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- Herausgeber: Alfredbooks
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
A sinister serial killer with a very special signature is wreaking havoc in Marseille. Commissaire Pierre Marquanteur follows in his footsteps and tries to stop the killer. He soon realizes that the case has a completely different background than previously suspected .. . Titles previously published in the series of Marseille crime novels about Pierre Marquanteur: The killer of Marseille Commissaire Marquanteur and the nights of Marseille
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Marquanteur And The Nights Of Marseille: French Crime Thriller
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Marquanteur And The Nights Of Marseille: French Crime Thriller
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Marquanteur And The Nights Of Marseille: French Crime Thriller
by Alfred Bekker
A sinister serial killer with a very special signature is wreaking havoc in Marseille. Commissaire Pierre Marquanteur follows in his footsteps and tries to stop the killer. He soon realizes that the case has a completely different background than previously suspected ...
Titles previously published in the series of Marseille crime novels about Pierre Marquanteur:
The killer of Marseille
Commissaire Marquanteur and the nights of Marseille
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
COVER A.PANADERO
© this issue 2022 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westphalia
The fictional characters have nothing to do with actual living persons. Similarities between names are coincidental and not intended.
All rights reserved.
www.AlfredBekker.de
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Everything to do with fiction!
1
Sometimes I wonder how many men in France are actually called Jean. The name is quite common and sometimes you get the feeling of being surrounded by people with this name.
There are three men named Jean in this story.
My boss is called Jean-Claude.
A colleague of mine is called Jean-Luc.
And then there is a rather shady character known as Jean Sorell.
But perhaps I should tell the case from the beginning.
Bonjour for now.
My name is Pierre.
Pierre Marquanteur.
To be more precise: Commissaire Pierre Marquanteur from Marseille. Together with my colleague François Leroc, I work in a special department. We take care of the big fish, that's how you could sum it up, even if we have less to do with the fish market.
Of course there is one here too. Marseille has a large port.
But back to the task of our department.
Organized crime is our main area of work. And of course there's a lot to do. Marseille has a large port, and not everything that arrives by ship is legal. And then of course there's le Vieux-Port, the Old Port, where the clans of Algerians and black Africans are waging war against each other and at the same time trying to oust the traditional port giants. Who knows, maybe the age-old Italo mafia will be the laughing stock. And then there are the Russians, the Moroccans and the Lebanese. And of course various rocker groups who are also trying to get in on the act.
The coalitions in these gangster wars - no, we call them different and professional structures of criminal networks - change quite quickly.
Whoever is the preferred drug supplier today will be the enemy tomorrow.
What can I say? Murder always happens. Sometimes we're dealing with crazy serial killers, sometimes it's killers from the milieu or just someone who was drunk and had a bottle in their hand at the wrong time and hit someone on the head.
But we can deal with it.
Everyone can rely on that.
*
It was night and Marseille had turned into a sea of lights. The stars were barely visible. Some called it light pollution. But it had its own beauty.
And the lights were particularly bright at the Vieux-Port ...
Nightlife.
The black limousine stopped just outside the hotel. A young woman got out of the door at the back on the right. She was wearing a very tight leather skirt, high-heeled shoes and lots of make-up. Her hydrogen-blonde hair was pinned up. The word L'AMOUR was branded in artistic letters on the wooden barrette.
The blonde counted a few banknotes and put them in her handbag.
The side window of the limousine slid down.
"See you next week?" asked a male voice.
"Sure."
"So?"
"You have my number."
"Yes, yes ..."
"There you go!"
"But..."
"So call me."
"I want you to reserve Wednesday from eight o'clock in the evening for us, Chantal," demanded the man, who had nothing but an elbow sticking out.
Chantal grinned.
"But then you'll have to add another bill!"
"Okay! See you then!"
"Au Revoir !"
The limousine drove off.
Chantal took a deep breath and walked towards the flickering neon sign of the nearby hotel.
A nondescript Ford was now approaching. The driver must have watched Chantal and waited until the limousine had gone.
The headlights caught Chantal.
She was now standing in their bright light.
"That's all right now!" she mumbled.
But it wasn't good.
Hopefully not another one of those perverts, she thought and grimaced.
2
The side window on the passenger side opened. Chantal stopped and looked inside. "Well, what can I do for you?" she asked with a suggestive undertone that immediately made it clear to any potential suitor that this dialog was the start of a business deal.
Chantal tried to see who was behind the wheel of the limousine. The figure leaned towards her. Some light now fell on the face from the neon sign of the nearby hotel.
