Jacquot watched these preparations from his table outside Fin de Siècle. It was late afternoon and the construction crews had pretty much completed the public seating areas and were now working on the stage scaffolding around the town’s Roman arches. It was through these that Monsieur George Benson would make his entrance, playing on two fronts – to the street crowds milling along Bournissac and to the paying audience in seats and side bleachers in place du Tourel.
‘You going to be there?’ asked Guy Fourcade, tipping more pastis into his glass and shovelling around in the bucket for fresh ice.
‘Wouldn’t miss it.’
‘Professional or social?’ asked the town’s examining magistrate, dropping ice into his glass.
‘Both I should think. On hand, of course, but sitting with Claudine and Midou and praying no one needs me. What about you?’
‘Row four, behind the Mayor. You?’
‘Bleachers, in front of the tourist office.’
‘You hear the rumour about Jarreau?’
Jacquot nodded, smiled.
‘Who told you?’
‘Patric at Le Tilleul. He had some press boys up from Nice, and they said it was as pretty damn near certain as it got.’
‘It would be a treat. Let’s hope.’
The two men fell silent, and watched the first spotlights being swung into place on scaffolding gantries set behind the back row of bleachers. All around was the ring and clang of scaffolding, and the tap-tapping of hammers.
‘I was talking to Rochet the other day,’ Fourcade continued. ‘He said there might be leads on the Blanchard case. That it’s part of a bigger operation, like you said.’
Jacquot had been waiting for this ever since Fourcade had strolled past the bar, seen him and joined him for a drink. It might have seemed like an accidental meeting, but Jacquot knew better. Even so, Fourcade had finished his first pastis before he started in.
‘Six murders so far, in a little under five months. Different jurisdictions so they won’t have been flagged. Three in Marseilles, and two outside Forcalquier since the Blanchard killing.’
Fourcade nodded, took it in. Gave it a minute or so’s careful consideration.
‘Suspects? Leads?’ he asked.
‘Two sisters. Corsican. Marita Albertacce and Marina Manichella. We’re keeping a low profile on the investigation so we don’t spook them. Right now we need to draw them out.’
‘They’re here? Around Cavaillon?’
‘That’s a distinct possibility,’ said Jacquot, recalling the close encounter in St-Beyelle the previous evening.
‘You’re laying bait?’
Jacquot finished his Calva.
‘You could say.’
‘What? Who?’
‘Claudine and Midou.’
Fourcade gave a start.
‘Claudine? You’re not serious?’
‘I wish I wasn’t. But that’s where the action seems to be pointing. Two sisters getting even for the deaths of their brothers. Targeting anyone who was involved, but taking it out on their families, lovers . . .’
‘Is there anything you need? Any help?’
Jacquot was surprised to hear what sounded like genuine concern from the town’s prosecutor.
‘Just keep an eye out for a dark-coloured VW and two women, one tall, one short. If you spot them call me.’
Over on place du Tourel a bank of lights blinked on, bathing the stage in a bright glare that seemed to make the dusk grow darker. In seconds, it seemed, a host of moths and other insects swarmed in the beams of light.
‘If I were looking to get even, it seems to me tomorrow evening would be a good time to do it,’ said Fourcade.
‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ replied Jacquot.
52
‘A FIFTY SAY YOU’LL NEVER guess who just flew into Le Mas Bleu.’ Jean Brunet looked particularly pleased with himself.
It was Saturday morning and Jacquot had come to the office early to catch up on some paperwork. He had left Claudine and Midou, still asleep, at the millhouse, and locked the front door behind him.
‘Put me out of my misery.’
‘Well, I’ll give you a clue,’ Brunet began.
‘And I’ll give your bony, biking arse a kicking if you don’t tell me de suite,’ replied Jacquot with a dangerous smile.
Even under the threat of assault, Brunet managed to stretch it out a few more moments.
‘Mademoiselle . . . Virginie Cabrille.’
Jacquot, with his feet up on his desk and his ankles crossed, sat up at that.
