3
Boni. Boni Milhaud.
The tight, sky-blue jacket and the pencil skirt with that winking pleat behind the knees. The silver wings on her lapel and that crisp little airline cap of hers clipped to a brunette bob.
Jacquot remembered every detail. Flight 427, Charles de Gaulle to Djibouti, via Marignane, Marseilles. Air France. A Sunday night. Last flight out. Two years come July. The plane was packed, but she'd caught his eye as she went through the safety drill, pulling the tapes on the life jacket. Those eyes just latching onto his as if to say I hope you're paying attention.
He'd been surprised to see her walking the crew channel at Marignane where he got off, even more surprised to find her still waiting at the cab rank when she'd had such a head start. He spotted her from the concourse where he'd stopped to buy cigarettes. While he waited at the counter, a half-dozen cabs had come by and she'd shaken her head at each. He wondered if she was waiting for someone. So he went out to the rank. And she was waiting for someone. Him. They took the next cab that came along. She didn't go all the way on a Sunday night, she told him. To Djibouti. Not Sundays.
Which had made him smile.
At his suggestion, the cab dropped them at Chez Peire in Le Panier. They'd only got a table that late because it was him. Jacquot. Hallway through their meal, Boni had looked at him over her wine glass and told him how tired she was, and how she just hated taking off her own stockings. And that was that. So much for not going all the way on a Sunday night.
That first night, after Chez Peire, she'd taken him to the Hotel Mercure overlooking the Quai des Beiges. And every time after that, whenever she passed through, stopping overnight, she'd call him from Charles de Gaulle, and that's where they'd end up. Hotel Mercure, fifth floor. Where the Air France crews put up. Where Jacquot quietly fell in love - and she, he believed, fell in love with him.
One of the things that Boni liked was that people knew him, recognised him. Jacquot noticed it early on, whenever someone looked at him in that particular way, placed him, remembered. How she'd tighten her arm around his, making it clear that he was hers, sharing the glow when people stopped to shake his hand, buy him a drink. Even after all that time. The celebrity. That's what appealed to her. His past. What he had done on the playing field all those years before. In his blue shirt with its gold coq insignia. The winning try. Against the English. All this time and people still remembered. The ponytail. The double takes. The smiles of recognition. Nothing to do with the police, the job he had, though Boni liked that too - its glamour, its roughness, the way Jacquot knew his city.
Then, three months after that last flight out from Paris, Boni relocated to Marseilles and moved into his place, the apartment on Moulins, top floor, under the disapproving glare of Madame Foraque. Of course they were never going to hit it off, the two women. The smell of the Widows soups, bubbling thickly on her range, the reek of her cheroots, the rolled-down socks she wore, the too-heavy mascara globbing her eyelashes and the pink pools of rouge on her cheeks. The way she peered round the glass-panelled door of the conciergerie whenever she heard a footfall in the hallway, always greeting him with a 'Jacquot, ça va? Some soup?', but never saying more than a 'Mademoiselle' to Boni, a brief little toss of her head. No, those two were never going to get on.
At first, in Marseilles, Boni worked as ground staff at the Air France office on Canebiere in the centre of town. But it wasn't long before she was back on flights. Twenty- seven years old. Chief purser now. Transatlantic routes from Marseilles to New York, Boston, Los Angeles. Back and forth. Six days round trip, door to door, four days off. Which was not the way that Jacquot liked it. The week crept by and the four days zipped past. But Boni never seemed to mind, bustling up the stairs loaded with bags from Fifth Avenue and Rodeo Drive, this and that, four hundred filterless Gitanes for him, a bottle of good cognac. And her smile and that warm scented hug and, in the early days, the searching hands, shedding her uniform, drawing him through the bags and the wrappings to the bedroom or the sofa, or the small balcony when it was warm enough. That was what it was all about for Boni. The leaving and the returning. The heat and the passion of it.
Then, one afternoon while she was away, Jacquot was calling at the Novotel to check some credit-card fraud that the management had reported when he saw her leave the bar with a man, watched her cross the reception area and get into the lift with him. If Jacquot had worked in an office, he'd never have seen her. But he did see her, caught her red-handed, while she was supposed to be serving lunch in first class thirty-five thousand feet somewhere above the Atlantic. That was what really hurt Jacquot. The deception, as much as the infidelity. But he'd said nothing. She was younger than him, nearly twenty years. So what? A little on the side. Who didn't? He could maybe imagine doing the same himself. In the time they'd been together, he'd come close, he'd be the first to admit. But coming close was as far as he'd got. Whereas Boni. . .
For a while he persuaded himself that he didn't mind. It wasn't important. And she still loved him, regardless, the thing he was sure of. But then, sometime later, they'd argued about some silly, stupid trifle - the way she always left a coffee ring on the bathroom windowsill and how she never wiped it away, leaving the job to him, the lack of consideration - and before he could take it back he'd said it, said what he should have kept quiet about. Seeing her at the Novotel, adding something spiteful about the last flight from Paris, not going all the way to Djibouti, just for good measure. At which she'd given him a stunned, then pitiful look and slammed out of the apartment.
