Marquanteur Investigates Incognito: France Crime Thriller

By Alfred Bekker

Marquanteur Investigates Incognito: France Crime Thriller

by Alfred Bekker

 

 

To track down those behind the organized drug trade, Commissaire Pierre Marquanteur goes undercover. As a member of a rocker gang, he hopes to get to know the big bosses. But is the cover enough for the FoPoCri officer? When his apartment is broken into and he is threatened, the operation seems to be blown.

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 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223970552

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

Prologue

I am not a rocker.

In fact, I'm actually the opposite of that.

Because I am a policeman. And a policeman and a rocker - that's about the biggest pair of opposites you can imagine.

And yet - sometimes you are forced to become something you never wanted to be and which actually also contradicts everything you are.

That's how it was for me, too.

The job required it.

My name is Pierre Marquanteur. I am a commissaire with the Force spéciale de la police criminelle, or FoPoCri for short, a special unit based in Marseille. Together with my friend and colleague Commissaire François Leroc, we pursue organized crime cases.

And that's where the connection to well-known biker gangs comes in, who are heavily involved in all areas of organized crime. Here in Marseille and in Pointe-Rouge as elsewhere.

As with all gang structures, sometimes the only way to get ahead is through undercover investigations.

So in this case I had to become a rocker.

And even a cop killer!

Somehow you have to gain the trust of the other gang members and the easiest method is to commit a crime.

Well, I had to take a few driving lessons on a Harley beforehand. Otherwise, I would probably have been busted right away.

And then came the day when I shot my colleague ...

But everything in order.

1

FoPoCri! François Leroc! Nobody move! You're under arrest! François Leroc had the SIG in his right hand and was holding up his ID card with his left. I spat out my gum, letting the engine of the tuned Harley roar as I did so. I wore my SIG under my black leather jacket with the inscription Démons Diabbolique . With two b. That was supposedly cool.

I glanced at the other bikers. My gang brothers.

They did not move. Waiting for me to do something. I turned up the throttle on the Harley. The front wheel rose into the air. I drove toward the lonely Commissaire named François Leroc, braked. The rear wheel broke free, I drew a dark track across the asphalt before the machine came to a halt.

I won't say it again! shouted François.

I screwed up my face.

Guess you'll never say anything again, cop! I pulled the SIG out from under my leather jacket and pulled the trigger. Hit, François Leroc flew to the ground and lay motionless.

2

I got off the Harley and walked toward François, who was lying on the ground. Only now did the other Démons Diabbolique (Devilish Demons) venture a little closer. The engines of their machines howled.

Moments later, they formed a kind of semicircle around the FoPoCri officer lying on the asphalt. He was lying on his side. One arm covered his face. It was better that way. A rather large pool of blood had formed.

Merde, with a sight like that you even lose the fun of doing coke, growled one of the bikers. A tall, lean guy with broad shoulders, his helmet was modeled after a skull. In the gang, he was known only by the name Skull.

He screwed up his face, fingered a letter with snow from one of the countless pockets of his studded leather jacket, tore it open and poured the contents onto the back of his hand. Exactly so that two small, almost equally large heaps formed. He sucked one of these heaps into his left nostril. The rest was probably destined for the other.

But something seemed to make Totenkopf's nose itch. He sneezed, and the precious white powder flew away to the four winds.

Merde!

A torrent of savage curses came over Skull's cracked, thin lips.

I knelt down, bent over François, searched his pockets and took his wallet.

You motherfuckers may have been born with a pillow full of coke, but I come from small circumstances, I growled at Totenschädel as he stared at me, quite astonished. I don't leave a hundred euros on the street either.

It's all right, man! Skull made a placating hand gesture. Just be cool, man!

Pierre is pretty damn cool, one of the other bikers spoke up with an admiring undertone. Anybody who'd just whack a cop like that has got to be cool.

I rose again, holding up François' ID.

This guy was really a flic, I stated.

Skull belched unabashedly.

Josip will make you a fucking ID like that for five grand and up. Depending on the quality you need, he said snidely.

I threw François' ID card at him. He caught it.

This one's real, bro. You bet your ass!

He looked at it, threw it contemptuously on the asphalt.

Shit, don't tell me you're an expert on these IDs!

I screwed up my face.

I've had those things shoved under my nose enough times, I muttered.

I'm in favor of cleaning up here now and then getting the hell out of here, a man with a broad face, a full black beard and a balding forehead spoke up. His hair hung all the more low on the back of his head. Almost up to the belt reached the braid, to which he had plaited it. In the gang he was called Pazzo, derived from the Italian pazzo - "batty.

In any case, the others agreed with Pazzo.

Our cool friend Pierre could get us all in a lot of trouble, Skull said somberly. I hate such pantsers who think they have to play to the fore with something like this. In the end, we all have to take the fall for it.

Don't worry, skull, I replied.

He rolled his eyes.

A squashed cop brain like that can get us in a lot of trouble, you ass! I've done seven years in jail and I don't feel like getting an extension!

I shrugged casually, pulling my studded fingerless leather gloves into place. I would have liked to hammer the rivets into the face of a guy like Totenschädel, but now was just not the right moment.

I said don't worry, I repeated myself, pointing at François. I'll make sure this mess is cleaned up. You guys can get the hell out of here already. See you later, amigos!

The bikers exchanged somewhat irritated glances.

You really don't need help, Pierre?, Pazzo made sure.

I shook my head.

No.

But ...

It's better you don't know where I'm going to make this cop's rotten bones disappear. Then none of you can spill the beans when those brothers do put you through the wringer and some prosecutor promises you the moon if you sing.

Pazzo seemed satisfied with this explanation.

Let's get lost! he said, putting on his helmet and starting his machine. The others followed his example. Only Totenkull hesitated. He gave me a look that was difficult to interpret.

There's something wrong with you, Pierre!

Oh, yeah?

I have it in my urine. You're not real. Shit, I can't tell what it is, but there's something about your mug that bothers me.

He didn't give me a chance to answer him. With his Harley, he made a lightning start and roared away. It took only moments and the whole gang had left the former premises of the bankrupt paper mill Somme et Bouchon Papier SARL.

I waited a few moments until I was sure they were really gone.

I grabbed François by the arms and dragged his limp body across the floor toward one of the large warehouses. The large corrugated metal gate was so rusted that it would probably have taken the force of a bulldozer to push it just a few inches to the side. But right next to it was a door for personnel access. And it was half open.

I pulled François inside the hall. It smelled wretched there.

Huge rolls of paper with mold growing on them were to be found here. Some panes in the ceiling glazing were missing, so that it could rain blithely in.

I put François down. I looked into his face, which was covered in blood. I patted his cheek and wiped my hand on my jeans.

The show is over! You can open your eyes!

If I open my eyes, I'm going to get that damn movie blood in there, Pierre!

It's guaranteed harmless! Even for the mucous membranes!

"It's not like you had to smear yourself with the stuff,