Jacquot and the Waterman (18 page)

Extravagantly he'd swung out into the centre of the
pitch, wrong-footing his pursuer a second time, gaining a
few more metres. Out in the open, you could really hear
the crowd. French and English. Each baying for their
man. But it was impossible to see them out there. Only the
pitch he galloped over, the low grey sky and the wind
gusting floodlit splatters of rain in his face.

Across the halfway line - Jesus, he'd never forget how
that felt - and now the posts were coming up, coming up.
Closer. It didn't look so far now. Possible. Suddenly possible. Home not so far away, and the ball in the crook of his
elbow, pressed to his chest.

But somewhere behind him he heard a grunt, a final,
desperate expulsion of air from the lungs as Courtney
launched himself, five metres from the English line.

And Jacquot felt the man's fingertips clip the heel of his
boot.

There was nothing he could do.

The next second his left foot hit the back of his right
knee and he was tumbling forward, reaching out with his
free hand, his right leg managing just a final, hobbled
step.

But the Englishman had left it too late. Jacquot was
close enough for that final, desperate hop to work and over
the line he went, ploughing through the mud, the ball
pressed against his ribs and a plug of English turf up his
nose.

Five points.
La France
wins. On the touchline, the Dax
band brought their instruments to their Hps and started up
a triumphant
Marseillaise.

'You'll never buy a drink again,
ami,'
said Touche, the
other flanker, as he hauled Jacquot to his feet and hugged
him.

Sixteen seconds, that was all it took. Jacquot timed it on
the replay. Later he found out that Courtney was a
solicitor. A solicitor chasing a policeman the length of
England's home ground. Jacquot loved that bit.

But it was all a long time ago now. Deep in the past.
Another country. Now it was a cafe off Tamasin. Sharing a
beer with an old comrade.

'You see the others?' asked Jacquot, trying to recall the
Chats.
The names, the faces. Blanchard with the blond
hair, Gouffrat, Kovacs, and Dee-Dee something. . .

Doisneau shook his head. 'Decousse one time. Watching Olympique. He ran a hot dog stall there. Did the races
too, at Borely. And Didier, Dee-Dee Ronat? Remember
him?'

Jacquot nodded. Didier Ronat, of course. 'Three-finger'
Dee-Dee, the other two lost in the sawmill where his dad
worked. An expert pickpocket even without the full complement.

'Dead now, Didier. Cancer.' Doisneau sighed, looked to
the ceiling, shook his head.

The two men were silent for a moment, remembering.

'You need something, don't you?' said Jacquot gently,
making it easy for the man across the table, an old friend
he hadn't seen for close on thirty years. For all the
memories, the chance encounter, Jacquot was certain
they weren't there just to talk about old times. He was
right.

Doisneau hooked his hands round his glass and levelled
his gaze on Jacquot. 'A break, that's all I'm looking for,
Danny. A word in the right place. I got four more months'
parole work and no choice but hanging on to that stinking
job.' He held up his hands, whether to show the effect a
dishwashing job had on the skin or simply as a gesture.
Jacquot couldn't decide. 'Another four months? I can't do
it. I'll go nuts.'

But if you don't, thought Jacquot, if you break parole
conditions, you're back inside to work out the rest of the
sentence. A week to find a job and six months holding it
down. Working your way back into the community, they
called it, starting you off. That was the deal. That's what
they wanted. After that you were on your own. Sometimes
it worked, most times it didn't.

'I gotta move on, see, before it's too late,' continued
Doisneau. 'My son Rene's down in Spain. Got himself well
sorted. Said he might be able to fit me in someplace.
Better than this, you know?'

Jacquot took a sip of his beer, pinched his lips from side
to side, wiping away the froth. His old friend was looking
for a way out and reckoned that Jacquot, the cop, could
wangle something for him.

'So what do you need?'

Doisneau smiled, shook his head. 'Not money, don't
worry. Just get them to lighten up, is all. I'll do another
month, Danny. I just want to know they won't come after
me.'

Jacquot nodded. 'I'll try. No promises.'

Doisneau s face lit up. 'I knew you'd help. Jesus, you've
got no idea
.
. .' And then he hunkered down over the
table, cast around the bar and leant forward, speaking low.
'And now here's something for you. Up front, if you like.
Just to show willing.'

'Okay,' said Jacquot. 'What have you got?'

'You ever hear of a man called Raissac?'

Only the second time that day.

'Raissac?'

'That's the name. Ugliest son of a bitch you ever set eyes
on. Real bad pox when he was a kid, a birthmark slapped
across half his face. And if that wasn't enough, he's got a burn from a blowtorch across the other half. A war wound,
you might call it. Used to live in Toulon but moved out a
few years ago. A real big operator back then. A real
parrain.
Girls. Drugs. You name it, he was into it. But
things got tricky and he lives out Cassis way now. Villa
someplace. Word is he's started up again. Going for the big
time. And very soon.'

'Big-time what?'

Doisneau glanced around. 'Drugs. Coke, you know . . . ?
A lot.'

'And how soon?'

'Could be any time. This week. Next week. End of the
month, latest.'

'Where?'

'The word is L'Estaque. Or the harbour at Saumaty.
One of them for sure.'

'And?'

'He's got someone on the inside. Your lot.'

'Any names?'

Doisneau spread his hands, shook his head.

'So why are you telling me this?'

Doisneau finished his beer and got to his feet.

'It was Raissac got me done. Put me away. And you
know the
Chats,
Danny. Always return a favour. See you
around,' he said, and as Jacquot felt in his pocket for the
bill Doisneau slid from the booth and slipped away into
the night.