Six days later she was back, tearful, tanned and sorrowful. And he'd forgiven her, and they'd made it up, under the stars, out on the balcony.
Then, not six months later, she was pregnant, throwing up into the basin he'd just washed his face in. The sheer wonderful joy of it for him. Fatherhood. He'd walked to the office, the morning she told him, with a spring in his step and a whistle on his lips. But a week into the third month, Boni lost it. A smeared stain on the bedsheet and a gentle smile creasing her bloodless face, her head settling back on the pillow, no tears brimming in her eyes. And he'd known, kneeling beside the bed, known as certainly as he could, that she was relieved, known too that the child she'd lost had not been his.
Now, thought Jacquot as he made his way along the lanes of Le Panier, now it looked like Boni had gone for good.
4
Yves Guimpier, Chief of the Marseilles Police Judiciaire, turned from the window when Jacquot knocked and entered.
Guimpier was tall, gaunt and round-shouldered, a short-sleeved singlet visible beneath his cream striped shirt, the loose knot of his tie not quite hiding the collar button. His hair was a comb-tined mix of grey and white, slicked straight back off a high forehead, his eyes blue and slanted, lips thin as splinters, cheeks long and hollow. Le Chef. The Man. He might look like he'd been squeezed out of a tube but Jacquot knew that Guimpier could handle himself. Thirty years with the force and only the last four behind a desk.
Guimpier nodded to a chair and Jacquot sat down. Guimpier stayed standing, slid his shaking hands into his pockets and looked back down into the street where a jackhammer grunted. The shaking hands were the reason he found himself behind a desk.
'You hear?' began Guimpier, keeping his back to Jacquot.
'Hear what?'
'Rully. Broke his leg. All we need.'
Jacquot closed his eyes. Opened them. 'When?'
'Saturday.'
'How?'
'How do you think?'
'Where is he?'
'Conception. You should call in, see him.'
Jacquot nodded.
'Any luck with the body?' continued Guimpier.
The body. The reason Jacquot had been out of town. There'd been no need to go but it beat staying in the apartment. Boni had returned home Friday evening, still in her uniform, and they'd started straight in. The way it had been the last few weeks. The sniping, the scratching. Little things. Then a weighted silence. Movin
g around the apartment like shadows, no word spoken.
The drive north had soothed him, the chalky bluffs, the clear, snaking highway, a high blue sky and the lulling salsa rhythms of Stan Getz and Joao Gilberto. And then in Aix the company of his old friend Desjartes, from way back. He'd arrived in time for lunch, a little place off Cours Mirabeau, just the two of them talking over old times, then seen the body and noted the tattoo - eleven letters in red and blue and green, elegantly scrolled and stitched into the skin high up on the inside of the thigh. The tattoo and the welts, a web of them criss-crossed over her buttocks and the tops of her legs, the original red stripes leached by the water into a cross-hatching of black lines. The third body they'd retrieved in as many months.
'Like they said,' Jacquot shrugged. 'Nothing. Except the tattoo. We're checking prints and missing persons.
Something'll turn up if she was from round here, or has form.'
Guimpier turned from the window, pulled out his chair and sat down.
'How long was she in the water?' he asked, stretching out and clasping his hands round the back of his head.
'According to Desjartes's boys, a week, ten days.'
'Drowned there or dumped?'
'They're pretty sure she was drowned there. Fresh water in the lungs - no trace of salt, chlorine or fluoride.'
Guimpier took a deep breath, let his eyes drift to the ceiling, then dropped them back on Jacquot. 'Access to the lake?'
'Not easy. There's the slipway at Salon-le-Vitiy, but this time of year there's too many people around. A restaurant, the sail school, campsite. He'd never have managed it. And there's no current to account for the drift. Three kilometres, at least, to the beach where she was found.'
'Any other possible drop-offs?'
'The rest of the shoreline is too thickly wooded. Maybe a ten-metre bank most of the way round and difficult to reach. Too much trouble to carry or walk her through. The beach is different. I went out yesterday, took a look with Desjartes. There's a track leads down from the road. It's rough going, but not that rough.'
'So he knows the area?'
Jacquot shrugged. 'Not necessarily. He could have checked it out beforehand. It's pretty deserted round there.'
Guimpier nodded, took it in. 'Whose land?'
'A farmer called Prud'homme.'
'Anything on him?' 'Not a thing. Too old, anyway. Late seventies. Maybe eighties.'
'Family? Workers?'
'According to Desjartes, all accounted for.'
'Anything on the track? The beach? Tyre marks? Footprints?'
'Nothing. No rain up there the last month.'
'Who found her?'
'An English guy. Stopped there with his family.'
Guimpier looked interested. 'Could there be any involvement?'
Jacquot shook his head. 'When the body went into the lake, they were staying at a gîte outside Orange; place called Courthezon. Desjartes checked their stoiy and it all held.'
'She drugged?' asked Guimpier, moving on.
'They're still waiting for the tests to confirm it, but Desjartes reckons if she was, she was maybe coming round. Realised what was happening and tried to fight back.'
'And how does he figure that?'
'There were traces of a rubbery black material under two of her fingernails. Actually a sponge. Neoprene. Looks like our man wore a wetsuit.'
