Jacquot and the Waterman (46 page)

Then Cesar was there, tugging Jacquot s ponytail from behind like a bell pull, coming round to clasp him tight, big grey beard rubbing against his cheeks, a gurgle of wine splattering into a glass, shoved into his hand, before Sid tugged him away, hauling him around the room to make the introductions: Chloe - a masseuse at Sids practice ('You don't look like a policeman'); Freydeau - a lecturer in maritime law from Aix ('Of course he does, don't all cops wear ponytails?'); someone called Janine in PR with a swelling, low-cut cleavage; a thickly-spectacled cartoonist called Alf whose work appeared on the front page of
Le Provençal;
a goateed Russian violinist called Ig from the city orchestra; a portly documentary maker called Gustave and his girlfriend Uta - all kinds. Until Jacquot had met just about everyone there - tall, short, young, old, solemn, flirty, witty and pretty, all of them interesting, interested, good company, smiley faces - finally ending up in a corner, with a plate handed to him by Sid piled with the savoury pastries she knew he loved, talking to a woman called Delphie, a journalist from Paris who was down in the city for her sister's first show. ('She's an artist, Claudine Eddé, really talented, even if I am her sister. You must come, the more the merrier. Saturday evening at the Ton-Ton. You promise?')

For the next few hours, as though washed away like dust after a fall of rain, all thoughts of the killer the newspapers were calling the Waterman were put on hold, along with the squad room, Gastal, Madame Bonnefoy, the victims in the morgue, that dreadful patronising little
crapaud
Basquet. . . Which was another reason why

Jacquot liked coming here. At Sid and Cesar's, you didn't just leave your coat at the door.

Later, after the guests had gone, Jacquot invited to spend the night, the three of them sat out on the open loggia, its trellised sides laced with honeysuckle, its beamed roof hung with flickering hurricane lamps. Below them, across the stepping levels of descending rooftops, lights shimmered over the oily black surface of the Vieux Port, the seven-sided spire of St Accoule and the facade of the Hotel de Ville were gaudily floodlit, and Le Panier's street lights winked mysteriously on the opposite hillside. Somewhere behind them, up in the mountains of Sainte-Baume, a roll of thunder grumbled over the peaks and a chill breeze whispered through the loggia, making the hurricane lamps squeak on their nails.

'I told you all along she wasn't right for you,' Sid was saying, pulling a shawl round her shoulders.

'You did no such thing, Sydne. You liar.' Cesar gave Jacquot a look through their cigar smoke as if to say: 'This is what you get when you marry a woman like Sydne; be warned. You're well out of it, my friend.'

'Well,' she conceded, 'if I didn't actually say it, then I thought it - all the time. Right from the start.'

'Well, she's gone,' said Jacquot, telling them about the weekend, the lead-up, everything save for the miscarriage.

'And good riddance . . .' said Sid, draining her glass.

'Sydne! Really.' And then to Jacquot, waving his hand on his wrist: 'But she was a sexy beast, my friend. Wasn't she just? Ooh-la-la.'

Sid struck out and hit Cesar playfully on the arm, tipping a column of cigar ash into his lap. 'Serves you right,' she said, pretending to look put out.

'It's still the truth,
cherie,'
said Cesar, brushing the ash from his cords. 'A very, very sexy woman.'

'Like I say, she wasn't right for you, Dan. There was something . . . hungry about her

'Exactly,' said Cesar.

'I mean, she wasn't the settling-down type. She had things to do, places to go. You could see it.'

'As you know, my friend,' said Cesar, leaning towards Jacquot. 'Women don't always see what we see. They think with their hearts. Men, we think with—'

'. . . With your dicks, you don't have to say it,' interrupted Sid with a flourish.

'. . . With our
heads,'
finished Cesar.

'Is there a difference?' countered Sid, determined to have the last word.

And so it had gone, Jacquot contentedly smoking his cigar, savouring the brandy and badinage, forgetting altogether what time it was, what city he was in.

Sardé
parked the Piscine Picquart van a couple of blocks from the house, on the corner of Allee Jobar and rue Mantine, and switched off the engine. The hot shuddering and juddering of its metal frame ceased with a final, uncertain shiver. The grinding of its gears, the blackboard screech of its brakes and the rattle of Sardé's toolbox on the warped metal floor, all the sounds that characterised movement for the Citroen, were reduced to the creak of its springs settling against the incline and the hot ticking of its corrugated flanks. As a precaution, Sardé set the offside front wheel against the kerb. The last thing he wanted was a runaway to deal with. Not this evening. Not here in Roucas Blanc.

He folded his arms over the steering wheel and looked up through the windscreen. Across the street, maybe fifty metres along Allée Jobar, peeking through a rambling palisade of hibiscus, he could see a corner of the house, a jutting prow of white stucco and rust-coloured tiles set against a darkening blue sky.