Chantal shook her head.
"No, I'm sorry, I don't do that!" she explained firmly.
She walked down the street towards the hotel. She had a room there. The car followed her.
The figure at the wheel had now also lowered the side window on the driver's side. A hand in a leather glove held up banknotes.
Chantal turned around briefly.
Three hundred euros, it flashed through her mind.
She stopped, as did the car.
She circled the car and stepped up to the open side window on the driver's side. Her hand held out the money.
Something made her hesitate.
Then she took the money after all.
"I told you, I don't really do that. After all, I have my principles, but ..."
The figure silently pointed to the passenger seat.
Chantal nodded.
She circled the car again and got in.
"You must really need it!" she muttered and put the bills in her handbag.
3
It was just after midnight when the front door of the hotel flew aside.
A man in a light gray wool coat entered. He wore his blue-black hair shoulder-length. It was tied back in a plait.
He took long strides across the foyer and pulled out a weapon. It was a very dainty Uzi submachine gun.
In the milieu, this was probably also called a show-off gun.
But you could also shoot with it.
Thirty shots per second with one burst of fire.
That destroys a lot.
And anyone who happens to be in the way is a sieve afterwards.
The porter froze and tried to reach into a drawer, but the Uzi was already firing. A dozen shots passed just above the porter and drew a pattern of holes in the wall behind him.
"Where is Chantal?" he then asked.
"No idea!" stuttered the porter.
"I'll pump you full of lead if you don't give me an answer! I won't be put off any longer!"
A man came down the stairs that led to the upper floor. He was wearing a silver-gray tailored suit. His left hand was hidden in his trouser pocket.
"Jacques Bolgerie, still the old hothead! What kind of circus are you running here?" he asked. "Destroying all my furniture! What do you think it all costs!"
Jacques was actually called Gustave Bolgerie.
But who could have any respect for someone called Gustave? Maybe you could work as an accountant with that name. But as a pimp? Bolgerie had no desire to be a laughing stock.
Everyone called him Jacques.
Some also call him Nasty Jacques.
But only some.
And Jacques didn't mind at all.
Jacques turned and pointed the Uzi at the man in the suit, a gray-haired man in his late forties with a thin moustache and a superior smile.
"I've been trying to reach you for days, Vincent!"
"So, here I am! What is there to talk about?"
"It's about Chantal!"
"She's made up her mind, Jacques."
"Like this?"
"She'd rather work for me. She won't get beaten up so often and can keep more of her money for herself. Besides, I can protect her - in contrast, you're just a loser, Jacques!"
"Me - a loser?"
"I'm sorry, Jacques."
"Listen ..."
"Take it easy, Jacques!"
Jacques' face turned red. His face contorted into a grimace. He pointed the Uzi at his opponent at head height.
"What's going on, are you going crazy again, Jacques? Anyone who threatens Vincent Janvier should think twice. Because I have a lot of good friends who would be on your back ..."
"Where is Chantal?" Jacques repeated.
Vincent Janvier grinned wryly. "I understand that it pisses you off that Chantal is with me now. After all, you've probably been living exclusively off what she's brought in." Janvier shrugged his shoulders. "Then you should have been a bit nicer to her! Last time you beat her up so badly that she was almost unusable! Fortunately, I know a good doctor who can fix things like that! But now she's just fed up with you! Accept that and get out."
"I want to hear that from her own mouth!"
"Bernard already told you she's not here."
"Where the hell do I find them?" He let the MP rattle off again. The shots flew into the parquet floor, close to Vincent Janvier's feet.
He remained standing calmly.
His face froze into an icy mask.
"Go on like that! In the end, the police will come because someone realizes that the banging isn't coming from a TV that's set too loud!"
"You ass!"
"I don't know what you've been taking or what kind of trip you're on, but the stuff can't have been good, Jacques! Chantal is with a client and doesn't have time for you right now! So you'll have to make do with my information."
Jacques took a deep breath.
He was visibly struggling to keep himself under control. His hand was trembling slightly. With his finger on the trigger of an Uzi, it was not without danger.
"We can talk about anything, Jacques," Vincent Janvier tried to reassure him.
Finally Jacques lowered his gun.
"As I said, I want to hear it from Chantal herself!"
"You can, as soon as she's back."
"I also want a transfer fee."
"What do you have in mind?"
"At least fifty thousand euros. Chantal is a class girl. She'll earn you more in the first quarter!"
