Crime Thriller Trio 3340 - 3 Books In One!

By Alfred Bekker

by Alfred Bekker

This volume contains the following crime novels:

 

Commissaire Marquanteur and the condemned man

Killer chip

Commissaire Marquanteur and the unmistakable pattern

 

 

People are implanted with explosive microchips and then used as living bombs. A new dimension of terrorism? Who is trying to terrify New York by waging an inhuman high-tech war? The investigators don't have much time to stop the madness...

 

HENRY ROHMER is the pseudonym of ALFRED BEKKER, who became known to a large audience primarily through his fantasy novels and books for young people. He also wrote historical novels as Conny Walden and is co-author of well-known suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, John Sinclair, Commissioner X and others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alfred Bekker
• Release date: May 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224523559

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.

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Alfred Bekker

Crime Thriller Trio 3340 - 3 books in one!

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Inhaltsverzeichnis

Crime Thriller Trio 3340 - 3 books in one!

Copyright

Commissaire Marquanteur and the condemned man

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Killer chip

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Crime Thriller Trio 3340 - 3 books in one!

by Alfred Bekker

This volume contains the following crime novels:

Commissaire Marquanteur and the condemned man

Killer chip

Commissaire Marquanteur and the unmistakable pattern

People are implanted with explosive microchips and then used as living bombs. A new dimension of terrorism? Who is trying to terrify New York by waging an inhuman high-tech war? The investigators don't have much time to stop the madness...

HENRY ROHMER is the pseudonym of ALFRED BEKKER, who became known to a large audience primarily through his fantasy novels and books for young people. He also wrote historical novels as Conny Walden and is co-author of well-known suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, John Sinclair, Commissioner X and others.

Copyright

Copyright

A CassiopeiaPress book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books, Alfred Bekker, Alfred Bekker presents, Casssiopeia-XXX-press, Alfredbooks, Bathranor Books, 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

[e-mail]

Follow on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/alfred.bekker.758/

Follow on Twitter:

https://twitter.com/BekkerAlfred

To the publisher's blog!

Stay informed about new releases and background information!

https://cassiopeia.press

Everything to do with fiction!

Commissaire Marquanteur and the condemned man

by Alfred Bekker

Commissaire Marquanteur and the Convict: France Crime Thriller

by Alfred Bekker

A new case for Commissaire Marquanteur and his colleagues from Marseille.

A criminal sentenced to life imprisonment offers to reveal the people behind his organization in return for investigators Marquanteur and Leroc tracking down his son's murderer. But every suspect is killed shortly before being arrested. What are the criminal's real aims? The FoPoCri must work quickly to reach their destination before the killer does.

Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, crime 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.

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 2023 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

[e-mail]

Follow on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/alfred.bekker.758/

Follow on Twitter:

https://twitter.com/BekkerAlfred

Get the latest news here:

https://alfred-bekker-autor.business.site/

To the publisher's blog!

Stay informed about new releases and background information!

https://cassiopeia.press

Everything to do with fiction!

Prologue

The motorboat pitched steeply into the water. The spray splashed up. The boat lifted itself out of the water and roared forward across the glistening sunlit waters of the Mediterranean off Marseille. In the distance, the coast with the large port city could be seen.

Two men were on board.

Well, what do you think? Great boat, isn't it?

Yes, I like it.

I would have expected a little more enthusiasm.

I'm impressed.

This thing has so much horsepower, it's like driving a sports car across the water. I don't know of a better boat.

As I said, I'm completely speechless.

Say, I wanted to talk to you about something else.

What's it about?

You're planning to kill this Flic. Pierre Marquanteur. Some bastard from a special department.

He's ruining a lot of people's business.

Yes, that may be the case.

And I hate him.

That's for personal reasons, isn't it?

How do you actually know all this?

The boss told me.

The boss?

You've obviously spoken to the boss about it.

Well...

Is that right?

What are you doing now? Why are you asking all this?

