Jacquot and the Waterman (40 page)

Their first meeting, Basquet reflected, had been a piece of outrageously good fortune. The way it sometimes goes. The right place, the right time - and the right man. A couple of years earlier, in the middle of an ambitious residential redevelopment programme that Basquet had undertaken in the centre of Marseilles, he'd hit a problem with his construction teams. Suddenly the unions were giving him a hard time - overtime quotas, on-site insurance, working conditions - and every day the delay was costing him money. Basquet's problems were twofold. He didn't have any further funds to renegotiate with the unions, even if he'd wanted to, and the more he delayed the more likely it was that agreed deadlines would be exceeded and penalty notices invoked. All this at a time when the Valadeau family trustees had had more power than they did right now.

When in steps this Alexandre Raissac. An introduction from Fouhety, one of Basquet's suppliers in whom he'd confided, trying to extend credit terms to cover the workforce hold-up.

'Leave it to me,' Raissac had said breezily when Basquet explained the problem, admitting how badly overextended he was. And the following week everything returned to normal, the construction crews back at work. A month later, thanks to Raissac, the development was completed in time and on budget.

For which small service, all Monsieur Raissac wanted was a top-floor apartment in one of the redeveloped properties. As simple as that. He even showed Basquet how to do it without cutting his margins. Masterful.

A few months later Basquet got in touch with Raissac for a second time, when he was negotiating building costs on a two-hundred-unit housing project in Valmont. As Basquet had hoped, a word from Raissac and the initial supply estimates that had caused him such a headache were re-presented in far more favourable terms.

And the price? A Bentley Arnage. Purchased in Brussels and driven south. Small change for such big returns.

But what really sold the man to Basquet was that Raissac never followed up on these 'arrangements', never called him back with a favour to ask. Once Raissac had received his agreed 'fee', there was no sense of obligation, of something owing. The matter was at an end. A one-off. What Basquet also liked was the fact that the two men only ever did business when Basquet sought him out, when Basquet needed something. Never the other way round.

Like the
calanques
deal. Did Raissac's sphere of influence, Basquet had asked after his plans for the development had been dumped for a third time, extend as far as planning permits?

At which Raissac had questioned him closely on what this planning permission might be in relation to, before assuring him that, in his experience, no planning
permis
was too difficult to acquire — so long as you knew the right people. He'd said it with that glint in his eyes, that careless, dismissive wave of the hand, and Basquet had known better than to inquire further. The less he knew, the safer he was. But he'd given Raissac the nod and, by the sound of it, Raissac had as good as guaranteed that next time Basquet's proposals were presented to the planning authorities, the chances were that he would find his way clear.

Which was the one time Raissac did take that extra step. How, he had asked, did Basquet plan to finance this ambitious development? Such an undertaking would surely run into hundreds of millions of francs. If Basquet hadn't yet arranged his finances, perhaps he, Raissac, could be of some assistance?

At first Basquet had imagined some kind of corporate investment, maybe a short-term, low-interest loan facility from Raissac et Freres. But it was nothing like that. What Raissac proposed was some cargo space on a Basquet Maritime vessel twice a year and a new port of call. That was all Basquet needed to do. Raissac would handle the rest - dismissing Basquet's objections with that thin smile and that careless toss of the hand.

Of course Basquet knew what Raissac was up to. There weren't many cargoes from South America that generated the kinds of profits his associate was talking about. And it certainly wasn't kaolin. But Basquet had managed to put this out of his mind - what he didn't know, he persuaded himself, couldn't harm him - and two days later he'd agreed to the deal. How could he not? It was the perfect arrangement. With Customs dealt with, distribution in place and unbelievable profits, all Basquet had to do to access his share of the proceeds was draw down whatever funds he needed from a new-found offshore capital investment source set up for him in Morocco. A straightforward 'non-repayable' loan which the Valadeau trustees couldn't do a thing about. Wouldn't even need to know about. And everything at arm's length. Just brilliant.

If only everything else in his life was so fucking straightforward, thought Basquet as the Porsche roared out of the tunnel above L'Estaque, the coast and the city spreading out in front of him.

Anais for starters. His mistress Anais. Pregnant, for Christ's sake. What in hell's name did she think she was up to? She was supposed to be a professional, goddammit. Didn't anyone ever tell her that mistresses don't get pregnant?

