Jacquot and the Waterman (66 page)

Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.

Basquet, in the course of his various development businesses, had met with Hubert de Cotigny on a number of occasions - at formal presentations, on the cocktail circuit, even dinner on one occasion, the last time at the opening of the Aqua-Cité open-sea extension - but he had no reason to like the man. In Basquets book, de Cotigny was a snob, pure and simple. Old school.
Le gratin.
Well up there with the great and the good of Marseilles. The kind of people his wife, Céléstine, had grown up with. But he still felt sorry for the man. A shocking tragedy. Losing his wife to such a random, senseless killing - as the papers would have it - and then, within hours, reaching such depths of misery and despair at the loss of his young wife that he saw no alternative to taking his own life.

Basquet wouldn't have wished that on anyone - not even de Cotigny.

He was wondering again what impact this would have on his
permis,
how long they would be delayed, when Céléstine joined him at the breakfast table, back from her morning jog. She picked up a table mat and, with a whoosh of breath, fanned it against her face. Basquet gave her the once-over. Too like her father to be beautiful: the same drooping heaviness in the face; the same strong nose and thinning hair; and three children over a dozen years had done her figure no favours. Standing there in her sweats, a mist of perspiration on her top lip and flushed cheeks, she looked dumpy and shapeless. For the life of him, he couldn't understand what she thought she was up to and was grateful there were no near neighbours to witness her absurd efforts. One time, driving home from the office, he'd seen her out there in the lane, her arms high to the shoulder, elbows pumping, the lower half of her legs splaying out to the left and right with every step, the way women run, like the way they throw a ball. Completely uncoordinated. He'd slowed to offer her a lift but she'd waved him on - 'No, no, I must finish.' She was so breathless that she could hardly speak. In the rear-view mirror he'd seen her push back her shoulders and pick up her pace. She knew he'd be watching.

Basquet also knew, as Céléstine put down the place mat and wiped the wristband across her forehead, that she had something to ask him. She had that look about her. Hesitant but determined, waiting for the right moment.

He wasn't mistaken. 'We've had an invitation from the Fazilleaux. Dinner and piquet. This evening. Chantal says the Durets will be there too.'

This last detail she'd found out from Chantal the previous afternoon, a fact that she was certain would sway her husband. Xavier Duret was the man who'd designed and financed the Concept Tuillot in Nice, who'd built the Grimaud yacht basin and pioneered the use of firewall construction that halved structural weights, diminished project costs and increased safety at a single stroke. But she could see at once, as she finished speaking, that even the prospect of meeting Monsieur Duret wouldn't budge her husband.

Basquet sighed, gave her a sad smile, reached for her hand even.

'I'd love to, really. But I'm up to here. It's been a dreadful week and I'm way behind. Maybe I could call in later, when I'm finished?'

Céléstine nodded. 'I'll let Chantal know.' Then she stood, took up one of the papers, and walked back to the house.

Rully and Jacquot knew each other too well to be bothered by silence. Which was what was happening right then - a deep, contemplative silence settling between them. Rully, eyes fixed on the steel cord that held his plastered leg, Jacquot with his arms folded on the back of his chair, chin resting on his hands, staring at a square of sunshine splashed across the bottom of Rully s bed, ribbed with the shade of the blinds.

Beyond Rully's room, there was silence too. No rattling of trolleys this Sunday morning, no urgent ringing of phones, no distant voices or squeaking plimsolls on the shiny lino. The whole hospital could have been empty, just this one room occupied.

Jacquot had brought lunch. Two steak-and-salad pittas in a foil wrap from Gassi at La Carnerie, some wine, cheese and bread. A glass of red down and halfway through the pittas, Rully had started the ball rolling, prompting Jacquot to take him through the leads and the breaks of the previous week: the gym, the splinter, Carnot's fingerprints all over Monel's place and, finally, Saturday afternoon, tying in Carnot with the second victim.

It had been one of the squad, Bernie Muzon, who'd put it together - seeing Carnot at the front desk as Calliou itemised and bagged his possessions, and recalling the picture in Grez's apartment. But he didn't make the connection straight away. It just set him thinking. What Jacquot always loved about police work. A familiar face - you've seen it before somewhere. But where, exactly?

It took Muzon a while to place it. As Carnot waited in an interview room, Muzon went through the files, going back over the evidence, the reports, the statements, until he found what he was looking for. The photograph they'd taken from Joline Grez's bedside table. The photograph of a man with his arm draped around her shoulders. Black curly hair, dark eyes, a bored, arrogant slouch. After they'd found Grez's body in the Longchamp pool, they'd done the rounds with that photo — showing it to the staff at Galerie Prime, Grez's family, her friends - but nothing had come of it.