I'm curious.

It's not always good to be nosy, you hear?

That's just the way I am. Curious. That's my nature. I ask questions and I usually don't let up until I get answers.

You almost sound like you're a Flic too. You sound like a policeman! That's right.

Don't worry, I have nothing to do with them. You should actually know that.

Maybe I should have taken a few of my girls with me. If they had been sunbathing topless on deck, you wouldn't have had the idea to ask such stupid questions and we might both have been in a better mood. But that's not what you wanted.

I didn't want that, that's true.

Why is that? I hope you're not gay. Because I don't like gay people.

Don't worry, I'm not gay. But it's still better that your girls aren't on board. Despite the nice tits. Because it's better if no one finds out what I ask you.

I don't understand what you're getting at now.

You're still pursuing your plan, aren't you?

You mean...

I mean your plan to kill this marquanteur.

I won't let anyone dissuade me from that.

Because it's personal.

Yes.

The boss is worried about it.

Why is the boss worried about that?

He thinks it will cause problems for the whole organization. He thinks it will cause discord. And he thinks it will disrupt business even more than a single detective like this marquanteur ever could.

The boss shouldn't interfere.

The boss said he had already spoken to you about it and that you were not very understanding.

Because it's personal! He literally shouted it out. It's nobody else's business! Did you hear me: nobody! Not even the boss! Bills have to be paid. Always. And this marquanteur also has to pay his bill - in blood. Do you understand? In blood!

See, that's what I was afraid of.

What?

That you're being so unreasonable.

I'm not being unreasonable! I'm just insisting on what is my right. The right to revenge.

The boss gave me clear instructions for this case.

What?

The karate chop to the carotid artery came so quickly that the man at the wheel of the motorboat had no chance to defend himself. A single blow was enough. A blow from someone who knew how to kill a person quickly and effectively and who was by no means doing it for the first time.

The man at the wheel slumps gently.

His murderer took the wheel.

He made sure that the boat slowed down.

Then the murderer took the body of the dead man, dragged it to the railing and threw it into the sea.

Food for the fiche, he thought.

You didn't want it any other way! he said loudly.

*

I picked up my colleague François Leroc that morning at the exact corner where I pick him up every morning. We then form a kind of carpool together and drive to our office. Two investigators in one car instead of two. You could say we're also doing something for the planet.

But driving in Marseille has long since ceased to be a pleasure.

Hello, Pierre, said François after he had opened the door and got in.

I wanted to get on board, I have to say.

Because the guy from the following vehicle had now got out and approached.

How dare you stop the traffic here!

We've already left, said François.

That might suit you! That's coercion. I had to stop because of you.

Now calm down. We're already on our way.

Nothing there, you stay here until the police come!

I lowered the side window and held out my ID.

We're the police, I said. You're interfering with a police investigation.

The guy took a deep breath and went back to his car.

Just get going, Pierre! said François after he had taken his seat.

My name is Pierre Marquanteur. I'm a commissaire and part of a special unit based in Marseille that goes by the somewhat cumbersome name of Force spéciale de la police criminelle, or FoPoCri for short, and deals primarily with organized crime, terrorism and serial offenders.

The serious cases.

Cases that require additional resources and skills.

Together with my colleague François Leroc, I do my best to solve crimes and dismantle criminal networks. You can't always win, Monsieur Jean-Claude Marteau often says. He is the Commissaire général de police and therefore the head of our special department. And unfortunately he is right with this statement.

1

And this room is really absolutely bug-proof now? someone asked.

There was a note of doubt in his tone.

That's why we're here, replied a cutting, very harsh voice. A mirthless laugh followed. After all, we want to talk here undisturbed.

Nobody wants an involuntary radio play for the police officers, of course, said one of the other participants at the meeting, which took place in the second basement of an old building in Marseille.

The door slammed shut. The last to enter the locked room were two men in dark turtlenecks armed with submachine guns.

