his colleagues from the southern French port city of Marseille. "Say no to a life of sin!" is the credo of a religious sect in which murders repeatedly occur. Detectives Marquanteur and Leroc from the FoPoCri are looking for perpetrators who kill as punishment for a life of sin. They are assisted by a profiler who, however, has a completely different opinion to the two detectives. Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, crime thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Jack Raymond, Robert Gruber, Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden and Janet Farell.
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 148
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
Alfred Bekker
Marquanteur And The Dangerous Two: France Crime Thriller
Inhaltsverzeichnis
Marquanteur And The Dangerous Two: France Crime Thriller
Copyright
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
Marquanteur And The Dangerous Two: France Crime Thriller
by Alfred Bekker
A new case for Commissaire Marquanteur and his colleagues from the southern French port city of Marseille.
"Say no to a life of sin!" is the credo of a religious sect in which murders repeatedly occur. Detectives Marquanteur and Leroc from the FoPoCri are looking for perpetrators who kill as punishment for a life of sin. They are assisted by a profiler who, however, has a completely different opinion to the two detectives.
Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, crime thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Jack Raymond, Robert Gruber, Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden and Janet Farell.
Copyright
A CassiopeiaPress book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books, Alfred Bekker, Alfred Bekker presents, Casssiopeia-XXX-press, Alfredbooks, Uksak Special Edition, Cassiopeiapress Extra Edition, Cassiopeiapress/AlfredBooks and BEKKERpublishing are imprints of
Alfred Bekker
© Roman by Author
© this issue 2024 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westphalia
The fictional characters have nothing to do with actual living persons. Similarities between names are coincidental and not intentional.
All rights reserved.
www.AlfredBekker.de
Follow on Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/alfred.bekker.758/
Follow on Twitter:
https://twitter.com/BekkerAlfred
To the publisher's blog!
Stay informed about new releases and background information!
https://cassiopeia.press
Everything to do with fiction!
1
It was late afternoon at Les Baumettes prison, located in the enchanting southern French port city of Marseille. The prison stretched along the road to the Calanque de Morgiou, offering a breathtaking view of the picturesque surroundings. The man with a prominent scar on his chin stood at his barred window and let his gaze wander over the scenery. The sun shone brightly down from the sky and bathed the town in its characteristic Mediterranean flair.
As he stood there, thoughts full of anger and bitterness flowed through his mind. One day he would get out of this prison - he was sure of it. And when that day finally came, his revenge would follow! Commissaire Marquanteur, that cursed investigator, had put him behind bars for many years of his life and he would pay for it!
Pierre Marquanteur - this name echoed like a gloomy echo in the man's mind. He could not forget or forgive what this investigator had done to him. With each day of his imprisonment, his desire for retribution only grew.
The life of the man with the conspicuous scar now revolved around just one thought: to take revenge on the one who had so cruelly sealed his fate. Every breath was accompanied by this hatred - a hatred as strong as an unstoppable force of nature.
As he continued to look out of the window, he could see the city in all its splendor before him. But to him it was nothing but a symbol of injustice and betrayal. The sun's warm rays falling on his skin were like a mockery of his inner pain.
The man with the scar on his chin knew full well that his path to freedom would be rocky. But he was prepared to fight for it - whatever the cost. His determination grew stronger by the day and drove him to explore every possibility of escaping or carrying out his plans for revenge.
In the midst of this gloomy atmosphere in Les Baumettes prison, he swore to himself: One day, Commissaire Marquanteur will have to realize that his own end has come. The moment of retribution is approaching - rolling inexorably like an avalanche.
"Hey, are you dreaming of taking revenge on this inspector again?" his cellmate asked provocatively. The man with the conspicuous scar on his face turned around slowly and fixed his fellow prisoner with a penetrating gaze. His eyes betrayed a mixture of contempt and determination.
"You don't have any dreams, do you?" he replied sharply. His cellmate's words had hit a sore spot - the question about his own ambitions had stirred him up inside. But now it was time for the man with the scar to reveal his thoughts.
"I wonder," his cellmate began curiously, "why you only want to take revenge on this Commissaire Marquanteur? Why not on his colleague Monsieur Leroc as well?"
The man with the scar seemed to pause for a moment and thought hard. It was obvious that he had been thinking about it intensively - not only about the vendetta against Marquanteur alone, but also against Leroc. After spending countless hours in his prison cell and telling his story over and over again, his fellow prisoner knew every detail about it by now.
The two police officers belonged to a highly specialized task force to combat organized crime, terrorism and serial crimes. They were known for their success rate in apprehending dangerous criminals and had already solved numerous cases that would have presented other investigators with almost unsolvable challenges.
But that didn't matter to the man with the scar. He was not impressed by her reputation or her seemingly insurmountable strength. His thirst for revenge outweighed all other thoughts in his head.