Until now. The man downstairs. The man he'd passed at the Duty Sergeant's desk. And when Muzon heard Jacquot was about to question the same man about another victim, Vicki Monel, he knew they were on to something.

He'd caught Jacquot on his way down to the interview room and filled him in.

'One of those lucky breaks,' said Rully, reaching up for the metal-frame bedhead and stretching his upper torso.

'And that's the truth,' said Jacquot. 'Sometimes it just piles up on your doorstep.'

'So you
really
think it's this Carnot character?' continued Rully.

Jacquot sighed. 'It would be nice just to have one more piece, you know? Just one more link. Ballarde, or the English girl, Holford, or de Cotigny.' He spread his hands. 'Take your pick. Right now, two out of five, it could just be coincidence. It could go either way. And there was nothing incriminating at his apartment. The boys searched top to bottom. Not a thing to tie him in.'

'But you're holding him?'

'Oh yes. Friend Carnot's going nowhere for the moment.'

'But you're not happy?'

Jacquot gave his partner a rueful smile. 'It's just a feeling. Nothing. Something. Who knows? Sure, we can place him with two of the victims. And yeah, sure, he could do it, kill - he's nasty enough. And maybe we can even come up with a motive - Vicki taking on the side, Grez not playing ball.' Jacquot paused, shook his head. 'It's
just...
what the Waterman does to the bodies. The sex. It
doesn't...
it doesn't fit. Carnot's not the kind of guy who'd go round using some wooden . . . some implement, when he's got the real thing.'

It was then that the two of them fell silent, Rully thinking through what Jacquot had told him, Jacquot trying to make sense of everything else that had cropped up in the last few days, all of it centred around Raissac, something flitting around at the back of his mind, still shadowy, insubstantial, not quite fitting in: Gastal's interest in the man at the start of the week; Vicki Monel's apartment owned by one of Raissac's companies; Raissac's slip of the tongue out at Cassis; Doisneau's warning about Raissac and the subsequent discovery of Doisneau's body floating in the Radoub Basin; and, thanks to Salette's efforts, the information that a Raissac subsidiary appeared on a cargo manifest as an importer on a vessel due in port that very day, a vessel owned by Basquet Maritime.

Then, last thing the evening before, yet another connection - a call coming through from Raissac to Carnot; something that Gastal had failed to mention when he dropped by the interview room to let Jacquot know he'd tracked down the Renault driver. Maybe Gastal would say something about it tomorrow. Or maybe he'd just forgotten, didn't think it was important.

But how could that be, given his interest in the man? Was he keeping it to himself - something to take to Lamonzie? For the moment, Jacquot decided to let it wait. It could all yet come together. Right now it was enough to know.

It was Rully who finally broke the silence.

'So what does your new partner think?' he asked, picking crumbs from his chest hair.

'Gastal? Difficult to say. Start of the week he was a real pain. Told me he wasn't interested in homicide, nothing in it, couldn't wait to join up with Lamonzie. As good as told me he was just marking time. Then, towards the end of the week, he starts getting into his stride. Now, of course, he thinks it's in the bag. Plain sailing. We got our man.'

'So you're not going to say anything to him? Your doubts about Carnot?'

'Not much point. Just wait it out, I guess. See where the ball goes.'

'Just don't go breaking any legs,' said Rully, packing the remains of his lunch in the foil wrap, balling it up and tossing it at Jacquot.

After leaving La Conception, Jacquot made a detour into Belsunce. He'd remembered something the night before, as he went off to sleep, thinking about Boni. And he'd felt bad about it.

That Sunday, he had one more call to make.

Claudine Eddé had her eyes on him from the moment he came into the gallery. She sat at the small desk with its computer, telephone and pile of catalogues and busied herself with the keyboard. Apart from her nod of welcome and his return smile, there had been no further communication. Each behaved as if there was no one else in the room. Or rather, as if someone was.

But now it was time to do something about it.

He'd been there long enough now, shown sufficient interest, for her to start the ball rolling. When customers realised they were talking to the artist, it was often all that was needed to tip the balance and secure a sale. Her agent had told her that when he advised her to rent the Ton-Ton and work the gallery for a week; he'd look after all the rest.

Which she was doing. The Sunday after the night before.