It's time to speak plainly now, said the man with the cutting voice. This man had positioned himself between the armed men and snapped his fingers. Let's get this over with! he said.

Hey, you can't do that to us! someone shouted.

There are many reasons to get you out of the way. I won't go into details, said the man with the cutting voice.

You can talk about anything!

It's too late for that.

The MPs rattled off. Thirty small-caliber shots per second fired from their short muzzles. The screams of the dying were drowned out by the sounds of gunfire. The bullets penetrated the twitching bodies, then tore through the thin wooden paneling and then got stuck in the thick layer of insulation that had been used to line the room.

For a few moments, blood-red muzzle flashes leaked from the barrels of the MPs.

Then finally there was silence. A few motionless, bullet-riddled bodies lay on the ground in their blood.

Someone has to clean up the mess, said one of the gunmen.

I've come up with something very special for this, said the man with the cutting voice. Something particularly final.

The third man in the room climbed over the corpses and looked around. He had the barrel of his MP pointed at the floor. After all, it could be that someone was still moving. But that was obviously not the case.

Finally, he had reached the wall on the opposite side of the room. He stroked the paneling, which had been literally sifted through in some places. He tapped his knuckle against the wood.

It's a good thing there's something behind it that could take the bullets, he said. Otherwise we would have shot ourselves with ricochets.

I told you, I've thought of everything, the man with the cutting voice replied in an unmistakably contemptuous tone. This used to be a recording studio. Unfortunately, it went bankrupt. And the owner still owed me a favor.

2

Years later

I'm Dr. Gerard M. Herbreteau from the Marseille Investigation Team. Please let me through! Herbreteau was already pushing past the policeman. Go down the stairs! The elevator is not working, he said. Commissaire Raspail from the homicide squad is already waiting for you.

Can I help it if Marseille's streets are so congested? growled Herbreteau.

He's got a sunny disposition, another policeman said quietly to his colleague. But he wasn't quiet enough, because Herbreteau had overheard what he had said.

What do you expect? the policeman replied. He's a forensic scientist.

You mean, if you do your job, you have to have a mind like a journeyman butcher?

Or come from Brittany.

Why?

Haven't you noticed how he talks?

In the meantime, Herbreteau had gone down the stairs into the cellar. He simply followed the voices. And strangely enough, they came from the depths.

Is anyone there? he called out.

Then he went further and found the stairs leading to the floor below the cellar.

He walked down a corridor. A woman in white plastic overalls from the identification service came towards him. You could only tell it was a woman by her height and body shape. The hood that came with the overalls only left her face exposed.

You're not dressed properly, she said, if you're wearing disposable overalls...

Is Commissaire Raspail back there?

The identification officer sighed with annoyance.

You must be that Herbreteau, right?

Right.

I am registered for one of your next training courses on basic pathology for forensic scientists.

Oh yes, is the city of Marseille buying you this?

Unfortunately not. I will have to pay the fees myself and take unpaid leave to do so.

You'll see that my course is worth it.

I should hope so.

Even normal detection officers should have at least a basic knowledge of my field. Then at least you'll know what I'm talking about, what I'm looking for and what might be important for us.

Perhaps you will now also take note of what we think is so important and put on a pair of overalls. You'll find some in the room on the left. Then walk a little further and you'll come to where the bones are in the concrete!

Herbreteau simply left her standing there. He didn't even think about letting some identification officer from some police station tell him what to do. What's more, he now heard voices that captured his attention for a brief moment. He recognized one of the voices immediately. The Marseilles accent was so clear that it was impossible to ignore.

FGF, he mumbled. I should have guessed ...

FGF was the abbreviation for Dr. Frédérik G. Fournier. Like Herbreteau, Fournier was a member of the detection team in Pointe-Rouge. He was an excellent scientist whose chemical analyses had contributed to various spectacular successes in Sûreté investigations, as had his ballistic examinations. Sometimes it came down to the subtleties and specialized knowledge of an experienced forensic scientist. And that was precisely Fournier's domain.

