Jacquot and the Waterman (29 page)

Gabrielle never tired of this pool. Unlike her tanks, it
required no cleaning and the residents no feeding. There
was plenty enough food naturally provided to keep the
inmates from going short, although Tula had told them
that there were plans to introduce a midday feed from one
of the bridges, supplying the larger, more aggressive
inmates with buckets offish and meat trimmings, creating
a real-life feeding frenzy to entertain the crowds.

The other thing that Gabrielle loved about the pool was
the way its residents changed from day to day, always
something new to see. Beyond the glass a silvery bank of
mackerel flitted here and there, looking for a way out
before the reef sharks cornered them, a beady-eyed lobster
on the sea floor waved off a curious wrasse with its
antennae, a shoal of darting, bobbing sergeant majors
patrolled their coral stronghold and there—

Gabrielle slowed, tried to focus on the new shape,
distorted by the curve and density of the glass, suspended
beneath the deck of a viewing platform maybe twenty feet
ahead. As she came closer she wondered what the open
ocean had brought them this time, without thinking about
the Mylar net and how something so big
. .
.

And then, catching her breath, she stopped in her
tracks, felt for the rail to steady herself.

Ja
cques Tarrou watched the two men walk towards him
across the parking lot. Standing at his office window
he'd seen their car pass through the gates and he'd
come straight down. When Barzé, the supervisor, called
with news of the discovery, Tarrou had phoned them
himself, from home, then jumped in his car and driven in.
He'd seen the body, had Security put up signs on the
feeder road -
Aqua-Cité Fermé -
and now, here they were.

Stepping out from the foyer entrance, he held out his
hand.

'Tarrou. I'm Aqua-Cité's director.'
The two policemen introduced themselves, showed
their badges. Chief Inspectors Jacquot and Gastal.

'Please, Messieurs . . .' said Tarrou and, indicating that
they should follow him, he led them back out into the
parking lot and around the side of the administration
building. 'It's this
way...
we can take the short cut,' he
continued, over his shoulder, wondering at the pair behind
him. Such an unlikely couple. The small, round one with
that dreadful tie and pin, and his tall, heavily-built sidekick - the boots, the ponytail, the lightweight suede blouson. Something familiar about the tall one, Tarrou thought; someone he'd seen before. But right then he couldn't think who or where.

And little wonder. A
body ...
in his aquarium.

Tarrou pushed through a wicker door into an open-air service area and from there led them down a damp, dark corridor into Block Seven's feeding station. A line of blue neon tubes hummed in the concrete ceiling. Another door was opened and he ushered them into the public walkway, the open sea held back by a curving sheet of glass.

'You can see her from here,' he said, leading them to the glass a few steps along the walkway, pointing upwards but keeping his eyes on the fat man's tiepin, then standing aside for them to take a look.

'Who found her?' asked the one called Jacquot, while his companion walked ahead for a closer look.

'One of the feeders - Gabrielle Blanot,' replied Tarrou. 'About seven this morning. She's in the staff canteen if you . .

'Can we see outside?' Jacquot continued, giving him a sympathetic nod.

'Of course. This way,' said Tarrou, hurrying past the body that floated like some grotesque coffee table, arms and legs hanging down.

Outside, a salty breeze caught at their hair, their clothes, dashed itself across the surface of the pool. Over Montredon, the morning sun passed behind grey cuttlefish clouds and the water in the pool darkened to a purple chop.

When they reached the decking above the body the fat policeman, Gastal, went to the rail and peered down. His colleague, Jacquot, held back and turned to Tarrou. If he hadn't been a policeman, Tarrou would have sworn he'd seen him on television. Maybe he had.

But the man was talking to him.

'. . . And I'm afraid we'll have to leave the body where it is for our scene-of-crime team. So you'll need to keep those signs up.'

Tarrou nodded, as though all this fitted in with how he'd read the situation. 'Of course. I understand. When do you suppose . . . ?' he lifted his arms, his shoulders, his eyebrows in one single movement.

And then, suddenly, like a flash, Tarrou did know who the man was. The ponytail. Ponytail. And it was TV. A long time ago. Rugby. The Five Nations. One of the great tries. Jacquot. Of course. That run - unbelievable. Tarrou felt unaccountably excited.

