The Ripper in The North

By Malik Grillon-Mixtur

Marcus Notre-Dame, brilliant lieutenant of the Versailles DRPJ is assigned to a politically very sensitive case. “Beyond Beauty”, a purebred prodigy owned by the prestigious Villeret Stables and the Emir of Qatar, is kidnapped at Charles de Gaulle airport. The mare, jewel in Qatar's crown, is executed according to sacrifice rituals inspired in Norse mythology.
  With the aid of Jordis Silverstrand, an Interpol agent with expertise in Old Norse religion, the judicial police are in a real race against time to solve the various riddles of these gruesome rituals.
  The investigation, political pressures media will plunge our inspector into the shadows of an otherwise obscure family affair. The lieutenant will pursue a faceless threat that will him awake.
  Two enemy or allied families? Two women united by an enigmatic relationship.
 The author plunges us with stamina and excitement into a complex plot that will reveal the distress of a being who “wishes to fly”.
  Will Marcus Notre-Dame stop this threat in time? Will he be able to embody the hero of this fresco which shakes up the thriller codes ?  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Malik Grillon-Mixtur
• Release date: Jan 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781071580578

Book preview

Part I: Beyond the legend

Chapter 1 | Some blood

April 16th, 2019

Facts related to Lieutenant Colonel Carrière’s testimony that occurred in March 1995

A cathedral silence reigned in the police van. Its dark sides looked unusually narrow. The atmosphere there was unbreathable. The slight polyethylene odour of our bulletproof vests permeating our noses reminded us that we were nearing death. We looked down from behind our hood. I watched the white asphalt stripes fly by like my thoughts, at full speed. A puzzle of words and dreams intertwining in that dense ambience. The anxiety of not living up to it was one of them. The fear that the costume we ought to wear in the evening, that of the saviour, would be too big for us. 

However, I would not have traded my place for anything in the world. The paradox lies in this contradiction. The fear of dying contrary to not being considered, of being left behind. I knew they had only selected the best elements for such high-profile operations. It is difficult to describe how I felt when I received the call from Lieutenant Colonel to let me know that I was ‘active’. An immense pride contrasted with the disappointment of those who had not been chosen. The frustration after the huge sacrifices made during training with only one goal in mind: to experience this unique sensation. An indescribable emotion nourished by the sound of hissing bullets. I was addicted to it without really knowing the reason. I knew I could not do without this adrenaline. I was not the only one. All the members of GIGN mobilised, eager to go into action.

The Djibouti or ‘Ouvea’s cave’ events had marked the spirits, but tonight’s party was more akin to the mythical ‘Marignane’ operation. About a year earlier, four GIA members took control of a plane in Algiers before landing at Marignane airport with 164 hostages on board. Negotiations ended in an impasse. The terrorists demanded that the aircraft be refuelled in order to crash it into the Eiffel Tower. It obviously would not take off again. The Lieutenant Colonel ordered the assault in the process, it was terrible. Four GIA members were killed not without consequences. Eleven members of the group[i] were injured. The narrowness of the jet’s aisles made the hail of bullets difficult to avoid. Luck took care of the rest. Some were shot in both thighs, others in the cheek. Some others’ run was cut short by the loss of a finger. The operation was successful, we had no casualties to regret, but few people would have bet on this ‘happy ending’.

We were required for an intervention of the same scale. Fifty civilians were taken hostage by GIA members at the ‘Théâtre des Grillons,’ located in the 19th district of Paris. No one dared to say it, but tonight Marignane’s revenge was at stake. Four hostages were found dead outside the main entrance. Blood stained the hoods that covered their heads filled with bullets. They had just washed the honour of the four GIA members who died as martyrs. These abominable acts demonstrated the determination of our opponents. Blood was still being shed.

Their demand was clear: France ought to make an official statement pledging to stop the financial support for Liamine Zéroual’s government. This futile request would have no success, but tonight’s attack would serve as a sounding board for the demands of the Islamist group. Their goal was to call attention to France’s interference in Algerian internal politics. The feeling sparked by the deaths of innocent people would open up troubling questions about France’s role in the Algerian civil war. Establishing a climate of terror among the population would put pressure on the French government and make it withdraw.

