Jacquot and the Waterman (6 page)

'Not a thing. No watch, no rings. Nothing to trace.'

'So what do you think?'

Jacquot measured his words. 'It certainly looks the
same. Young woman. Naked. Drowned. The lesions on the
hairline where he pulls the head back. The bruise between
the shoulder blades, like the others, consistent with holding the victim under. We'll know for sure when we get the
autopsy report.'

Guimpier nodded. 'So, Daniel. What next?'

'See what Records come up with. That'll be a start. And
chase up the tattoo.'

'Don't tell me, a heart?'

'Three words.
Le Vieux Port.
Like some kind of signpost.'

Guimpier gave a grunt. 'Which makes you think she's
from around here?'

'Seems a fair bet to me.'

Guimpier tipped forward, reached across the desk and
flicked through a file.

'With Rully down, I'm putting you with Gastal. Bring
him up to speed.'

'Gastal? The one from Toulon?' Jacquot had seen him
around. Like a fat little puffer fish, the kind Chez Peire
had hanging from the ceiling. A year or so younger, maybe,
same rank, but Jacquot's senior in the force by a couple of
years. 'Isn't he Narcotics?'

'End of the month. For now he's roving
.
. Guimpier
pushed the file aside and tapped his fingers on the desk,
something to cover the shakes. 'He's been doing a bit of
time on Vice. But you'll need help and he's all I've got
right now.' Guimpier shot Jacquot a look. 'Just don't let
him get to you. What I hear, he's not the easiest customer.'

Jacquot nodded and got to his feet. 'I'll be a pussy cat.'

'And go see Rully,' said Guimpier, pushing back from
his desk and digging his hands into his pockets. 'Give him
my best but tell him not to expect flowers. He's too old to
be playing football.'

'Rugby. And he's only thirty-three.'

'Exactly. And look where it's got him. Leg in plaster and
hallway through an investigation.'

'Let's hope we're a little further than that.'

They were, Jilly thought, like some joyous, extravagant escort guiding them home. Perched in the prow of Anemone, her bare, tanned legs dangling free, hands gripping the salt-crusted rails, cobalt water splashing and hissing along the hull, Jilly Holford watched the three dolphins rise and fall beneath her, marvelling at their speed and grace. One minute their long, arched bodies swerved and shimmered beneath the surface, the next they broke above it, dorsal fins slicing through the water, sleek humped backs glistening in the morning sun. Sometimes they came so close it seemed she could stretch out a pointing toe and touch them before they peeled away out of reach.

Tim, at the wheel, had seen them first and had called
down the companionway for Ralph and Jilly to come
topside to see them. His brother, still sulking, had
remained below with his charts, plotting their final course
for Marseilles, but Jilly had climbed up, clambered forward to the bows and had sat herself down to watch, the
brisk westerly that filled
Anemone's
sails snatching at her
T-shirt and filling the pockets of her shorts. They weren't
the first dolphins they'd seen on this long, difficult voyage,
but Jilly felt something stirring and comforting in their
presence. They seemed to say, you're nearly home and
we're so pleased to see you. Let us show you the way.

It had been a great trip to begin with, just the two of
them, Ralph and her, sailing north from Grenada, up
through the islands to Antigua. She'd been waiting tables
in a quayside restaurant in St George's when they'd met.
He'd just wandered in one evening, tattered shorts and
T-shirt, tousled hair and a big, slow smile, taken a table by
the bar and ordered beer and a snapper fillet. When the
kitchens closed he was still there and, at his invitation, she
joined him for a drink. He asked where she was from, what
she was doing in Grenada, said he was soriy when she told
him about her parents, wiped away by a drunk driver, and
nodded when she tried to explain how she'd needed time
out, time to travel, time to wash away the grief. In six
months she'd be starting university, she told him, a new
life. Till then .
.
.

When the restaurant closed, he'd waited for her to grab
her bag and they moved to another bar along the quay,
ordered tots of rum. With that slow smile hovering on his
lips, his knee touching hers, he'd told her how much he
liked her cap of auburn hair, her freckled nose, and asked
about the topaz necklace she wore that matched her
sky-blue eyes.

Warmed by his attention, the touch of his leg against
hers, Jilly'd asked what he was doing, where he'd come
from, where he was going?

Looking for crew, Ralph told her, staying long enough in

Grenada to resupply his yacht
Anemone,
then heading up
the islands, and out across the Atlantic. Did she sail? Did
she know boats? Maybe she'd like to join him?

Two hours later, naked, locked together on the
Anemone's
deck, with the stars blinking down at them and the lights of St
George's shimmering across the water, Jilly had said yes. The
following day she'd quit her job and three days later they'd
set sail, island-hopping their way to Antigua where Ralph
was picking up his younger brother.

'You'll like Tim,' Ralph told her. Six months bumming
his way round South America and now headed home, an
extra pair of hands for the voyage.

Which was the problem. Jilly did like Tim. Very much.
A younger, fresher version of Ralph who suddenly didn't
look quite so good beside his younger brother, getting all
skipperish once Tim was aboard, something he'd never
done before, something Jilly didn't much like.

They were two days out of the Azores, heading for
Marseilles, when Ralph discovered what was going on, saw
the way Tim gave her a nod to go below, before following a
few minutes later. When Ralph confronted them as they
came back topside, and as Tim tried to deny it, Jilly had
interrupted the exchange to say yes, right out, it was true.
That's all there was to it, and if Ralph didn't like it he could
turn back for San Miguel and drop her off, get someone
else along the quay to take her place. But Ralph wasn't
having any of it and, setting his lips in a thin, silent line,
had sailed on.

And then the storm broke.

Ralph would have known it was coming. Jilly and Tim
didn't. Not until they noticed the heightening swell rising
up behind their transom, the cool breeze off its crest
ruffling their hair and licking their bare ankles. The first
smacking pellets of rain, from a line of black clouds
banking up above their wake and gaining on them fast,
confirmed it.

The blow carried them north-east, had them clinging on
tight, sails down, all-hands-to, and lifelined. By the time
the storm overtook them and raced on ahead, they were
only a day from Gibraltar.