Read Online The First Fingerprint by Xavier-Marie Bonnot - Free Book Online Page A

bird. He held them under the desk lamp. There were several fingerprints on them. He slipped them into a plastic folder and put them in his pocket.
    He went back into the salon, sat down for a moment on the sofa-bed, and tried to imagine Christine Autran’s last day. Had she come home before going to the creeks?
    â€œMadame Barbier,” he said. “Could you tell me where Christine Autran parks her car?”
    â€œIn a hired garage at the beginning of rue du Progrès. It’s not far, just on the corner by the bank across the road.”
    â€œThank you, Madame.”
    De Palma wrote down his name, work and mobile numbers on his notepad. He delicately tore off the page and handed it to her.
    â€œMadame, if you notice anything strange, please contact me at once. It’s very important, do you understand? Do you know Christine Autran’s phone number?”
    The old lady looked at the ceiling, pretending to search her memory.
    â€œOf course. It’s 04 91 47 02 13.”
    Then she repeated each number as clearly as possible, her eyes fixed on the policeman’s notepad to check that he was noting down what she was telling him correctly.
    De Palma took out his mobile and dialed Christine’s number. After three rings, the answering machine cut in, and the voice of the woman discovered in Sugiton creek filled the empty flat. It was a soft, somewhat hoarse voice. A sensual voice.
    â€œHello, I’m not at home right now, but you can leave me a message …”
    Yvonne Barbier burst into tears.
    In the Garage de l’Alliance on rue du Progrès, a fine layer of dust covered Christine Autran’s flame-red Peugeot 306. Jean-Marc Menu, a nervy little character who owned the garage, walked several times round the car, waving his arms.
    â€œShe hasn’t used it for over a month. The lady owes me two months’ rent. Soon it’ll be three.”
    â€œThe lady’s dead,” de Palma told him.
    â€œShe can’t be!”
    â€œOh yes, she can!”
    Menu wiped his oily hands on his overalls. He did not know what to do with himself. Only one thing really interested him: how to get rid of the car as quickly as possible.
    â€œDo you have a spare set of keys, Monsieur Menu?”
    â€œNo, never! We never have spares. I never ask for them, it’s not done …”
    De Palma glanced inside, using his hand as a shade against the glare of the striplights in the garage.
    â€œCould you open this car?”
    Menu looked embarrassed.
    â€œThat’s always possible. But I don’t like doing it.”
    â€œMonsieur Menu, I am a police officer! The sooner we search the car, the sooner you’ll be rid of it.”
    The owner vanished into his workshop and returned a few moments later with a metal rod.
    â€œWe use it when we put cars in the pen,” he said, to explain why he had such an implement.
    Menu slid the rod between the window and the rubber of the left door of the 306, pulled hard and opened it.
    De Palma inspected the interior carefully, but found nothing except for a maintenance handbook and an unopened box of tissues. The counter read 26,584 km, hardly anything for a car which must have been about four years old. De Palma also noticed a few traces of sand and dried mud on the mat below the driver’s seat, around the wheels and in the boot. It had rained hard in December. Christine must have driven down a track saturated with water. The mud was ochre, with some red pigments.
    On the handle of the glove compartment and on the dashboard, he found some fingerprints which were larger than those on the steering wheel. They clearly belonged to a man.
    He closed the door again carefully, by pushing on the window with the tip of his index finger.
    â€œWe’ll be round to collect it as soon as possible. Probably tomorrow. There shouldn’t be any problems. Will you be here?”
    Menu nodded.
    â€œMeanwhile, don’t touch a