'Hey, Danny.'

It was Jacquot's partner, Gastal, down on his knees and looking between the wood slats at the body below.

'There's something ... I don't know. . . seems like the body's moving . . .'

Jacquot walked over, squatted down, took a look.

Tarrou followed, peering between their shoulders, not certain he wanted to see whatever it was they had found, but drawn somehow to take a look.

Three feet below them, the body jerked.

'There . . . see?'

Jacquot went to the rail and looked over. In the time that it had taken them to come up from the underground viewing gallery, a reef shark had spotted the body and come to investigate. Jacquot watched a blunt grey snout nuzzle the side of the body, the shark's scythe-like tail whipping through the water for purchase.

'Looks like we're going to have to start without SOC,' he said to Gastal. And, turning to Tarrou: 'Do you have any staff who could lend a hand, Monsieur?'

If it hadn't been a body that they were retrieving, Jacquot decided, it would have been funny. While Barzé and an assistant tried to get a proper grip on the woman and haul her aboard over the rubbery sides of an inflatable dinghy, another assistant attempted to beat off an increasing number of curious sharks with an oar that was far too short to be wholly effective. Between them, with the added assistance of a considerable chop and swell, the three men kept the boat rocking at an unhealthy tilt until it seemed almost certain that one or another of them was going to take a swim.

But then, with a final tug and grunt, Barzé and his chum managed to heave the body up and over into the dinghy and headed back to the mooring slip where Jacquot, Gastal and Tarrou were waiting.

They all helped lift the body from between the plank seating - Gastal's shoes swamped by sea water when the inflatable lifted on a swell and pushed him sideways - and laid the body on its back, on the stone slipway, out of reach of the water. For a silent moment, Barzé, his assistants, Tarrou, Gastal and Jacquot all looked down at the naked body. Then, one by one, they turned away: Tarrou, walking a few steps off to make a call on his mobile, tugging self-consciously on his bow tie; Barzé, going off to look for something to cover the woman; his two assistants, close on his heels, dragging their eyes away from the pert breasts and the tangle of auburn hair between her legs, while Gastal found somewhere to perch so that he could wring the sea water from his socks.

But Jacquot didn't turn away. Instead he knelt beside the body and let his eyes roam.

She was tall and trim and well-muscled, the skin deeply tanned, right down to the toes, save for a white bikini- bottom triangle that showed the freckles the tan covered everywhere else. She looked to be in her early twenties, much the same age as the other victims. The eyes were closed but Jacquot guessed they'd be blue. A cap of red hair, not long enough to reach her shoulders, was slicked to her cheeks and neck.

He picked up an arm, felt the dead, cold weight of it, the limb loose, elbow still bending, hand drooping from the wrist. A strong hand, Jacquot decided, turning it in his own, workmanlike, square and squat, the palm deeply lined, fingers stubby and nails short but not bitten, a white band on the little finger and wrist where she'd worn a ring and watch. But no bruises anywhere. Just three parallel scratches between her breasts - someone with long nails? - and an angry graze down the length of her left shin, red and fresh, as though she'd stumbled or been dragged over some sharp edge.

He put down the arm, straightened the fingers. Their fourth victim. No doubt about it. Within the next twenty-four hours Pathology would confirm pronoprazone in the blood and signs of sexual abuse. Jacquot was certain of it.

He got to his feet just as Barzé returned with a blanket.

By the time they left Aqua-Cité an hour later, having questioned Gabrielle Blanot in the staff canteen - a pale face, trembling cigarette between her fingers and an ashtray full of butts by her elbow - and asked Tarrou for a printout of employee names and addresses, the scene-of- crime boys had arrived and set up camp.

There were four of them, three togged up in white boots and zippered Tyvek jumpsuits, the fourth pulling on a wetsuit and scuba harness. Before starting work, one of them began shooting off a roll of film, treading lightly around the corpse, careful not to disturb anything. Even in daylight, Jacquot noticed, the man was using a flash. Jacquot would see those same photos later that day, or the next, fanned out on his desk, then pinned up on a cork board in the squad room next to his office. He'd see them every day until they ceased to shock, or until the case was closed, the killer found. Big, glossy prints that missed nothing.