Jacquot and the Waterman (10 page)

As time passed the bar grew busier, men mostly, a
dozen or more business types in sharp suits and polished
shoes, briefcases laid on the floor or on stools, mobiles on
the bar, ordering their drinks from a white-jacketed barman who smiled and nodded and wielded the various
bottles with the sure hands of a fairground juggler. Sipping
her drink, helping herself from the bowl of smoked
almonds on her table, Sylviane took it all in. She knew
these kinds of men - all of them middle-aged, successful,
away from their wives, their homes. There wasn't a single
one there she couldn't have seduced away from their
bored, nondescript lives. Not one. She'd worked crowds
like this so many times, it was second nature. The likely
ones. The generous ones. The tricky ones. But in a place
like this, she knew, discretion was the watchword - or

she'd be out of the door faster than a bullet from a—
'Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle
..
.?'

The voice was low and warm and inviting, but when
Sylviane looked up it was all she could do not to gasp. His
face. His face. Carnot had been right - 'You'll know him
when you see him.'
'You are Sylviane?'

She nodded, unable quite to find her voice.
The man stepped forward, reached for her hand and
bent over it, dry lips brushing the skin.
'Enchante.'

Chief Inspector Gastal, a napkin tucked into his collar, was sitting alone in a booth in Fabien s, over the road
from the Vieux Port, the sun's reflection off the water
playing Hockney patterns across its ceiling. Picking up the
last
escargot
from his plate, Gastal held it between ringed
middle finger and thumb and, with the nail of his index
finger, scratched a hole in the top of its shell. Satisfied with
his handiwork, he clamped the shell's opening to his
mouth and sucked loudly, the coiled black body and warm
juices bubbling out like the last drops of a child's drink
sucked through a straw.

Jacquot, making his way to Gastal's table, watched the
performance and wondered at it. He was glad he had
already eaten.

Gastal put down the empty shell, pulled the napkin
from his collar and wiped away the trail of melted butter
that glistened over his dimpled chin. When he spotted
Jacquot approaching, he tossed down the napkin and held
out his hand.

'Gastal,' he said with a shiny grin. 'Alain to you. Take a
seat, why don't you?' he offered, hauling his backside along
the banquette to make room. 'The
paquet's
good if you're
hungry. Or I'd offer you one of these,' he said, indicating
the pile of empty shells, 'but, as you can see, that was the
last.' Having made enough room, Gastal reached back for
his glass and the newspaper he'd been reading, leaving the
dish of empty snail shells and dirty napkin where they
were. 'Go on, take a seat,' he repeated, pointing beside
him where the warm shape of his buttocks, gently inflating, was still impressed in the seat's red plastic cover.

'One of Sallinger's boys on the third floor told me you'd
be here,' said Jacquot. 'I was on my way back so . . .'

'It's Danny, isn't it?' said Gastal, reaching for a clean
napkin and working it into his collar.

A waiter appeared, cleared away Gastal's plate.
'M'sieur?' he asked, turning to Jacquot.

Jacquot shook his head. He wouldn't be staying.

'Come on, sit yourself, have a drink.'

'If it's okay with you

Gastal shrugged. 'Sure, sure. Suit yourself,' he said, not
appearing to be bothered one way or the other. He picked
up the last bread roll, broke off a piece and smeared it
across the top of the butter dish. 'How's your partner? I
heard he's down.'

'He'll live.'

Gastal's cheek swelled with the bread. 'Rugby, wasn't it?
Bastards. Football, you break a leg and you can retire.
Didn't you play one time?'

Jacquot nodded, watching Gastal's jaws work the wad of
bread, a buttered crumb caught in the corner of his
mouth.

The waiter reappeared with a rack of lamb and a dish of
pommes lyonnaise
the colour of old ivory.

'So,' said Gastal, lifting the hunk of meat and sawing a
cutlet off the end of the rack. 'See you back at the office,
then, if I can't tempt you.' He picked up the cutlet, turned
his wrist and looked at his watch. 'Say three? Thereabouts?'

'Three's fine,' replied Jacquot, and turned for the door.

'Why don't we meet on the third, eh?' Gastal called out.
'My office.'

Jacquot looked back, raised a hand to say 'understood'.

At his table, Gastal took his first bite of the cutlet,
stripping away the meat. His cheek ballooned again and he
waved back with the clean, curving bone.

Raissac wasn't expecting visitors. It was late afternoon and he was lying in bed watching Sylviane dress. The shutters were closed but the windows were open. He could hear traffic below, the screech of seagulls on a nearby rooftop and somewhere out across La Joliette the distant, mournful hoot of a merchantman. The sun was beginning a slow descent towards the city's pantiled roofs, the shutter blinds throwing bars of gold across the girl's body.

They'd had lunch at his favourite restaurant, Le Chaudron Provencal on nearby rue Lafonde, just the two of them, its formal, faintly intimidating atmosphere the perfect test.

And Carnot's latest girl had passed with flying colours.The way she peeled and delicately dunked the quails' eggs, for herself and for him, dipping their sides in the celery salt, rinsing her fingers afterwards with an almost hypnotising delicacy, the lime-scented water trickling from her fingertips.

So impressive a performance that Raissac had left the choice of courses to her and she'd ordered for the two of them, with an
easy confidence, barely glancing at the menu as though she knew it off by heart, only occasionally referring to it when she suggested he might like . . . what? Oysters? The moules
farcies?
Langoustines?

And then performing as adeptly with the wine list,
choosing a half-bottle of a white Chateauneuf-du-Pape to
accompany the grilled oysters, and a meaty red Gigondas
for the
daube.
She even made a point of saying which
Gigondas she preferred, the one from Domaine de la
Vauquaquilliere, the name tripping perfectly and prettily
off her tongue, the sommelier bowing acknowledgement
as though agreeing absolutely with her choice.