"Who's to say I won't kill this Leroc too?" he finally replied with an iron determination in his voice. The words echoed menacingly through the stuffy air of the prison cell and sent a shiver down the spines of his cellmates.
It had become clear - this man would leave no stone unturned to satisfy his desire for revenge. Neither Marquanteur nor Leroc would be safe from his unbridled hatred and the plan firmly anchored in his mind.
*
"Bonjour, Pierre!"
I turned around.
"Oh, it's you, François."
"Who else?"
"Are you stalking me on your day off already?"
"I have a day off too."
"I know."
I was sitting at the harbor, close to the quay wall, fishing. I sometimes do that when I want to clear my head a bit. The large container ships that make their way from the Mediterranean to the port of Marseille are always an impressive sight.
I've never caught much. But that's not the point.
"I'm afraid I can't offer you a seat, François," I said.
"Never mind."
"Why?"
"I've made provisions."
"Provided for?"
"I've brought a folding chair."
I hadn't seen it straight away. François had carried it on the side facing away from me. He put it down and sat down. "I hope you don't mind, Pierre?"
"Sure."
I am Pierre Marquanteur, Commissaire in Marseille. And François Leroc is my colleague. We belong to a special unit called the Force spéciale de la police criminelle, FoPoCri for short, and we deal with the big fish, as they say. Organized crime, for example - or serial offenders. We don't have a lot of free time, and in fact we're constantly putting in a huge amount of overtime that we should actually be working off.
It will never work anyway.
But now we had taken a day off.
"Why are you here?" I asked François.
"Why not?"
"That's not an answer."
"No?"
"So, why are you here?"
"The honest version?"
"Is always best."
"I was bored."
"Uh-huh."
"And then I said to myself: let's see what Pierre does. And since what Pierre does is pretty predictable in this case, I showed up here."
"And now?"
"I'll watch you fishing. It's no more boring than the TV program."
"Unfortunately, I don't have a second fishing rod. I didn't know you were going to turn up."
"It's better this way. Watching is enough."
"You could have brought something to eat."
"We can get a fish sandwich later."
"You can't do without work, can you?"
François nodded. "But you feel the same way."
"At least I have a hobby."
"No, Pierre, you're acting like you have a hobby. That's something else."
Two men were walking along the quay wall. Both in leather and with lots of chains. And probably as gay as the Village People.
The two of them waved to us.
François waved back.
I had to hold the fishing rod.
"They think we're a couple now, Pierre," said François. "They can't know that we're stock-hetero."
"That's how people are. They always draw conclusions about others. And apart from that, we probably spend more time together professionally than most people who are really a couple."
François laughed. "You said it!"
"There are couples who nobody would suspect are a couple. For example, our office worker Maxime, who is actually married but is still having an affair with our boss's secretary! The two of them act as if nothing is wrong."
"Everyone knows about it!"
"That's right."
"And there are couples who, for example, look like a couple to the gay boys in front, just like us, but aren't really a couple!"
"Exactly."
I had to think of my own words when we were dealing with our next case.
There are not only couples who hide and couples who are mistaken for couples or pretend to be one.
There are also murderous couples who commit crimes together.
*
"At the time, I thought I had no other choice - but now I know it was murder."
Regine Andrés held the glass firmly in her hand and slowly brought it to her mouth. The cocktail in it shimmered seductively, as if it were a fresh fruit juice just waiting to be savored by her. She downed the drink with a purposeful swing and immediately felt the tingling effect of the alcohol.
A slight sway ran through her body, but Regine maintained her posture and didn't let it show. She closed her eyes for a moment and let the taste of the cocktail melt on her tongue. The sweet mixture of exotic fruits harmonized perfectly with the tart aftertaste of the high-quality gin.
When she opened her eyes again, Regine carefully placed the empty glass back on the shiny bar surface. A subtle smile played around her lips - this drink had had exactly the desired effect. She felt more relaxed, looser and ready for whatever was to come.
With a confident gesture, she waved to the bartender: "Same again, please." Her voice was full of conviction - because this cocktail was not just a drink for Regine Andrés; it was a kind of release from worries and everyday stress.
While she waited patiently for her next drink, Regine casually watched the hustle and bustle in the bar. The subdued lighting bathed the room in a mysterious atmosphere that was full of promise. She knew that this evening would hold many more exciting moments for her.
Regine Andrés was a woman who knew how to enjoy life. And at that moment, she was not only enjoying another cocktail - but also the feeling of freedom and lightness that each sip gave her.
"I think you've had enough, Regine," said the bartender with a serious expression on his face. He leaned forward a little and then continued in a hushed tone: "After all, I don't want any dead people here..."
"I'm as good as dead already!"
The bartender turned to the woman Regine had been talking to the whole time. She had dark, curly hair and was wearing a business trouser suit. The bartender estimated her to be in her mid-thirties.
"You seem to know the lady. Perhaps you can make it clear to her why I don't want to give her anything more."
