Jacquot and the Waterman (72 page)

'But you can give us names? The people who saw you at these clubs?'

'Sure.'

'Well that's fine. Give us a list and we'll check them out. Until then, however, I very much regret we'll have to keep you here

'Now just a fucking minute . . .' said Carnot, hands reaching for the table, glaring at Jacquot.

'Please, Chief Inspector,' interrupted
Maître
Denis, pulling Carnot back. 'Really, my client has been most helpful.'

'Not nearly helpful enough,' replied Jacquot. 'I think a little more time to think things over is needed. Then we can talk again.'

And with that Jacquot pulled the tape from the machine and left the room.

Max Benedict jogged up the steps of the headquarters of the
Police Judiciaire
on rue de l'Evêché and presented himself at the front desk.

Sergeant Calliou was on duty. He gave Benedict a questioning look: 'Monsieur?'

'I would like to see Chief Inspector Jacquot.'

The sergeant shook his head. 'I'm afraid the Chief Inspector is busy,' he said. 'And you are . . . ?'

'It's about the Waterman,' said Benedict.

Calliou shot him a look. 'He's still busy. I'll call one of his team.'

'It has to be Jacquot,' said Benedict.

Calliou gave it some thought.

'Then you will have to wait, Monsieur. There is seating over there. In the meantime I will let him know that you are here.'

Benedict took a seat and checked the time. He was in no hurry. He could wait all day if he had to. And whether he actually got to see Jacquot or not, he'd decided, was unimportant. Already he was getting the kind of material he was looking for. Atmosphere. A real sense of place, activity. The uniforms and the babble of French, the posters on the walls, the comings and goings, the strong, stale smell of tobacco in a room that, in three separate places as far as Benedict could see, had signs prohibiting smoking. All so different from the bland, soulless station house in Palm Beach where he'd spent so much time in the last few months.

As things turned out, he didn't have long to wait. Twenty minutes after arriving at police headquarters, a few brief observations scribbled into his notebook, Benedict spotted a policeman heading across the hall in his direction. He was in plain clothes but you could tell him a mile off.

'You wanted to see Chief Inspector Jacquot?' said the man, taking up a position in front of him. He spoke English with a heavy accent, but the words were correct and courteous.

So his French wasn't as good as he thought it was, Benedict realised. He was out of practice after only a few months away and the Duty Sergeant had spotted it. 'Yes, yes, that's right,' he replied, then continued in French: 'If it's not too much trouble.'

'And you are?' Infuriatingly the policeman kept to English, as though he couldn't be bothered wasting time with halting schoolboy French when his own English was so much better.

'Max Benedict,' he replied, a little chastened.

'And may I ask what this is about?'

'The Waterman case.'

The policeman nodded, gave it some thought. Then he came and sat beside Benedict, leaning forward, elbows on knees, eyes looking straight ahead as he spoke, his hair, tied in a ponytail, coiling over his collar.

'If you have any information, Monsieur. Any one of the team . . .'

'It has to be Jacquot.'

The policeman sat back, gave him a look. 'I'm Jacquot.'

Benedict was delighted. He couldn't have crafted it better. What an introduction.

'I thought I might be able to help,' began Benedict. 'You see, I knew Suzie de Cotigny. That's to say. . .'

'How? Where?'

'In New York. She . ..'

At which moment the policeman's mobile rang. He flipped it open, holding up a hand to silence Benedict.

'I'll be there,' he said and snapped it shut. Then, turning to Benedict: 'You ever see a dead body?'

'Many times.'

Jacquot gave him a penetrating look as he took this in.

'Then we'll talk in the car.'

With most of her cargo unloaded, save for the timber in her forward holds, the merchant ship
Aurore
sat higher in the water than she had done earlier that day, her mud-coloured flanks now greened with a glistening coat of seaweed. Pushing back his
kepi,
Emile Jalons watched a net bellied with sacks settle onto the quayside and sighed with relief. This was his second, and final, visit to Bay Seven and the unloading could now continue without further interference from him. He'd put in his two official visits - just like the book said. If the Drug Squad were going to make an appearance or bullets were going to fly, they were cutting it fine. Once the cargo was signed off and the bond hall doors secured, he was out of the firing line, safely back in his office at the other end of the quay, his interest in whatever the
Aurore
was carrying, and the interest of the Customs service, at an end. In a couple of hours his shift would be over and hang the lot of them.