"I'll think about it!" Vincent Janvier promised.
But that wasn't enough for Jacques. He had the feeling that Vincent was trying to trick him.
Nasty Jacques raised the barrel of the Uzi. "Not like that!"
A sound reminiscent of a violent sneeze could now be heard from the other side. An automatic gun with a silencer was fired three times in quick succession.
Jacques' body jerked under the hits.
He slumped down and fell heavily onto the floor.
The gunman stepped out of an open door at the side, through which he entered the rooms on the first floor. He was red-haired, heavily freckled and wore an elegant, cobalt-blue suit made of a flowing, silky fabric. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone. A small cross made of red gold flashed there. Above it was a tattooed eagle with spread wings.
"It's about time, René," growled Vincent Janvier.
The man who had been called René grinned and began to unscrew the silencer. His full name was René Moustique.
René Moustique cradled the gun in his left hand and said with a grin: "I couldn't find this damn thing!"
"Man, that's not funny! I thought you weren't going to show up at all." Vincent Janvier stepped towards the man lying on the ground and spun him around with his foot.
"I told you that Jacques Bolgerie won't take it so easily that Chantal has switched to us," said the porter.
"Whatever!" Vincent Janvier clenched his teeth. He turned to René. "Make sure this piece of filth disappears never to be seen again."
"All right."
"Fish food for the sea! Or whatever you can think of!"
"Will do."
4
My name is Pierre Marquanteur, I am a Commissaire and as such I belong to the FoPoCri.
Yes, such an abbreviation sounds like a nasty-tasting drug or an implementing provision in tax law. Something complicated, expensive and unpleasant. But I can assure you that this does not apply to FoPoCri.
The abbreviation stands for "Force spéciale de la police criminelle" and our offices are located at Marseille police headquarters. In formal legal terms, we are part of the French police force. Sounds like a muddle? It is a mess. But only in theory. In practice, it all works quite well. Bureaucracy is always what civil servants make of it. And civil servants are people. Even if many people don't want to believe it, they are. People like my colleague François Leroc and me. Our department steps in when others don't know what to do. Or when coordination between the police authorities of different countries is necessary. I don't want to go into the details. It's the bigger cases that require our involvement.
In practice, I usually just say: "Marquanteur, police criminelle."
That's enough.
Absolutely.
And when I'm very chatty, which doesn't happen that often, I say: "Marquanteur, police criminelle Marseille."
When I come to people with our official name, they just say: "I already have insurance, thank you very much. And I'm not buying anything."
As I said, it is the larger cases that we deal with.
*
On this clear, cold morning, I picked up my colleague François Leroc at the familiar corner as usual.
"Salut, François! "
"Have you had breakfast yet , Pierre? "
"No. Not even coffee."
He rubbed his hands together briefly and fastened his seatbelt while I drove off. "Luckily, we can look forward to a cup of Melanie's famous coffee!"
"Sorry, nothing will come of it."
He looked at me in astonishment. "Why? What's wrong?"
"Bad news, Mr. Marteau called us earlier. We have to go to a crime scene."
"Where?"
"It's right on the way. Joggers found a body in a park that fits into our series."
At the time, we were dealing with a series of murders of prostitutes. The victims had been strangled with a wire loop and shaved bald, which is why the perpetrator had been nicknamed "hairdresser" in the media. The victim was number six in this series, the first case of which was seven years ago. At first, of course, it was not obvious that this was a serial offender. In the meantime, however, this was undisputed.
After the hairdresser had struck three times within six months, we were assigned to the case.
Numerous emergency vehicles from the uniformed police and the identification service were already there and showed us where to go. A uniformed colleague wanted to guide us past the place where the body was found.
I pulled up in the company car, rolled down the window and showed him my ID.
"Marquanteur, Marseille police. We are expected here."
"Drive a little further and park on the left on the grass. Then there will be enough space for through traffic."
"Really on the left?"
"The colleagues from the identification service take a close look at the right-hand side."
"All right."
So I drove on.
A row of vehicles lined the left-hand side of the road. Eventually we found a place to park the company car.
We then walked to the playground integrated into the park.
Playground equipment, sandpits and benches could be found here.
A broad-shouldered guy in his mid-fifties greeted us. He had a gag beard.
"Commissaire Mathies Jobert," he introduced himself. He wasn't part of our department. Marseille is a big city. Not everyone knows everyone. Not quite like Paris, but close.
I said:
"Pierre Marquanteur. This is my colleague François Leroc."
