Jacquot and the Waterman (31 page)

'Yes?' he said, beeping open the locks on his silver Porsche, tossing his briefcase into the passenger seat and sliding in behind the wheel.

She came down the steps after him. 'It's just. . .'

The Fazilleaux. Sunday. Should she try to pin him down?

'Yes?' he said again, lowering his window and then leaning forward for the ignition.

But she changed her mind. 'Oh, nothing. Nothing.' And then, to cover: 'Just be careful, you hear? No going too fast in this, in this

'Porsche,' said her husband with relish. 'It's a Porsche, my darling.'

And, with a wink, he started the engine and she stood back, waved him down the drive.

'Please, God, look after him,' she prayed and, clasping her hands, she turned and made her way back up the steps.

The house was in the middle of one of three terraces, built on a slope of hillside and set around a dusty, sun-scorched square in the north of Hyeres.

One of Jacquot's team, the stutterer Chevin, working through the phone directories, had found the name Monel, and an address, and phoned it through to Jacquot just as he and Gastal cleared the mob of reporters at Aqua-Cité.

'N-n-nothing in the Marseilles directory, boss. Nothing in Toulon. And according to D-D-Desjartes, nothing in Salon-le-Vitry either. But in Hyeres. Just the one listing. Monel. Guilbert. Place Salusse. Number eleven.'

'He'll be at work,' said Gastal, sidling up beside Jacquot at the front door, glancing back at a game of boules going on in the square. 'We should have rung, coming all this way. Or got the local boys to pay a visit.'

Jacquot said nothing, still irritated by Gastal's inopportune comments to the press at Aqua-Cité. There'd be hell to pay for that slip of the tongue and the workload would quadruple. Dealing with the press, inundated with calls from people eager to confess, pass on useless information - all of which would have to be logged, looked into, followed up. Not to mention pressure from Guimpier and the office of the examining magistrate. The last thing Jacquot wanted was a toasting from Madame Solange Bonnefoy.

There was no bell on the door frame, so Jacquot knocked. He breathed in deeply. The same gusting breeze that had ruffled the surface of the pool at Aqua-Cité blew here too and brought with it the sharp scent of salt from the
salines
at Etang des Pesquiers. He was about to knock again when the door swung open.

Standing in a singlet and shorts, tonsure tufts of hair springing out from the sides of his head, a man in his fifties looked at them through squinting eyes. There was a black bruise of stubble on his chin and sleep in his eyes. He was barefoot and looked as if he'd just got out of bed.

'Oui?'
he said, looking from Jacquot to Gastal and back again. 'Help you?' From behind him came the sound of a radio.

'Monsieur Monel? Guilbert Monel?'

'That's me. Who wants to know?' The chin thrust out, hands went to hips. He wasn't looking sleepy now, noted Jacquot.

'Police Judiciaire,
Marseilles,' he replied.

Monel rolled his eyes, let out a worn sigh. 'What's he done this time?'

'May we come in, Monsieur?'

Monel gave them a look and stepped aside, not allowing them as much room to squeeze past as he might have done.

The front door led straight into the front room. The floor was a polished concrete softened here and there with the land of rugs old ladies make from used tights. A table and three chairs stood against the far wall, and two fake-leather loungers faced a TV and a two-bar electric fire. There were empty bottles of beer on the mantelpiece and a scatter of newspapers around one of the loungers, an ashtray balanced on one of its arms.

Closing the door and pushing ahead of them, Monel crossed the room and pulled out a chair, settling himself at the table with another deep sigh. He brushed at his two wings of hair, as if he knew they'd be sticking out, but the effort made little impression.

'Don't tell me. Let me guess . . .' said Monel, lowering the volume on a transistor radio but not switching it off. A breathy, excited woman was telling everyone to buy Aveda moisturiser. So soft, so rich . . .

'You said "he", Monsieur. Would that be your son?' asked Jacquot, taking a chair and joining Monel at the table. It was covered with a rumpled blue check cloth, stained a darker shade where oily food had fallen.

Monel reached for a tin, snapped it open and pulled out the makings of a cigarette. Across the room, with a rattle from the blinds, Gastal leant back on the windowsill, folding his arms across his chest.

'I need to tell you?' Monel pulled out a web of tobacco from the tin and palmed it onto a leaf of paper, rolled and licked it tight.

Jacquot shrugged, suggesting he'd like to know.

'Philippe. Crazy boy.' Monel shook his head, digging around in the pockets of his shorts and pulling out a Zippo. He snapped up the lid, flicked the wheel and put the end of his cigarette to the flame.

