Commissaire Marquanteur Follows A Trail: France Crime Thriller

By Alfred Bekker

Commissaire Marquanteur Follows A Trail: France Crime Thriller

by Alfred Bekker

 

 

The organized garbage mafia is to be reorganized. At least that's what it looks like, because several deaths and explosions speak a clear language. But what does the woman whose DNA traces were found have to do with the deaths and the subsequent explosions? The FoPoCri must delve deep into the hierarchy of the mafia.

Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, 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 Neal Chadwick, Jack Raymond, Jonas Herlin, Dave Branford, Chris Heller, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, and Janet Farell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alfred Bekker
• Release date: Jul 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223228820

Alfred Bekker

Alfred Bekker wurde am 27.9.1964 in Borghorst (heute Steinfurt) geboren und wuchs in den münsterländischen Gemeinden Ladbergen und Lengerich auf. 1984 machte er Abitur, leistete danach Zivildienst auf der Pflegestation eines Altenheims und studierte an der Universität Osnabrück für das Lehramt an Grund- und Hauptschulen. Insgesamt 13 Jahre war er danach im Schuldienst tätig, bevor er sich ausschließlich der Schriftstellerei widmete. Schon als Student veröffentlichte Bekker zahlreiche Romane und Kurzgeschichten. Er war Mitautor zugkräftiger Romanserien wie Kommissar X, Jerry Cotton, Rhen Dhark, Bad Earth und Sternenfaust und schrieb eine Reihe von Kriminalromanen. Angeregt durch seine Tätigkeit als Lehrer wandte er sich schließlich auch dem Kinder- und Jugendbuch zu, wo er Buchserien wie 'Tatort Mittelalter', 'Da Vincis Fälle', 'Elbenkinder' und 'Die wilden Orks' entwickelte. Seine Fantasy-Romane um 'Das Reich der Elben', die 'DrachenErde-Saga' und die 'Gorian'-Trilogie machten ihn einem großen Publikum bekannt. Darüber hinaus schreibt er weiterhin Krimis und gemeinsam mit seiner Frau unter dem Pseudonym Conny Walden historische Romane. Einige Gruselromane für Teenager verfasste er unter dem Namen John Devlin. Für Krimis verwendete er auch das Pseudonym Neal Chadwick. Seine Romane erschienen u.a. bei Blanvalet, BVK, Goldmann, Lyx, Schneiderbuch, Arena, dtv, Ueberreuter und Bastei Lübbe und wurden in zahlreiche Sprachen übersetzt.

Book preview

1

Monsieur Marquanteur, I would like to speak to you in private, said Detective Director Marteau, my direct superior at the Marseille CID.

I'll be off then, said my colleague Commissaire François Leroc.

Okay, I said.

I'll wait in the hallway.

Good.

See you in a bit.

See you soon, Pierre.

Monsieur Marteau waited until François Leroc had left the room. What the secrecy was about, I didn't know. François and I spend more time together than some married couples. And we don't have many secrets from each other either. Monsieur Marteau knows that, too. But so be it. At that moment, Monsieur Marteau insisted that we be in private.

"Monsieur Marquanteur, it is once again about this so-called Albanian ..."

Ah yes ...

The so-called Albanian was a professional killer whom someone had sent after me for some reason and who had been trying to kill me ever since. So far without success. Otherwise I could not report about it also now and they could read now my obituary.

The question was not only who was hiding behind this alias.

The question was also who had hired the Albanian.

So far, we simply hadn't made any progress there.

I was on duty as usual. Of course, I paid attention to whether anything strange was happening in my surroundings. I was cautious anyway and had already changed apartments twice recently. But every caution has its limits. You have to live, too, and you can't retreat into some cave at the end of the world out of sheer fear. The question would be anyway, whether I would be safer there at all.

What the Calabrian 'Ndrangheta is, I don't need to tell you, Monsieur Marquanteur.

The Most Powerful Mafia Organization in Europe.

Right. One of the main occupations is illegal garbage disposal.

Yes.

Recently, though, there's been competition there from the so-called Shanghai Connection, which is pushing into this market.

Heard about that, too.

"A man who worked for the 'Ndrangheta has now been found in Avignon. Shot dead. We assume it was the Chinese. This man's nickname was the Albanian, as we have now learned."

Oh ...

Did you know that there are some ancient Albanian language islands in Calabria since the Turkish Wars?

No.

The Albanian they speak is, of course, still at a quasi late medieval level and is very different from the Albanian spoken in Albania and Kosovo.

Hmm.

But this dead killer is from one of those Albanian villages. Hence his designation.