Thirty metres away, a gang of dock workers unhooked the load's netting and transferred the last of the kaolin onto pallets. Belching clouds of black exhaust, the fork-lifts moved into action, picking up the loads and bearing them off to the bond hall. As they disappeared into its shadowy interior, Jalons rested his clipboard on the bonnet of his car and signed off each sheet of the manifest with a flourish. Slipping the originals into his briefcase, he handed Dupuys the copies.

As his sergeant loped off to the
Aurore's
gangway and made his way up the steep incline, Jalons shaded his eyes and looked up at the flying bridge. Was that Mallet, the skipper, the one with the beard and no cap? The one looking down at him. Was he in on the act, Jalons wondered? Did they have a tape of him? It wouldn't have surprised him. Jalons waved, snapped off a quick salute. As he lowered his hand, he cut it across his throat.

Up on the
Aurore's
flying bridge, Francois Mallet glanced down at the senior Customs officer. The man had been a gem. No asking to have cases unpacked, no demand for sacks to be opened. Just a routine inspection, by the book. For a moment Mallet wondered whether the man was in on it. A little backhander, something to keep the wolves from the door. Mallet suspected so. Unloading a freighter was rarely this straightforward.

Not that he had anything to worry about, of course. Not now.

Stifling a yawn, he watched Dupuys claw his way up the gangway with the clearance papers. Once he had them, Mallet could call the shipping-line manager and confirm Customs clearance for owners and distributors, sign off the crew for shore leave, secure the ship and head into town.

Down on the quay, the senior Customs man gave him a wave, saluted, then ran the side of his hand across his throat. Job done. See you next time.

Which was when Mallets attention was drawn to three unmarked Peugeots drawing up alongside the Customs officers car. Before they'd come to a stop, a dozen armed men had bundled out onto the quay. They clearly knew what they were doing and in a matter of seconds the docking bay was secured: two men disappearing into the warehouse, three herding together the dock workers, another pair standing guard at the warehouse doors and four of them hammering up his gangway. The last member of the team was talking to the senior Customs officer, showing his ID and clearly intent on taking over.

Mallet's heart sank. The way things were shaping up he'd be lucky to make town any time soon.

At least the ship and its cargo were clean.

It took Jacquot twenty minutes to reach the fishing port of Vallon des Auffes on the road out to Fausse Monnaie. It took nearly the whole of that time before he realised that his passenger, with the freckled scalp and tortoiseshell glasses, had nothing to tell him that he didn't already know or suspect. All Benedict had done was provide some interesting New York background, verify their speculation about Suzanne de Cotigny's sexual preferences, and confirm that she enjoyed recreational drugs - which squared with the presence of cocaine in the guest bedroom at Boucas Blanc.

But that was all.

'How long did you know her?' asked Jacquot, after a short silence.

"We never actually met.'

'You never met?'

'Not directly, no. It was my job. It brought me into contact with them.'

'And what job would that be, Monsieur?' asked Jacquot.

'I'm a journalist,' said Benedict quietly. 'I work for—'

Jacquot didn't hesitate. He pressed his foot to the brake, changed into neutral and pulled into the kerb. There was a beep of protest from a car close behind that had been taken by surprise by this manoeuvre but Jacquot paid no attention. He reached across and opened his passenger's door.

Thank you for your help, Monsieur. It has been invaluable.'

'You're letting me out here?'

'The walk back to town will do you good. Clear your head.'

After a moment's stunned silence, his passenger hefted his knapsack and got out of the car.

Merde,
said Jacquot to himself as he drove off, leaving Benedict on the sidewalk. A journalist, for God's sake. How on earth could he have walked into that one? Glancing in his rear-view mirror, Jacquot could see the man a hundred metres back, standing at the kerb. Serve him right, decided Jacquot, as he turned off the Comiche road and followed the steep hillside lane into Vallon des Auffes.

Down on the quay a gendarme lifted a
Do Not Cross
perimeter tape and Jacquot pulled up behind Grenier's unmarked Peugeot.