'He married? Single?'
'Not married, no.'
'Girlfriend?'
Picquart shrugged, spread his hands, didn't think so.
'And yesterday? What time did you close up?'
'Around five. The usual, give or take. Sometimes we got a customer comes in last thing we don't send him packing, you understand my meaning.'
'And you were here all day?'
Picquart thought about that. 'Well, not yesterday. Not the whole time. I had some things to collect for the boat. My cruiser, down on the Vieux Port. Thirty feet of fun. Marvellous. Nothing like it. Do you sail, Chief Inspector?' He tapped the peak of his captain's hat.
Jacquot gave him a look, got to his feet and started moving round the office. Filing cabinets, a cork board pinned with business cards, notes and flyers, a couple of pictures of Picquart aboard his boat, and a Sunseeker calendar hung on the back of a second door. Picquart's eyes never left him.
'Well, like I was saying, I needed some supplies. Brush, gas, some tarp, so round three I went up to Marina Supply - 'bout half a mile back.'
'Leaving Maxine here, and Sardé?'
Picquart nodded. 'Just the two of them.' 'And you locked the key cupboard? Your office? While you were away.'
Picquart shrugged. 'No reason to. Like I say, it wasn't more than fifteen minutes I was out.'
'Could you ask Maxine to step in here a moment?'
Picquart shouted out her name and a moment later Maxine shuffled into the office, straightening her sleeves and brushing the lap of her skirt. The waist was too tight and a salami-sized roll of fat bulged under her button- fronted jumper. Also, without the gum to disguise it, her bottom lip was too full and gave her face a sullen slant.
'When Monsieur Picquart left the showroom yesterday, did he have any visitors while he was out?' Jacquot asked. 'Anyone go into his office?'
Maxine looked at Picquart, as though it was her boss who'd asked the question. 'No one, Monsieur. Nobody was in here.'
'Thank you, Maxine,' said Jacquot.
She bobbed and left.
'You want me to call in Sardé?' asked Picquart.
'And he would be where . . . ?' asked Jacquot.
'Workshop, most likely,' replied Picquart. 'Out back.'
Jacquot pointed to the calendar and the second door. 'Can I get there through here?'
'Sure, go ahead.' Picquart started to get to his feet. 'I'll show you over there.'
'No, no, it's fine,' said Jacquot, opening the door. A gust of warm breeze pushed its way in and riffled through the pinnings on the cork board. 'Just a word and then I'm on my way.'
'You mind my asking what it's all about? The de Cotignys?'
Jacquot paused in the doorway, as though considering Picquart's request.
'Yes. I do,' he replied with a smile and stepped out into the sunshine. The man would find out soon enough.
It was only a few steps from Picquart's office to the workshop. A Citroen van with Piscine Picquart painted on the side had been backed up into the entrance since his arrival. Jacquot noted that the offside flank had been crumpled and when he saw Sardé gathering up a coil of hoses from the workbench - the white shorts and T-shirt, the limbs brown and muscled, the bleached hair - he knew he'd seen the man before. In a side street off rue St-Ferreol on Monday night, the Citroen wedged up against a bollard and Sardé getting out to inspect the damage, lifting a finger to the beeping drivers held up behind him and unable to squeeze past. When he was good and ready and not before. Like he couldn't give a damn. Like he'd like to see anyone step out of their car and discuss it with him.
'You want the boss, he's in the office,' said Sardé, lugging the coil of hoses to the van, hefting them into the back.
'And you are?'
'What's it to you?' asked Sardé, returning to the workbench for another load.
'Whatever I want to make of it,' replied Jacquot, flashing his badge. 'So why don't you put down the hoses and pay attention?'
Sardé tossed the second load of hoses into the van, then took a stance, stuck his hands in his pockets and gazed over Jacquot's shoulder to the flyover.
Jacquot suspected this wasn't the first time that Sardé had dealt with the police. The other thing Jacquot could see, behind the bored look on Sardé s face, was a sudden discomfort. This was a man with something to hide.
'Last evening,' began Jacquot. 'Between five-thirty and eight, you were where?'
Sardé shrugged, stalling while he thought up a convincing answer. So that was what this was about. Roucas Blanc. There'd been a complaint.
'I dunno. Having a beer someplace?'
'Where, exactly?'
Another shrug, digging the toe of his trainer into the dirt. He nodded along the strip. 'Henri's. Up Plombières
way.'
'And how long were you there?'
'Hour. Maybe two. Played some pool.' As soon as he gave the additional information, Sardé knew he'd gone too far - volunteered too much.
Jacquot knew it too.
'And you were playing pool with?'
'Couple of the lads.'
'Friends?'
Jacquot could see Sardé trying to work out whether it was better to say friends, or some guys he didn't know.
'Sure,' he said, sounding even more uncertain.
'Names? Addresses?'
'Look. . .'