The French Intelligence Services (DST[ii]) had received information from their Algerian counterparts (DRS[iii]) that a wave of attacks would be perpetrated in the territory. The interesting thing is that the DST suspected that the Algerian intelligence service was leading the GIA groups to generate an anti-Islamist reaction in the country. The Algerian president hoped to discredit the Salafist movement. Politics in all its glory wasting so many lives under the disguise of the nation’s best interests. The lives of the GIA members, the hostages and ours, constituted insignificant details for our so-called ‘representatives‘.

I was checking my equipment, which always took me a long time, when I noticed his presence. His face reflected maturity, but the last five years had not affected the coolness of his gaze. I recognise him by this hallmark. It should be said that Marcus and I passed the GIGN recruitment process at the same time, which had a specific purpose: to get rid of the weak ones. The operation was designed to assess the candidates’ resistance, and their resistance to suffering. They only accepted men with physical qualities above average and an extraordinary mental soundness. The torture began with the physical evidence, in which I competed against him. He did a hundred push-ups and fifty lift-ups, and in our last clash, I managed to meet the challenge. His ‘skinny cat’ morphology gave him a significant advantage. During the first obstacle course, he smashed his own record, leaving me behind for more than a minute: an eternity. The instructors acknowledged his agility and endurance. The bewildering ease with which he climbed the walls with the help of four threads[iv] was impressive. I remembered because ... it drove me crazy.

The next process earned him his nickname. We had to look for eight leads hidden in a house sprayed with tear gas. I managed to see four, which represented a good performance. No one could read all of them. Then Marcus started. Five minutes was enough before he came coughing and his eyes almost closed. He recited all the clues without batting an eye. The instructor was concerned that he might not open his eyes again. But through thick and thin, he regained his cold gaze with bloodshot eyes. ‘What is that demon look?’ Exclaimed the instructor. He kept the nickname, although he hated being called like that.

Not only did he stand out for his above-average physical qualifications. I was struck by his ability to raise his performance level in adversity. He had that extra spirit that wondered. A mental force that did not tolerate failure and made him never give up. I gladly admit that this feature inspired me, although his personality remained an enigma to me. Sometimes discreet, others he could take control when circumstances demanded so; I could not guess the intentions of this chameleon. A chameleon who turned out to be an exceptional shooter, the best I have ever known. He misses shots like anyone, but never those that count. The pressure did not destabilise him, but quite the opposite. It allowed him to get in the ‘zone’ and when he did, almost nothing went wrong. I had this mixture of jealousy and frustration because I couldn’t bear the comparison with him.

We both took part in the intervention force, but we were not assigned to the same trooper unit[v]. I rarely ran into him during training, but we never took part in a joint operation. The Lieutenant Colonel had mobilised two paratrooper units and an ‘assault capture’ cell[vi]. He should not miss the opportunity and did not want to be accused of ‘falling short’. The creme de la creme had been chosen, and tonight I would show Marcus that I could keep up with him. As I was thinking while staring at him, he looked up abruptly, but avoided my gaze. There was nothing wrong, just not the right time for daydreaming. Then I thought of Lieutenant Colonel reciting the GIA motto. ‘Blood, blood, destruction, destruction. No truce, no dialogue, no reconciliation!’

Chapter 2 | The artist

October 27th, 2008

When it comes to telling his life story, a man’s mouth isn’t always trustworthy. His body, on the other hand, never lies. Marcus Notre-Dame’s had the gift of the gab. The fingernails cut like Rangers[vii] suggested a military past. A cut on his face, that time could not erase, witnessed a brief career as an amateur boxer. The tattoo of two crossed revolvers on his arm was a reminder that he had already taken lives. The protruding veins struggling to make their way through the scars from gunshot wounds bore witness to a man’s existence that faced many perils. He was about to face a far less dangerous but as unpleasant threat as the sound of his alarm clock. He would feel the usual unwillingness when the alarm rang at six o’clock that would dissipate as his body came back to life, before vanishing as cold water poured down over the streaks on his golden skin. He was wiping his worked abs when the woman who shared his life with entered the bathroom:

‘Good morning, dear, did you sleep well?’

‘Yes, very well, and you?’ Marcus replied.

‘Yes, I slept well, I dreamed that we were going to Venice for the weekend and have fun during the Carnival. And you, have you dreamed?’

‘Maybe ... but I don’t remember.’

‘As usual ... sometimes I feel like I should dream for us both, you know.’

‘Dreaming for us both? Sorry Laetitia, I just woke up. I don’t follow you.’

