Jacquot and the Waterman (23 page)
Coupchoux paused in the entrance, his body split by sunlight and shadow, the skin on his face and neck still tight with salt spray from the mornings outing with Raissac in Pluto. Dipping his fingers into the holy water and leaving them there longer than he needed to, he gazed ahead, down the aisle to the altar, stone-panelled and plain, and the rose window behind it. Taking his fingers from the water, he brushed them against the edge of the font and dabbed them against his forehead and heart, the cool liquid trickling between his eyes before he wiped it away.
It felt good, that abundance, running off him, scouring a
path through the salt. Powerful. Powerful, and God-given.
He put wet fingers to his lips, kissed the knuckles and
turned to the left, making for one of the side chapels.
When he reached it, the altar of Sainte Matilde, with its
plainly draped altar cloth and damask-curtained confessional to one side, he genuflected, crossed himself a
second time and slid into one of the four pews reserved for
penitents. He was the only one there, though he could
hear an earnest whispering from behind the confessional
curtain and could see beneath it a pair of thick ankles and
wrinkled hose bulging over stout brown shoes. Not long
now, he thought to himself, pushing aside the mat and
dropping his knees to the stone floor. Closing his eyes, he
clasped his hands and lowered his head in prayer.
Of all the churches Coupchoux knew, this was his
favourite, this narrow-naved, coolly-stoned basilica a few
blocks back from Cassis port. Such an inspiring, restful
place, he always thought. Such a glorious, peaceful sanctuary, the bevelled columns rising upwards into a web of
simple ribbed vaulting, the stone paving polished and
shiny, the still, stale air suffused with the scent of snuffed
candles, hot wax and incense. He could sit there for hours,
and often did when Raissac had him do something really
bad, something that reached down deep and squeezed at
his soul.
The problem, Coupchoux knew, was that he was powerless to do anything about it. When Raissac wanted something,. he felt only a bursting compulsion to comply, a
pressing, irresistible desire to obey and to please. Except
here, his knees burning on the cool stone slabs. Here was
the strength to deny his master, here the will to resist
temptation. Here was cool faith and fortitude, and always,
as he stepped back into the sunshine, a burning determination to change his ways. Redemption. In Coupchoux's
line of work, there was nothing like it. The trouble was
that his resolve never seemed to last longer than a few
days - just until Raissac called, told him what was needed,
and it began once more.
With a swirl of musky damask and a rattle of wooden
rings the confessional curtain was pulled aside and
Coupchoux heard an old woman's shoes tap across the
stone flags. Headscarved, bustling into the pew in front
of him, she set to work on her rosary.
The moment had come. Getting to his feet, kneecaps
aching, Coupchoux stepped from the pew and made for
the confessional. Drawing the curtain closed behind him,
the panelled space still redolent of the old lady's lavender,
he settled himself in the dark. With a dry click the grille
slid open. He took a breath, kissed his fingers and began:
'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned . . .'
Je
an Carnot had considerable form. Going back a long
way.
Sitting at his desk, Jacquot scrolled through the details
he'd accessed from Records, starting with Carnot's first
arrest at the age of fifteen for car theft, through a litany of
drug-related offences, various breaches of the peace, living
off immoral earnings until, three years earlier, he'd been
picked up for aggravated assault. The victim, Jacquot
noted, was a woman. According to the file, Carnot had tied
her to a chair, beaten her with a belt and knocked out two
of her teeth with the heel of his shoe.
In
the last seventeen
years, since his first arrest, Jean Carnot had spent four of
those years behind bars. If the woman he'd assaulted had
pressed charges, he'd still
be
inside. Since then, as far as
Jacquot could confirm, Carnot had been clean.
But Jacquot knew that meant very little.
While he was at it, Jacquot pecked out Doisneau s name
on the keyboard and waited for the screen to bring up the
information he wanted. Seconds later, his old friend's face
flashed onto the screen. In the photo, Doisneau looked
tired and washed-out, his hair standing untidily on end.
Probably a dawn pick-up, thought Jacquot. Hustled out of
his bed and down to Headquarters with no time, save for
dressing, to tidy himself up or gather his thoughts.
Jacquot scrolled through Doisneau's sheet. The usual -
theft, obstruction, handling stolen goods, assault: a sad
chronicle of a life. Like Carnot he'd been inside, his latest
stay, as Jacquot had guessed, at Baumettes on the back
road to Cassis. A six-year term, reduced to three and work
parole.
Jacquot went to the notes on Doisneau s last arrest.
Following a tip-off - no source credited - officers had
raided a garage lock-up in a Toulon suburb and found four
kilos of hashish jammed under the front seat of a Renault
van and a .45 automatic taped to the steering column.
When they arrested Doisneau, the registered owner of the
vehicle and the lock-up, he'd denied any knowledge of the
drugs or the gun but it hadn't done much good. According
to Records he'd been released into parole work only two
months earlier.
Fitted up, Doisneau had told him the night before, and
the police report seemed to support it. Someone plants the
evidence and calls the cops. Raissac? One of his team? It
made sense. Doisneau does something stupid and pays the
price. And now, three years later, here he is looking to
square the account and get out of the firing line down in
Spain.
Jacquot tapped out instructions on the keyboard and
Carnot returned to the screen.
The two men couldn't have been more different. Doisneau nearly twenty years older, unshaven, bleary-eyed, his
face a map of discontent and abuse. And there was Carnot.
Over six feet tall, judging by the laddered measure behind
his head in the custody picture. Arab blood for certain -
black curly hair; smooth, tanned skin over a clenched jaw
and high cheekbones; a strong, jutting chin and a bored,
mocking stare from eyes black as barbecue coals. The lips
were full but impatiently drawn, pushing out thin, bracketing lines into his cheeks. The teeth, Jacquot suspected,
would be white and even, gritted, too, under the insolent
glare. He was also pretty sure that Carnot could throw out
a hell of a smile when he wanted to.
Pushing back his chair, Jacquot swung up his legs and
rested his boots on the desk. He crossed his ankles and felt
the leather rasp gently. Snakeskin. His favourite pair. Twenty
years old and soft as Bonis Air France gloves. Good support
for his bad ankle too, even if they did raise a look from
Guimpier and the Widow Foraque. Perfect walking shoes as
well. Which was why he'd selected them that morning.
He was just about to call up Gastal one floor above, still
out to lunch the last time he'd tried, when the door was
flung open and Lamonzie marched in, face clenched tight
as a walnut, red as an early cherry. Lamonzie was head of
Narcotics, senior in rank but a few years younger than
Jacquot, and he wasn't happy.
