Jacquot and the Waterman (33 page)

After a quick reconnoitre, Gastal started on the bedrooms while Jacquot returned to the sitting room. It was the largest room in the apartment, occupying at least half the available floor space, but before he touched a thing Jacquot stood in the middle of the room, taking it all in: a pair of low, cream sofas either side of an open fireplace, a fringed Chinese rug between them, bookshelves stacked with magazines and ornaments but no books, a TV and hi-fi in a cabinet by the fire and, standing under a slope of roof between the two windows, an oval dining table furnished with a pair of brass candlesticks and six weave-seat chairs. A thick glass vase holding the wilted remains of some lilies of the valley stood between the candlesticks.

Had her killer been here, Jacquot wondered? Had he come to this apartment? Seen what Jacquot saw? Had he spotted Vicki Monel on the street, followed her on a whim, knocked at her door? Or was he a client? One of the 'respectable types' that Madame Piganiol had referred to? And if he
had
been here, had he left anything for them - a lead, a clue, something to follow up, something to bring them a step closer? There was only one way to find out.

Jacquot started with the dining table, flipping through the mess that covered it, the kind of random spread you'd get if you emptied out a handbag. A tiny bottle of bright red nail varnish lying on its side. A pair of sunglasses. A hairbrush. A handful of crumpled receipts, a packet of Kool-wipes, some loose change, chewing gum. A biro. The stub of an eyebrow pencil. But no purse, no bag, no keys that he could see. Jacquot felt a jolt of disappointment. Whenever Vicki Monel last left the apartment, she must have taken them with her. Which meant, more than likely, that the killer hadn't been here, that he'd made his hit somewhere else in the city. At night, by the look of it, if the sunglasses were anything to go by.

Jacquot turned his attention to the scatter of mail. Bills, circulars, a membership-renewal form from a local gym, a couple of free-press newspapers, travel brochures still in their cellophane wrapping, a clothing catalogue and an envelope bearing the Credit Lyonnais logo. Jacquot pulled out a bank statement, unfolded it and whistled. Current account, a little over sixty thousand francs; deposit account, close to two hundred thousand francs. Sizeable assets for a twenty-five-year-old who didn't sound like she'd received a whole heap of education. Clearly the Internet paid well, in addition to what she made elsewhere. No wonder she could afford the rent.

Jacquot checked the date on the statement. It had been sent the last week of April. Which meant that Vicki Monel was still alive when the letter was delivered, say two days later. Given the ten days that Desjartes's boys reckoned the body had been in the water at Lac Calade, she'd probably died just a day or two after seeing how much money she had in the bank.

Getting up from the table, Jacquot heard drawers sliding open and snapping shut in the bedroom. Gastal hard at work, fingering his way through Vicki's underwear as though it might furnish some lead. Jacquot hadn't been entirely surprised that his colleague had opted for the bedrooms.

Making his way round the room, Jacquot noted the ornaments on the bookcase and mantelpiece, a velvet scarf on one of the sofas, three empty wine glasses on the coffee table, the hi-fi and flat-screen TV, Vicki's collection of CDs, stacked in a wooden rack. He slipped a few out, one by one. Clubbing music by the look of it, a beach scene on every cover. Ibiza, Ibiza, Ibiza. Then, halfway down, a rare live recording of Joao Gilberto and Oscar Peterson that he'd never seen before, never even heard of. Where on earth had she found that? For a moment Jacquot was tempted to slip it into his pocket, and might well have done so had Gastal not pushed through the door, snapping off his gloves.

'Nothing, in either bedroom. Though she's got enough clothes to start a frigging shop. But no men's clothing, no shaving gear. Looks like she lived alone, all right. Lots of toys, too,' said Gastal with a wink. 'If you get my drift.'

'And no purse, no key,' said Jacquot. 'She must have taken them with her.' He looked around once more and saw the telephone on the floor beside the sofa. He leant over. No speed dial. No names. No answer-phone. But wedged underneath the phone Jacquot saw a small red book. He pulled it out and flipped through the pages. Names and numbers but nothing that caught his eye, nothing familiar. He waved the book at Gastal and slipped it into his pocket. Five minutes later, after checking through the kitchen and bathroom, Jacquot locked the apartment and they started down the stairs. Perhaps Forensics would have more luck with prints, find something they'd missed.

Back on the ground floor, Jacquot knocked at Madame Piganiol's door and asked if she would be kind enough to open Vicki Monel's mailbox.

'But it's the same key for both, mailbox and apartment,' the old lady exclaimed, tucking her knitting under her arm and taking the key from Jacquot. 'Look here, I'll show you,' she said and led them across the hall to the line of mailboxes just inside the front door. After much fiddling with the lock, she finally opened Vicki Monel's box.

Jacquot reached forward and pulled out a stack of mail, shuffling through it. Nothing personal, the same collection of flyers and catalogues that he'd found on her dining- room table. He pushed them back into the box and Madame Piganiol relocked it.

'Did you ever take her mail up to her?' asked Jacquot.

Madame Piganiol shook her head as she withdrew the key.

'Not now we have these,' she replied. 'I just put the mail in every morning and they come collect it themselves. Much easier.' She looked at Jacquot expectantly, as though she relished the prospect of more questions.

