Jacquot and the Waterman (13 page)
Back in the bedroom Baissac slipped off his bathrobe
and began to dress. He was buttoning his shirt when he
heard his mobile. It was Basquet, over at Valadeau, returning his call from the day before.
'Paul, thanks for getting back to me .
.
. Yes, yes. I
thought we could meet up
. . .
Tomorrow? The
calanques?
Of course. No trouble. Say ten .
. .
? Give or take
.
. . ?'
Baissac listened a moment more, nodded, then broke the
connection. As he tossed the phone onto the bed, he felt a
smile play over his lips.
Greed, thought Raissac as he continued with his dressing, that was Basquet's problem. His problem, and his
weakness. Wanting it all, and never thinking to watch his
back; putting it all at risk for the promise of more. A dog
with a bone, looking for a bigger bone. And Raissac had determined to play that dog for all he was worth.
Just twice a year. The two trips - that was what Basquet
was expecting. That was what Raissac had told him. Just
two cargoes out of the twenty or thirty that Basquet
Maritime moved each year. A little space in the hold.
That's how Raissac sold it. Just that. Two cargoes; and
Customs in their pocket, he'd added for good measure,
even though, back then, arrangements had still to be
finalised. Two hundred kilos a time. Pure cocaine. Four
hundred kilos a year. At three hundred francs a gram and
leave cutting and distribution to someone else, the mathematics were mesmerising. Take out production and delivery costs, and they were looking at what, a hundred
million? A hundred and twenty million the first year? Not
that Basquet had wanted to hear any details. Forty million
clear, no questions asked, had been enough bone for this
little doggie, invested on his behalf in a cover corporation
in Rabat, accessed through Raissac's property and building
divisions. As for the rest - say sixty, seventy million - well,
that would suit Raissac very nicely -
merci beaucoup.
And Basquet had believed him. The doggie had rolled
on his back with his little legs in the air and believed that
Raissac would keep his word - keep it to the two trips,
keep it to the four hundred kilos. Bumptious little shit,
thought Raissac, tightening the knot of his tie and reaching
for his jacket. Basquet liked to think he was sharp, but the
man didn't have a clue. It astonished Raissac that his new
friend had got so far.
It was the builder Fouhety, over in Batarelle, who'd put
Raissac onto Basquet. A debt repaid. Apparently the boss
of Valadeau et Cie had overextended himself. He'd just
launched into a massive redevelopment scheme, said Fouhety, and money was tight. He was vulnerable. So
Raissac called in another favour from one of his Union
contacts and suddenly life had become very precarious
indeed for Monsieur Paul Basquet. Which was when
Raissac arranged a suitably discreet introduction through
Fouhety.
And not once, not for a single second, had it ever
occurred to Basquet that Raissac might have been behind
the hold-up in the first place.
Remarkable.
Leaning across the bed he picked up the phone and
dialled Carnot.
'De Cotigny. Is it fixed?'
He listened a moment.
'Good. Make the fucker sweat.'
Sardé
was done in. It had been a long, hot, tough
goddamned day at Piscine Picquart, but at least he
was finishing on a high note. It had started first thing, before they even opened, when
usually Sardé could put his feet up and enjoy a coffee and
croissant before his boss, Picquart, made an appearance.
But for some reason Picquart was there before him, striding around the forecourt, opening this, checking that, like
some platoon sergeant inspecting a barracks.
First the old bastard had him move the flower tubs and
shake out the AstroTurf in front of the showroom; then
sweep the forecourt, making him squeeze behind the blue
pool moulds that rested against the side wall to finish the
job off properly; and then, when Sardé should have been
stopping for lunch, Picquart had him dismantle and fix two
faulty filtration units that had come back to the workshop
in the last few days. It was an easy enough job, but in the
early afternoon the heat in the workshop was cruel. In
twenty minutes the sweat was rolling off him as he
manoeuvred the units around the workbench. And dirty
work too. Oil on his fingers, working its way into his
cuticles, the very devil to get out. As if Picquart had known
it would annoy him.
Then, last of all, right when he was thinking he could
call it a day - the yard swept, the filtration units sorted, the
van cleaned inside and out, stock-checked and
re-equipped - out comes the creep to the workshop,
fanning his face with the collar of his shirt, and tells him
there's a chlorine job needs doing. Pronto. Out in Roucas
Blanc.
Which made Sardé's heart beat a little faster. He took
the order form from Picquart and read the address.
The de Catigny place. Ta-daa!
Thirty minutes later he was parking the Citroen van
outside the back of the lady's house and calling up on the
intercom from the lower gate.
The maid answered and buzzed him through. Three
terraces later, each one densely laden with hibiscus and
flowering jasmine, lawns cropped to a uniform toothbrush
texture, Sardé set down his kit beside the pool and, taking
his time, started the prep for the chlorine tests. But the
setting sun was against him, burnishing every window with
a sheet of gold. No matter where he went around the pool,
taking his samples, no matter what the angle, standing or
squatting, the sun had got there first. No chance to see
through a single one of them.
Not like the first time, a few weeks back. Sardé had been
right here, checking the flow gauges and drain flues, when
he saw her in the library, running her fingers along the
shelves like she was checking for dust or looking for a book.
Only the lady was naked. Not a stitch. He couldn't take his
eyes off her, and when she turned he was certain she must
have seen him, couldn't have missed him where he was
standing, shirt off in the sun, boner in his shorts. But she'd
carried on like he wasn't there, just checking those shelves
until she seemed to grow bored and left the room.
And it wasn't just the once, either. A week later he'd
called by unannounced, on the maid's day off (easy enough
to find out from the file in Picquart's office), wandered
around the side of the house and there she was, Madame
Suzie de Cotigny, in all her glory, spread out on a lounger
by the pool. When she opened her eyes and saw him
standing there, not twenty feet away, the coils of the
suction cleaner slung across his shoulder, she'd just got to
her feet and walked back to the house, naked as the day
she was born, not a word, dragging a towel behind her.
Just like that. Like he wasn't even there.
