Jacquot and the Waterman (44 page)

At that precise moment Genevieve knocked and leant round the door to remind Basquet about his two-forty meeting with the finance committee.

Basquet got to his feet. The policeman got to his. The meeting was at an end.

Thank you for your time, Monsieur,' said the policeman. 'I'm sure you'll understand that in this kind of investigation we have to cover all the bases, chase everything up . . .'

'Of course, of course,' replied Basquet, coining round the desk and shaking Jacquot's hand. 'If you call Hervé Thierry at Basquet Immo, I'm sure he'll be able to help you with the names of leaseholders. Genevieve, my assistant here, will give you the number. And now, perhaps, if you'll excuse me?'

It was only when the door closed and Basquet returned to his desk that the name Raissac suddenly sprang into his mind.

One of the apartments on Cours Lieutaud was his.

F
or a month now the Waterman had been watching her. Not every day, you understand, but as often as possible: when shifts allowed, at weekends, the end of the day. Following wherever she went: on foot, in the car, jumping on a bus after her. Learning about her, gradually closing in.

After all this time, becoming so familiar with her routine, there was never any problem finding her. Hang around long enough and there she'd be: at the beauty salon on rue Sibie where she worked; or at the bar off Place Jean-Jaures where she sometimes went for lunch; at the cafe on rue des Trois Rois where she stopped every morning for a croissant and latte, or at the gym on St-Ferreol where the Waterman had first set eyes on her, a bag slung over her shoulder, skipping down the stairs and out onto the street.

It was something to do with the way she moved, the Waterman would have told you, that caught the attention, marked her out from the rest. That nonchalant twist and

swing of the hips as she slipped between the traffic, the breezy toss of her hair as she hopped up onto a sidewalk, the way she rolled her shoulders as she walked through the crowds, digging her hands into her pockets. So full of life, so confident, enthusiastic. And pretty. That dark skin, the blue eyes, that tiny mole on the side of her chin that made her lips look fuller than they probably were, the cheeks more sculpted. A true beauty spot, just tilting every feature tantalisingly out of kilter.

The gym, of course, had been a real discovery.
Femmes Seulement.
Could there be any two words more alluring than those? The Waterman didn't think so. Irresistible. And there, right across the street from its entrance, stood the Cafe-Bar Guillaume. Just the perfect observation point. A convenient place to stop after work. A stool at the narrow wood bar that ran the length of the picture window. All you had to do was sit there and watch, glancing up from the paper, sipping your beer, lighting a cigarette. All their comings and goings. Take your pick.

Like sweet little Joline with her bee-stung lips, short blonde hair and big, imploring brown eyes; or the teacher Yvonne, with bitten fingernails and chalk from the classroom blackboard on her fingertips; and that Vicki, a real handful, tough as they come, desperately trying to get away. The Waterman should have known that she'd be difficult. She might live in a fancy apartment but she was street trade, pure and simple - the clothes she wore, that sassy walk - all of a sudden kicking out, swinging her fists and elbows, and scratching like an alley cat, finally pulling free on that sandy strip of beach and trying to make a run for it.

But she'd gone the wrong way, hadn't she? Heading for the water instead of making for the track and the cover of the trees, trying to scream out for help but never quite managing to get a sound from her throat. The drug, of course - made the tongue and the throat as dry as sandpaper. Of course, if she'd stayed still out there on the lake - if she hadn't splashed around, broadcasting her position, trying to keep above the surface - she might just have made it. But that didn't happen. Instead the Waterman had come from below, grabbed her ankles and dragged her body into the depths. Pulled her down into the chill, black water where they'd taken a dance together, the two of them, until the breath was finally gone from her body.

Now it was Berthe's turn.

Like the others, the Waterman knew her name, knew where she lived. A couple of weeks before, she'd parked her beaten-up brown Renault on a meter, right outside the beauty salon on rue Sibie. And there, as the Waterman passed and paused to light a cigarette, on top of the dashboard for all to see, was an envelope, a letter. Name and address. As easy as that. Mlle Berthe Mourdet, 14 Place du Bois. Two in one. A sign if ever there was one.

But Berthe Mourdet, as the Waterman discovered a few nights later, did not live alone. Not like the others. A shared apartment, two other girls. Which made things trickier, a little more demanding. Not that it presented any real problem. Indeed, it added to the pleasure, having to work out a way to isolate her, draw her in.

That afternoon, a Thursday, the Waterman watched Berthe leave the salon early. Tossing her bag onto the back seat of the Renault, she opened up the roof and set off towards the harbour. As usual the Waterman stayed a few cars back, wondering where she was headed. Certainly not home. That would have been a right at the last set of lights. Nor was she visiting her mother, up past the cemetery in Saint Pierre. Instead, skirting the Vieux Port, Berthe made a left off Boulevard de la Corderie and set a course for Roucas Blanc.

