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- Herausgeber: Alfredbooks
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
by Alfred Bekker A gang war among drug dealers in Marseille calls Commissaire Marquanteur and the FoPoCri special unit onto the scene. Unwelcome witnesses are eliminated by a professional killer. When lawyers involved are also killed, the search is intensified, but the killer is skillful. However, he has one unique feature that the manhunt focuses on - very small feet.
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Alfred Bekker
Marquanteur And The Killer Of Point-Rouge: French Crime Thriller
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Marquanteur And The Killer Of Point-Rouge: French Crime Thriller
Copyright
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Marquanteur And The Killer Of Point-Rouge: French Crime Thriller
by Alfred Bekker
A gang war among drug dealers in Marseille calls Commissaire Marquanteur and the FoPoCri special unit onto the scene. Unwelcome witnesses are eliminated by a professional killer. When lawyers involved are also killed, the search is intensified, but the killer is skillful. However, he has one unique feature that the manhunt focuses on - very small feet.
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 in names are coincidental and not intentional.
All rights reserved.
www.AlfredBekker.de
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Everything to do with fiction!
1
Sometimes you wonder what the point of everything we do is.
You take one step forward, and then others make sure that you take at least as many steps back afterwards.
Perhaps I first need to explain who I am and what I'm about, otherwise you won't be able to understand what I mean. My name is Pierre Marquanteur. I am a commissaire.
So far, so good.
I'm part of a special unit that was set up to combat organized crime. It's called the Force spéciale de la police criminelle and is based here in Marseille.
Together with my colleague François Leroc, I take on the really tricky cases that require greater resources and skills.
We risk our lives to be able to do our job.
And when a criminal who is known to be guilty is set free again through legal dodges, it is quite difficult for us to digest.
But that's probably also a side of our profession that you have to come to terms with somehow.
2
Hugo Grenadille raised his hand in the Victory sign as he walked down the steps of the courthouse. A handful of police officers shielded the man who had just escaped a murder conviction due to a procedural error.
Several camera crews and dozens of reporters crowded around Grenadille, who was clearly enjoying the attention.
A microphone pole stretched out towards Grenadille.
"A short statement!" someone shouted.
Grenadille grinned.
"What can I say? We live in a constitutional state," he laughed, baring two rows of immaculate white teeth.
Hugo Grenadille had no idea that he was in the crosshairs of a rifle scope at that very moment.
My colleague François Leroc and I stayed a little away from the crowd that had formed around the main entrance to the courthouse.
Hugo Grenadille had been accused of the murder of a bar owner in Pointe-Rouge, but prosecutor David Lohmer's indictment had gone down without a murmur. It had emerged that evidence had been collected in part under illegal conditions. The suspect had not been adequately informed of his rights after his arrest.
Furthermore, in the course of the proceedings, the prosecution's witnesses had dropped out in droves, withdrawn their statements or were no longer prepared to confirm them in court. The prosecution suspected that these witnesses had been put under pressure. However, they were unable to provide any evidence of this.
Suddenly, no one could remember that Hugo Grenadille had even entered the bar where the crime had been committed on the evening of the crime.
We at Marseille police headquarters have been investigating the man suspected of having ordered this murder for a long time.
Niko Dragnea.
A man who, behind closed doors, was also known as the "launderer of Pointe-Rouge". He was involved in or ran dozens of bars, clubs and discos throughout Marseille. These establishments, we believed, were used solely for laundering drug money.
Hugo Grenadille, who was considered Dragnea's man for the rough stuff, seemed to be enjoying his role as a media star more and more.
"I thank the public prosecutor's office for not being able to organize a proper trial. I would also like to thank my lawyers for having managed to show this narrow-minded shyster, who is better off remaining unnamed and who was able to become a public prosecutor by sucking up to politicians, where his limits are. I wouldn't even be surprised if he even bought his university diploma and doctorate himself."
"A disgusting guy," François commented on Hugo Grenadille's appearance, who seemed to be getting more and more carried away with his triumph.
Hugo Grenadille's expression suddenly changed. He became rigid. A red dot appeared in the middle of his forehead and quickly grew larger. At the same time, a jolt went through his body. He slumped down.
A commotion arose.