‘I dream of being able to attend the best plays, having this privileged connection with the actors that sometimes make me want to cry with laughter or sadness. I dream I could go to the most beautiful exhibitions, to wonderful classical music concerts. I dream of carrying out so many projects, in France and abroad.’

‘That’s what I love about you, you know,’ Marcus said kindly.

‘I know. But can you tell the difference between those who dream and those who make their dreams come true?’

‘Tell me, replied Marcus not liking the turn of this conversation.’

‘Those who make their dreams come true do not wait, they assume their responsibilities. They get involved and organise accordingly, which is not always easy, especially when it comes to daily obligations,’ she says with a smile. ‘The couple acquires all its importance at this precise moment, what do you think?’

‘I agree, we have to support each other.’

‘Exactly,’ concludes Laetitia, kissing his cheek. She walked away, looking askance at him. Marcus knew that look determined to make him react. The signals that Laetitia sent were increasingly obvious, she was no longer satisfied with the nice occasional sentences intended to avoid conflict. She expected more involvement from him to keep this couple ‘alive.’ He was very supportive of her, she liked it, but she also longed that feeling. The one in which the partner shows initiative to surprise her. She would make sure he understood, no matter how long it would take her.

He put on his shoes, thinking that living with Laetitia might have been an early decision. They met in the Paris metro less than a year earlier. He was already sitting when she walked in and took a seat in front of him. She pretended to ignore him. Marcus noted her delicate features contrasting with her plump form. His smile masked his apprehension to approach her. Would he only have the time? A technical problem opened him an opportunity. This fate sign did not fall on deaf ears. He took a risk with a ‘every day is the same thing,’ which he soon regretted. She hadn’t seen it coming, and in fact, found the remark silly. However, his embarrassed smile was a reward for this initiative. She liked men who took the initiative, even clumsily. He liked women who smiled at his comments, even the silly jokes. From that moment on, the talk had been smooth. The borrowed smiles this time gave way to laughter invited by really funny jokes. She liked his quick wit; he cherished her clever talk. He did not ask for her number, she offered hers. This was the brand among the great ones in the world of seduction. 

They had then met outside several times on their way home. He had promised her that he would not skip certain steps, but closing in on themselves hadn’t been a good idea. Marcus had kept his word, she hadn’t. The distance-tinged affection he had provided caused the opposite effect. The prey had turned into a predator. Marcus reminded her what she wanted, she replied that ‘everything is relative,’ while kissing him tenderly. The following weeks were idyllic, intense sexual relations coexisting with heated debates. Laetitia taught literature and was interested in all subjects. If Marcus spoke to her about soccer, she would detail their financial interests. If he mentioned the presidential elections, she would explain to him why the Fifth Republic is obsolete. The way she used her knowledge to get hold of a topic, to put her signature on it, fascinated him.

Life together had brought the first misunderstandings. Marcus wanted to be closer to his job, and she could no longer stand her landlord. Moving in as a couple had been evident, far from obvious thereafter. The young couple could not reach an agreement. Marcus embodied order, everything had to be put in its place. He did not understand how Laetitia could move an object and leave it thrown around the house. Laetitia symbolised cleanliness, the daily grooming was there to remind Marcus of the slightest deviation. A tiny splash on the mirror made her hysterical. Their aspirations also differed. Marcus appreciated stability and routine, Laetitia liked stability and spending as little time at home as possible. A culture lover who never got tired of courting it. She kept tabs on exhibitions and new plays. She was addicted to it, sometimes thinking about the next photo exhibition she would go to see when attending a play. A drug whose borders were not limited to Île-de-France. Laetitia never missed the opportunity of travelling to other regions or abroad. She liked to surprise him on Friday night after work by saying, ‘Guess where you’re having dinner tonight?’

Marcus had grown used to the pace of life, but Laetitia had failed to convert him. Their differences even increased over time. She was interested in culture, but he was addicted to a completely different drug: work. He often went through his files on weekends. Some of his doubts sometimes couldn’t wait. He even went to the office on Saturdays, which was not to his partner’s liking. He liked going out once in a while, as well as staying home and watch movies while cuddling his ‘electric battery’. Their disagreement lied in that she criticised him for not being involved in the organisation of joint activities. She pointed it out to him shyly, for now, but Marcus could hear the thunder rumble. Only a valid reason would hinder the forward march of a woman who always got what she wanted. The truth is that there was none. Marcus just didn’t want to. Laetitia had realised it and would not allow herself to be overcome by his nonchalance. He was fighting on the ropes because she was pressing on him. He resisted, so far...

