Jacquot and the Waterman (55 page)

'Does he remember anything more about whoever it was caught him?'

Serre shook his head. 'Didn't see a thing. Someone in the trees, is all. Couldn't say whether it was a man or a woman, old or young.'

'Let him stew a couple hours more,' said Jacquot. 'Then give it one more go. If his story holds together, have him show you where he lives. Take a look. Anything belonging to any of the victims, anything that might tie him in. I'm not banking on it, but we better make sure, cover the bases.'

Serre gave a thumbs-up and disappeared.

Next into Jacquot's office were Muzon and Dutoit who'd paid a call on Carnot at his apartment.

'Some kid called Alice making him breakfast,' said Bernie with a grin. 'Seems they met up around seven last evening. The girl confirmed it.'

'And the English lads?'

'Same with them,' replied Dutoit. 'Both accounted for.'

And then a call came through from Al Grenier, one of the longest-serving officers on the squad. Jacquot had asked him to chase up Hervé Thierry at Basquet Immo when he got back from La Joliette the day before, but it had slipped his mind. It came sharply into focus when he heard what Grenier had to say.

'Monel's flat is owned by a leasing company. Raissac et Freres.'

Jacquot sat up at that. 'You got an address?'

'Head office Rabat. Morocco.'

'Anything closer?'

'Not a thing. That's it. Since it's not a publicly-quoted company there's no records available.'

'What about the other girls who lived there? Before Monel. Did Thierry have any information about them? Forwarding addresses?'

'Nothing,' replied Grenier. 'Said they left rental to the leaseholder. Not their business. Maybe this Raissac operation will be able to help.'

When Grenier signed off, Jacquot put a call through to Toulon; an old pal on the local force, Massot.

After the usual pleasantries, Jacquot got straight to the point.

'Raissac. Ever hear of him?'

'We know the name but that's it,' said Massot. 'Has interests all over. Building supplies mainly, but there's hotels, gambling. But nothing on him, though we'd love to find something. Three, four years ago we were certain he was behind some pretty big drug movements. Had the docks round his little finger. We pretty much cracked the scam, took out a lot of big names, but we never could prove a thing far as this guy Raissac went.'

'You got an address?'

'Is this official?'

'Just interested, is all. Anything comes up you'll be the first to hear.'

'He has a place near Cassis,' said Massot. 'Off the road into town. Very private. Perimeter walls. Security cameras. The business. All you can see from the road is sky.' 'Easy to find?'

Shortly before lunch, the body of Suzanne Delahaye de Cotigny arrived at the Marseilles City Morgue on Passage de Lorette and was prepped for autopsy by the state pathologists three assistants. The victim was weighed, sheeted, and laid out face down on a stainless steel deck. Instruments were set out on clean cotton squares, weighing scales were rolled over to the head of the deck and tested, and a new tape was inserted into the recorder. A blood sample was taken and sent for analysis with an instruction to check for pronoprazone and get back soonest with the result.

When everything was ready, Doctor Laurent Valéry was summoned from his office.

Normally any body arriving at Passage de Lorette joined the queue. There were rarely fewer than half a dozen corpses in the cool room awaiting examination and a strict rota was observed. First in, first out - the way
V
aléry liked it. But a call from Clisson had persuaded him to put aside other work and concentrate on Madame de Cotigny, which was probably why Valéry was in such a waspish mood that morning. He didn't like his schedule being messed with, even if there was a killer on the loose. Pathology was all about method, he liked to tell his students, and mediod was the mistress of patience and discipline. When his three assistants heard his white boots squeaking down the tiled corridor towards the autopsy room, they straightened their backs and fell silent.

Bustling through the swing doors and dressed in green hospital scrubs, the state pathologist resembled nothing so much as a sprightly goblin intent on mischief. Sixty years old, a fraction over five feet tall, with a horseshoe of grey hair teased into extravagantly curled sideburns, Valéry was a stooped but energetic man who'd been cutting up bodies for the last forty years. In the next two and a half hours, Suzanne Delahaye de Cotigny would surrender all her secrets to the silvery blade of his scalpel and his probing, rubber-clad fingers.

The first thing Valéry did when he reached the table was to whip off the sheet that covered the body, letting it drift to the floor for an assistant to retrieve. As usual, the examination began with a visual, his assistants stepping back while Valéry moved freely around the deck, peering down at the body through wire-framed, half-lens bifocals. At the end of the circuit, Valéry had his assistants turn the body face up and he repeated his drill.