'You said they were friends. So they'll confirm you were there. Right?'
'Sure. Sure.' Sardé could see that he'd dug himself a hole and was standing on the edge. 'So what's all this about, then?'
Jacquot didn't mind the dodge, the sidetrack. He knew the man was lying. No point pursuing it.
'You worked here long?'
'Two years.'
'You like it?'
Jacquot could see that Sardé had no idea where this was going.
'It's okay.'
'You get out a lot? Deliveries? Better than an office.'
Sardé nodded, eyes flickering.
'When was the last time you visited the de Cotigny property? Roucas Blanc?'
Sardé made the mistake of trying to repeat the name, as though he couldn't quite place it. The two words came larded with a throaty guilt.
'De Cotigny?' He pulled a hand from his pocket and scratched the side of his nose. 'Couldn't say. A month, maybe. You'd have to ask the boss.'
'He says Monday.'
'Yeah, well. Maybe. We got a lot of contract work, you know. Difficult to remember every place. One pool's much like any other.'
'You know Madame de Cotigny?'
'Sure. Seen her around, you know.'
Jacquot nodded. 'Attractive woman.'
'You say so.'
'You got a coat, mon ami?'
'No, I...'
'So what are we waiting for? Let's go.'
It took just seven words, in the car back to town, to get the truth out of Sardé.
'Madame de Cotigny was murdered last night,' said
Jacquot lightly as he turned into Boulevard des Plombières.
'Jesus!' said Sardé with some feeling. But nothing more.
Halfway along Plombieres, Jacquot slowed the car and pulled up outside the bar where Sardé had claimed he'd been playing pool the night before.
'Isn't this Henri's?' asked Jacquot, turning to look at his passenger. He didn't switch off the engine; he knew they wouldn't be getting out of the car.
'Look . . .' began Sardé.
And Jacquot had him.
'Okay. I was there, right, out at Roucas Blanc,' said Sardé.
'Doing what?' asked Jacquot, as he pulled away from Henri's and headed on towards town.
'Waiting.'
'Waiting for what?'
'For . . . you know . . . Getting it together. There's a lot of ladies like her in my line of work. Bored, you know. Want some fun.'
'Madame de Cotigny?'
'Sure. Look,' Sardé said, a little desperate now, realising what a fix he was in. 'You didn't know her. She was up fo
r it, right? Asking for it. Giving me all sorts of come-ons. I was just goin' round to collect.'
'So she called you, set up the meet?'
'No, I just. . .'
'Just thought you'd call by?'
Sardé gave a kind of non-committal shrug.
'So you get the key from the boss's office while he's out?'
'Right. . .'
'Replace it with another?' 'Right..
'So how did you know last night would be a good time to call?'
'I didn't. I mean, I knew it was the staff's day off, but that's all.'
'So you were going to take a look, see if the coast was clear?'
'Right. Right.'
'And what happened?'
'When I got there she wasn't alone. She had some friend with her. A woman.'
'You see who it was?'
They were stopped at lights on rue Maleve. When they changed to green, Jacquot glanced in his rear-view mirror and pulled out for the A7 feeder ramp.
'Some girl. . .'
'And?'
'Young. Twenties. Shortish hair.'
'So what did you do?'
'Stayed out of sight.'
'In the trees. You hid in the trees?'
Sardé nodded.
So Chevin had been right.
'And?'
'And then the girl leaves. I hear a car start up, drive away. When Madame comes back to the terrace she's alone.'
'She come through the house?' asked Jacquot, reaching the autoroute and joining the stream of traffic.
'No, round the side.'
'Which was when you made your move?'
'No, no. I stayed where I was. Watched a while, you
know. Make sure it's all clear.' 'And?'
'And then someone sees me, in the trees, calls out, you know. "Hey, you!" kind of thing. Scared the shit out of me.' 'And?'
'Well, I legged it, didn't I?' 'You see anyone?'
'Hey, I wasn't hanging around, you know.' 'Man or woman?' 'I told you I didn't see no one.' 'The voice, man or woman?' asked Jacquot patiently. 'I don't know. A man? Hard to say.' 'Did Madame de Cotigny hear the voice?' 'I dunno. I was out of there, wasn't I? Didn't stay to look.'
'So the last time you saw Madame de Cotigny she was alive and well?'
'Absolutely. Large as life. You gotta believe it.' Back at police headquarters, Jacquot took Sardé up to the squad room and handed him over to Serre.
'Our friend here was out at the de Cotigny place last night. And he'd like to cooperate in any way he can. Isn't that so, Monsieur?'
Sardé nodded, started to look hopeful. 'Seems to think I believe his story,' continued Jacquot, who had no doubt at all that Sardé was telling the truth. 'Maybe he'll be able to persuade you.'
