As she opened the passenger door, Benedict stepped forward, drew it wide and offered a hand to help her out. Her eyes were concealed behind sunglasses, and only a border of dark curls showed beneath a tightly wrapped headscarf. She wore a blue mackintosh draped over a light cream trouser suit and she carried a single rose. Without looking at him, she murmured what he presumed were thanks and hurried through the cemetery gates.
Sliding into the back seat, warm from the sun and scented from the previous passenger (Eau de Flore, he was certain), Benedict gave instructions for the Nice- Passedat and the cabbie, with the heel of his hand on the horn, nudged his way through the flow of northbound traffic.
As they made the turn, mounting the far kerb and bumping off it, Benedict glanced back down the long, lime-treed length of the Grande Allee and noticed that the lady in the coat and pants suit appeared to be standing in front of the de Cotigny mausoleum.
As the cab straightened and accelerated away, Benedict wondered who she could be? A mistress, maybe? Coming to her lovers grave after the family had departed? So discreet. So stylish and so French, he thought, sitting back in his seat, not a little surprised that a man like de Cotigny, if indeed it was his mausoleum the woman had stopped at, should have had a mistress.
As the cab headed back into town, Benedict wondered if he should follow it up, ask around, another angle for the story. But then he dismissed the thought. The piece was just about wrapped. It was time to check out of the Nice-Passedat, and go home to La Ferme Magny. Tonight he would do a final edit and send his story off to New York.
If it worked, maybe he'd just add a final sentence about the lady in the trouser suit. The single rose. Something unresolved. Enigmatic.
Benedict liked the feel of it. A sweet little touch.
94
It was the news, delivered by jacquot, that Anais Cuvry had been three months pregnant which finally broke Madame Céléstine Basquet. Whether it was knowing that her husband Paul had likely fathered the child, or the fact that she, Céléstine, had unwittingly ended two lives instead of one, it was impossible to say.
Up until that moment Madame Basquet had stuck steadfastly to her story. Dinner with friends, cards, returning home at about eleven. She'd made herself a warm drink and gone upstairs to bed. But her husband had been snoring so loudly that she moved to her son Laurent's room where she spent the rest of the night. And that was all she would admit to. No, she did not know Anais Cuvry personally, though she did know that her husband had a mistress.
No, she did not know where Mademoiselle Cuvry lived. No, she had not driven to her home late Sunday night when her husband was fast asleep.
And no, she had not killed this . . . woman. Quite preposterous. Why should she? What was it to her? He would tire of her soon enough.
And that was how, the previous night, they had left it, her lawyer Maître Arrondeau and her husband Paul Basquet retreating into the night, leaving Madame Basquet to ponder her situation in a holding cell in the basement of the Hotel de Police.
But with no forensic evidence to tie her to the scene of crime, her obstinate denials regarding the murder, and some heavy guns brought to- bear by her attorney Arrondeau the following morning, it was looking increasingly likely that Madame Basquet would be released.
Until Valéry s preliminary report was delivered to police headquarters shortly after lunch.
As they'd suspected, no trace of pronoprazone had been found. And the victim had not drowned. She had died from a single stab wound to the neck, the blade lodging fatally between the second and third thoracic vertebrae, severing the spinal column. In addition, Valéry noted, the victim had sustained a compound fracture to the left ankle, the wound containing fragments of stone and grit which, Jacquot had no doubt, would match any sample taken from the Vallon des Auffes pilings.
Valéry also noted that the victim was a little over three months pregnant at the time of death.
That was all it took.
Later that afternoon, Madame Céléstine Basquet was formally charged with the murder of Anais Cuvry and arrangements were made for the accused's immediate transfer to the women's wing of Les Baumettes until a formal application for bail could be made by Maître Arrondeau.
Jogging up the stairs to his office, Jacquot felt justifiably pleased with the days work. A murder solved in less than twenty-four hours. It didn't get much better than that. He was on the last landing when Peluze leant over the banister one floor above.
'Call from the Chief,' he said. 'You're wanted. You and Gastal.'
95
I
n his top-floor office, Yves Guimpier looked tense and
irritable, his fingers playing with a plastic ruler.
'I've had Lamonzie in here. And he's looking for blood. Your blood.'
Jacquot nodded. Gastal cleared his throat.
Both men were standing in front of Guimpier's desk, their boss swinging to and fro in his chair. Neither had been invited to sit. Over Guimpier's shoulder, through his closed window, seagulls wheeled around the spire of the Cathedrale de la Major, the rattle of drills on the Metro extension just a dull, distant jangling.
'What's he say?' asked Gastal, sounding concerned.
Guimpier stopped swinging and gave him a glowering look over the bending ruler. Jacquot could see that Guimpier didn't much like Gastal.
'Says you've been hampering his investigation . . .'
'Not so . . . no, no . . .' spluttered Gastal.
'. . . Treading on his toes,' continued Guimpier. 'Despite being told to keep off. Said you alerted the suspect, this Raissac fellow, and blew the bust.'
'No way,' said Gastal. 'He's got it all wrong.'
