Jacquot and the Waterman (30 page)

Jacquot walked over to Clisson, the senior forensics man. He was short, robust and businesslike, with a shock of ginger hair that shivered in the breeze. The two men shook hands. Like his colleagues, Clisson wore latex gloves snapped over his sleeves; his hand felt smooth, dry and powdery. And oddly warm.

'Well?' said Clisson, looking down at the body as though inspecting a hole in the road. 'What do you think? Number three?' Clisson had been in charge of the Grez and Ballarde recoveries but knew nothing of the body pulled out of the lake at Salon-le-Vitry.

'Looks pretty like it.'

'I'll get you an initial report as soon as I can,' said Clisson. 'Later today. Tomorrow, maybe. As for Valéry, I can't say.'

'Tell me something I don't know,' replied Jacquot. Valéry was the state pathologist, a man who liked to take his time whether the
Police Judiciaire
liked it or not. Sometimes it was worth the wait - tiny things that could make a case.

'Maybe this time we'll have more luck,' said Clisson. 'You never know.'

Jacquot nodded and left them to it. From here on in, he knew, it was nothing but grind - straightforward scene-of- crime forensic procedure. Hours bent over the body, here and at the morgue, searching the dinghy, the sandy floor of the pool, the jetties, the grounds, taking photographs, lifting prints. But with Clisson in charge, Jacquot knew that it would be a thorough job. The man would miss nothing, and he'd have that report on Jacquot s desk when he said he would. While the trail was still warm. Later would come the more complete pathologist's findings - when he'd find out about the pronoprazone, the confirmation of sexual abuse.

For now Jacquot had seen all he needed to see. There was nothing more for him here.

He gave Gastal the nod and they headed back to the car.

'So you reckon it's your man again?' asked Gastal.

'Has to be,' replied Jacquot.

'Could be an accident. Drowned some place and washed in here. Suicide, even.'

Jacquot got into the car and started it up. Gastal dropped in beside him, pulling at his trouser legs to make himself comfortable, pushing up off the seat and juggling his balls into place.

'You ready?' asked Jacquot.

Outside Aqua-Cités main entrance, a crowd of reporters was waiting for them. Jacquot wondered how they'd found out about the body so soon; which of the Aqua-Cité staff had called it in. There was even a TV crew from TF1. A security guard opened the gate for them and Jacquot moved forward. He kept his window closed, hoping to get through without having to say anything. But Gastal had other ideas. When he saw the camera he wound down his window and put an arm on the ledge.

'Can you give us any details, Inspector?' asked the TV reporter, seeing her chance, pushing a microphone at Gastal. Beside her, the cameraman started shooting.

Gastal put on a grave face, adjusted his tie. 'It's difficult to be sure at this precise moment in time,' he told her, his non-committal reply releasing a wave of questions from the other reporters crowding round his window.

'Just the one body?' shouted one, from the back of the pack.

'Man or woman?' asked another.

'Did she drown?'

'Was it suicide?'

'Murder?'

'Weapon?'

'Was she shot?'

'Stabbed?'

'Raped?'

To which Gastal furnished the relevant answers, adding: 'As far as we can tell, there appears to be no link yet with the other bodies found at Salon-le-Vitry and here in Marseilles.'

Jacquot couldn't believe his ears.

Nor could the reporters. They pounced, and Jacquot put his foot down.

'Salon-le-Vitry?' asked the first, running alongside.

'Marseilles?'

'What bodies?'

'Who?'

'When?'

Sitting at a frail
secrétaire
that had once belonged to her grandmother, Madame Céléstine Basquet put down the phone and made a note in her diary. Sunday. Dinner with the Fazilleaux and, afterwards, a few hands of piquet. What fun. Such a lovely couple, such good friends. But she'd have to keep her eyes open. That Chantal was the most dreadful cheat. And Chantal's husband wasn't much better.

When she'd done writing, Céléstine screwed the top on her pen and wondered if Paul would accompany her. But she shook her head as though she knew the answer all too well. An evening of cards? Not a hope. Not her husband's kind of thing at all. Pigs would fly first. Which was why she'd taken the precaution to warn Chantal that he'd likely be busy, wouldn't be able to make it.

Which was a disappointment, in a long line of disappointments. An embarrassment, too. Knowing what her friends must think. She wished she didn't have to make these excuses. She would have liked Paul to be there, with her and their friends. Without all this . . . subtle, social subterfuge.

