Jacquot and the Waterman (49 page)

They were all there. Peluze and Grenier, Chevin and Dutoit, Laganne, Serre, Muzon and Isabelle Cassier, each marking out their own area of inquiry: Peluze and Grenier with Gilles, the gardener, working him through the discovery of the body, the last few days . . . anything suspicious? Isabelle Cassier sitting in the kitchen with a tearful Hortense; Chevin and Dutoit sweeping the gardens; and Laganne, Serre and Muzon, according to Dutoit, waking the neighbours, asking questions, getting statements.

Jacquot went straight for the victim, settling himself on a lounger at the side of the pool where three of Clisson's men worked on the body, laid out on the flagstones in a shadowing puddle of water. Crouched around it like worker ants attending a queen, gloved and zippered, they combed through her hair, secured her hands in plastic bags, moved her head from side to side, opened her mouth, peered into ears and nostrils. Three more, on hands and knees, scoured the surrounding flagstones.

'Is this where she was found?' Jacquot asked Clisson, who was unloading a film from his camera. His ginger hair was still slick from his early-morning shower.

Clisson shook his head, bagged the roll of film and fitted a new one into the camera. 'In the chair,' he replied, nodding at a plastic inflatable armchair tethered to the diving board. He closed the back of his camera and an electric motor wound the film on.

'And?'

'Same as the others, you ask me. Drowned, no question. Drugged? Possibly. We'll know later. Sex? This one looks pretty brutal to me. And, like the others, the same pattern of bruising between her shoulder blades and on her upper arms, as though she was held down . . . restrained. Also, she's got a lump on the left temple the size of an egg,' continued Clisson, taking up a position to photograph the victim's feet and legs. His colleagues stopped their work on the body and moved back, giving him room. 'If she wasn't drugged,' continued Clisson, sighting through the lens, 'the chances are she was unconscious the whole time.'

Jacquot looked at the body. He could see a shiny swelling on the side of the head by the hairline, a soft bruising above the elbows and angry red rub marks between her upper thighs. Like the other Waterman victims, there was no jewellery on the body.

'Time of death?' asked Jacquot.

Clisson adjusted the focus and shot off a couple of frames, then moved to another position. 'Eight, nine, maybe as late as ten p.m. At a guess.'

'When did they find her?'

'About an hour ago. The gardener

'You seen Gastal?'

'The fat guy at Aqua-Cité?'

Jacquot smiled. 'That's the one.'

'In the house somewhere. With the husband.'

Jacquot got up from the lounger.

'Looks like your man's moving upmarket,' said Clisson over his shoulder.

'You mean the house?'

'And who owns it.'

'Yes?'

'Family called de Cotigny. Old Marseilles money. Very influential. Big political clout. The husband, Hubert de Cotigny, is head of planning and development at the Prefecture. Nothing, absolutely nothing, happens in this city without his say-so. And his mother,
whoa ...
a real political player,
grande dame
of the old school. When the press get hold of this

'Don't,' said Jacquot. 'I don't want to hear.'

Clisson shrugged and gave him a tiny, satisfied smile as though he was glad it wasn't his job to find out who was responsible.

On Jacquot's way to the house, Chevin called him over. 'B-b-boss, you want to take a look?'

Jacquot changed direction, stepped out onto the lawn.

Pierre Chevin was squatting on his heels, pointing to something on the grass. Jacquot crouched down and took a look. A scuff of red earth showed through the turf.

'And there,' said Chevin, pointing to another. 'L-l-looks like this was where it started.'

Jacquot and Chevin got to their feet.

'You ask me,' said Chevin, turning to point, 'the k-k- killer came up the steps, or more likely from the trees. Maybe hiding out, waiting for the right moment.'

'Anything over there?'

Chevin shook his head.

'Ways in?'

'Walled right round. They all are up around here. Front gate. Electronic. You need a b-b-buzzer to open it. The railings are too narrow to squeeze through, but you could get over the front w-w-wall if you wanted. It's quiet enough round here so no one would see you.'

'Who gets the buzzers?'

'There are three. The maid, husband and victim. K-k- kept in their cars. All accounted for. Deliveries ring in through the intercom. The gate can be opened from the f-f-front door.'

'Any other way in?'

'Garden door down the bottom terrace. Opens on to J-J-Jobar. According to the gardener, it's always locked.'

'Keys?'

'I'll check with Al.'

'Let me know,' said Jacquot and he turned back to the house, wishing he'd drunk a little less of Cesar's brandy.

After looking in on Isabelle in the kitchen, consoling the maid, Jacquot found Gastal in the study with Hubert de Cotigny. Wrapped in a silk Paisley dressing gown - striped pyjama trousers and worn Moroccan slippers showing beneath its hem - de Cotigny was slumped in an armchair, his thin grey hair awry, eyes red and vacant, cheeks drawn and unshaven. Jacquot judged him somewhere in his late fifties, old enough to be the victim's father. Gastal introduced them.

De Cotigny looked up, gave Jacquot a brief nod.

After the formalities of sympathy and condolences to which de Cotigny responded with another brief nod and a tightening of his lips, Gastal brought Jacquot up to speed.

'Monsieur de Cotigny here was out last night, having dinner with his mother in Castellane. He got home round ten-thirty, ten-forty-five.'

'Did you see your wife, Monsieur? When you got home?'

De Cotigny didn't seem to have heard the question.

Jacquot was about to repeat it when de Cotigny shook his head.

'I've told your colleague everything I know, Chief Inspector.'

Jacquot turned to Gastal.

'Apparently Monsieur de Cotigny called the vict— his wife, Madame de Cotigny, round six-thirty last evening, on his way to his mother's. She told him she wasn't feeling too well and was going to bed.'

'She said she'd sleep in the guest room. Asked me not to disturb her,' added de Cotigny.

'She actually said that? Not to disturb her?'

De Cotigny frowned. 'Not exactly. She said . . . she said she would see me in the morning.'

'And when you got back, after dinner with your mother, the place was locked? Secure?'

'The front gates were open, but that's not unusual. Inside I closed the doors to the terrace and activated the alarm.'

'The front gates and terrace doors were open?'

'My wife was not good with locks, doors. Always leaving them open. She didn't think. Like I said, it wasn't unusual.'

'And did you go out on the terrace, to see if she was there, before you locked up?'

'I didn't think to. It was late. There were no lights on out there. And, anyway, she'd said she was going to bed early. I assumed she was already upstairs. Asleep.'

'And you didn't look in on her? To see if she was all right?'

De Cotigny shook his head. 'I didn't want to disturb her. My wife . . .' He paused for a moment, squeezed his thumb and forefinger into the corner of his eyes.

'Yes, Monsieur?'

De Cotigny sighed, got to his feet. 'My wife is . . .
was ...
a light sleeper. She would not have appreciated my waking her up.' He walked to the study door. 'And now,

Chief Inspector, if you don't mind, I would like to get dressed.'

'Of course, Monsieur. And . . .'

De Cotigny turned at the door.

'. . . Perhaps you'd be kind enough to show us the room where your wife slept?'

'You mean, where she
would
have slept?'

'If you wouldn't mind.'

Exchanging looks, Gastal and Jacquot followed de Cotigny from the study. He led them across the hallway to the stairs and started climbing, hand on the rail as though to steady himself, laboriously, like a mountaineer on some demanding summit slope. When he reached the landing, de Cotigny pointed down the corridor.