Jacquot and the Waterman (57 page)

Jacquot drained his beer and got to his feet. 'Well, Monsieur, thank you for giving me your time,' he said.

'My pleasure, Chief Inspector,' said Raissac, also standing, a little surprised that this Jacquot should have driven all the way to Cassis for such a short meeting. 'As I said, anything I can do to help.'

They shook hands and Raissac led him back the way they had come.

At Iris car, opening the door and sliding into the driver's seat, Jacquot paused, as though he'd just remembered something.

'One last question, Monsieur . . .'

Raissac held out his hands - anything.

'Do you happen to know a Monsieur Paul Basquet? Of Valadeau et Cie?'

'Of course I know him, Chief Inspector. Not well, of course. Not socially, you understand. But we do have certain business interests in common. The apartment, building supplies, that kind of thing.'

Jacquot nodded, pursed his lips. 'I see. Well, Monsieur. Thank you again, for your time and for the beer.'

Raissac shrugged off the thanks with a wave of his hand and stood back as the car moved off.

But as it disappeared into the trees Raissac felt a gentle unease settle on him. An increasing sense of discomfort. Something was niggling and he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Something had slipped but, something he hadn't meant to say, or shouldn't have done, maybe. Something small and elusive. He tried to think what it was but couldn't place it.

As he joined the Marseilles road, Jacquot played the meeting with Raissac back in his head. Like Massot had said, the house was something else. Very, very impressive - a couple of hectares by the look of it, with a driveway long enough for a car to reach third gear. No more than a mile or two from the beach at Cassis, and not another house in sight. The place must have cost a fortune.

Then there was the man himself. Raissac. Even if Jacquot hadn't known about Massot's suspicions, or Lamonzie s interest in him, or Doisneau's tip that Raissac had some big drugs thing coming up, he'd still have known that the man was more than he seemed. No amount of amiable hospitality and easy charm could cover the fact that this man smelled bad. He might affect the corporate style, but it didn't work for Jacquot. The flickering eyes, the thin mouth. And that skin, that stain, that wash of pink scarring with its puckered edges. The man looked like bruised fruit.

But that wasn't all. There was something else, something of much greater interest. Something that made the journey to Cassis worth the time and the fuel.

'Is one of them the girl who was murdered?' Raissac had asked. This from the man who'd made a point about how he only read the business and sports pages and rarely watched TV.

Yet Jacquot had never once specified gender. 'Tenant' and 'victim' were the words he'd used.

Of course, it wasn't the kind of evidence that Solange Bonnefoy was looking for; a slip of the tongue, an innocent assumption, both possibilities easily explained it away. But right now that slip of the tongue, that assumption - whatever you chose to call it - was good enough for Jacquot.

That, and what might soon prove to be a lie.

For even though Raissac claimed that he knew none of his tenants, Jacquot was convinced he was lying. He was certain Raissac would have known one of the names. Monel. Vicki Monel. And if he knew Vicki, then he probably knew Carnot. Taking another step in the dark, Jacquot decided that friend Raissac might even know about the bathroom cupboard on Cours Lieutaud. And with his fingerprints all over Jacquot s identification card, it wouldn't take long to find out.

As the road climbed up through the Ginestre hills, Jacquot slid in the Coltrane tape that Cesar had given him that morning, let his arm hang out of the window and waited for the music.

De Cotigny stood at his front door and watched his mothers car pass through the gates and turn out of sight. The ambulance and police cars were long gone and the two men from the Forensics team who had stayed on to examine Suzie's room had packed their bags and departed at about the same time as his daughter. Apart from Hortense, Hubert de Cotigny was now alone in the house in Roucas Blanc.

The day had begun with a shout that he had registered as part of a dream, but Hortense's lilting scream had brought him fully awake. He'd leapt from his bed, pulled on his dressing gown and was halfway down the stairs when Hortense came running in from the terrace, shoes clacking across the tiles, hands waving. All he could make out was 'Madame . . . Madame . . . Madame'. And then, when Hortense saw him on the stairs: 'Monsieur. Monsieur. Come quick. Madame.'

Outside, wielding the pool-cleaning net, Gilles was trying to coax an inflatable chair to the side of the pool.

The first thing Hubert saw was his wife's hand trailing backwards through the water.

It was de Cotigny who made the call to the emergency services, the acid remains of his mother's dinner rising into his mouth.