'Water gets cold up there at night,' said Guimpier thoughtfully. 'Sex?'
'Hard to say. Again, we'll have to wait for the report. But she'd been beaten.'
Guimpier gave him a questioning look.
'Caned,' explained Jacquot. 'What with the tattoo, Desjartes reckons it might be work-related.'
'On the game?' 'It looks that way.'
The other victims? They weren't hookers.'
'Not so far as we've been able to establish.'
'Any clothes? Jewellery? Anything lying about?' This last was said hopefully. They needed something.
Jacquot shook his head.
'Not a thing. No watch, no rings. Nothing to trace.'
'So what do you think?'
Jacquot measured his words. 'It certainly looks the same. Young woman. Naked. Drowned. The lesions on the hairline where he pulls the head back. The bruise between the shoulder blades, like the others, consistent with holding the victim under. We'll know for sure when we get the autopsy report.'
Guimpier nodded. 'So, Daniel. What next?'
'See what Records come up with. That'll be a start. And chase up the tattoo.'
'Don't tell me, a heart?'
'Three words. Le Vieux Port. Like some kind of signpost.'
Guimpier gave a grunt. 'Which makes you think she's from around here?'
'Seems a fair bet to me.'
Guimpier tipped forward, reached across the desk and flicked through a file.
'With Rully down, I'm putting you with Gastal. Bring him up to speed.'
'Gastal? The one from Toulon?' Jacquot had seen him around. Like a fat little puffer fish, the kind Chez Peire had hanging from the ceiling. A year or so younger, maybe, same rank, but Jacquot's senior in the force by a couple of years. 'Isn't he Narcotics?'
'End of the month. For now he's roving .. Guimpier pushed the file aside and tapped his fingers on the desk, something to cover the shakes. 'He's been doing a bit of time on Vice. But you'll need help and he's all I've got right now.' Guimpier shot Jacquot a look. 'Just don't let him get to you. What I hear, he's not the easiest customer.'
Jacquot nodded and got to his feet. 'I'll be a pussy cat.'
'And go see Rully,' said Guimpier, pushing back from his desk and digging his hands into his pockets. 'Give him my best but tell him not to expect flowers. He's too old to be playing football.'
'Rugby. And he's only thirty-three.'
'Exactly. And look where it's got him. Leg in plaster and hallway through an investigation.'
'Let's hope we're a little further than that.'
5
They were, Jilly thought, like some joyous, extravagant escort guiding them home. Perched in the prow of Anemone, her bare, tanned legs dangling free, hands gripping the salt-crusted rails, cobalt water splashing and hissing along the hull, Jilly Holford watched the three dolphins rise and fall beneath her, marvelling at their speed and grace. One minute their long, arched bodies swerved and shimmered beneath the surface, the next they broke above it, dorsal fins slicing through the water, sleek humped backs glistening in the morning sun. Sometimes they came so close it seemed she could stretch out a pointing toe and touch them before they peeled away out of reach.
Tim, at the wheel, had seen them first and had called down the companionway for Ralph and Jilly to come topside to see them. His brother, still sulking, had remained below with his charts, plotting their final course for Marseilles, but Jilly had climbed up, clambered forward to the bows and had sat herself down to watch, the brisk westerly that filled Anemone's sails snatching at her T-shirt and filling the pockets of her shorts. They weren't the first dolphins they'd seen on this long, difficult voyage, but Jilly felt something stirring and comforting in their presence. They seemed to say, you're nearly home and we're so pleased to see you. Let us show you the way.
It had been a great trip to begin with, just the two of them, Ralph and her, sailing north from Grenada, up through the islands to Antigua. She'd been waiting tables in a quayside restaurant in St George's when they'd met. He'd just wandered in one evening, tattered shorts and T-shirt, tousled hair and a big, slow smile, taken a table by the bar and ordered beer and a snapper fillet. When the kitchens closed he was still there and, at his invitation, she joined him for a drink. He asked where she was from, what she was doing in Grenada, said he was soriy when she told him about her parents, wiped away by a drunk driver, and nodded when she tried to explain how she'd needed time out, time to travel, time to wash away the grief. In six months she'd be starting university, she told him, a new life. Till then . . .
When the restaurant closed, he'd waite
d for her to grab her bag and they moved to another bar along the quay, ordered tots of rum. With that slow smile hovering on his lips, his knee touching hers, he'd told her how much he liked her cap of auburn hair, her freckled nose, and asked about the topaz necklace she wore that matched her sky-blue eyes.
Warmed by his attention, the touch of his leg against hers, Jilly'd asked what he was doing, where he'd come from, where he was going?
Looking for crew, Ralph told her, staying long enough in
Grenada to resupply his yacht Anemone, then heading up the islands, and out across the Atlantic. Did she sail? Did she know boats? Maybe she'd like to join him?
Two hours later, naked, locked together on the Anemone's deck, with the stars blinking down at them and the lights of St George's shimmering across the water, Jilly had said yes. The following day she'd quit her job and three days later they'd set sail, island-hopping their way to Antigua where Ralph was picking up his younger brother.
Jacquot and the Waterman Page 2