‘You are joking?’
‘She’s booked the whole place. Le tout. A private party for the George Benson concert.’
‘And how . . . ?’
‘I bumped into Gunnar Larsson, Valbois’ boyfriend, remember? He was picking up supplies at Artagnan’s – the most beautiful melons. Their chef is thinking of . . .’
‘Cabrille. Cabrille,’ Jacquot interrupted. ‘I want to hear about Mademoiselle Virgine Cabrille, not Larsson’s blessed chef.’
‘Ah, the Mademoiselle, mais bien sûr. She came in last night, by helicopter, with a couple of friends. And apparently there are more joining her today.’
‘How long are they staying?’
‘Just a couple of nights. Larsson told me the place had been booked solid, but Mademoiselle made it worth their while to cancel all reservations. They made up a story about a fire in the kitchen. So sorry. Hotel closed. With – get this – Mademoiselle offering to cover the cost of complimentary accommodation at some future date for all those guests whose rooms she’d taken.’
Jacquot got to his feet and reached for his jacket.
‘I think we should pay her a call, don’t you?’
‘She sounds like the kind of woman I’d like to meet.’
Half-an-hour later, Jacquot and Brunet turned down the drive of Le Mas Bleu, passed between the second set of pillars and parked in its gravelled forecourt. They were hardly out of their seats before Valbois came down the steps to greet them.
‘She is playing tennis, Chief Inspector,’ he told them, when Jacquot asked where he could find Mademoiselle Cabrille. At the mention of her name, a stricken expression had settled on Valbois’ face, as though Jacquot’s presence there could only mean that something was about to go horribly wrong, and that the lucrative deal he and Gunnar had negotiated might somehow be at risk. Jacquot reassured him that it was just a personal call and that there was nothing to be alarmed about, taking the path to the tennis courts that Valbois had pointed out.
The sound of play soon reached them – the pock-pock-pock of a rally, followed by a shout of glee and howl of protest.
‘It was out! Over the line.’
‘You need glasses, chérie . . .’
Coming through an arch of drooping scarlet bougainvillaea Jacquot and Brunet stepped out onto a decked terrace beside the court. There was a small wood-built changing room, a bamboo-fronted bar beneath a split cane canopy and a number of tables, chairs and benches set out in its shade. Jacquot and Brunet ordered coffees and took a table.
On court two women were about to play a point. One was blonde, with a ponytail sprouting through the back of her baseball cap, bending forward, racket in hand, waiting for the delivery. Across the net, unmistakable with her slicked back black hair, was Virginie Cabrille, arms and legs tanned a warm caramel, their toned length emphasised by a tight, short-sleeved tennis shirt and pleated skirt. She wore a white sun visor, long white socks and trainers, and had a sweatband round each wrist.
‘It’s Cabrille serving, right?’ asked Brunet, as the lady in question tossed the ball in the air, rose on her toes, and smashed it hard and square across the net. It sliced past her opponent before the other woman had a chance to move.
‘And what makes you think that?’ asked Jacquot, clapping lightly at the ace. Down on the court, farthest away from the terrace, Virginie Cabrille glanced up at them before pulling a ball from the band of her under-shorts and
setting up another serve. If she recognised Jacquot she gave no sign of it, bouncing the ball before tossing it high.
‘Because she’s a hard one,’ said Brunet, as racket connected with ball. ‘No way blondie’s going to win. It’s black-top in charge.’
Another ace whipped down the court and Brunet nodded.
‘See what I mean?’
The two women played on for another ten minutes with Virginie Cabrille finally taking both game and set. Picking up towels and wiping themselves down, they opened the wire door, closed it behind them and came over to the terrace. As they approached, Jacquot got to his feet and gave Mademoiselle Cabrille a smile and nod of greeting.
It was not returned. Although she had met him on two separate occasions, the last time only two months earlier, Virginie Cabrille conjured up an expert look of confusion, of possible embarrassment, a lost, do-I-know-you sort of expression.
