Jacquot and the Waterman (38 page)

'A glance at your records, old man, nothing more,' replied Jacquot, setting the binoculars back on the desk.

"What is it this time?'

'New arrivals in the last week. And any significant departures in the last forty-eight hours.'

'No need to look,' said Salette, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back to inspect the ceiling as though the information that Jacquot wanted was to be found there. 'Let's see. Thirty-two craft total as of this morning, either moored in the port or the Carenage.'

The Carenage, Jacquot knew, was the small marina directly below the crenellated towers of the St-Victor basilica and the battlements of Fort St-Nicolas. Old hands knew it was the better berth. Not so public and you didn't have to cross the busy Rive Neuve to get to the chandlers and repair yards. The only downside was the encircling belt of dual carriageway leading to the harbour tunnel, and the endless drone of traffic.

'And departing?'

Salette shook his head. 'Nothing since Sunday afternoon.

The
Remy
bound for Antibes. Everything else accounted for.'

'How many in the Carenage?'

The harbour master swung round to his computer screen and tapped in a command.

'Five,' he said.

'I'll start with them,' said Jacquot. 'Maybe you could print out a list for me, if your busy schedule allows.'

Salette snorted. 'For you, Chief Inspector, I'll make an exception.'

The first two yachts that Jacquot visited on the Carenage, tied stern to slip, were French-crewed, their
tricolores
shifting and settling in the breeze. All hands accounted for. The third had its deck-way secured and was closed down tight as a clam. The fourth, with the name of its home port, Toulon, painted on the transom, looked as if it had never put to sea, or at least had never strayed further than the sea lane between Marseilles and its registered port. Jacquot knew the type who owned boats like these, rarely doing anything more energetic than popping a cork, inviting friends on board for a drink - that sort of thing. He wondered if the sails had ever been unfurled. More likely they motored everywhere, keeping the batteries charged for the fridge and chill cabinet.

But the last vessel Salette had listed for the Carenage, further along the
quai,
looked like it had been through a hurricane. It was a mess: the sails untidily wrapped around the boom, the deck crowded with carelessly wound rope, its waterline hung with a green border of seaweed crisping in the sun and the wheel strung with clothing set out to dry. Jacquot noted a bikini top among the T-shirts and cut-off jeans. On the transom was the yachts name,
Anemone,
and its home port, BVI. The British Virgin Islands.

'Anyone home?' called Jacquot, tapping his boot against the gangway handrail.

From below deck came the sound of someone moving around, something knocked over, the smash of china - a mug, a plate - and a muffled 'Shit!' A moment later a head appeared from the galley hatch, all tousled hair and suntanned features.

Jacquot reckoned the man was somewhere in his mid- thirties. He wore a hefty sea-going watch and had a piece of braid tied around his neck and right wrist, the colours long faded. He scratched his head, tried to flatten down a mat of curling blond hair and squinted painfully in Jacquot s direction. He looked like he'd just woken up after a heavy night along the Rive Neuve. Jacquot knew how he felt.

'Oui?'
he asked, returning Jacquot's once-over with one of his own.

'Chief Inspector Jacquot.
Police Judiciaire.'
Jacquot dug for his wallet and held out his badge.

The man peered at it, nodded, and hauled himself onto deck. He was wearing blue cotton shorts and was barefoot, his shoulders heavily freckled and his chest, arms and legs well muscled, not an ounce of superfluous flesh. He looked like he'd spent a lot of time at sea.

'You speak English?' the young man asked, swinging round the wheel and taking a seat in the cockpit.

Jacquot nodded. 'If I have to,' he replied.

'Then come aboard. You want a beer? Coffee?'

'Nothing, thank you,' replied Jacquot, pulling himself up onto the walkway and then stepping down into the cockpit.

'So what can I do for you?' asked the Englishman, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

'Just a few questions, Monsieur . . . ?'

'Wraxton. Ralph. Go ahead.'

'According to the harbour master you got in . . .' Jacquot checked Salette's list. 'Tuesday?'

Ralph nodded. 'From St John's, Antigua. Thirty-one days out. A real slow crossing till the end.'

'Crew?'

'My brother Tim, and Jill. Jilly Holford. Just the three of us.'

'And they are where, exactly?'

Ralph shrugged, pushed out his bottom lip.

'Your brother? Tim Wraxton?' prompted Jacquot; he had a problem with the surname. It came out missing the r.

'Last seen at Bar de la Marine,' reported the Englishman. 'Late last night. Not back aboard yet.'

'And Mademoiselle Holford?'

'Left the boat late Tuesday afternoon. Meeting up with her sister somewhere. Nîmes?'

'And you're expecting her back when?'

Ralph shrugged.

'Today? Tomorrow?' prompted Jacquot.

'She said a couple of days, but it could be longer, I guess . . .'

Then Ralph sat forward, brows knitting. 'There's nothing wrong, is there? I mean . . . Tim? Jilly? Has there been an accident?'

If Ralph had been a suspect, Jacquot would have played this a while longer. But he wasn't. Couldn't have been. Holford - for Jacquot was now certain that this was who their victim would turn out to be - had been murdered by the same man who'd drowned his last three victims in a lake, a bath and the lowest level of the Palais Longchamp fountains. At exactly the same time that the
Anemone
and her crew were sailing in the Caribbean or halfway across the Atlantic. There was no way that Ralph, or his brother Tim, could be the killer.

Jacquot reached into his pocket and pulled out the photo he'd taken from the incident board on his way out of the squad room. He looked at it briefly before handing it over.

It was a black and white photo. A head shot, taken in the morgue. If the photographer had moved back half a step you'd have seen the scratches between the victim's breasts. The hair was dry, and lighter in colour, the eyes closed. The black and white image, Jacquot had decided, was kinder than colour. The bluish lips, pallid skin and bruised eyes didn't show so strongly.

Ralph leant forward to take the photo, turned it the right way up and his head just snapped back. If he'd been acting, it was a very convincing response, a masterful performance.

'Jesus,' he snorted, covering his mouth.

'I'm very sorry. . .' said Jacquot gently, wondering whether Ralph and Jilly were more than shipmates. Or maybe it was the brother, Tim?

Ralph shook his head from side to side, eyes squeezing shut. 'Jesus. Jesus. What happened? Where is she?'

'So you can confirm that this is your crewmate, Jilly Holford?'

Ralph nodded, unable to drag his eyes from the picture.

Jacquot waited a few moments before speaking again.

'I'm afraid there are certain procedures, Monsieur. We'll need a formal identification and we'd be grateful if you could let us have the names of next of kin - if you have that information?'

Ralph took a series of deep breaths, trying to gather himself. 'I haven't known her long. We met in Grenada. She was working there, in a bar. Her parents are dead. I think they lived near London somewhere. That's all I know, I'm afraid. But tell me. What happened?'

'Her body was found yesterday morning. Near the Prado beach. It's along the coast from here.'

Ralph looked confused. 'You mean she drowned?'

'She was a good swimmer?' asked Jacquot.

'Like a fish. It's not possible she could have drowned.'

Jacquot held out his hands as though to suggest he didn't know, to see what else Ralph might come up with.

'No, no. Not Jilly. There must be a mistake .. .'

'I'm afraid not, Monsieur Wraxton.'

Ralph gave Jacquot a long hard look, drawing the only possible conclusion.