Herbreteau and Fournier respected each other. The banter and minor animosities between the Breton and the Marseille native did nothing to change that.

Herbreteau did not recognize the second male voice. But since Fournier addressed this man as Commissaire during the conversation, it could be assumed that he was Commissaire Raspail from the police station.

Herbreteau finally reached the room where his services were required and stopped abruptly.

Hey, don't just trample around here! shouted the commissaire.

Herbreteau only saw him briefly out of the corner of his eye, as did Fournier. Both were wearing white disposable overalls with hoods, so that only their faces were visible. But Herbreteau's attention was completely captivated by the sight that presented itself to him.

A hand in the concrete, he muttered. You don't get that every day.

I can assure you that there haven't been too many uninformed hands on it yet, explained Fournier. Apart from one sympathetic guy with a jackhammer who tried to break up the old concrete ceiling.

Herbreteau looked up.

Then you weren't here fast enough either, Doppelkopf? he said.

I arrived shortly before you, Fournier replied. He deliberately ignored the double entendre. Your Congress of Forensic Sciences in Paris will probably have to do without my contribution to the lecture series, because this will be a very demanding task for both of us.

Just securing genetic material that is sufficient for identification will be an art in itself in this case, Herbreteau was immediately clear.

Apart from the fact that it is completely uncertain whether we can find a comparative sample anywhere, I completely agree with you, said Fournier. That depends, among other things, on how aggressive the chemical additives in the concrete are. I once had the case of a victim cast in concrete from ...

Spare me that! Herbreteau defended himself. Are there any clues as to who the dead man might be?

It's not just one dead person, Fournier explained with a face that showed no emotion whatsoever. I've already taken infrared images, and they show that possibly a dozen people have been shot here.

Shot? Herbreteau wondered. Why am I even here if you already know all this? Or are you just making it up as you go along?

We were able to secure a few projectiles, the commissaire intervened. My name is Raspail, by the way. I'm in charge of this operation here.

Pleasant.

You must be Doctor Herbreteau.

Herbreteau did not answer. He was still looking around the floor as if he were searching for something.

Unfortunately, the projectiles are so rusty that it is almost impossible to identify the weapons they came from, said Fournier. They are small-caliber bullets that could have come from a submachine gun. This is supported by the distribution in shot clusters, as we can probably assume in this case, even if I have undoubtedly failed to provide the final proof.

Well, let's get to work, said Herbreteau. It's certainly going to be a difficult job.

3

Does the term horror house mean anything to you? Mr. Marteau asked us after we had sat down. Our boss came out from behind the desk in his office. His shirtsleeves were rolled up. His hands were in the wide pockets of his flannel trousers.

You're hearing a lot of it in the news at the moment, said my colleague François Leroc, assuming you're talking about the Marseille house of horrors, as it's now being called on the news channels.

That's exactly what I'm talking about, said Mr. Marteau. As I don't know how closely you've been following the local news, I'll briefly summarize the state of affairs: In a house with changeable and sometimes somewhat dubious ownership, a drainage system was to be installed and the sewage pipes renewed following another change of ownership. As part of this work, the floor covering in the basement was also to be removed and replaced. Human remains came to light when the concrete floor was broken up. Initially, the homicide division of the relevant police department took over the investigation, but then quickly asked our colleagues at the Sûreté for help, which is how the case came under our jurisdiction.

Mr. Marteau paused for a moment and turned his gaze towards the window front. Doctor Herbreteau and Doctor Fournier from our team were called in at an early stage to support our local colleagues in this case. An archaeologist has also been called in, as you can imagine that securing bodies buried in concrete is not that easy. Specialist knowledge is required, otherwise you end up with no useful results. It has now been discovered that twelve bodies were hidden in the concrete floor. These people were killed by small-caliber bullets, presumably from submachine guns. Examinations of the projectiles that were also found have revealed that at least two different weapons were fired - and thus presumably several shooters.