'He's been in trouble?' asked Jacquot.

'Isn't that why you're here?' asked Monel, whistling out a plume of smoke above their heads and pocketing the lighter.

'Actually, no. Not your son. It's about your daughter.'

The man squared up at that. Jacquot had his attention now.

'And?'

From his pocket, Jacquot took the photo they had of Vicki Monel and offered it to her father. It had been printed off from one of the gallery of pictures on the Internet, but cropped to a head shot. His daughter's eyes were set hungrily on something out of frame, black hair licking across her face, lips curled in a smile.

Monel took the picture, turned it to the light and scrutinised it. 'Yes. That's her,' he confirmed with a nod and a drag on his cigarette. He put the photo on the table.

'May I ask when you last saw your daughter?' asked Jacquot, picking up the photo and sliding it back into his pocket.

Monel gave Jacquot a long look. 'Four, five years,' he said at last.

'I believe she lived in Marseilles?'

'Well, that's where you're from, you tell me.'

'Her name is Vicki?'

'Vicki. That's right. So. What's the interest? What's she been up to?'

Jacquot broke the news as quickly and as gently as he could: how a body had been found in a lake near Salon-le- Vitry, how it had been identified as one Vicla Monel.

When Jacquot finished speaking, spreading his hands with regret, Monel took a last drag of his cigarette and dropped it into an empty beer bottle. He put a hand to his mouth, tipped back his head and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. Something seemed to go out inside him.

Monel took the hand from his mouth, wiped the side of his face with it, drawing down a bloodshot eye.

'Drowned, you say?' Searching for some way to get a grip on himself.

'I'm afraid it was not an accident,' said Jacquot softly.

Monel nodded, made another unsuccessful attempt to brash back his hair. 'Had to happen, I suppose,' he said at last.

'What makes you say that, Monsieur?' Gastal's voice across the room, leaving the man no space for his sorrow.

Monel took his time replying, as though he needed to gather himself before he risked speaking.

'She didn't leave five years ago,' he said at last. 'I threw her out. Nineteen and too much trouble, you know? Her mother leaving like she did. I just couldn't handle it on my own. You know how it
is ... ?'

Monel leant forward, put his elbows on the table and lowered his head into his hands. He was trying to hold his composure, but Jacquot could see that it was a lost battle. The fight had gone out of him. A muffled sob from behind his hands confirmed it.

'I'm very sorry,' said Jacquot.

Monel raised his head, wiped a hand across his eyes and mouth.

'She was a handful, all right. Ask anyone round here. But she didn't deserve . . .'

He couldn't continue. Dropping his head into his hands once more, shoulders heaving, Guilbert Monel wept for his daughter.

Carnot loved Wednesdays. His favourite day of the week. This particular Wednesday he was where he always was, sitting in the middle of the bleachers at Plage Catalans with a newspaper on his knee, a styrofoam cup of espresso in his hand and his mobile in his pocket. He liked to think of the place as his office. It was mid-morning and the sun had shaken off a wreath of low clouds above Montredon and was blasting down from a blue, uncluttered sky, glittering off the sea and baking the wood plank he was sitting on.

Below him, twenty metres away, shifting on the breeze, came the shouts and screams of half a dozen girls, barefoot, bikinied, tanned and slim, three either side of the volleyball net, calling the shots. Wednesday morning, as per usual. Wednesday morning when the Seniors' team from Lycée Catalans left their classrooms for volleyball practice on the beach.

What a glorious city Marseilles was, thought Carnot, providing such unexpected pleasures for its citizenry. For Carnot was not alone. Plage Catalans was a favourite spot for taking the morning sun, getting a breath of fresh air, a scattering of old boys playing boules, dozing, reading their papers and, of course, like him, watching the Lycée girls. And no one seemed to mind. Certainly not the girls. It was as if they enjoyed the attention, the presence of spectators, making them yell all the louder, exert themselves just that little bit more, flinging their lithe, sun-browned bodies around that sandy court.

They were good players too, Carnot knew, worth watching. Two years earlier, a Lycée girl called Tanya had made the national squad and won silver at the last European Championships. Right now there was one player down there who had caught everyone's eye. Not because she was particularly good, just that she was clearly the prettiest girl there. Seventeen, eighteen maybe, with a glorious whiplash of brown hair that she'd refused to tie back, an aquamarine bikini highlighting her tan, long arms and legs. And the way she threw herself to the sand for that desperate point-saver, fingertips reaching for the
ball. . .
Dieu.
He'd never seen her there before but he knew her name, shouted by her team-mates - Alice. Alice.