'White female,' were his first words. 'Mid-thirties . . .' A flick of his fingers, and rubber gloves were snapped on him by an assistant. With the same fingers, he parted the victim's hair an inch behind her ear, looked over the top of his glasses, then stood back. 'Natural brunette. Weight. . .'

'Sixty-five point three kilos,' said one of the assistants.

'Sixty-five kilos.'

With a thumb and forefinger Valéry lifted an eyelid and top lip in one movement. 'Eyes brown. Teeth her own . . .'

And so it had gone, the state pathologist noting all external characteristics, from the colour of the victim's nail varnish to the bruising on her arms and the lump on the side of her head. Across the room, the sound-level needles of the tape recorder jumped at his high, nasal commentary. When he completed his autopsy, the tape would be typed up and a summary sent to Jacquot, along with Valéry's usual handwritten observations.

Before taking up the scalpel, however, there was one further procedure that he wished to carry out. With a nod to his assistants, the victim's legs were lifted into stirrups, spread apart and the bolts on the tables lower quarter were released, making room for Valeiy to sweep forward on a roller chair, pulling a magnifying lamp with him and reaching for a speculum.

For what seemed an age, there was silence in the autopsy room, just the squeak of springs from Valéry's chair as he leant forward between Madame de Cotigny's thighs. Then, bringing the magnifying lamp into play, he gently exhaled as though he'd been holding his breath.

'Well, well, well,' said Valéry, as though he'd just bumped into an old friend. Discarding the speculum and selecting a pair of tweezers from the instrument tray, he settled back behind the magnifying lamp.

Standing around him, the three assistants watched as he eased apart the victim's labia with two gloved fingers and leant forward with the tweezers.

'And what have we here?'

Jacquot took the old D559 east out of Marseilles, winding up into the hills of Ginestre before spooling down to the valley beyond. On his left the craggy limestone ridges of the Carpiagne chain rose up against a sky as blue as gentian, the sea away to his right glittered distantly in the morning sun, and the warm air rushing past his open window was rich with the heady scents of pine, salt and wild fennel. Jacquot took a deep breath. The best perfume in the world, he decided, as he reached the sign for Cassis and turned back to the coast.

The trip to Cassis had taken Jacquot a little more than forty minutes, not only a glorious, invigorating drive from the city on such a beautiful morning but an opportunity to review the facts that had occasioned the journey. Facts, Jacquot well knew, that added up to nodiing more than a sliver of coincidence and a whisper of intuition. Facts he could as easily have reviewed over a lukewarm cup of coffee in the office.

One of the Waterman's victims lived in an apartment block owned by Valadeau et Cie, and a second victim had been found in the open-sea pool built by a subsidiary of that company. Both companies were run by Paul Basquet, the tiresome little
couillon
whom Jacquot had visited in his office on La Joliette, and instantly disliked. Which was maybe why he'd slipped so easily into his slow, stupid cop routine.

And now the latest twist. According to Grenier, the lease on Vicki Monel's apartment had been bought from Basquet s property company by Raissac et Frères. The first time out with Gastal, his new partner had had him check on a man called Raissac. Then, the very same evening, Jacquot bumps into an old, old friend from way back, who tells him that this Raissac has something to do with a big drugs deal going down in the very near future. Which explained why Lamonzie had given him such a mouthful for putting his stake-out at risk.

Which was why Jacquot had decided to make the trip to Cassis, on the off chance that he might be able to get a look at this Raissac character. Just like he'd done with Basquet. Maybe it was something. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was just. . . well, a coincidence. Nothing more.

As he followed the twists and turns of the road leading down to Cassis, lazily playing the steering wheel to left and right, Jacquot wondered if Raissac and Basquet knew each other. Had to; even with lawyers doing all the work on the apartment purchase, the two principals must have met up at some time or other. If Raissac was at home he'd be sure to ask him, Jacquot decided, as he pulled off the road and drew up at a pair of high wooden gates two hundred metres past a roadside stall selling melons and peaches, just as Massot had described it. He wondered idly if Lamonzie's men were about, keeping a watch on comings and goings, but didn't give a hoot if they were.

Jacquot got out of the car and went over to the entry- phone grille, stretching as he did so, feeling the heat beat down on him, the swell of insect noise drowning out the Peugeot's idling engine.