That sounds like a real execution, I said.

It probably was, explained our boss. The identity of the victims could only be clarified in one case so far. But that has ensured that this case is now our concern.

Who is it about? asked François.

Justin Duchamel.

Do you mean the son of Valentin 'Le Grand Patron' Duchamel? I asked.

Exactly, confirmed Mr. Marteau.

Of course François and I had heard of Duchamel. 'Le Grand Patron' had led an association of criminal organizations called the Institute for General Prosperity, which had been active throughout Europe. A few years ago, there had been a major crackdown on this organization. The leadership of the institute had been arrested, including 'Le Grand Patron'. François and I had been investigating another case at the time. The Marseille police headquarters had taken part in the concerted action that had ultimately led to the dismantling of this super gang network.

However, the role in this case had been rather small, as more or less support services were provided to ensure that the large operation spanning several states could run smoothly.

Valentin Duchamel is in a cell for all time, as we all know. He has since resisted all offers from the public prosecutor's office to enter into a deal or give up any information that might lead to the rest of this criminal network disappearing into oblivion. We have to assume that the so-called Institute for General Prosperity is continuing its old business in a truncated form. And there are even suspicions that Duchamel is still exerting influence there via middlemen. As for his son Justin, who has now been found in this house of horrors, we have so far assumed that he absconded a few years ago with a not inconsiderable amount of black money and is now watching events from afar from some climatically pleasant place in the world, preferably in a country that has not signed an extradition treaty with us.

But this assumption was obviously a mistake, I realized.

Mr. Marteau nodded.

Absolutely! With the identification of Justin Duchamel, the case is now in our jurisdiction.

Are there any clues as to who the other victims might be? I asked.

Mr. Marteau shook his head.

As I said, this is a highly complex matter. Herbreteau and Fournier have been on site for a whole week. Of course, now that Justin Duchamel has been identified, there is hope that this will facilitate the further work of our scientific research team. After all, we can now search more specifically within Duchamel's circle of acquaintances. For example, people who disappeared around the same time as Justin.

Does 'Le Grand Patron' know that his son has been found? I asked.

At least he doesn't know about us, explained Mr. Marteau. It will be your job to confront him. It may change his attitude towards possible cooperation with the judiciary and the FoPoCri.

4

About an hour later, my colleague François Leroc and I were on our way to Les Baumette prison, where Valentin 'Le Grand Patron' Duchamel was being held. We took my service Porsche. It took about twenty minutes to drive along the highway, assuming the traffic conditions were reasonably normal and there was no traffic jam.

As Duchamel was the only starting point for our investigations in this case so far, we wanted to pay him a visit. Monsieur Marteau had already arranged this for us. And as far as we were informed, Duchamel suddenly seemed to be dying to speak to the police.

Do you think Duchamel already knows what happened? asked François during the journey.

You mean because he's so willing to talk to us?

He has always refused so far, and there are a number of records in the files which, apart from the questions of the respective interrogator, record only one word on the part of 'Le Grand Patron': silence.

He can't defend himself against questioning by us.

But he used to. He used every trick in the book, Pierre. Medical reports included. Sometimes he got away with it and sometimes he didn't, but overall he always put up a kind of passive resistance. And now he's let his lawyer know that he's prepared to answer our questions.

The fact that Justin Duchamel is among the cemented dead in the horror house has not been made public. The lawyer should already have access to secret sources.

It's enough to have good connections with someone who works for a lab, for example, that has been called upon by our colleagues on the scientific research team for some specialized work. And besides, at its best, the Institute for General Prosperity was certainly an organization powerful enough to have moles in the investigative agencies or to initiate cyber attacks that might give them access to sensitive data.

Let's wait and see, I said.

"It could also be that Duchamel has known more about his son's mysterious disappearance from the beginning and can now simply put a few