Jacquot and the Waterman (35 page)

And Valadeau-Basquet.

Valadeau.

Valadeau et Cie. Soap people, Madame Piganiol had said. But suddenly it seemed they were more than that. Not only did Valadeau own the building on Cours Lieutaud where Vicki Monel had lived, it also looked like the same company had been involved in construction work on the open-sea extension at Aqua-Cité where the latest victim had been found. One company, two bodies. It was a link, but a tenuous one. Maybe something, maybe nothing. But in Jacquot's book far too much of a coincidence to let pass.

He turned from the window, picked up the phone and called through to the switchboard.

'Could you get me Valadeau et Cie, please?'

While Jacquot waited for the connection, Gastal came into his office. He yawned, took a chair and made himself comfortable. He seemed about as interested in their investigation as one of his snails, thought Jacquot, giving him a nod. He was about to say something when he heard the ringing tone break off and a young woman's voice.

'Good afternoon - Valadeau et Cie.'

'Yes,' said Jacquot. 'I wonder if you could put me through to Monsieur Valadeau?'

There was a brief silence at the end of the line.

'I'm sorry, there is no Monsieur Valadeau.'

Jacquot frowned.

The woman's voice came back again. 'Unless you mean Monsieur Basquet? Our chief executive. I believe he is married to old Monsieur Valadeau's daughter.'

'That's the one. How silly of me. Thank you.'

'Please hold, Monsieur. I'll put you through to his assistant.'

Across the desk from Jacquot, Gastal looked at his watch, pointed to the time and made signals that he was off home, or out of the office at any rate, two pudgy fingers walking through the air. It was not quite late enough to call it a day, but nor was there much time to get anything useful done.

Jacquot nodded and Gastal mouthed the word 'tomorrow'.

Another woman's voice came on the line. 'Genevieve Chantreau speaking. How may I be of help?'

'I'd like to make an appointment to see Monsieur Basquet,' replied Jacquot, watching Gastal waddle out of his office.

'I'm afraid Monsieur Basquet is a little tied up at the moment. May I ask what this is in connection with?'

Jacquot recognised the tone of voice - cool but impenetrable. A barrier between her boss and unknown individuals like Jacquot who rang up imagining they could just walk in and see the man himself whenever they felt like it. The message was clear: Monsieur Basquet was a very important man, a very busy man.

'This is Chief Inspector Jacquot from the
Police Judiciaire,'
said Jacquot curtly. At five o'clock in the afternoon, with another body laid out on the slab in the city morgue, he wasn't in the mood for pandering to corporate types, or to their snotty assistants for that matter. Not with a killer stalking his city. 'I'd appreciate a moment of his time.'

'Of course, Chief Inspector,' came the reply, her voice a little more conciliatory. 'Now, let me see . . .'

'Perhaps you could tell me where your offices are?' asked Jacquot, wanting to speed things along.

'Down on La Joliette, the old docks, Chief Inspector.
But. . ;

Jacquot looked at his watch. 'I could be with you in ten, twenty minutes? I'll only need a few moments of Monsieur Basquet's time.'

Just enough for me to get a look at the man, thought Jacquot, decide whether the lead was worth pursuing. Or whether it was just coincidence, pure and simple. One of those strange conjunctions that sometimes crop up out of nowhere, and end up headed in the same direction.

'As I was about to say,' the assistant continued, 'I'm afraid it would be a wasted journey. Monsieur Basquet is out of the office right now. But I could get you in to see him for a few minutes, let's see . . . early tomorrow afternoon? Say . . . two-twenty?'

'That'll do fine,' said Jacquot and put down the phone.

At the offices of the planning department in Marseilles's Prefecture, Paul Vintrou, one of the city councils assistant planning officers and Hubert de Cotigny's acting deputy, could hardly believe his ears.

The Calanques plans?'

'When you have a moment, Paul,' said de Cotigny over his shoulder, watching the breeze ripple through the trees in the square beneath his office window, a lowering sun catching on car windscreens and winking through the branches. Already the afternoon's rush-hour traffic had started to build up.

De Cotigny didn't need to be told why Vintrou sounded so astonished. He'd known this was how his deputy would respond. The Calanques proposal? It had been up before the planning committee on three separate occasions and each time it had taken only a few moments before the plans were voted down, de Cotigny always the first to voice his concern and signal his disapproval.