'You're telling me that a senior officer is lying, Gastal? The head of Narcotics? You're saying that—'
'There was no choice,' interrupted Jacquot, coming to Gastal's aid. He knew what this was all about. Lamonzie playing prima donna, looking for fall guys. News of his quayside bust gone wrong had been doing the rounds all morning, much to everyone's amusement. 'Raissac was linked to the Waterman inquiry,' Jacquot continued. 'What else could we do? Turn a blind eye because Lamonzie's cooked up some plan and not bothered to tell anyone?'
Guimpier turned from Gastal and fixed Jacquot with an icy look. 'Linked? Linked to the Waterman investigation? How? Because an apartment he owned was rented to one of the victims?' Guimpier started shaking his head. 'You'll have to do better than that, I'm afraid. I shouldn't be telling you this, but right now friend Lamonzie is looking for an official inquiry. And I can't say I blame him.'
'Look,' began Jacquot, 'there was more to it than just—'
But Guimpier didn't want to hear it. 'According to Lamonzie - and I have no reason to disbelieve him - he told you, personally, last week, steer clear or else.'
"Which, so far as possible, we did,' replied Jacquot, keeping his temper in check but feeling a knot of impatience tighten in his chest, not at Guimpier but at Lamonzie. Lodging an official complaint? Just who the hell did he think he was?
'So visiting Monsieur Raissac at home last Friday was just a social call?' Guimpier put down the ruler and set his hands on the arms of his chair. 'You were seen. In and out.'
'He was part of our investigation,' Jacquot repeated, slow and quiet. 'It would have been out of order not to follow it up. We had bodies piling up and we didn't want another
'You didn't think to talk to Lamonzie?'
'Talk to Lamonzie? Why? He doesn't talk to us. And what would he have said, anyway? "Back off, this is my investigation."' Jacquot shook his head. 'There was no point, nothing to be gained.'
'So what exactly's happened?' interrupted Gastal.
Jacquot glanced at his partner, not altogether sure whether Gastal was trying to cool the situation or was simply motivated by self-interest - how this might affect his forthcoming transfer to Lamonzie's unit.
'According to Lamonzie, a new route was opening up,' replied Guimpier. 'Old players. New source. Seems they'd decided
to bypass the Spanish ports and go the extra mile. Here. To Marseilles. Like the old days. Lamonzie's been on the case nearly a year, working with the boys in Toulon. Some grass told them Raissac was behind it, moving his operations along the coast. Bigger loads, greater frequency; apparently he'd also set up a new carrier. And yesterday, according to Lamonzie's sources, the first consignment was due to land. Several hundred kilos of cocaine. So when the ship ties up and starts unloading, Lamonzie's team arrives and sets to. Only there's nothing to find. Either it was never there, or someone got hold of it. And now, to cap it all, this fellow Raissac's dead . . .'
'Dead?' Jacquot was stunned by the news. He had a sudden image of the man, bending down to pick up his ID card and handing it back with a smile, a smile set in a pool of pitted scarlet.
'He's dead?' repeated Gastal. 'How?'
'One of his staff found him last night. In his garage. He'd been shot. Looks like a professional hit, according to Lamonzie.'
'Jesus,' said Gastal.
'So, not only does Lamonzie not get hold of the consignment,' continued Guimpier, 'he also loses Raissac and a whole line-up of supporting characters - after working on the case close to a year. A year's work down the drain. Because you two set off alarm bells.'
'Well, I guess you can see his point,' said Gastal, shaking his head.
It took a moment for Jacquot to register what Gastal had said. 'You can see his what?' he said, turning to his partner. 'You can see his point? Just exactly whose side are you on, Gastal? You're working Homicide, remember? And it was you . . .'
'Listen here,' replied Gastal, squaring up. 'I said we should leave it. I told you it was Lamonzie's call.'
Jacquot couldn't believe his ears. 'You said what?'
'Hey, hold on, Danny. Don't try and tell me—'
'Hey, hey, give it a break, you two,' said Guimpier, reaching for his ruler and slapping it on the desk. 'Gastal,' he said, pointing the ruler at him. 'You got something to say, say it. Jacquot. . .' The chief held up a shaking finger. 'Not a word.'
'It starts last Monday,' Gastal began, stretching his neck out of his collar. 'We meet up after lunch and my friend here says we've gotta check a name. Turns out it's Raissac's place in town. We wait around all afternoon, wasting time, and end up with zero. Which is when Lamonzie lets Danny know in no uncertain terms to keep out of the way.
The mans under surveillance. Which seems fair enough to me. I mean, you got an ongoing, you don't want someone messing the ground.'
Jacquot looked at Gastal in astonishment. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. This was all wrong. This was not what had happened. It was Gastal who'd suggested calling on Raissac. Not him. He'd had Monel's tattoo to check out. Instead, he'd spent a couple of hours drumming his fingers on the roof of his car, hanging around for Gastal. Checking out someone he'd never even heard of till that afternoon.
And then, standing there in Guimpier's office, Jacquot suddenly recalled what Doisneau had told him in the cafe on Tamasin. Doisneau's warning that Raissac had a man on the inside. At the time, Jacquot had assumed it was someone in Toulon, or someone on Lamonzie's team.
