Jacquot and the Waterman (12 page)

'You know the name Raissac?' asked Gastal, winding up
the window and adjusting the air-conditioning.

Jacquot shook his head. 'Raissac? Should I?'

'Not necessarily. Alexandre Majoub Raissac. One of our
North African cousins. Ugly bastard. See that apartment
block there? By the underground-parking sign?'

Jacquot nodded.

'Well, that's where he lives when he's in town.'

'And?'

'So I want you to ring his doorbell and see if he's in.'

'And if he is?'

'Tell him you're looking for someone. Wrong bell.
Whatever.'

Jacquot knew that he could easily override these
instructions. They were tire same rank, after all, even if
Gastal did have a couple of years on him, and they did
have three homicides to investigate, a killer to track
down. Gastal might be transferring to Narcotics some
time soon, but right now he was working with Homicide,
whether he liked it or not. For a moment Jacquot was
tempted to say something but he remembered what
Guimpier had said about not making waves. It wasn't worth the effort. He'd play the pussy like he'd promised.
Another five minutes and they could be on their way.
Switching off the engine, Jacquot pulled himself from the
car and crossed the street.

There were five buttons on the entryphone. Raissac's
was the top one. Jacquot pressed and waited. When there
was no answer, he tried again, holding the button down a
little longer.

'Yes, yes, what the hell.
. .
?' came a voice over the
intercom.

'Madame .
. .
Berri?' asked Jacquot.

'Madame who?'

'Berri,' Jacquot repeated, surprised he should pick that
name, the name of his grandfather's dog, all those years
ago in Aix.

'And what does the name on my bell say?' the voice
demanded.

'Monsieur Raissac.'

'Doesn't sound much like Berri, does it, you fuck—' and
the connection was broken.

Jacquot looked up at the front of the building. Four
windows a floor, the top four shuttered.

Back in the car he told Gastal the man was in.

'So let's wait,' said Gastal, settling himself into his
seat.

'Wait?'

'You anything better to do?'

'As a matter of fact. . .'

'Or just trying to get off early?' said Gastal with a wink.

Biting his tongue, Jacquot explained about the tattoo.
He wanted to check it out. There was a
tatouage
parlour
only a few blocks away.'So do it tomorrow, why not? First off. Right now I just
gotta do this one thing.'

Nearly an hour later, leaning his elbows on the roof of
the car, smoking a cigarette - Gastal had made such a fuss
about it that he'd gotten out - Jacquot saw a young woman
come out of the apartment block, go to the kerb and hail a
cab. He watched her slide into the back seat and the cab
move off, making an illegal turn twenty metres ahead and
coming back towards them. As they passed, Jacquot saw
the girl snap open a mobile phone and dial a number. She
was pretty, nicely tanned, but had a hard look to her. He
recognised the type.

Seconds later, he glanced back to the apartment block
in time to see a black Mercedes with tinted windows
slide up out of the underground car park, pause at the
kerb, then swing into a gap in the traffic heading away
from them. Only the Merc didn't turn back as the cab
had done.

'Your man drive a black Merc?' asked Jacquot, leaning
down to the window.

Gastal looked perplexed. 'Get in. We'll follow and see.'

By the time they edged out into the traffic, the Merc
was some distance ahead. A set of lights went against
them on Quai de Rive Neuve and their quarry drew even
further away, up past Fort St-Nicolas headed for Catalans. As the lights changed, Jacquot put his foot down
and when they turned into Avenue Pasteur they were
only two cars back.

'Looks like he's making for the Corniche road,' said
Gastal. 'You get a look at the number plate?'

'Not so far.'

"Well, let's stay on him, just in case.'

At the end of Pasteur, the Merc turned left and away
from the Corniche road. Before either of them could get a
fix on the number, the Merc pulled in to the kerb, the
drivers door opened and an elderly woman got out from
behind the wheel.

'Fuck,' said Gastal as they drove past. 'Fuck. Fuck.
Fuck.'

After Sylviane had gone Raissac took a bath, ankles resting either side of the taps, head cushioned on a
towel. A brandy glass floated among the suds.

A good day, he decided. The ship was on its way,
distribution was in place and the new girl Carnot had
found was top of the range. Much classier than the last
one. Things were looking
. .
. good. He glanced at his
watch. Another hour and Coupchoux would be back, ready
to drive him home.

Finishing his brandy, Raissac hauled himself from the
bath, reached for a towel and rubbed himself dry. Pulling
on a gown, but leaving it untied, he wandered over to the
mirror and ran a hand over his cheeks and jaw as though
considering a shave. The skin beneath his fingers was
deeply pitted with smallpox scars, pink and shiny below
the left ear where an adversary's blowtorch had once
scorched the skin, his right cheek purpled with a birthmark that had never lost its lividity. He thought of the
doorman at the Sofitel and smiled. The man had near wet
himself, seeing this face. And you couldn't really blame
him.

Turning his head from side to side, Raissac inspected
the damage. It really was quite dramatic, especially around
the lips and eyes. Back when he was young, he had
thought that it made him look hard and dangerous and
he'd worked it to his advantage. Now he just accepted it,
amused by the effect he had on people - their surprise,
their embarrassment, their discomfort.

Baissac pulled back his lips, inspected his gums and
teeth, then opened his mouth wide, like a snake dislocating its jaws. Baising his chin, stretching his neck, he felt
the burn-mark tighten but watched with satisfaction as the
cratering of scars across his cheeks creased into a kind of
smoothness. Only the birth-stain remained, oddly distorted but no less colourful. Quite a sight, he thought to
himself. Quite a sight.