Basquet still hadn't properly got to grips with this bombshell. All the way home the night before, after Anais had broken the news, his mind had just ceased to function at any rational level, his analytical powers reduced by a combination of shock and fury at the news to a kind of inoperative mush. All he could think was pregnant- pregnant-pregnant . . .

The picture didn't look any more promising this morning.

Fifty-nine years old, with the biggest deal in his career looming, and the ungrateful little bitch gets pregnant. Worse still, she wanted to keep the child. There'd been no persuading her otherwise. God help him, he'd tried, but her mind was made up. Beneath that silky skin of hers lay cast-iron resolve.

Of course she'd sworn to him that she'd leave town, go somewhere far away, he'd never hear from her again . . . But Basquet knew with an absolute clarity that any settlement they agreed would be renegotiated whenever Anais felt like it. The child guaranteed it.

If, indeed, the child was actually his.

If, in fact, Anais really was pregnant.

Goddammit. . . Goddammit. . .

As he parked the Porsche in the secured underground car park beneath the Marseilles offices of Valadeau et Cie, Basquet wondered if he should say something to Raissac. Raissac would know what to do. But by the time the lift reached the top floor, Basquet had decided against it. Business was one thing, personal was another. Stepping out of the lift, he strode down the corridor to his corner office, acknowledging that, whether he liked it or not, this was one problem he'd have to deal with himself.

As he pushed through the door into his outer office, his assistant Genevieve rose from behind her desk and followed after him, appointments book in hand, telling him brightly that, amongst his other meetings that afternoon, she'd shoehorned in some policeman from the
Judiciaire.

Basquet didn't like the word
policeman.
It had the same ring to it as trustee, only not so malleable. Not that there was anything he needed to worry about. He donated generously to
Judiciaire
charities and benevolent schemes, and he'd employed a number of
Judiciaire
retirees as security consultants. Which was likely what this was all about. Someone retiring. Someone looking for employment. But the call on his time was an irritating intrusion all the same, when he had so much else on his mind.

'What does he want?' asked Basquet, tugging off his jacket and dropping into his chair.

'He didn't say, sir,' replied Genevieve, the appointments book clasped to her chest. 'He called last evening after you'd left to visit your aunt. Just said he'd appreciate a few moments of your time. I could always reschedule . . .?'

'No, no. It doesn't matter now,' said Basquet, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. 'But no longer than ten minutes. Just knock and come in, say I'm needed somewhere else. You know the drill.'

Genevieve Chantreau nodded and withdrew. She knew the drill.

When the door closed after her, Basquet went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a brandy. He winced as the first mouthful burnt its way down, scorching the sides of an empty stomach.

Then, hammering its way back into his consciousness, came that deadly, dreadful word: pregnant-pregnant- pregnant . . .

So tell me something I want to hear, Chief Inspector.' It was clear the moment Jacquot opened her office door that Solange Bonnefoy, Marseilles's formidable examining magistrate, was in no mood for the easy banter that usually characterised their working relationship. After Gastal's comments at Aqua-Cité the previous day, published in the papers that very morning, Jacquot had known it could only be a matter of time before he got a call from her office - and a frosty reception.

'We're making progress,' he replied, closing the door behind him.

'And so, it seems, is the killer,' Madame Bonnefoy shot back, holding a copy of that morning's paper rolled up like a cosh. She was standing at her desk, dressed for court in a black gown and white advocate's collar. She was forty-nine, single and six feet tall, with a long face set beneath wavy curls of prematurely grey hair. There was a grim set to her mouth and her chin was lowered disapprovingly into her neck, bringing her eyes to the parapet of her bifocals. 'You've seen this, I presume?' continued Madame Bonnefoy, waving the newspaper at Jacquot.

'Actually, no. I haven't,' he replied lightly, leaning across the desk and plucking the paper from her hand. He unrolled it and glanced at the 'Serial Killer At Large' headline and below, in smaller type, 'Police Deny Cover- Up'. Beside the headline was a picture of Gastal, leaning out of his car window, taken as he and Jacquot left the Aqua-Cité compound. Front-page news. Good old Gastal.

'Do you mind . . . ?' Jacquot indicated the chair.

Madame Bonnefoy nodded. 'Well?'

'I'm not sure about the cover-up,' he said at last, making himself comfortable.

'Daniel, play straight with me or . . .'

'We have four bodies so far,' he began, pushing the newspaper back onto her desk.