Sardé pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his shorts and wiped his brow and neck. Even with both windows down, it was stifling in the van. He dipped a hand into the mess of the door pocket, felt around, then pulled out the bottle of aftershave that he kept there. He flipped up the cap, found the nozzle and, tipping his head back, gave himself a couple of generous squirts. Even the spray felt warm as it settled onto his skin.

But at least it killed off the reek of hot oil and diesel that seeped up from the engine. This evening the fumes were worse than usual, thanks to a pair of jerrycans secured in the back of the van. Picquart had asked him to drop them off at the marina on his way home, along with a roll of tarpaulin, plastic bucket and a brand-new deck brash. A deck brash, decided Sardé, was surely pushing it; there was hardly enough deck on Picquart s twenty-footer to brash. Not that he'd ever say anything. You didn't say anything to Picquart about his boat, unless you had a half-hour to spare. At Piscine Picquart you knew it was a Friday because the old boy always arrived at the showroom in his skipper's hat, its peak braided with gold. His wattled ears were too large for him to wear it with any dignity, but at least it covered the toupe.

Sardé checked his fingernails - about as clean as he could ever get them - and glanced at his watch. A little after six, the shadows starting to lengthen. Winding up both windows, he climbed out of the van, closed the door and locked it. At the back of the Citroen he tested the lock on the doors, then came round to the passenger side, pulled out his bag and slung it over his shoulder. He glanced around casually - not a soul - and started down the street, the key he'd taken from Picquart's office patting against his thigh with a pleasurable beat. He put a hand in his pocket and wrapped it in his fist.

Two minutes later, Sardé looked around one last time, up and down the street. In this area you didn't get too many windows overlooking the road, which was a good thing, but the cars that drove around here did so with a whisper. They came up behind you just like that, and went past with hardly a hum. You had to watch out for that. One minute the street was clear, the next you got some limo purring its way home.

All clear.

Quickly now, Sardé slipped the key into the lock and turned it. Pushed his shoulder against the garden gate and slid inside.

The lowest terrace was in shade and oddly chilled. Crickets still chirruped in the tangle of branches that clung to the wall, but the heads of the frangipani were already drooping, closing into tightly twisted pink fingers. By morning the lawn here would be littered with their fallen husks. Keeping to the boundary wall, the bag bouncing against his elbow, Sardé made his way round the lawn. When he reached the steps to the second terrace he sprinted up them, keeping low. By now the windows on the topmost floor of the house were in view, but the shutters were closed. Still, he kept low and didn't hang around, following the terrace balustrade to the right, making the first stand of pines with a beating heart and catching breath. From here the ground rose sharply, a steepish slope of crumbling red earth webbed with a snarl of tree roots. He swung the bag around his neck so it wouldn't slip from his shoulder and reached up for a handhold. This was the only way to reach the top terrace with its sweep of lawn and swimming pool without being seen. If he'd been visiting for professional reasons, he'd have trotted up the steps and made his way directly to the pool. But this was no professional visit. Not with a camera, binoculars and a long-bladed hunting knife in his bag. Once again, looking for the next handhold, Sardé wondered about the knife.

He always carried it, just in case, but so far he'd used it just the once, over Borely way, when the woman he'd been after had tried to push him away and make a run for it. But he'd caught her and, without thinking, reached into his pocket and brought the blade to her throat. She'd frozen, like a statue. He'd let go her arm and she didn't move, not a muscle, the knife pressing against her skin.

He'd liked that. The look of it. What it did. The silver, curving sharpness of the steel whitening the woman's tan in a thin line, the sound of her small sobbing breaths. The low moan when he eased the knife from her neck, a slight flinching as he ran the blade to her shoulders and cut through the straps, easing down the top of her swimsuit with the tip of the knife, loosening the wrap she wore round her waist with a single slice. She'd done everything he'd said, everything the knife indicated. And when it was over, he knew she'd never say a word. Wouldn't risk it. Not a woman like that. Too much to lose.

Pulling himself to the top of the slope, Sardé brushed the dirt from his shorts and T-shirt and looked around. It was just as he'd hoped. A high stone wall covered in a tangle of hibiscus and honeysuckle shielded him from the neighbouring property and the grey flaking trunks of the pines and a bank of spiky aloe and pink-tipped oleander concealed him from the de Cotignys' terrace. Slowly he pushed himself up and peeked between the trees. Beyond the aloe and oleander, the lawn stretched out across the front of the house. Fifty metres away he could see the stone lip of the pool, the diving board, a slice of blue water and a scatter of cane-woven loungers, the kind that came with padded footstools and cost more than he earned in a week. Keeping low, Sardé scuttled along between the pines and the boundary wall, the land rising more gently now, the carpet of pine needles springy underfoot, until he reached what he had judged on his last visit to be the best vantage point, where the slope flattened for twenty feet before rising away again, up past the side of the house.