Jacquot obliged. 'Did Mademoiselle Monel have a car, Madame?'

'A car, you say? If she did, I never saw it.'

'There's no residents' parking here? A basement? Or back lot?'

'You live here, you take your chances on the streets, Monsieur. It's safe enough. I should know.'

'And you say Mademoiselle Monel's been here, what? A year or so?'

'Round that, I'd say. Near enough.'

'And before that? Before she moved in?'

Madame Piganiol frowned, gave Jacquot a puzzled look. 'Well, how could I possibly know that, Monsieur?'

Jacquot realised that she'd misunderstood. 'I mean other tenants, Madame. Upstairs. The top-floor apartment. Before Mademoiselle Monel arrived.'

'I see. I see. Of course. Well, there was . . . Let me see . . . Ah! Alina, such a lovely girl. . . and Nathalie . . . and Rose.' Her brow furrowed with the effort of recollection. Clearly there'd been others; she just couldn't remember the names.

'All young women?' prompted Jacquot.

'Always. Always girls. And all the prettiest things,' Madame Piganiol continued proudly. 'Never a dud. And the men; like bees to honey. Well, you're only young once, eh, Messieurs?'

Jacquot nodded, smiled his agreement, then asked if she could provide details of Vicki Monel's lease or rental agreement.

'Not kept here,' said Madame Piganiol, shaking her head and following them to the front door. 'You'll have to get in touch with the owners.'

'And they would be?' asked Jacquot, stepping out into the street and turning back to her.

Madame Piganiol pushed out her lip, squinted into the sun. 'I ought to know,' she replied. 'Seeing as they're the ones employ me.' And then, scratching the side of her head with the tips of her knitting needles as though this would somehow aid the process of recall: 'Valadeau. Of course. Valadeau et Cie. They're the ones. The soap people.'

S
uzie de Cotigny slipped the straps of her leotard from her shoulders and peeled the costume down to her waist. She was still breathing hard from the circuit and repetitions, the muscles in her shoulders and thighs burning from the exertion, the wall of her belly aching with a gentle cramp. But she felt good. Pleased with herself. She turned and opened her locker, pulled out a towel and stripped away the rest of the leotard, tugging the tights with it into a bundle of damp pink and black lycra.

Wrapping the towel around her waist, she walked through the locker room to the showers, took the first stall she came to and turned on the water. Reaching for the controls she adjusted the temperature and, hanging the towel from a peg, stepped beneath the water. Perfect. It might not be the most chic, most expensive establishment in town, but Allez-Allez Gym had great showers: good wide heads, easy-to-adjust temperature controls and dependable water pressure independent of the dozen or so other cubicles in the shower room. Suzie closed her eyes, lifted her chin, and felt the rain-like stream spatter onto her face, sluice over her neck and shoulders and course down her body. Even more important, the gym was discreet. She was hardly likely to bump into anyone she knew here.

Twice a week Suzie came here, sometimes more often. Sometimes it was difficult to keep away. Such a temptation just to drop in, on the off chance. And always during the busy times, lunch hour or after work, when the secretaries and shop assistants stopped by for their workouts and exercise classes. With no job to go to, Suzie could easily have come when the place wasn't so crowded. But the crowding was what it was all about, the reason she went there. So many young, pretty girls. It had been the same back home in the States. The gyms, the steam baths, the spas and exercise classes.

When Suzie told her husband she was thinking of joining a gym, Hubert de Cotigny warmed to the idea straight away, even suggesting that they hire a personal trainer to come over to the house.

But she'd said no. Better to go to a gym, she advised. So much more choice. A personal trainer was just that, always the same one, usually a man and maybe not up for what they had in mind.

Which was when he'd suggested Altius. Since Hubert's planning department had given it the green light two years earlier, Altius had become the city's most exclusive spa, gym and fitness centre, a sought-after membership amongst Marseilles's finest.

But again Suzie had shaken her head. It had to be discreet, somewhere she wasn't likely to bump into Hubert's daughter or any of their friends. Just imagine . . .

And again he'd nodded his head, understood immediately.

There always had to be a cut-off, she explained, between the two of them and their occasional 'companions'. Rather like a spy network. An arrangement that guaranteed that certain paths would never cross - at a dinner party or drinks someplace. Money, she said - that was the cut-off point. Somewhere not too expensive, somewhere anonymous, somewhere she'd just be one of the girls. With a nod, Hubert had acknowledged her reasoning, smiled at the prospect, and left it to her.

Just as she'd said, it had all worked splendidly - for both of them. In a little over a year, she'd gently seduced maybe a dozen different girls she'd met here. Sometimes she'd share them with Hubert, or take them to the small apartment she kept in town that Hubert didn't know about. Or go to their own homes. Their tiny flats and studios. Sometimes that was fun too.

Suzie eased the shower temperature down and felt the water chill in response, icy needles pricking at her warm skin, puckering her nipples. She shivered, gasped for breath, then turned the heat up again until her head spun.

Which was when she knew, just knew, that someone was watching her, there in the shower, head tipped back, playing the water over her face and breasts, hands clinging to the taps. So sure that she played the moment out, closing her eyes and turning her body this way and that, so that everything could be seen.