Jacquot and the Waterman (16 page)

La Carnerie, a basement bistro that served only meat in
a city block that at pavement level served only fish, was as
it should have been at a little after nine on a Monday
evening - a few meals ending, others just beginning - but
not so busy that Jacquot's favourite spot in a screened
corner was taken. The table might still be covered with
dirty plates and breadcrumbs but the chairs were as empty
as the bottle and glasses. He nodded to Leon in his chefs
whites, taking a restorative
marc
at the bar, and settled
himself down. In an instant, Gassi was at his side, shooing
away the waitress and doing the job herself, clucking away
as she cleaned the table and set it for one.

'Such a long time, Monsieur Daniel, we don't see
you . .
.
you're looking pale, and thin, you need some more
weight, and someone to go home to at night,
n'est-ce pas?'
She'd snapped open a napkin, used it to flick away the last
remaining crumbs from the chequered cloth, then spread
it in his lap. 'Don't tell me. The
pavé
? Just a little bit over
the rare?'

Jacquot smiled, nodded. 'And a
demi.
Bandol,' he
added, as she turned to go.

While he waited for his steak and his wine, Jacquot
decided he had two choices. Think about Boni, or think
about work. He opted for work and fell to musing about
the case that had come to occupy most of his time, the
murders he'd been investigating with Rully and the rest of
his squad, going over the facts to see if there was something they'd missed, some connection they hadn't made.

Like the journey home, he knew the route by heart.

Three bodies in the last three months. Three young
women. The primary-school teacher Yvonne Ballarde
drowned in her bath; the shop-assistant Joline Grez
dumped in the fountain at Longchamp; and now the
owner of the tattoo in his pocket, the body in the lake up at
Salon-le-Vitry. Not to mention four naked bodies washed
up along the coast between Carry-le-Rouet and Toulon
since last summer. Bodies that could have been tagged as
murder victims were it not for the absence of matching
forensic evidence, any likely indication of foul play long
compromised by the fishes and the rocks after weeks in
the water. Three confirmed homicides, four 'maybes'.
Seven possible murders in less than twelve months. Maybe
others they hadn't found. Would never find.

But always the water - salt or fresh - the victims
routinely drugged, abused and drowned. And still not a
single suspect, no one worth bringing in for questioning.
They'd been over Grez's and Ballarde's families and
friends like a rash. Nothing. No links. No leads. No
coincidences or inconsistencies. And nothing that touched
Jacquot's instincts, nothing that gave him pause for
thought. Painstaking, time-consuming investigation with
no return.

But now, with this third confirmed victim, Jacquot
sensed a way forward. This time, this girl up at Salon-le-Vitry, this one would set them on their way. Jacquot was
sure of it. And the tattoo was the place to start.

Two hours later, the
pave
demolished and three
demis
downed instead of one, Jacquot was standing beside his
car and wondering whether he should drive home. He
shook his head, pocketed the keys, and decided to walk.

Which was how, ten minutes later, he'd found himself
outside Molineux's. Set back from the Quai du Port, its
picture window framed in a sagging, breeze-ruffled scarlet
awning, Molineux's was a Vieux Port institution-fifty years,
two generations, serving the finest bouillabaisse in this city
of bouillabaisses. If Jacquot hadn't had Gassi's steak, he'd
have sat himself down and ordered up the house special.
Instead, he'd tipped a wink to the maitre d' and headed for
the basement where Molineux junior, seventy if he was a
day, coaxed a souffle
au citron
on him, piercing its sugar-
dusted dome with a knife and pouring a shot of vodka into
its steaming lemon heart.

It was there in Molineux's office - chewing on a final
shred of lemon, his mouth slick with sweetness, Molineux
called away to bid farewell to some favoured customer -
that Jacquot spotted Doisneau, saw the nod indicating the
back of the restaurant and five yellow-gloved fingers held
up.

Five minutes later Jacquot received his customary hug
from Molineux, thanked him for the souffle and went out
the back way, past a dumpster overflowing with the restaurant's rubbish, and into a dark cobbled yard pooled with
shadow. He looked around. No movement, no sound. And
then:

'Miaaaooow.'

Despite himself, Jacquot smiled, turned to the call.

And smiling, too, but with fewer teeth than Jacquot
remembered, was the familiar lanky figure stepping from
behind the dumpster.

'Long time,' said Doisneau, holding out his hand.
'You're looking good, Danny.'

Jacquot wished he could say the same for his old pal.

The handshake was firm and affectionate, the skin still
warm and damp from the sinks, but the features were
battered and bruised.

'Chats de Nuit.'

'You remember,' said Doisneau.

'Of course,' replied Jacquot.

The
Chats de Nuit.
Their gang. Doisneau the leader.
Not because he was the oldest but because he was the
wiliest. A real schemer. Up for anything.

Doisneau released Jacquot's hand, steered him down
the yard, nodding towards the street. 'I wondered, you
know? Thought maybe you wouldn't get it. You moving on
and all.'

'Some things you don't forget,' replied Jacquot. 'Even if
you want to.' And then: 'You been at Molineux's long? I've
never seen you there before.'

'Couple of months. You know how it is
.
.
.
Been away.'

Jacquot knew what that meant. A little time. A
peu de
vacance
courtesy of the State out at Baumettes prison.
Jacquot wondered how long Doisneau had 'been away'.
And what for.

By now the two of them had reached the end of the
yard. They passed under an arch and stepped out onto the
pavement. A few late cars spun by, a bus for the airport at
Marignane, its blue-lit interior empty save the driver.

'You got a minute? I know a place,' said Doisneau,
guiding Jacquot to the right and setting a swift pace,
limping a little. Three minutes later they were sitting in a
booth in a late-night cafe-bar off avenue Tamasin.