Jacquot and the Waterman (63 page)

Except the film wouldn't do him any good now. Difficult to blackmail the dead.

So now he'd have to start all over again; have Carnot sniff out someone new. Raissac went through the likely names for de Cotigny's job - all of them loaded with the usual petty indiscretions, but none of them with anything big. Nothing like a video. Nothing like de Cotigny.

How long, he wondered, would it take to get the ball rolling? Two months? Three? It had taken Carnot and Vicki weeks to set things up with the de Cotignys, throw them the lure, draw them in. And now Raissac was back where he'd started.

As far as he could see, there was only one advantage to be gained from the previous day's body count. With a murder and a suicide to investigate, it didn't look like the
Judiciaire
would be much of a nuisance over the next few days. And with a first consignment of two hundred kilos of cocaine about to land on French soil, that could well prove a blessing.

The last time Raissac had checked with Carnot, Basquet Maritime's
Aurore
was only a day's sail from port. And everything in position - skipper and Customs all squared away. As good as it got. If it all went according to plan, he'd have a new route and a new carrier by the following week.

As for the
calanques
deal, well, Basquet would just have to wait for his
permis.
No other option - take it or leave it. At least they'd have the money. And, if the gods were with them, all it would take to get that
permis
from whoever replaced de Cotigny on the planning committee was a large bundle of that money
sous table.
It would never have worked with de Cotigny, of course, but it sure as hell might with someone else.

Filling his cup with the last of the coffee, Raissac reached for his mobile and put a call through to Carnot. Check up on progress. See how everything was going.

The answering service came on instead, but Raissac didn't leave a message.

It was the same when he tried later.

And later still.

Patience had never been one of Carnot s strengths. And today of all days. So much to do, so much to arrange. When the Aurore dropped anchor, everything had to be in place. Or Raissac would be all over him. Which was why he'd run.

He'd been at police headquarters over three hours now, sitting in the same chair, pacing the same interview room with its barred and frosted window overlooking rue de l'Evêché. And no one seemed to know what to do with him. Except bring him coffee. Strong and black. So far he'd tossed three empty styrofoam cups into the bin and his foot was beginning to tap.

Of course he knew their game. Make him sweat. Stretch him a little. Once again, he tried to guess what they'd brought him in for. Monel or the de Cotigny woman? It had to be one or the other. The lid was too damned tight for anything else.

Carnot was speculating how much longer they might hold him, whether or not he should start making a fuss, demand a lawyer, when the door opened and a cop came in. Plain clothes like the others, a file in his hand, long hair tied in a ponytail. A big guy. A real
g
orille,
and clearly someone you didn't play around with. The same guy, Carnot realised, who'd tapped him on the shoulder outside Club Maras a few days earlier.

Monel. It was Monel he was here for. That's what all this was about. But him making a run for it wouldn't have helped.

The cop pulled out a chair and sat down, put the file on the table and flicked it open.

Carnot didn't move, sprawled back in his seat as though he had all the time in the world, watching the man leaf through the pages, trying to remember what he'd told them before. All he had to do was keep the story level, just keep it straight. That was all he had to do. But he knew he'd have to watch his step.

The cop took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offered him one.

Carnot shook his head. Not a word more than was necessary.

The cigarettes and a lighter were left on the table and from his other pocket the cop took a cassette tape, unwrapped it and slid it into the player. He pressed a button and a red light came on.

'My name is Jacquot. Chief Inspector Jacquot. It's a Saturday. May seventeenth. 2:40 p.m.' He turned towards Carnot. 'And you are . . . ?'

Carnot said nothing.

The cop looked to his file. 'Jean Alphonse Carnot. Born Tunis. Resident Marseilles for. . .' The cop looked up, gave a little smile. 'Twenty years? Off and on?'

The man held his eye, waiting for an answer.

'If you say so,' replied Carnot. Then, tipping forward, laying his arms on the table, he said: 'Maybe you can tell me what I'm supposed to be doing here?'

Jacquot spread his hands. 'Helping with police inquiries, Monsieur. Of course, if you'd like to have a lawyer present. .. ?'

'I don't think there's any need for that, do you?' replied Carnot carelessly.

The policeman shrugged. The kind of shrug that suggested the facts to hand certainly pointed in that direction. But he wasn't going to push the matter, not if Carnot was happy to continue.

'Entirely your decision, Monsieur. But I have to warn you that I am recording this interview and that anything you say . . .'

Carnot held up a hand. 'Please. Let's get to the point. Whatever it is I'm here for.'

The cop gave him a long look.

'Vicki Monel,' he said. 'You knew her. Remember?'

'You know that already.'

'You said, let's see . . .' The cop looked back to his notes, turned a page. 'You said you haven't seen her for more than a year. Maybe two. That you thought she lived somewhere up round Gare St-Charles. That correct?'

Carnot nodded.

The cop raised his eyebrows, indicated the tape recorder. He needed words.

'Yes. That's right.'

'You said she came from Toulon, Hyères, someplace down the coast?'

'That's right.' 'She live with you when she arrived in town?'

'To start with,' replied Carnot, pushing back cuticles with a fingernail.

'Where and when did you meet?'

Carnot let out a
pouff
of breath, stopped his manicure. 'Like I said, a couple years back. Some bar.'

'You told us "a party" last time.'

'Party. Bar. It's two years ago, man. Maybe more. I don't remember.'

The cop nodded, shook out a cigarette and lit it. Smoke spiralled upwards into the still air.

'And the nature of your relationship?'

'The usual. Girlfriend.'

The cop nodded.

Carnot became aware that his foot was dancing, fast, to some unheard beat. He tried to stop it. Damn coffee.

'She work for you?'

'Work?'

The cop gave him a patient look. Carnot remembered the pictures on the Internet.

'This and that. Few odd jobs here and there,' replied Carnot with a smirk. Which he knew immediately was a mistake. The smirk.

'You put her on the game? When you finished with her?'

Carnot decided to go along with it. The smirk. He didn't have much of a choice.

He nodded. Then, for the tape: 'Yes.'

'How long?'

'Four, five months.'

'Tell me about her.'

Carnot shrugged. Where to start? 'She was a looker,' he said. 'Stop you in your tracks, man. But she was wild, you know. Unreliable. Say she'd be there and then not show. Hopeless. It wasn't going to work out. Took drugs, you ask me.'

'You supply her?'

Carnot shook his head. 'No, I didn't.'

'So you lost touch?'

'Like I said, she took off.'

'And then you heard she had some place up by Gare St-Charles?'

'That's right.'