Jacquot and the Waterman (9 page)

They can't say for certain where she went in, but this little
beach the far side of the lake looks the most likely.'

'So what do you think?'

'It's got to be the same guy. A copy of the autopsy report
is on its way but Desjartes called me on the way here with
a few details. Pronoprazone, just like the others, but
administered above the shoulder blade this time, which
means he was probably coming up from behind. And
definite penetration. She was badly bruised internally, with
significant laceration.'

'But no semen?'

Jacquot shook his head. 'And no evidence that he used a
rubber. No trace of lubricant or spermicide. They're
water-based, remember?'

Rully nodded. 'Have the papers got it yet?'

'Sailboat accident. Just a local story so far. No one's
linked it with the other deaths. Not yet anyway.'

'Well, let's hope it stays that way.'

There was a tap at the door and a nurse breezed in. She
was young and fresh-faced, a junior's striped cotton shift
showing tanned arms and bare legs.

'And how are we today?' she asked, plimsolls squeaking
on the lino floor as she moved around the bed, checking
the weight and pulleys before asking Rully if she could get
him anything.

Rully smiled and told her no, unless she knew a way to
get him out of there.

'You want to leave us already?' she exclaimed, giving
them both a hurt look, tucking back a stray wisp of dark
hair that had slipped from her cap. 'Maybe we need to
make you a little more comfortable,' she continued and,
sliding an arm around Rullys shoulders, she drew him

forward and held him against her while she plumped up
his pillows, glancing across at Jacquot as she did so. Her
fingernails were painted, Jacquot noted, which surprised
him. Pink - easy to miss but there all the same.

'There you go,' she said, easing Rully back down, fingers
brushing across his bare shoulder. 'What would you do
without me?' And with that, and a smile, she straightened
her cotton shift and left the room.

Jacquot and Rully looked at each other, thinking the
same thing.

'It's that dress does it for me,' said Rully with a wink.
'The older nurses wear slacks.' He picked at the folds of
sheet between his legs. 'Better have a book here for next
time,' he said.

'Nothing so weighty,' replied Jacquot. 'A newspaper
should do it.'

The two men smiled at each other, not really sure where
to go next. Rully started it: 'You see Guimpier?'

Jacquot said he had, told him about the flowers, that he
shouldn't expect a visit any time soon.

'So who's taking over from me?'

'Gastal.'

Rully frowned, trying to place the name.

'You'll have seen him around,' said Jacquot, getting to
his feet, pulling on his jacket. 'Came in from Toulon a
couple of months back. Worked with Sallinger and the
Vice boys to start with. Transferring to Lamonzie in Narcotics at the end of the month.'

'Fat guy?'

'Fat guy.'

Rully thought for a moment.

'Doesn't he do some trick with
escargots?'

It was Sylvianes friend Carnot who'd arranged everything. He'd phoned her that morning and given her the time and place. The bar at the Sofitel. Twelve-thirty. She'd know him when she saw him, Carnot had said. And best behaviour, he reminded her. Monsieur Raissac was very particular about people's manners.

Sylviane had been waiting for the call. Carnot had
briefed her a month into their arrangement, the way
things could go, the opportunities. So long as she behaved
herself, showed willing. Did as she was told. It was just a
matter of time, he'd said. As soon as there was an opening,
she was in. And now, it seemed, the opening was there.
Her big chance. At last. The step-up she'd been waiting
for.

Locking the door of her apartment, Sylviane took the
lift down. It was small and cramped but big enough to rest
a shoulder on the carpeted wall and slip a finger into the
side of her shoe, ease it off her toes and heel. New shoes.
Louboutin. And right now they were playing the very
devil. She should have gone for the Manolos, she thought
as the lift doors opened. They might have been a bit
scuffed and worn but they were a whole lot more comfortable than these.

That morning Sylviane had dressed for the occasion.
Cool and sophisticated. Just the kind of outfit you'd wear
at a place like the Sofitel. The new shoes, of course (damn
them); black silk stockings; a grey pinstripe Chloe suit;
blonde hair secured at the back of her head the way
Deneuve sometimes did it; and red lipstick, the colour
Monsieur Raissac favoured, according to Carnot. For all
the world she could have been a business executive representing some important corporation. Exactly the look she
wanted.

Out in the street Sylviane let the first cab, an ageing
Opel, go by, then spotted a Mercedes, flagged it down and
slid into the back seat. She told the driver where she was
going and used the time to check her make-up, her teeth,
take a few deep breaths, and dry the sweat off her hands
with a tissue. At precisely ten past twelve the Sofitel
doorman was ushering her into Reception.

Sylviane was nervous. She needed to make a good
impression and could feel a fluttering in her stomach. She
might know the way to play it, had done it enough times
after all, but this was different. This was serious. If she got
this one right, she knew it wouldn't be just the one Chloe in
her wardrobe, the single pair of Louboutins and the old
Blahniks. This could be the big time. Big money. No more
bars or private clubs, no more conferences or anonymous
hotel rooms. A select clientele, arranged through Carnot.
For which she'd get the new apartment he'd told her about.
Off the Cours Lieutaud someplace, good and central. And a
lot more money. Even with Carnot's cut, it was more than
she'd ever earned in her whole life. A few more years and
she'd be on her way.

At the reception desk the hotel staff were pleasingly
attentive when she asked if they could direct her to the
bar, called her 'Madame' and pointed across the foyer
where a flight of stairs descended in a series of railed
terraces to a long picture window overlooking the Vieux
Port.

'I'll know him when I see him. I'll know him when I see
him,' Sylviane repeated as she crossed the creamy marble
expanse of the foyer, Louboutins tapping, and stepped
down into the main bar on the first level. But she couldn't
see him, couldn't see anyone who looked like they could
be this Monsieur Raissac. So Sylviane found herself a
small table, ordered a vodka tonic from the steward and
made herself comfortable.