He was heading to the living room to watch the news when Laetitia came back to it again. Marcus already expected it:

‘I have a friend named Diane. She trusts me. She’s really talkative, her son Jason recently ran away’...

‘Has he returned?’ Marcus asked.

‘Yes, he came back. He is in the midst of a teenage crisis. He constantly defies their authority. He wants to get piercings everywhere and to study music.’

‘It’s his right,’ he replied.

‘Yes, it is. His mother, however, has every right to worry about him and his future. She kept telling me how important the presence of her husband was, that she couldn’t make it without him.’

‘At times like these, we need to feel supported.’

‘Indeed. They will soon travel to the Canary Islands; he is the one organising everything. She usually takes care of it all because she likes to, but he felt he should take over,’ she said, drinking her tea. She was looking at Marcus straight in the eye.

‘I think he did the right thing. But he did it on his own. She did not suggest or ask him to do so.’

‘Yes dear, but some trees grow straight, others need a stake,’ she said while smiling a little annoyed.

‘Yes honey, I totally agree,’ Marcus replied, trying to defuse the conflict as best he could.

‘People who break up agree on many things. I think their separation was due to a lack of listening. We hear what the person wants, but we don’t take the time to listen and one day it is, unfortunately, too late.’

‘That’s why I take the time to listen to you, dear. But sometimes I wonder why women want to change men’s behaviour so badly. We are from Mars and you are from Venus. We are not made of the same metal, why not accept it?’

‘You hear me, I know, but I’m not sure you take the time to listen to me. And going back to your question... Because men are nonchalant idiots who constantly have on us,’ she said with a smile that did not reflect her exasperation.

‘Some lazy, nonchalant Martians,’ he said mockingly, pulling on his coat. He kissed her with a tender kiss for him, bitter for her and walked away.

He went to the judicial police regional directorate in Versailles. There he began as a lieutenant in the central office against organised crime. He naturally went to a department that fought against the trafficking of objects for which he had developed a particular liking. His attraction to explosive devices and firearms stemmed from his experience in the National Police response group. He devoted a quasi-cult to them and even had the luxury of having a collection. The control over the possession of weapons by members of elite units was lax and he had engulfed into the breach of Ali Baba’s cave: from semi-automatic pistols like the timeless Glock 17, to machine guns through Heckler & Koch assault rifles... A real collection. Marcus was greedy and foodie at the same time. He didn’t just display them at home. He excelled in handling them and was never asked to go to the shooting range.

He made the difference, however, between the professional or recreational purpose of these ‘jewels’ and their use by spiteful people. He was aware that trafficking in these weapons could serve fewer noble causes. A firearm was more than just an object. It represented a great responsibility that could not be entrusted to just anyone. Their possession, therefore, deserved rigorous control. He aimed to participate in this struggle ‘of which no one knew either the origin or the outcome’ to use his terms. He would no longer be satisfied with ‘hit’ interventions. The adrenaline they produced did not thrill him as much. The desire to understand had taken hold of him; to know the distribution channels, to develop a network, to investigate. He had, hence, requested and obtained his transfer within the DRPJ to the department for the fight against organised crime.

Marcus was incredibly efficient. He quickly understood what was expected of him. The lieutenant behaved at first like a model inspector with conventional practices. He soon realised that they were not adapted to street codes, so he decided to go by his own methods. His pragmatism led him to develop a strong network of informants. The deal was simple. Marcus turned a blind eye to certain petty trades as long as his informants allowed him to catch big shots. The valuable information provided by these disreputable individuals enabled him to carry out his department’s most important seizures for ten years. He acquired a solid reputation in the service of the fight against organised crime before asking, to everyone’s surprise, his transfer to the area on violence repression against people. However, he never spoke of the reason that prompted him to make this decision.

The autumn wind blew away everything in its path. It made cigarette butts dance with dead leaves in a whirlwind of dust, which dressed the inspector’s poorly waxed shoes with a thin beige coat. He walked up the tree-lined avenue of Paris as best he could. He never got tired of observing the horse engravings on the buildings of noble but repetitive architecture as he fiddled on the back of his bike. He was tired, however, of the exhaust fumes from tourist buses, which fattened a goose whose leg had crossed the Atlantic[viii]. He arrived, put his bike away and opened the hall door with a small sigh that meant ‘I like my job, but a day off would have been fine.’