But then, Vintrou didn't know about de Cotigny's late-night caller; Vintrou hadn't seen the tape; and there was no way Vintrou could comprehend the immense pressure being brought to bear. Nor would he, nor anyone else, if de Cotigny had his way.

Of course, de Cotigny could have gone to the library and asked for the plans himself. But he sensed there was something furtive about that kind of approach, something that might suggest some personal interest, possibly something underhand. And anyway, making visits to the library - where unsuccessful planning proposals were kept for three months pending appeal - was not what the chairman of the Marseilles planning committee would do. Instead he'd decided to have Vintrou fetch them for him, late afternoon, when everyone was going home. Everything above board.

'But it didn't even make it past conditional approval,' said Vintrou, wondering what could have started de Cotigny thinking about the Calanques, wondering how long it would take him to get what his boss wanted from the planning library.

De Cotigny sighed, as though the effort of explanation was really too much to bear. But he did it anyway, just as he'd planned, his eyes still fixed on the square below.

'I had a call from a magazine. Some American publication,' he replied, as if somehow that gave his request more substance. 'Said they'd heard something about the Calanques project and could I give them more information. Something to do with sustainable energy . . . the way ahead, that sort of thing. I couldn't remember the details, so I thought I'd better get up to speed on it. I know it's late, but if the press start asking questions I'd better have some answers

De Cotigny tailed off. It was a lie, of course. But plausible.

'Why don't you just tell them it was a no-go? Which it is. Protected site. Possible national park.'

At which de Cotigny finally turned from the window and smiled indulgently at his deputy.

'Paul, really.'

Which made Vintrou blush.

'And what do you suppose the mayor will say when the magazine phones him?' de Cotigny continued, pulling out his chair and sitting down. 'As they surely will, if they don't get what they want from me.'

'He'll call you.'

De Cotigny nodded. 'Correct. So why don't we prepare ourselves? Who knows what's going to happen?'

Striding down the corridor from de Cotigny's office, on his way to the planning library, Vintrou decided the time had finally come to join the architectural firm that had sounded him out about the job in Avignon. Good salary. Excellent prospects. A partnership if everything went okay.

And no politics.

Vintrou knew he'd never get the hang of it, the way local government functioned.

Not like de Cotigny.

Anais Cuvry worked the moisturiser into her skin, from between her toes to the line of her jaw, sitting on the edge of the tub to work on her feet and calves, standing for her thi
ghs, then turning to the bathroom mirror as she soaped her belly and breasts, feeling as she did so an unfamiliar ache of sensitivity as the brown button nipples slid past her fingers.

Every day, for fifteen years, Anais had followed this same routine, keeping her skin as smooth as glass. Back in Martinique she had used aloe cut from the plants along the Plage Grande Anse. Now it was Chanel or Dior, or whatever else her clients sometimes thought to buy her. She had enough supplies to last a lifetime. Even if she gave up the job tomorrow. Which, if all went according to plan, she might just do; well, if not actually tomorrow, then certainly, all things being equal, by the end of the month. It was a prospect that made her insides flutter.

Working the last of the moisturiser in between her fingers, Anais parted the bathroom drapes and looked into the garden. The Aleppo pines on the hillside no longer wore their midday skirts of shadow. Now they cast a slanting rail across her lawn. It was a few minutes before six at the end of a sweltering Marseilles afternoon, the first really hot day of the year, a white-sky day when the sun was just a glare of squinting light beating down on the city. Now, at last, the air that had crackled at lunchtime was turning gentle.

She let the curtain drop, then went through to the bedroom, picking up the watch he'd given her from the bedside table. He'd be here in minutes, she thought. Always punctual. Exactly an hour after the first phone call. That's all she had. The hour. If she was free and answered the phone. Which she'd done exactly fifty-three minutes earlier. She replaced the Rolex a little behind the bedside lamp, arranging its coils so she'd be able to see the time without too much manoeuvring.

Anais went to the wardrobe, flicked impatiently through a line of clothes, then turned to the bed. Still too hot for clothes, she decided. And what was the point, anyway? When they wouldn't be on her for longer than the time it took him to pour a drink.

She bent down and picked up a silk wrap from the bed. Wasn't this the very one he'd bought her? She held it out, trying to remember, then slipped it on with a nod of recognition, reaching for the ties, pulling them tight till the material stretched. At least he'd been a generous lover. All the clothes, trinkets and little treats. Not like some of them . . . Which was a comforting thought.