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there had also been a network of stolen car dealers, with faked number plates on identical models that were chopped by a gang in Paris before being passed on by gypsies during their pilgrimage to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer.
    It was nothing to get excited about, but there were little signs of improvement in the area: for the older locals, a stylish house with a swimming pool in a Provençal village; for the younger, a dwelling of the same sort in an estate by the highway. It would always be better than council housing in Marseille, or worse, the Parissuburbs … De Palma respected this sort of police work. He knew that it was as hard to arrest a middle-league drug dealer as it was a mad-dog killer.
    â€œWhat’s your feeling about the Steinert case?”
    â€œThere are two possibilities. Either he’s dead, or he’s off gallivanting for a few days. There’d be nothing surprising there, with this kind of customer. In the latter case, we don’t give a shit. In the former, we wait to find the body and the cause of death. That’s all.”
    â€œYou’re right, Capitaine. In fact, you can’t get any righter. But apart from that, do you know anything about our client?”
    â€œYes, a couple of things …” Marceau slid his right hand beneath a file and produced a packet of filterless Gauloises. “I know that he’s been buying up land left, right and center, and not everybody likes that. I also know that he’s often been seen in the company of local personalities.”
    â€œWhat sort?”
    â€œThe sort that have been under investigation for decades …”
    â€œFor example?”
    â€œMayors, deputies, a couple of well-known Greens … but only the sort who have friends among the magistrates.”
    â€œThat doesn’t mean anything!”
    â€œOf course not, but you asked me what I knew. So I’m telling you!”
    Marceau’s gray eyes were sparkling.
    â€œTalking of pastis, I think it’s time.”
    â€œAnd you leave your magic camera on all day?”
    â€œTwenty-four-seven, my friend. This is real police work here.”
    â€œThat’s what Maistre says too, since he started work with the
Sécurité
.”
    â€œHow’s Le Gros doing?”
    â€œHe’s fine.”
    Outside, now that the rain had stopped, a peppery smell was creeping through the white streets of the old town.
    Marceau drew de Palma through the maze of paved sidestreets that glittered in the blue light. The shopkeepers were taking backout their revolving displays of postcards, until the next shower arrived. On place de la Mairie, the owner of the café/tobacconist was sticking his nose outside to inspect the sky, while drawing on a cigarette gripped between thumb and index finger.
    The two officers sat down on the terrace of the Guardian, a discreet bar between two plane trees, just opposite King René’s Castle. Marceau surveyed the area several times, before leaning closer to de Palma.
    â€œMichel, in fact there is something that’s been bothering me about this business.”
    â€œI’m listening.”
    â€œThose public figures I mentioned. All of us have already seen or heard their names somewhere, in police reports or files, during phone taps or else in real estate deals. There aren’t many of them, but they are the ones who pull the strings around here. This isn’t Marseille, you know, everything comes out sooner or later.”
    â€œO.K., O.K., but I don’t see what’s so surprising about a businessman like him hanging out with their sort.”
    â€œSteinert isn’t from around here … How can I put it, people here…”
    â€œI see, I see …”
    â€œHe’s bound to have upset some of the local big boys. In his neck of the woods, by Maussane, there are some big landowners who are well known for their shady deals … and the price of land has shot up, these last few