With the Waterman following close behind.

43

Nearing his mother's home on Place Castellane, Hubert de Cotigny tossed his mobile phone onto the passenger seat and concentrated on his driving. In the rear-view mirror he saw the car behind him, whose driver had been flashing his lights and sounding his horn the length of rue d'ltalie, turn finally into rue Berlioz and accelerate away to make a point. De Cotigny sighed with relief.

As usual the rush-hour traffic had been atrocious, the streets steaming in the evening heat, cars bumper to bumper, pedestrians weaving through wherever there was space, drivers smacking their steering wheels in frustration, pounding horns. Metro buses slowed, stopped, started again, seeming to sway at the end of their connector rods, every passenger crammed inside wondering whether they could walk faster than the bus moved, but unwilling to take the risk, relaxing every time it inched forward, tightening at every hissing hydraulic stop.

Not that the delay bothered de Cotigny. There was too much on his mind for him to worry about traffic flow. He would get where he was going either sooner or later, and it mattered little to him which it was. As he sat there in the leathery, air-conditioned cocoon of his BMW he considered how best to extricate himself from the mess in which he found himself.

As requested, his assistant Vintrou had brought him the Calanques brief and he'd taken another look at the proposed development. It was, just as he remembered, an unbelievably ambitious - not to mention outrageous - project. A dozen super-de-luxe villas jutting out from the walls of Calanque Papiau, a club house and marina, tennis courts, golf course and access roads. It didn't take a genius to see that there'd be no chance of the proposals going through. Protected land, a pair of nesting ospreys (also protected), not to mention a raft of similar plans vetoed in the past. It was absolutely a no-go, although de Cotigny recalled that the planning committee's resident architect had gone out of his way at the last presentation to talk up the designs. A
grand projet
of spectacular proportions, he'd called it, something that would put Marseilles firmly on the architectural map, citing the much smaller development at Morgiou as precedent. Probably on Basquet's pay-roll, concluded de Cotigny.

Because Basquet was the man behind all this - behind the videotape he'd been shown, the deal he'd been offered. It couldn't be anyone else. Paul Basquet, chairman of Valadeau et Cie, who'd come before them on three separate occasions with this totally preposterous plan for developing one of the
calanques.

The problem was, how to take it from here? How to persuade his fellow committee members that, on reflection, maybe it was time to use Calanque Papiau more profitably, more imaginatively, than just free mooring for yachts and a happy-hour destination for tourist cruise ships? There were enough of them to spare, after all, he could argue, at least a dozen similar inlets between Marseilles and Cassis.

But time for inspiration was limited. The next planning meeting was scheduled for the following week and de Cotigny was going to have to come up with a very persuasive argument if he didn't want that videotape falling into the wrong hands. Which would be nothing less than
une catastrophe.
His career would be finished and his family shamed. The consequences were simply too dreadful to contemplate.

As he sat at the lights on Boulevard Bailie, de Cotigny tried to think of favours he could call in, members of the committee who might appreciate the loan of the de Cotigny summer house on Guadeloupe, their winter chalet in Tignes. He knew who they were - Lebarne, Pilou, that fellow Missone from Works - but it was still a galling prospect. Having to join their number, having to lower himself to their level. In all his time at the State Legislature, de Cotigny had never greased a palm, never accepted a bribe. Never even been offered one, either. The de Cotigny name saw to that. Purer than the driven snow. Incorruptible.

If only they knew, he thought.

By the time de Cotigny reached Place Castellane, the traffic had started to ease up and after only two circuits of the fountain, peering down each side street, he spotted a gap and went for it, reversing untidily into the space but altogether too distracted to do anything about it.

Locking the car, he set off for his mothers home, a top-floor apartment overlooking the Cantini Fountain and the rush-hour bustle. Going up in the caged lift, he wondered whether he'd be having the lamb, the lasagne or the
morue,
all of which were favourites of his mother's and, judging by the frequency with which they were served whenever he came to dinner, the only thing her housekeeper, Luisa, seemed able to cook.

It was Luisa who opened the door. De Cotigny smelled rosemary and garlic. Lamb.

'Good evening, Monsieur Hubert,' she said, taking his briefcase and coat. 'Your mother

'Hubert, Hubert? Is that you?' His mother's voice shrilled from the salon.

'It's me. It's me. Sorry I'm so late . . . The traffic . .

Madame Murielle de Cotigny, a jangle of bracelets, rustling silk and clicking pearls, came bustling down the corridor, arms outstretched. Luisa ducked out of her path and a second later de Cotigny was clasped tight, enveloped in a cloud of eau de toilette, hairspray and whisky breath, his mother's rouged lips reaching for his cheeks.