Jacquot and the Waterman (11 page)

Nor did it stop there. When the food arrived Sylviane
had eaten carefully and daintily, the knife and fork held
just so, elbows tucked into her sides, back straight, sipping
her wine and water but never leaving a trace of lipstick on
either glass or napkin. And all the time she held his gaze,
never once letting her eyes drift to the scarring on his face
and the angry pool of claret splashed across his cheek and
neck.

Later, when he began to ask his questions, getting down
to business after the bright and insignificant chatter over
drinks at the Sofitel and on the cab ride to the restaurant,
she'd answered politely and concisely, holding nothing
back. Everything that Carnot had told him - about her
background, how she'd got into the business - she
repeated it all with never a blush nor a stammer. She knew
the score and she was looking to move up, she told him.
They could rely on her. She wouldn't let them down.

Raissac nodded. Of course, of course. Sizing her up.

She was young and pretty with a flinty edge he rather
liked. And if she didn't match up, or tried getting smart
like the last one, there were plenty more where she came
from. By the end of their meal he'd decided she'd do very
nicely indeed. A perfect choice.

There'd been only one more piece of business to attend to.

Back at his apartment.

'You want another, help yourself, and then skedaddle,'
said Raissac wearily, reaching down beneath the sheet to
coddle his balls.

The girl had been stepping into her panties and pulling
them on, but left them where they were, mid-thigh, and
moved over to the chest of drawers where he'd left the kit.
She looked faintly ridiculous, shuffling around the bed like
that, panties at half-mast, but when she leant over to cut
the line he'd offered, Raissac changed his mind. Not
ridiculous at all. And she knew it, stretching her hindquarters out at him as she snorted up the cocaine, wriggling her
hips like a dog wagging its tail.

A good arse for spanking, he decided, and no mistake.

With a sigh, Raissac changed his mind a second time.
'Stay like that,' he told her, 'just stay like that and—'

He was halfway across the bed, reaching out a hand,
when the buzzer sounded.

At three, as agreed, Jacquot went up to the third floor
of police headquarters on rue de l'Eveche. At the top of the stairs he bumped into Corbin, one of Sallinger's Vice boys. He was dragging a plastic sack crammed with video-cassettes across the landing.

'Gastal? Any ideas?' asked Jacquot.

The fat one?' Corbin reached forward and pushed the
button for the lift.

Jacquot smiled. That's him.'

'Down the end, last on the left,' said Corbin with a sour
look. 'And you're welcome to him

When he reached Gastal's office, Jacquot tapped on the
door jamb and looked in. The man had his feet on his desk
and a box of dates in his lap. Licking his fingers, Gastal
tossed the dates onto his desk and struggled out of his
chair.

'We'll talk and drive,' said Gastal, bustling past Jacquot
and heading down the corridor to the lift. 'Your car. I got
something I need to check. Over near the Opera.

Shouldn't take long. You mind?'

Five minutes later, with Gastal buzzing down the
window and sliding his elbow out, they turned past the
striped flanks of the Cathedrale de la Major and set off
down Rue de l'Evêché. There was a hold-up a hundred
metres ahead on the corner of rue du Panier, so Jacquot
took the scenic route, working the wheel and gears
through a maze of sun-starved alleyways with only a few
inches to spare either side of the wing mirrors. Above
them the tenement balconies were strung with washing.
Peering up, Jacquot remembered his own clothes hung
out to dry. Even now he could still hear the squeak of the
pulley as his mother strung them out across the street
like a set of flags on the mast of a ship - the short
trousers, the shirts, socks and, most embarrassing, his
underpants. Back then, he was certain everyone would
know the underpants were his.

'You know your way around,' observed Gastal as they
rejoined du Panier a half-dozen blocks past the hold-up.

'Years of practice,' replied Jacquot.

'More of the old stuff here than Toulon, and that's for
sure,' said Gastal. 'So, what you got on the boil anyway?'

'Three homicides. All women. Spread around. The first
two in Marseilles, a third up near Salon-le-Vitry. Rully and
I reckon they're related.'

'Related?'

'Water. All three drugged, sexually assaulted, then
drowned.'

'And you're thinking the same guy?' said Gastal, releasing his tiepin to use as a toothpick.

'That's how it looks,' replied Jacquot, drawing up at a set
of traffic lights on rue de la Republique.

'So what you're saying, it's serial?'

Jacquot nodded. 'That's how it seems.'

Gastal withdrew the pin from his teeth, inspected the
morsel from lunch, or maybe a shred of date, that was
speared on its tip and licked it up.

'Yeah, well. .
.
That's why I'm moving,' he said, looking
down to clip the tiepin back into place, his jowls folding
over his collar. 'You don't make money chasing skirt
squeezers - serial or otherwise.'

Which brought Jacquot up short. Was this a line from
his new partner, feeling him out? And what exactly did he
mean by 'make money'? Was he talking cash or career?

Jacquot decided not to pursue it, pulling out onto
Republique when the lights changed and turning right. At
the Quai des Beiges, at the head of Marseilles's Vieux Port,
he manoeuvred into the flow of traffic around the old
harbour and played the lanes.

'Opera's up ahead,' said Jacquot.

'Take the next left and pull in wherever you can,' Gastal
replied, pointing vaguely ahead. 'I just need to see if
someone's in. Lamonzie has his eye on someone. Something going down; and I want to be up to speed when the
time comes to join his team.'

Jacquot did as he was asked, reversing into a tricky
space between a van and motorcycle, wondering what
Gastal was up to and when they could get on with the
homicides they were meant to be investigating. In his
pocket Jacquot had a picture of the tattoo -
Le Vieux
Port
- found on the body at Lac Calade. There was a
tattoo parlour close to the office, another near Long-
champ, even one behind the Mercure Hotel that he
wanted to visit, show the photo around. Maybe someone
would recognise the pattern, the style. Maybe tattoo
artists kept records, recognised each other's work. Maybe
there'd be a lead they could follow. Right then the tattoo
was all that Jacquot had to go on, unless they came up
with a print match from Records or a Missing Persons
report. Three women - dragged, sexually abused and
then drowned - and here he was playing driver for
Gastal who seemed to have his own agenda, out to score
points before moving to Narcotics and Lamonzie. At
Jacquot's expense.