But she knew there was absolutely no point suggesting it to her husband. All she'd get from him were those plaintive, pained eyes, as though she ought to know better, but if she really wanted him there, well. . . And then, an hour before they were due to set off, he'd get a call, beg off, something had come up. It was all becoming just too much to bear, the impositions on his time increasing rather than diminishing. Meetings here, business there, lunch, dinner. Sometimes she didn't see him from one morning to the next. The weekends were just as bad - a phone call and he'd be off somewhere, someone to see. A peck on the cheek and their housekeeper, Adèle, ready to serve lunch, or friends about to call by. Not a word of warning, and he'd be gone. It made her so cross.

And sad, too. For the truth was that Céléstine loved her husband and missed him when he wasn't around. She wanted him to be there, to be with her. She frowned at the unfairness of it all. They'd always talked about it, said the same thing: when the boys were old enough, when Valadeau et Cie was strong enough, he'd retire; they'd take a break, go travelling, see the world. And now here he was, fifty-nine last birthday, the kids grown up and ready to take over; surely the time had come to take it easy?

But still he kept on. Such a stubborn, stubborn man. Which was what, in the beginning, she'd so loved about him. His bullishness, his energy, the very strength of him. Despite herself, the thing she loved even now, thirty years on.

The first time she'd set eyes on him, she once told her daughter Amelie, her knees had wobbled. Really. That thick thatch of curly black hair, the big chest pushed out defiantly, the glint in his eye and the smile he gave her when they met. The builders boy from Peyrolles winning his first contract , to extend the Valadeau plant, the family business her forebears had started in Marseilles, the business which had made the family fortune. Savonnerie Valadeau, makers of fine soap - hard bricks rich in pumice for Napoleon's army, cheaply scented bars for
le gros public
and richly perfumed, prettily wrapped cakes for the aristocracy. A family business that, despite her parents' best efforts to find their only child a more suitable match, the Peyrolles builder had finally married into.

Taking over when her father's health had forced his retirement, Paul had steered the company through hazardous times but, after a shaky start, he'd begun to show profits his predecessors could never have imagined. Even though they'd have mightily disapproved of the means, moving away from the core business into property speculation and development, import and export - why, her husband even had his own fleet of merchantmen. An admiral in the family, no less. And though her father never gave him any credit, always putting him down, Céléstine knew that Paul cared deeply about the family business. There was no one more loyal, more determined, more driven than he was. Take this morning, no different from any other - they'd hardly finished breakfast when he was up from the table and off into his study, making calls, arranging meetings.

But surely, she reasoned, the time was coming when he could safely start to delegate - Laurent, their eldest, a superb administrator, waiting patiently in the wings, and their second son, Lucien, finishing his MBA at Fontainebleau. Both boys born financiers, risk-takers too, just like their father.

A new generation, thought Céléstine. Surely now it was the moment for Paul, like her father, to step aside. Their stake in the company was solid, the value of their stock secure. But still he kept going. One of these days, she feared, he'd have a stroke, or a heart attack, or he'd go and crash that fancy car of his, and it would all be over before they had a chance to start their future together.

Céléstine got up from the
secrétaire
and walked to the fireplace. Carved above it, in a smoke-stained panel of stone, was the Valadeau coat of arms - three olive trees and a pair of millstones, the founding instruments of their wealth. And for five generations, since that shield had first been chiselled into the stone, the family had lived here, in this elegant, ancient
bastide
on the outskirts of Aix. Céléstine loved its grandness, its airy, high-ceilinged salons and its worn stone floors. The family furniture and portraits. The gardens and the vineyard. For fifty-two years she'd lived here, with her mother and father, and with Paul. Yet now, suddenly, the place felt empty. Cold. Not just because Paul was never there, but because she knew it was just too big for them now; their time here had passed. There was simply no point in delaying further. It was time to move on. Time to let Laurent or Lucien and their families move in, just as she and Paul had done.

Except, for Paul, it was always business, business, business as usual.

Either that, or . . .

At which point the study door opened and her husband jostled out, pulling on a jacket, transferring his briefcase from one hand to another to get his arms through the sleeves. Céléstine went over to him and helped straighten his collar.

'Busy day?' she asked, following him across the room and out into the hallway.

'Like all the rest,
chérie.
No peace for the wicked.'

At the front door, Basquet turned to embrace his wife, the scent of
cachou
pastilles on his breath, the briefcase he carried slapping gently at her legs.

'I'll be back late. Dinner with the planning boys,' he said. 'I shouldn't wait up, if I were you.'

And he kissed her again.

'Paul. . .' she began, as he trotted down the steps.