The paperwork for a failed police arrest carried out last week awaited him. He greeted his colleagues without wasting time and sat behind his PC. Marcus was still typing the boring minutes when the Division Commissioner Laura de Trailly, approached him: ‘Good day, Marcus, I need to talk to you,’ she said, turning on her heels. Marcus had seen her perform before, that meant coming to her office right away.

Her natural authority came from the discipline instilled by her father’s military career. She had received a strict upbringing softened by the love of her mother, who had been imposed on this man. This practising Catholic man wanted his family to accompany him on all his trips, especially on the African continent. One country in particular had been the scene of many of her nightmares: Cameroon. Her father served as a colonel in a war that France has long denied. He leaded one of the militias which had violently suppressed members of the UPC[ix] with blood. Bullets had rocked her nights many times, and images of bloody bodies had too often reflected in her iris. She had developed a violent resentment for coloured-skin Cameroonians encouraged by a racist and authoritarian father figure, for whom she had boundless admiration.

Time and the awakening of her free will changed the situation. Disturbing questions began to arise through thick and thin. She did not understand why France denied her involvement and asked her father to explain the reason for the torture and murder orchestrated by the French army. He quickly lost patience and ordered her to behave like a patriot. Safeguarding the interests of his country had priority over the means used, whatever they were. This disagreement had damaged her trust in the man who urged her to stop studying and find a husband as soon as possible. Supported by her mother, and inspired by Simone Veil, she decided to pursue law studies at the university where she got excellent grades. But she disliked, however, the post she was assigned to as a criminal lawyer. Her appointment in the judicial machine was not for her; too far from the field. Her desire to uphold the law and her need for authority led her to the police, where she rose through the ranks before becoming a division commissioner. She could have claimed a much more prestigious position, but an overly zealous associative involvement in the French role in many African conflicts had cut the wings of a woman with an outstanding political sense. Marcus stared at that gaze whose iris now reflected justice and order and whose pupils were two bullet holes.

He wondered why she came to see him directly without going through Commissioner Belfonte. He walked into her office and closed the door. ‘I have something to tell you,’ she said with that characteristic behaviour. She stopped talking for a moment and then continued:

‘Marcus, the Central Director called me following a request from the Ministry of the Interior. The information has not yet been released, but a valuable mare has been stolen. She is a thoroughbred and the event happened at Charles de Gaulle,’ she said with a serious look.

‘Ok, who is the owner?’

‘Half of it belongs to the Emir of Qatar ", she replied soberly.

‘What about the other half?"

‘It belongs to the Villeret stables. Benedict Villeret is the owner. His daughter Élodie is the mare’s trainer. They are a well-known and recognised family in the horse racing world.’

‘When did the theft take place?’

‘Last night; the file containing the first findings is on my desk.’

‘Who prepared it?’

‘They didn’t give me the details.’

‘And why didn’t they call the 36?’ He was referring to the former 36 quai des Orfèvres, the Paris judicial police.

Her cold gaze was her only answer. But Marcus had his thoughts on the subject. She continued:

‘This horse is Qatar’s pride; it is part of the royal team. I don’t need to tell you that this is a highly political matter. France maintains excellent relations with the Emir, the Minister of the Interior expects efficiency and discretion. I’m not sure you’re the only one there. However, I have no further information to provide you.’

‘Ok, I’ll take care of that. I’m going to the airport right away. Is the crime scene secured?’

‘Airport police officers were called in to prevent access. Only you will have it. The forensic police will intervene as soon as you give the green light.’

‘Who am I going to work with?’

‘On your own and you will be in contact exclusively with me. If you need to request a department, send me a copy of the email. I’ll make sure this moves fast.’

‘Very well, I’ll keep you posted.’

Marcus walked out of the office thoughtfully. The sound of his firm footsteps was muffled by the environmental uproar caused by the discussions aimed at recounting the events of the weekend, no doubt to forget that the ruthless week was just beginning. He met some colleagues with whom he exchanged a small talk before returning to his post. His instinct told him that this investigation was going to be very interesting. He took his notepad and pen and stood up.

‘Where are you going?’ Asked a chatty colleague named Olivia.

‘I have something to do.’

‘I guess you’re not going to tell me.’

‘It’s not important, or I’d tell you about it.’

‘Aren’t you going to wait for Fabien?’

‘He is on paternity leave.’

‘Good luck artist.’

‘Stop calling me like that. I’ve already told you I hate nicknames.’

Chapter 3 |