'An ambulance. My wife . ..' he'd said, and given the address, as though he believed she was still alive, as though there was some slim possibility that she could be revived, when he knew with an absolute certainty that she was past help from anyone. That slim pale hand, fingers dipping in the water; the head lolling; the fall of black hair across her shoulder. That was all it had taken for him to know that his wife was dead.

The first police car arrived with the ambulance. The rest followed soon after. The paramedics hurried through the house, hefting their bags and a tank of oxygen. It took them only a few moments with the body before one of them looked up at him, shaking his head, confirming what de Cotigny already knew.

The two policemen, gently solicitous, encouraged him back inside the house, offered to get him some coffee. A drink? One of them stayed with him, asking, de Cotigny supposed, the lands of questions policemen ask: Who? Where? When? How? This policeman, rather squat and overweight, spoke quietly, took no notes. Just nodded at each answer, pursed his lips. Looking for some nugget of information, de Cotigny realised, at a time of greatest vulnerability. Wasn't that the way they did it?

Then another policeman, a big brute of a man, came in, offered condolences and, in a warm and comforting tone, had asked more questions, seeking clarification, then asked to see the guest room where Suzie had said she'd spend the night. He'd taken them upstairs, pointed them down the hall and gone into his bedroom.

Alone, he called his mother and his daughter. They arrived within minutes of each other.

It was the two of them who took over from there, his daughter dealing with everything downstairs, his mother sitting on the bed beside him, stroking his hand. And he'd gone to sleep. Just like that. His mother stroking his hand.

The house was quiet when de Cotigny woke. His daughter had gone, but his mother remained.

'I'm so sorry, my darling,' she said, though de Cotigny suspected that she wasn't that sorry. His mother was back in his life again, the way she liked it. And the American, as she sometimes referred to Suzie, was gone for good.

Which was why de Cotigny dressed in his office clothes. To get away from his mother.

'But it's past three. Isn't it too late?' she'd remonstrated. And then, thinking of her plans: 'Are you sure you're up to it?' she'd asked, affecting concern.

'There are things I need to do, Maman,' he told her, making her nod understandingly, approvingly. 'I'll call round later. Say seven?'

Which had sealed it.

'Well, if you're sure, dear . . .' And, pleased that he appeared to be taking it so well, she'd acquiesced, got her coat, left him there.For an hour or more after she'd gone, de Cotigny wandered through the house, pausing here and there, touching his wife's belongings, picking up photos of her in their heavy silver frames, trying to get some tangible sense of her as though that would somehow replace what was missing.

It was unbearable. Suzie was gone. And his life seemed suddenly empty, without purpose, stretching ahead. Finally, he went through to the study, poured himself a brandy, drew a cigar from the humidor and sat at his desk. Turning to the bookshelves, he selected a disc from his collection, slid it into the CD player and reached for pen and paper.

In the kitchen, sitting at the table with a third glass of cognac and a cigarette, Hortense decided she was just a little tiddly. Pleasantly so. Philosophically so.

The whole thing was shocking, of course . . . and she was so sorry for dear Monsieur de Cotigny. . . But still. . . Life goes on,
n'est-ce pas?
You always have to look at the positive side of things. The bright side. And for Hortense, that meant never having to put up with that lazy, good-for-nothing, spoiled young
torchon
a moment longer.

First of all, it seemed to Hortense, these Americans had no idea how to treat staff. Never a 'please' or a 'thank you', never a moment to yourself without a call from Madame - do this, fetch that. It was good to get the in-house accommodation but there'd been a price to pay. On call twenty-four hours a day, she was, her ladyship no respecter of after-hours and the like. By the time Thursday came round Hortense was always at her wits' end, desperate to get away. Wouldn't dare stay, in case she got hauled in to cook something, clean something, whatever it was Madame fancied.

Hortense was tapping her cigarette against the lip of an ashtray when, somewhere above her, a door slammed shut, which made her jump in her chair, spilling a goodly portion of cognac onto her wrist and the sleeve of her uniform.

Damn police, she thought, wandering around like they owned the place, leaving all the doors wide open.

'I didn't think it would take you long to get back to me,' said Clisson grimly, looking up from a pile of paperwork when Jacquot appeared in his office, 'but I didn't anticipate a personal visit.'