"It's all right," said Regine. "I can tell when I'm not wanted."
2
Shortly afterwards, Regine left the building and stepped out into the freedom of the evening. The sun had already set and made way for darkness. But in a bustling city like Marseille, the term "darkness" was relative. Streetlights, neon lights and lively activity ensured that even at night there was a certain amount of brightness.
Regine felt a pleasant breeze on her skin and enjoyed finally breathing fresh air after a long day at the office. When she saw a cab approaching out of the corner of her eye, she knew immediately that it had come at just the right time. She thought to herself: "That's just in time!" With a decisive wave of her hand, she signaled her intention to stop the driver.
While waiting for the cab, Regine suddenly noticed a small moment of unsteadiness in her sense of balance - probably a result of her busy day and the haste with which she was now rushing to the cab rank. Nevertheless, Regine didn't let this put her off and stood firm.
The atmosphere surrounded her with a mixture of excitement and relief. After her day had been so stressful - full of meetings, deadlines and unpredictable challenges - Regine was now looking forward to finally getting home and leaving the stresses and strains behind her.
The cab stopped at the side of the road. The passengers got out.
"Take me with you!" she shouted.
"Get in the car! I'm not supposed to be standing here."
Regine hurried off.
She climbed in. The smell of leather and disinfectant filled the interior of the vehicle as she settled into the comfortable back seat. She felt a pleasant warmth as the cab driver started the engine and slowly drove away.
As the streets passed her by, Regine was able to immerse herself in her thoughts and leave the hustle and bustle of the city behind her. The lights of Marseille blurred into a sea of color that soothed her senses. She leaned her head against the back of the seat and let go of all the stress of the day.
At that moment, she felt a deep sense of satisfaction at this little break in the daily hustle and bustle - a brief moment of peace in the midst of busy city life. For Regine, the cab became a symbol of her freedom - it was like a magical transition from working life to relaxation.
With every meter, she moved further away from her stressful day and closer to her cosy home. The darkness now enveloped not only the city of Marseille, but also Regine's thoughts - a comforting embrace full of security.
When the cab stopped at an intersection shortly afterwards, the driver swore at another car.
With a deep sigh, Regine closed her eyes for a moment and left all the hustle and bustle outside behind. The darkness may be relative in a city like Marseille - but for Regine it was now time for peace and quiet in her own little paradise.
Someone honked their horn. The impatient driver of a delivery van flashed a bird, and Regine wasn't quite sure whether the gesture was meant for herself or the cab driver.
Moments later, after the cab had driven off again , she took another deep breath. And opened her eyes.
She wasn't even surprised that the driver didn't ask her where she wanted to go.
3
"Stop right there! FoPoCri!" I shouted.
But the guy in the red baseball cap didn't think to listen to me at all. He jerked his gun around and fired in my direction. The shot was badly aimed. It went pretty far past me.
Then the guy just ran off, losing almost half of the stuff he had been carrying. A hand-sized plastic bag of cocaine slipped out of his jacket pocket and a second one followed.
The man's name was Robert Battiston and he was wanted by warrant throughout France for a wide variety of offenses. The police headquarters had received a tip-off that he would turn up here at a certain time to sell some cocaine. Maybe a kilo or two. That amount wasn't really worth mentioning and was far from being a big deal. But that wasn't the point here. Battiston was probably in desperate need of money, as our colleagues elsewhere had managed to track down and freeze some of his accounts. Accounts that Battiston had opened under a false identity and through which he used to conduct his business. And his main business was by no means drugs, but murder.
He had spent the last five years working as a contract killer for anyone who needed a payroll killer. And when the ground got too hot for him somewhere, he simply set up somewhere else, got himself a new identity and then usually remained unmolested for a while.
But now his odyssey was over. Here in the old naval port of Marseille, he was about to fall into the trap we had set for him.
The man who had called him here had probably not exactly been a friend. There were many possible reasons. People who wanted Battiston to be taken out of circulation. There were many possible reasons - and pure revenge was probably the most likely. But we didn't know who it was.
As we had already learned some time ago from an informant who was considered to be very reliable that Battiston was currently in Marseille, we had agreed to play the unknown caller's game. If someone like Battiston was taken out of circulation, it was definitely a valuable contribution to increasing security in Marseille.
Now he fired wildly.
After a few steps, he had disappeared behind the corner of a disused warehouse. Meanwhile, François and took cover. A few rusting, man-sized containers offered protection. They had already ensured that we hadn't been noticed by our target early on.
François fired a shot in the direction of the fugitive.
"Watch out, he's on the north side of the warehouse!" I reported via the headset, which all the colleagues involved in this operation were connected to each other by radio.
A contract killer like Battiston was as shy as a deer. If you wanted to set a trap for him, you could only do so if you didn't arrive with a large contingent. People like Battiston had a sure instinct for when they were in danger. That was the only reason they had managed to escape both their enemies in the underworld and persecution by the law.