Do you think this could be the Albanian who is after me?

Monsieur Marteau raised his shoulders.

Could be.

That means I can rest easy in the future and not have to check every time to see if someone has planted an explosive device under my car.

No, I wouldn't recommend that, Monsieur Marquanteur. I'll stay on the case. But if you're lucky, some stooge in the so-called China Connection or Shanghai Connection, whichever you like, has done you a favor.

*

The sound of a huge detonation rang through the night. Flames burst out of the roof of the large warehouse. Parts of the masonry broke out and were literally thrown out. Alarm sirens blared, but were drowned out by the noise of further detonations. It took only moments for the flames to spread to the next warehouse. The night became almost daylight.

An acrid smell hung in the air.

Screams rang out.

A man ran through the night as a living torch, roaring in pain and writhing in despair.

Not far from the entrance to the company premises, at a safe distance from the blazing hell of flames, stood a young woman. Her blond hair fell over her narrow shoulders. She stared pitilessly at the burning man, who was now throwing himself to the ground. He rolled around on the asphalt, trying to extinguish the burning clothes.

Another warehouse burst into flames at that moment with a loud bang. Glazing shattered, debris flew through the air. A corrugated metal door broke out of its supports. A fountain of flame shot out. Burning liquid crawled like a hot lava flow across the asphalt to a parked tanker truck.

A cold smile appeared on the young woman's finely cut face.

Yes, let it burn, she whispered to herself. It shall burn, burn, burn ...

Staccato-like she repeated this one word.

She took a deep breath. Her breasts pressed against the thin white fabric of her blouse. And her lips formed again and again, as if in compulsive repetition, this one word.

Burn ... burn ...

The flames were already flickering up the driver's cab of the tanker. The fuel tank exploded first. It acted as an initial ignition for the next detonation, in which the cargo flew into the air. The smell was almost unbearable.

Meanwhile, the man on the ground had managed to extinguish his burning clothes. He got to his feet, staggered forward. The sirens of the fire department's emergency vehicles could be heard in the background. It would be a few minutes before they arrived out here in the industrial park.

Nothing will be salvageable then, it went through the young woman's mind with a triumphant expression on her face. Nothing! They will still have trouble preventing the flames from spreading to other properties.

Her eyes watered from the acrid gases produced by the combustion of the chemicals stored here. They drifted into the night sky as dirty brown smoke.

The man staggered toward them.

Hey, you ... he groaned, then a coughing fit shook him.

His words snapped the young woman out of her stupor. A jolt ran through her. She took a step back.

Stop right there! the man shouted.

He stretched out his hand in her direction, staggered forward. His eyes were wide open, his face, illuminated by the glow of the flames, was crimson. The flames had scorched him badly. Not much was left of his hair, his clothes were partially charred.

Stay ... he croaked again.

A shot cracked. It went right between the man's shoulder blades.

A second one followed immediately. His body twitched and then fell motionless to the ground.

The young woman stared with wide-open eyes first at the dying man, then into the flaming hell. Someone had shot the man from behind.

A satisfied smile appeared on the young woman's face.

2

When we reached the address Avenue Corot in Saint-Barthélemy on the border of Marseille, it was still very early. I had picked up my colleague François Leroc at the well-known corner to drive with him to our office building. On the radio news, we heard about the fire in the Saint-Barthélemy industrial park, which was on the outskirts of Marseille.

Residents in the area had apparently been instructed to keep windows and doors closed for several hours.

Then we had received the call from Criminal Director Marteau with the order to go immediately to the Saint-Barthélemy Industrial Park. The local police department did not rule out a connection with organized crime. That is why we had been requested.

A column of smoke still hovered over the industrial park's warehouses, which had apparently burned to the ground. Firefighters and colleagues from the Saint-Barthélemy police department were on the scene with numerous emergency vehicles. Uniformed personnel had cordoned off the area.

I put the sports car on the side of the road some distance away.

We got out of the car.

François yawned.

I guess it's not quite your time yet?, I said.

As far as I know, there is no rule that says a commissaire must give up a private life, Pierre!

I grinned.

Always depends on how strenuous it turns out to be!

Very funny!

Anyway, the blonde you introduced me to the day before yesterday looked like she had no conditioning problems whatsoever.

François ran his hand over his eyes, then said, Please spare me your insinuations until I've at least had a cup of Mandy's coffee!

François would probably have to do without the famous coffee from our boss's secretary for a while yet. First, we had a mountain of tricky investigative work ahead of us.

The uniformed colleagues let us pass after we held out our service cards to them.

We looked around a