Or maybe someone about to join Lamonzies team?
Gastal.
Who'd come to Marseilles from Toulon.
Gastal. It had to be. It fitted. No wonder Gastal hadn't said a word to him about Raissac calling Carnot's mobile on Saturday. Trying to keep his paymaster out of the frame.
And then, like he was reading a passage of play, Jacquot knew what was coming, could suddenly see what all this was about, where the ball was headed.
It was a set-up. And he, Jacquot, was the fall guy, the one who'd gone for the dummy and would likely end up paying the price for a bust gone wrong. A bust gone wrong because his own partner was on the take - sending him to ring on Raissac's doorbell instead of doing it himself, the only way Gastal could find out if the place was under surveillance without putting himself on the spot. Because Gastal knew that if Raissac's place was being watched, then Lamonzie would be down on them like a sack of shit - for jeopardising their stake-out, possibly alerting the suspect. And diat was exactly what had happened, providing Gastal with the information he needed, information that he could pass on to Raissac without arousing anyone's suspicion.
Jacquot s fault, not Gastal's.
And here was Gastal busily covering his tracks, playing the innocent.
Jacquot felt a rising swell of anger.
'I told Danny we should leave it be,' Gastal was saying, 'but he wouldn't listen. Couldn't get this guy Raissac out of his head. Like he's obsessed. He can't get a handle on this Waterman so he starts off on this other line of inquiry - hanging round Raissac just because, like you say, boss, the guy owns this apartment. I mean . . .'
Gastal paused, took a breath, but started off again before Jacquot could order his thoughts and get a word in. 'Then, Friday, knowing how I feel about it - me transferring to Lamonzie and all - he deliberately sends me off on some wild-goose chase to some sleazy little gym downtown while he jumps in his car and heads off to Cassis. To Raissac's place down there. You ask me—'
But Gastal got no further.
Jacquot's knuckles brushed past the point of Gastal's jaw but connected an inch below the cheekbone, lifting Gastal back onto his heels. He staggered a few steps, hands reaching for the point of impact, then stumbled over a chair.
'Badaboum,' said Jacquot under his breath and launched himself at Gastal.
In the struggle that ensued Gastals nose was broken and Guimpier, trying to separate the two men, had an eye blackened by Jacquot s elbow.
96
Friday
'So. Policeman. How come?'
The uniform,' Jacquot replied lightly.
She looked at the linen jacket, the T-shirt, and smiled.
They were sitting at a corner table in Molineux's, the progress of their meal observed by a pair of lobsters in the fish tank beside them. It was after ten. They'd finished their main course, but the plates had still to be cleared away. She'd ordered the grilled oysters, served under a duvet of bubbling cheese, and a fillet of bream, its silvery skin crisply browned and curled. Jacquot had gone for the whitebait and Molineux's bouillabaisse.
'How long?'
'Quite some time,' he said. 'It's all I've ever done.'
'Don't you find it. . . ?' She couldn't seem to light on the right word.
'Depressing?' he suggested. 'Dangerous?'
'Yes. Both those, I guess.'
'Of course. But there's a lot else besides. Good things. Like being part of a team. Not letting the good guys down or the bad guys get away. Settling accounts. It's like . . . playing a game. A game you have to win. A challenge every time.'
'Just like any business, I'd have thought. Not just the police.'
'Sure, I suppose.'
'Wasn't there something else you could have done?'
Jacquot shook his head. 'Maybe. But you know how it is. Things happen. You get drawn in. Life.'
For a moment there was silence between them as she took this in. And then:
'You married?' she asked.
Jacquot shook his head. Smiled. 'Not so far.'
She noticed the wince that accompanied the smile, a small vertical cut on his top lip that had tightened the skin as it healed. He looked, she thought, more tanned than the last time she'd seen him, more relaxed. And more attractive too, his hair loose, black wavy curls reaching to his shoulders.
Which, given the last three days, was no surprise.
Suspended from duty with immediate effect pending an internal inquiry after breaking his partner's nose and blacking his boss's eye - apart from any action that Lamonzie might be planning - Jacquot had presented himself first thing Wednesday morning at Salette's office and the two of them skipped school and played truant. A case of beers and some Armagnac stowed in the bow, they'd taken Salette's boat and set off for a couple of days' sailing and fishing, anchoring overnight in the calanques, cooking their catch over drift
wood fires, sleeping on deck under the stars. On the second night, when Jacquot told him about the bust-up with Gastal, the reason for his suspension, old Salette had laughed, punched him on the shoulder and told him that he was just like his father, all that stormy Corsican blood on the boil. Which had made Jacquot laugh too, suddenly warmed by the thought of his fathers proximity.
Now Jacquot was back, sitting there in Molineux's, the bubble-wrapped painting of the lemons which he'd bought the previous Sunday and picked up earlier from Gallery Ton-Ton resting against his chair leg.
It had been a fun evening. Starting at the Ton-Ton where they'd met, moving on to O'Sullivan's where she'd matched him Guinness for Guinness and, finally, arms linked, swinging along the quays of the Vieux Port to Molineux's.
Jacquot and the Waterman Page 39
