Jacquot and the Waterman (14 page)

Or maybe, precisely because he was there.

And the arse on her. The tits. Those legs. Holy Jesus,
but she was brazen, parading herself round like that. As far
as Sardé was concerned it was there on a plate, his for the
taking, just a question of opportunity, timing. Just like the
rest of them. When it came down to it, there was only one
thing these rich, bored, spoiled women wanted and that
was a little bit of action. A little work-out with the paid
help. A little bit of rough and tumble while hubbie was off
at work earning the bucks.

And he, Sardé, was the man.

Right now though, it looked like the lady of the house
was a no-show, just the maid calling out to ask if he wanted
a beer.

Which he did.

And a lot more besides.

14

B
oni Milhaud loved underwear. Jacquot often wondered how she ever managed on her salary. In the two years they'd been together, Jacquot could
swear to it, every time they passed Secrets Dessous on rue
Saint Saens, or Pain de Sucre on rue Grignan, or Nocibe
on rue St-Ferreol, or Clairtiss on rue Pisangon with its
lacquered blue door and cabinet windows, Boni would tug
at his arm, draw him back, look with imploring, then
promising eyes, and lead him in. As easy as that.

Probably because Jacquot loved it too. All those flimsy,
wispy nothings which, later, she would bring to such animated, stunning, unimagined life. For Boni, underwear
wasn't clothing, it was costume. Theatre. Extravagance. All
colour, texture and form. The black and the white; the
pastels and creams; the scarlet, greens and blues. Clean,
crisp cotton; rough, abrasive lace; shiny, sliding silk and satin.
The panels and trims, straps and hooks, ruffles and cups; all
those sly, secret conjunctions and gentle overlappings. All of
it, delicious counterpoint to her smooth, tanned skin.

And shopping was Boni's way to sharpen his appetite,
quicken his pulse. Her passion for it, her mischievous
tempting, making sure to include him in any decision -
smoothing the satin cup of a bra against his cheek, taking
his hand to run it across the ribboned bodice of a wasp-waisted basque, a questioning look as her fingernail traced
a stiffened border of filigreed lace or a dangling length of
ruched garter.

For Boni, it was all a part of the performance. The first
act. Intimacy in public. A conspiracy of sorts. With Jacquot
to begin with and then, when the sales assistant
approached, with her as well. Boni would draw in the
newcomer as though she, too, had a part in the action,
creating - with a smile, a touch, a shared confidence - a
teasing, taunting complicity between the two of them that
played to his role in all of this, both of them looking to him
for confirmation, a nod, his own complicated smile of
approval.

'Hey, dreamer. Wake up. We're off.'

Jacquot came to with a start. Beside him Gastal nodded
ahead impatiently. The traffic was moving again, thanks to
an old Citroen van merging from the right. It had run up
against a corner bollard, crumpling its corrugated flanks,
and was blocking the busy one-way street feeding into
theirs. For the last five minutes he and Gastal had been
waiting for the gridlock to ease, stalled on rue St-Ferreol,
right outside Nocibe's show window. Now, with the van
driver clambering out to inspect the damage, waving off
the blare of horns from cars caught behind him, the road
was clear. Jacquot put his foot down and Nocibe's shop
window slid behind them.

Nocibe. Of all the places to be caught in traffic, thought

Jacquot, making the lights and swinging out towards Le
Panier.

For most of the day - briefing Guimpier, calling by on
Rully at La Conception, meeting up with Gastal, chasing
down this Raissac character, and then trailing the wrong
car - Jacquot had managed to forget his lonely apartment,
forget the woman he'd spent the last two years with, forget
the fact that she was now - he was certain of it - gone for
good. But five minutes stalled in front of Nocibe's front
window and it had all come streaming back.

The only good thing, Jacquot decided, turning onto
Quai du Port, was Gastal's ferocious mood, stoked up by
getting it so ridiculously wrong with the Mercedes. By the
time they reached Headquarters and Jacquot pulled in to
let him out, Gastal had worked himself up into quite a
state.

'Fucking door,' he swore, tugging at the handle until
Jacquot leant across to release the lock. Without bothering
to acknowledge Jacquot's help or his cheerful
'À demain',
Gastal hauled himself from the car, brushed past the
guards at the security barrier and disappeared inside the
building.

Jacquot chuckled as he pulled away from the kerb and
headed home. Serve the fat bastard right, he thought.
Playing the big deal like that. Watching
The French
Connection
too many times. Who did he think he was?
Popeye Doyle?

he Mozart was soft, sweet, lulling in the darkness.

Steady and graceful. Flute, harpsichord and a weeping violin. The Third Concerto in G major. Just enchanting.

Hubert de Cotigny sat in his favourite armchair by the
study window and watched his wife step onto the terrace.
He'd switched off his desk lamp so the window held no
reflections - just the watery blue light from the pool, a
golden hammock moon through the trees . . . and his
wife.

Suzie de Cotigny was barefoot, dressed in a long silk
wrap that licked at her heels as she walked. And Suzie
de Cotigny knew how to walk. A slow, measured
progress, like the music, shoulders back, hands brushing
her hips, tossing her hair like a catwalk model. He
watched her glide to the side of the pool where she
paused to untie the gown. Parting it, sliding it from her
shoulders, she let it drop around her ankles. As usual she
was naked, belly flat as a board, breasts taut and full.

Raising her arms with a languorous grace, she drew back
her hair into a coiling black snake and took time slipping
on a band from around her wrist. A fabulous body, de
Cotigny decided, long and svelte, not an ounce of fat, not
the slightest tan mark, his eyes ranging down the length
of her, from the dark puckered tips of her breasts to the
curve and swell of her hips and the trimmed shadow
between her legs. As he watched, she stepped to the
edge of the pool, went up on tiptoes and her slim brown
body knifed forward into the blue illuminated water, lost
to view. He knew he wouldn't have to wait long. Soon
enough she'd haul herself from the water and the
performance would continue. The new world performing
for the old, youth for age. One pleasure providing for
another. And beyond it all, lacing the darkness, a sublime
soundtrack.