‘Daniel Jacquot, Mademoiselle. We met a couple of months ago at your house in Roucas Blanc.’
She gave him another closer look, as though maybe, vaguely, she remembered.
‘I was with Chief Inspector Muzon, from police headquarters on rue de l’Evêché.’
‘Mais bien sûr. I remember now.’ And she stepped towards him – just one step – and held out her hand. So that he had to reach forward. She gave a sharp little smile. ‘Yes, of course. That’s right. Your wife is an artist. And don’t you live around here somewhere?’ She turned to her friend, held up a finger. ‘Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll come up to your room in a minute.’
‘That’s right,’ said Jacquot, gesturing to their table, that she should join them there. ‘Can I offer you a drink, Mademoiselle? Some water? Coffee?’
She shook her head. ‘That’s very kind, Chief Inspector, but I really must be getting on. It was good to . . .’
‘Tell me,’ he continued, not giving her time to cut the conversation short, ‘did you know that a murder was committed here, at Le Mas Bleu, just a few months ago?’
Virginie Cabrille frowned.
‘A murder? Really? No. How could I know such a thing?’
‘A young woman,’ said Jacquot. ‘A bride, on her wedding night. She’d married one of the policemen at the shoot-out in your house in Roucas Blanc. I told you about it when we met there. With Chief Inspector Muzon?’
She shook her head.
‘I’m afraid I don’t recall . . . And I certainly didn’t know that there’d been a murder committed here. Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I really . . .’
‘You are here for the concert? For Monsieur Benson?’
‘That’s right, yes. A small party of friends.’ She gave another short, brisk smile, as if to enquire whether it was any business of his.
‘They say Monsieur Al Jarreau might be making a guest appearance.’ Jacquot turned to Brunet, who nodded in agreement.
‘Well, that would be nice,’ she said. ‘Will you be going?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it,’ said Jacquot, smiling broadly. ‘Maybe I’ll see you there?’
She gave another short little smile, a maybe smile, as though it was no great matter to her whether he did or did not, then nodded to Brunet, turned on her toes and went after her friend.
Both men watched her go, racket and hips swinging, skirt swirling.
Brunet gave a soft approving whistle.
‘Like I said, a hard one.’
Jacquot nodded.
‘Did you see her eyes?’ his assistant continued. ‘Colder than a crocodile’s. I don’t think she blinked, just set them on you and looked. A kind of lazy, hungry look, if you know what I mean. Like she was sizing you up for a bite. And not a friendly bite . . .’
53
THERE WAS NO DOUBT IN Jacquot’s mind that Virginie Cabrille had recognised him the moment he’d stepped through the arch of bougainvillaea, found a table and ordered coffee. Maybe she even knew their paths would cross on this trip to Cavaillon, had planned it deliberately. The way she glanced over at him, then turned her attention back to the game, pulled the ball from her shorts and served her ace . . . as if he didn’t exist. Or, if he did, that he was of absolutely no interest to her. And she had behaved in exactly the same manner off-court, with a remarkably assured performance of failing to recognise him until prompted, when all the time she knew very well who he was, and why he was there.
Brunet was right. A hard one, through and through. What Jacquot couldn’t work out was why she should bother with the subterfuge, pretending not to know him.
Of course she knew him.
And he knew her.
It was a ridiculous game to play.
But she had played it very well indeed, immediately distancing herself from him, in front of Brunet and her friend, and distancing herself, too, from anything the Manichella sisters might have planned. As Brunet drove them back to Cavaillon, Jacquot wondered why she should choose to be so closely involved. The two brothers – Taddeus and Tomas Manichella – were hardly family, and in personal terms all she had lost was a few days’ freedom while her smart Paris lawyer found whatever loopholes he could to effect her release, with all charges dropped. Hardly enough to warrant involvement in a killing spree, carried out by two sisters whose thirst for revenge – an old and well-established Corsican tradition – was driving the action. That she was funding the two sisters, supporting them, he was in no doubt, but whether for kicks, for a laugh, or for some deeper, more complex reason, Jacquot was still unable to say.