A bullet had pierced Hugo Grenadille's forehead. Instinctively, my hand went to the grip of my SIG Sauer P 226. I looked up at the façade of a multi-storey building opposite the court. The shot must have come from there.
The third window on the seventh floor was open. A gust of wind blew the curtains outside. It was probably a draught caused by someone opening the front door at the same time. The killer apparently made off as quickly as possible.
"Come on, maybe we'll catch him!" I shouted to François.
"Since when do you believe in miracles, Pierre?"
3
We fought our way through the crowd while the sirens of police vehicles and emergency ambulances were already blaring in the background. Then we ran across the street. The van of a pizza delivery service braked with screeching tires. The driver flipped me the bird and I showed him my Marseille police ID card.
We finally reached the other side of the road.
François had long since contacted our headquarters at the office by cell phone. All further measures deemed necessary would be taken from there.
We reached the entrance to the building, which was certainly a little older, but in top condition. An upmarket office building - without the comfort of modern glass palaces, but with the charm and style of 1930s architecture.
Law firms resided here. The immediate proximity to the courthouse was undoubtedly an advantage of the location, which made it appear more attractive, at least for mid-range law firms, to rent space here rather than on a floor of some expensive glass palace.
Members of a private security service in black uniforms were patrolling the entrance hall. They carried six-shot, short-barreled Smith & Wesson 38-caliber revolvers on their belts. I went up to the first member of security, showed him my badge and said: "Pierre Marquanteur, FoPoCri. The portal of the courthouse has been shot at from the third window on the seventh floor. Take your men and make sure that the exits, the stairwell and the elevators are guarded! Nobody is allowed to leave the building until our reinforcements have arrived and have been able to check the people."
"Yes, no problem."
I gave him my card.
"It's got my cell phone number on it. Contact me immediately if anything happens down here!"
"All right." He pocketed the card. "Third window, seventh floor, did you say?"
"Yes."
"This must be Watton & Partner's premises. They moved out last week. Since then, the floor has been empty because no new tenant has been found who was prepared to pay the horrendous rent!" The security employee turned around. His name was written in capital letters on his uniform shirt: B. Borné.
"Hey, Jacques! Take the commissaires to the seventh! But watch out! There might be a trigger-happy killer up there."
Jacques - his name was Jacques Tihange according to the print on his shirt - drew his revolver and master key and motioned for us to follow him.
In the meantime, Borné was barking orders to his men through the entrance hall. Another member of the security staff, who had his place in a cube made of bulletproof glass and monitored the entrance from there, picked up the phone to pass on instructions.
Jacques Tihange led us to the stairwell. We could only hope that Borné would really follow my instructions and that a few more members of security would soon be in position here and that the black sheriffs would not just concentrate on the elevators. After all, the perpetrator had to be deprived of any chance of escape in the shortest possible time and every hole, however small, had to be plugged.
If it wasn't already too late anyway.
We took two to three steps at a time. It turned out that in terms of fitness, Jacques Tihange was a match for two well-trained commissaires like François and me.
Finally, we reach the seventh floor. A short corridor led to the offices of Watton & Partner. The company sign had been taken down.
Only an outline and the screw holes were still visible.
"Wasn't one of Grenadille's defenders called Watton?" asked François.
"Absolutely!"
The access door to the Watton & Partner area was separated from the entrance area by a glass door, which also provided access to the elevators. We checked these first.
None of the four cabins was currently at the seventh floor. Three were on their way down, the fourth was moving upwards, as could be seen from the indicator lights.
"If the guy took the elevator, we're too late," Tihange stated.
"But then hopefully he'll run into your colleagues!" François replied.
Tihange inserted the master key into the lock of the glass door.
"It's open!" he said in surprise.
"Stay here and watch out for the elevator," I said.
"But..."
"That's our job now, Mr. Tihange!"
I opened the door with the SIG in my fist. François followed me. We stepped silently into the corridor. On either side were the doors to the offices where they advised their clients. Very classic and conservative. No open-plan office and apart from the entrance door, there was no glass. Seriousness seemed to have been Watton & Partner's trump card. I wondered why this law firm had given up its office with its unobstructed view of the future site of the legal triumph to be won by Watton & Partner's employees for their clients.
