Jacquot and the Waterman (22 page)

'Not mine,' said the tattooist, studying the photo but not
taking it, needle humming an inch above his customer's
skin, cotton swab tossed into a metal bin at his feet. 'But
you ask me, it looks like Vrech's work.'

'Vrech?' asked Jacquot, pocketing the photo.

The tattooist didn't respond immediately, as though
Jacquot had left the shop and he was alone with his client.

And then, without looking up from his work: 'Fausse
Monnaie. Up on the Corniche, near the bus stop,' he said,
giving Jacquot the lead he'd spent the best part of the
morning searching for.

Ten minutes later, as a sleekly lined motor launch
rumbled down the channel to its berth in the Vieux Port,
Jacquot turned off the Quai de Rive Neuve and down rue
Thiars where he'd left his car the night before. Fausse
Monnaie was on the road to Prado and too far to walk.
Already a flyer had been tucked under his windscreen
wiper. A sale somewhere, best prices, the usual thing. He
balled it and tossed it behind the passenger seat. Pulling
out into the traffic he set off for Fausse Monnaie.

It didn't take long to find the place he was looking for. A
few steps back from a covered bus stop, across a narrow
municipal garden and sharing a semi-basement frontage
with a
tabac,
an estate agent, a baker and a greengrocer,
stood Studio Vrech. Leaving his car in the nearest side
street, Jacquot walked back to the parlour. The closer he
got, the more certain he was that he was about to get a
break.

Vrech's tattoo parlour was bigger than the others he'd
visited that morning - bigger, brighter and better cared
for. Its reception desk was furnished with a vase of plastic
flowers, its tiled floors slanted with morning sunlight and
its waiting room tidily piled with magazines. Around its
walls, framed certificates and a gallery's worth of photographed tattoos attested to Vrech's qualifications and artistry.

Behind the desk, in the parlour beyond, was the man
himself. He was unmistakable. Dressed in white T-shirt
and black cycling shorts, he was sitting with his back to the
door, bare feet up on a mirrored vanity, reading a newspaper. From where Jacquot stood the capital letters spelling his name were clearly visible on the back of his skull,
branded onto the skin beneath a helmet of blond stubble.
As far as Jacquot could see, it was the only tattoo the man
possessed.

'You don't look like you've come for a tattoo,' said the
man called Vrech, glancing up at Jacquot in the mirror
before turning back to his newspaper.

'You're right, I haven't,' replied Jacquot.

Vrech turned a page lazily, casting his eyes over the
spread to see if there was anything that caught his fancy.
Outside, beyond the studio window, the traffic beeped its
way back to town or out to the beaches of Prado. A bus
pulled into its stop with a wheeze of brakes and the doors
shuddered open.

'So, Monsieur Gendarme, what can I do for you?'

Jacquot noted the emphasis and how swiftly the tattooist had identified him as a policeman.

'Someone told me they recognised your handiwork,'
said Jacquot, pulling the photo from his pocket. He placed
it on the counter.

Swivelling round in the tattooist's chair, Vrech put down
the paper and came out to the desk. He took the photo,
looked at it intently and started nodding.

'Very difficult work, that,! he said. 'The skin's so pliable
there, so soft. Not like the arms or the back. You have to
stretch it, you know? To get the smooth surface. And
compensate, otherwise the outline blurs. It can be painful,
too .
. .
well, not painful, you understand, as much as . . .
ticklish. It is difficult to sit still, yes?'

Vrech's voice was rough and deep, the French heavily

accented. Dutch, thought Jacquot. That hoiky way Lowlanders speak, as though every word is a shard of gravel
caught in the throat.

'Its yours?'

'Did you hear me say that?'

'Let's say I detect a certain professional pride.'

Vrech looked at the photo once more, then snapped it
down onto the counter rather than handing it back.

'And you'd be correct in your assumption, Monsieur
Gendarme. Let's see . . . Maybe eighteen months ago,
couple of visits. The colours, you understand, the closeness of the lettering, the . . . discomfort.' Vrech tipped his
head back to stare at the ceiling, as though making a
calculation. Then he turned to Jacquot, looked him
straight in the eye. 'Maybe four, five hours' work total.'

'A name?'

Vrech gave it some thought. 'Nicki? Vicki? Something
like that.'

'You have an address?'

Vrech shook his head. 'The boyfriend paid.'

'The boyfriend?'

'The boyfriend. Cash. Sat beside her the whole time.'
Vrech nodded at the chair he'd been sitting in. 'Both visits.
Which, you know, makes it difficult when I'm tattooing
pretty much the highest place you can get to on a woman's
leg. I mean centimetres from it. You can smell it, you know
what I'm saying .
. .
?' Vrech smiled. 'And there's the boyfriend watching. I tell you

'What about the boyfriend?'

'No address, sorry.' Vrech shook his head.

The negative and the headshake were dispiriting.

'But I know who he is,' continued Vrech.

'And that would be?' prompted Jacquot, as the tattooist
went back to his seat and picked up his paper, as though
he'd said all he planned saying.

'He's called Carnot.'

'First name?'

'Jean, Jean Carnot,' replied Vrech, making himself comfortable, straightening out his paper. 'You see him around,
you know. Young guy. But hard. A real g
orille.
He used to
hire out as a bouncer up Cours Julian way, then moved on.
Private security. That sort of thing. And a fixer, too - you
want something, he gets it. If the price is right. And he
always has a couple of girls working for him. A land of
sideline. I guess she was one of them. Very pretty - very,
very sexy, you know?'

'Anything else?'

Vrech gave the question some thought. 'I remember,
while I was working, she was talking about some photos
she'd had done. For the Internet, you know, the porn sites.
It sounded like he'd set it all up. She sounded real pleased
with them.'

Jacquot reached for the photo, slid it off the counter
and into his pocket.

'And if I wanted to find this Carnot? Where would be a
good place to start?'