He was equally in no doubt that her presence, that particular weekend, at Le Mas Bleu, was no coincidence, and as he and Brunet arrived back at headquarters in Cavaillon, Jacquot had a sudden and discomforting thought, which he couldn’t shift, that while he and Virginie Cabrille played their game of cat and mouse, something had happened at the millhouse. Back in his office, he called Claudine. The phone rang six times, Jacquot holding his breath, his heart rate beginning to pick up. When the ansaphone connected, he jammed down the receiver and hurried from his office.
With the concert preparations closing so many of the access streets in Cavaillon, it was an agonisingly slow journey out of town. Once again he wished he’d taken a squad car, or had the emergency blue light he could fix to his roof, to get everyone out of his way. But he wasn’t driving a squad car, and he didn’t have his emergency light, and every snail’s pace metre, every hold-up and red light was a torture, stop-starting all the way along a crowded Cours Leon Gambetta, the midday sun scorching down, pulsing off the road and beating against the Renault’s dusty bodywork.
And then a ‘beep-beep’ and a flash of lights from a car coming towards him. A very familiar car. With two very welcome, familiar faces visible behind the windscreen.
‘We were just going to call by your office,’ Claudine called out as their progress was halted almost parallel to Jacquot’s car. Midou leant across her mother and blew him a kiss. ‘There’s some shopping we need to do. We thought we’d take you to lunch first. Maybe Gaillard’s?’
‘We’ll take you, but you’re paying,’ shouted Midou.
Jacquot took a deep breath, heart somersaulting with relief, almost angry with them for causing him such concern. But he held it in, drowned it with relief.
‘Good idea. Just what I was thinking. Park at headquarters. I’ll meet you there.’
There was a beep from the car behind and Jacquot drove on, down under the railway bridge, around the roundabout and back into town, seeking out Claudine’s Renault just a few hundred metres ahead in the slow-moving line of traffic.
From now on, he determined, he wasn’t going to let them out of his sight. Even if it meant an afternoon trailing round the shops.
54
BY THE TIME THEY ARRIVED back at the millhouse, with Jacquot never more than two cars behind them, Claudine pleaded fatigue and said she was going upstairs to rest. She was tired, she explained, after the wine at lunch and from their shopping, and she wanted to get a couple of hours’ sleep before the concert. It was going to be a
long evening. The information, given to him by the stairs, was accompanied by the merest peck of a kiss and a wagging of the finger whose meaning Jacquot recognised. She was not to be disturbed. An hour later, closing her books at the kitchen table, Midou too said she was going for a rest.
‘Got to be fighting fit for George,’ she told Jacquot, also pecking his cheek before disappearing upstairs. Standing in the kitchen, warm sunshine slanting through the blinds, Jacquot heard her bedroom door close, and the house, as he finished his coffee, settled into a peaceful, slumbering silence, broken only by the low chirk-chirk, chirk-chirk of insects from the garden.
Jacquot washed up his cup and laid it on the draining-board. Then he leant against the sink and looked around the empty kitchen. It was the heart of the house, where everything happened, and now it was quiet, empty. He looked at the beams in the ceiling, through the half-open door leading to Claudine’s studio. Three years ago he’d come here for the first time, staying overnight, followed by a weekend here and there when work allowed, when he’d cut her some wood or fix some faulty window latch; when she’d watch him, take the measure of him. But most of the time – because it was short, stolen time – they spent in her bedroom, warm and soft and prettily scented, muslin drapes shifting in the breeze, a bee buzzing in their folds; brief, afternoon encounters (when she called him or he just dropped by), encounters that ended with a coffee here in the kitchen, or a glass of wine out there on the terrace, or Claudine still asleep in her bed as he stole from the house. Until, finally, she’d slipped him a key and then helped him move his stuff from the loft apartment on Cours Bournissac.
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