The third window had to be in the first or second room on the right-hand side. The rooms on the other side of the corridor faced the back and were out of the question.
I opened the first door. François secured the hallway.
A bare room without furniture lay before me. The imprints on the light blue carpet showed exactly where the individual pieces of furniture had stood.
Both windows were closed.
I hurried back and made a sign to François.
This time it was his turn to push the door open and enter the room first, while I secured the hallway.
With the SIG in his fist, he took a step into the next room, the door of which had only been ajar. The window was open. Unlike in the ultra-modern office towers that rise twenty or more stories into the sky above central Marseille, where the windows often can't be opened at all for fear of suicide and fresh air can only be brought into the rooms via the air conditioning system, here there were quite conventional sliding windows, as are common in most French buildings.
François lowered his weapon.
So this was the place from which the shots had been fired.
"Come on, let's search the other rooms!" said François.
"Wait!"
"What is it?"
"Something's wrong here." I pointed to the curtain at the window. It was hanging limply and not moving. "Mr. Tihange, open the glass door!" I shouted.
"It's open!" Tihange replied a moment later.
François looked at me uncomprehendingly.
"What are you getting at, Pierre?"
"No draught, François! The guy didn't walk through the glass door to the elevators."
"But?"
I ran across the corridor and pushed open the door opposite. It was only ajar. I entered with the SIG in my hand. One of the windows facing the backyard was open. There was a draught and the door slammed shut behind me. I walked to the window and looked into the backyard. A man with a baseball cap and a sports bag over his shoulder was walking hurriedly towards the exit of the backyard, which was about a hundred meters away and framed by multi-storey buildings and mainly served as a parking lot.
There was an outside staircase to get down. I didn't hesitate for a second, swung myself out of the window, reached the first landing of the stairs and ran down them.
"Stop right there! FoPoCri!" I shouted after the guy with the baseball cap.
The guy turned around.
OM (Olympique Marseille) was written in capital letters on his cap. His eyes were covered by sunglasses with mirror lenses, so all you could see of his face was his nose and chin.
The man with the OM cap reached under his blouson-like jacket, pulled out a gun and immediately fired in my direction. Shots whizzed, sparking along the metal bars of the fire escape or dug into the comparatively soft stonework.
I fired back.
François had reached the window in the meantime and also gave me cover.
The guy ran towards the exit.
I made sure I got down, taking several steps at a time, jumping and sliding until I finally had the asphalt of the backyard under my shoes.
Shots whipped in my direction again. I ducked behind a parked limousine and fired back, but without hitting anything.
The man with the OM cap had now reached the entrance to the backyard.
One car braked. It was a Renault in metallic silver. The OM man pointed the gun at the driver, rounded the hood, tore open the driver's door and roughly dragged the man at the wheel, who was about fifty years old, out.
"Don't shoot!" the Ford driver trembled.
The killer gave him a blow with the barrel of his pistol, causing him to sink to the ground. Then he got behind the wheel. He reversed the car. Recklessly, he drove onto the road adjacent to the driveway. A car braked with screeching tires.
I ran after it, aiming for the Ford's tires. I got the one on the front right. The OM man took off anyway. Sparks flew and the smell of burnt rubber spread as the Renault shot forward.
The OM man made a risky lane change with the Renault. A Peugeot had to brake. Two other vehicles followed. A bicycle courier was able to swerve out of the way just in time.
The Renault roared along the road with the engine howling and the front right wheel rim scraping the asphalt.
I reached the street, jumped onto the trunk of a parked car, put on the SIG Sauer P 226 and fired.
Two shots.
One hit the rear right tire.
It had already been a miracle how the OM man had managed to keep the Renault on track despite the shot front tire. Now he swerved out of the back, scraped along a row of parked cars and finally got stuck on one of them.
The two remaining tires spun. The metal rim sprayed sparks like a welding machine.
The OM man opened the door, raised his gun and fired in my direction. I ducked, jumped from the car and ran after him.
There was a subway station less than fifty meters away. The OM man ran down the steps that led into the depths. Down into the underground city of subway stations, rail tunnels and sewers, only a fraction of which were still in use. This molehole reached several stories below the surface.
