Marquanteur And The Killer Of Point-Rouge: French Crime Thriller

By Alfred Bekker

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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alfredbooks
• Release date: Feb 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9783745236705

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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