Jacquot and the Waterman (25 page)

'And we think you might know who it is.'

'Like I said . ..'

'You got a moment?' broke in Jacquot. 'Maybe come by
the hospital and take a look, make an ID? You know, on
the off chance?'

Jacquot hoped Carnot didn't bluff it too far, what with
the victim's body being a couple of hours north in a chill
drawer in Salon-le-Vitry's morgue.

Carnot took the photo back, gave it another look.

'She dead?'

The girls name was Vicki Monel, Carnot told them. Lived
up near St-Charles someplace, in a block by the station.
Maybe still there. Hadn't seen her in a year, maybe two,
not since the tattoo, anyway.

They were sitting in Carnot s car, its interior filled with
the citrus scent of Carnot's aftershave. Carnot was fiddling
with the ignition key, flicking the engine off and on.
Lighting up the dashboard dials, then killing them, as
though he was impatient to be off. It was getting dark and
street lights were coming on, quivering and warming into
life.

A name, thought Jacquot. Vicki Monel. Another name.
Another line of inquiry. Maybe there'd be something more
from this one than they'd managed to get on the two
previous victims. Something that went somewhere.

'Address? Phone number?'

Carnot shook his head. 'Never went there.'

'How'd you meet her?' asked Gastal from the back seat.

'I don't know. Party somewhere. Don't remember.'

'She a local girl?' asked Jacquot.

'Toulon? Hyeres, maybe,' replied Carnot, as though he
couldn't care one way or the other.

'Did she have a job?' Jacquot continued.

Carnot shrugged.

'Is she one of your girls, Jean?' Gastal again, leaning
forward between the two front seats.

Sitting beside Carnot, Jacquot saw the jaw tighten. Was
this the man who had drowned Vicki Monel, he wondered? And Grez? And Ballarde? Hard to say. Certainly up
to it. Strong enough, and mean enough with it.

'Listen . . .' began Carnot, shifting in his seat.

'Come on, Jean,' said Gastal. 'This Vicki Monel's on the
slab and you know her. She worked for you. One of your
girls. Right?'

Carnot came as close to a nod as you could without
actually nodding.

'So, she give you a hard time or what? Pocket a bit here
and there, think you wouldn't notice?'

'Maybe tie her to a chair, Carnot,' added Jacquot.
'Knock a few teeth out.'

'I swear I don't know what. . . It's got to be a year,
more, since I seen her. She was a friend, you know, but it
didn't last. Drugs. She was always out of it.'

'Where you been the last few weeks?' asked Gastal.

'Here. There. Around.' Carnot gave them a cocky look.

Jacquot knew the way Carnot's brain was working. They
haven't got a thing on me, he was thinking. If they
suspected me they'd be doing all this at police headquarters. They just want information.

'Out of the city?' continued Gastal.

'Nope. Here the whole time.'

'You know anyone who might have done this?'

Carnot shook his head. Now he knew he was off the
hook.

'Like I said, she was always drugging it. Could have put
someone out. Pissed someone off.'

'So tell us about the photos,' said Jacquot.

They kept Carnot in the car for an hour, Jacquot beside
him, Gastal behind, niggling away at him, probing for
more information. But Carnot s story held. He hadn't seen
Vicki Monel in more than a year. She was a druggie.
Unreliable. The last he heard she was modelling - for an Internet porn site. He'd started her up, he told them, but
she'd done a runner, cut him out of the deal.
Tant pis,
he
shrugged; she was a loser.

So they took his address, noted his car registration, told
him not to leave town and let him go.

Back at Headquarters, while Gastal chased down the
Internet address that Carnot had given them, Jacquot
checked Vicki Monel in Records, searching through
known felons and missing persons. It didn't take long for
him to draw a blank - no sign of her. Next he looked up
her name in the city telephone directory. If she was listed,
they'd get an address. And with an address, they'd find
someone who knew her - a neighbour, friends, family. But
she wasn't listed for Marseilles. Which meant an official
ex-directory enquiry and all the hullabaloo that would
entail. And if they didn't get any joy there, they'd have to
go through the same procedure for Toulon, Hyeres.
Maybe even Salon-le-Vitry.

Jacquot was getting himself a coffee from the machine
on the landing, thinking it could wait till morning, when he
heard Gastal's 'Gotcha' in the Squad Room.

Hunched forward, his fat little fingers cupping the
mouse, Gastal was glued to the computer's monitor, a slice
of red tongue sliding over his lips.

'You find her?' asked Jacquot, leaning over his shoulder.

'Oh yes,' said Gastal, moving aside for Jacquot to see.
'The one in the middle.'

On screen three young women lay side by side on a bed,
legs in the air, held apart at the knees, limbs criss-crossing.
Given the angle it was impossible to see their faces.

'How do you know?' asked Jacquot.

Gastal tapped the screen, between the middle pair of
legs. There, high up on the inside of one thigh, was a small
black mark, more bruise than shadow.

'Can you make it any clearer?' asked Jacquot.

Gastal chuckled, dragged a cross-hair from the control
strip, squared it over the mark, selected a high zoom and
double-clicked. A second later, the screen went fuzzy, then
shivered back into focus. Still a little blurred from the
magnification, but clear enough for Jacquot to see the
three words, even if they were upside down.

'You got a face to go with it?'

Gastal clicked out of the image, back to the three girls
on the bed, and then clicked out of that. In an instant
another image rolled down over the screen. The bed and
wallpaper were identical to the previous set so Jacquot
assumed that the three girls - a brunette and two blondes
- were also the same. This time the brunette was sitting on
the edge of the bed, legs apart, looking straight at the
camera while her companions, kneeling beside her,
stroked and licked her breasts.