51
The boys were young, sixteen and eighteen according to Carnot, with the bodies of angels, skin coloured an ashy brown, hair black and curly, limbs loose and long. Coupchoux had brought them over to Raissac's house in Cassis the evening before. Now the two boys were preparing breakfast in Raissac's kitchen, sashaying out with cutlery and china to lay the table on the terrace where Raissac sat, his hand reaching out to caress their bodies whenever they came within reach. Which was as often as they could manage.
Raissac couldn't remember their names. Or rather, which was which. Was Hamid the older of the two, the one with the ring through his ear? Or was it Abdul, with the long eyelashes and sleepy brown eyes? It should have been a simple matter to tell the difference between a sixteen-year-old boy and an eighteen-year-old man, but it wasn't. Dressed in sarongs, knotted low around slim hips, their bodies were similar in every way - height, colour, muscle tone. They were like twins, heavenly twins, and really, thought Raissac, watching them, who gave a damn how old they were, or even what their names were? In an hour Coupchoux would be there to drive them back to town and Raissac would never see them again. Unless he chose to. For now, sitting at his breakfast table, the sun prickling its morning warmth across his pitted shoulders, it was enough just to watch them, a pair of young, supple bodies brushing together, the two of them squabbling like children over how to use the juicer, the correct way to prepare scrambled eggs, and how long to bake the freezer baguettes.
Pushing back his chair, its legs grating against the flagstones, Raissac pulled off his own sarong and stepped down into the pool, wading forward until the water was up to his armpits before striking out for the deep end. While he swam - the only exercise apart from sex that he ever took - Raissac listened to the giggles and chatter drifting pleasantly across the water. What a marvellous way to start the day, he thought, and was pleased that he'd decided to have the boys brought to Cassis, rather than be entertained in the city. So much nicer to be at home.
A month back it had been three girls here in Cassis, again supplied by Carnot, and the pleasure he'd had from them was on a par with the pleasure he'd found in the attentions of Abdul and Hamid. Distinct and different, of course, but no less gratifying, Raissac decided, sliding his way through the water. How fortunate he was to enjoy the two, men and women both. He tried to decide which he liked the most. Boys or girls. But it was impossible to say. . . Maybe if he'd slept with more of one than the other, that might somehow show a preference, but he'd long ago lost count of the men and women who'd shared his bed. What Raissac did know was that he invariably alternated between the sexes. After sleeping with a woman, he usually felt a deep compulsion to sleep with a man, both encounters providing the diversion he sought, the pleasure he needed, but neither doing more than leave him with a dull dissatisfaction, as though he'd asked for directions but still couldn't find his way.
After a dozen languorous lengths, Raissac stepped dripping from the pool to be dried and pampered by Abdul and Hamid, led to the table and fed his breakfast, the two of them bickering over who buttered the croissants, who poured the coffee, and who served the scrambled eggs. Raissac reached out a hand and stroked his fingers over the closest thigh. Skin smooth as glass. Not a blemish. Raissac often wondered what it would be like to have smooth skin.
It was over the eggs, a little dry for his taste, that Raissac began to feel the first faint stirrings of impatience with his youthful companions. And when he heard the soft bleating of his mobile, he was pleased for the interruption. The boys were starting to tire him with their petty tantrums, endless chatter and pathetically eager advances. They had done what had been required of them and now it was time for them to go. Reaching for his mobile, he told them to clear away breakfast and get their things together; his driver would be arriving soon to drive them back to town.
Leaving the boys to get on with it, Raissac strolled out onto the lawn to take the call.
It was Basquet.
'I thought you should know,' said Basquet. 'I had a visit from the police. Some Inspector. Apparently a tenant at Cours Lieutaud was murdered. Drowned.'
'You don't say,' said Raissac.
'He wanted to know who held leases. Rentals.'
'And you told him?'
'I said I didn't know. I told him to contact Thierry at Basquet Immo. Said he'd have the relevant information. It only struck me after the cop had gone that you had an apartment there.'
'So you think he might pay a call?'
'If it's the same apartment, it's possible. He didn't seem the most energetic detective. Just thought I should let you know.'
'That's kind of you. I doubt he'll follow up, but I'll be on the lookout.'
The conversation over, Raissac headed back to the table and flicked through the papers. There was no sign of Abdul or Hamid, which was a relief. Five minutes later they came downstairs from his bedroom, dressed identically in T-shirts, jeans and flip-flops, just as Coupchoux drew up at the front of the house. Without needing to be told, Coupchoux herded them up and took them to the car where they started to argue over who should sit in the front.
While they squabbled over the seating arrangements and then which tape to play for the drive back to Marseilles, Coupchoux came back to the terra
ce where Raissac handed him an envelope: money for the boys when he got them home to Marseilles.
Coupchoux slid it inside his jacket and turned to go, but Raissac caught him by the arm.There was one more thing. 'Is it done? Doisneau?' 'Tonight, boss.' 'Make sure of it.'
Jacquot and the Waterman Page 25
