Jacquot and the Waterman (43 page)

'Christian here found it by accident.'

Christian, in the kitchen, was going through a bag of rubbish, its contents spread across the kitchen table. He was masked. He looked up and nodded as they stepped past him into the bathroom.

'And?' said Jacquot.

'There,' said Jouannay, pointing at a built-out panelled corner at the head of the bath. It would have made a perfect space for an immersion heater, or for storing towels and linen. But there was no handle, no evidence that this was anything other than a wall, possibly concealing a chimney flue from the floors below. 'Just push your fingers there,' said Jouannay.

Jacquot pushed where Jouannay indicated and, with a click, the entire panel opened up from ceiling to floor. Inside the 'cupboard' Jacquot reckoned there was room for two people standing side by side. So far as he could see there was no light, and with the door closed this cramped space would have been pitch black. Except for three square apertures set at about shoulder height. One looked down on the bath and shower unit, the second into the larger of the two bedrooms, while the third looked straight ahead into the sitting room where one of Jouannay s team was numbering a sample bag and dropping it into his case.

Jacquot stepped out of the cupboard and looked at the wall at the head of the bath. A square of mirrored tiles. He left the bathroom and looked into the bedroom and sitting room. Two more mirrors screwed to the walls. A perfect way to watch whatever was going on in most of the apartment without being seen. Or, Jacquot reflected, the perfect place to set up a camera. In one easy sweep, someone with the right equipment could film or photograph anything going on in all three rooms.

Well, well, well, Jacquot thought to himself. A change of gear. Things were beginning to move.

The phone hadn't stopped since Basquet arrived back at the office. An apologetic call from the architect whose teeth had played up, his voice appropriately muffled with novocaine; a call from his finance director telling him that the trustees' meeting had been rescheduled for the following week; and a dozen others.

At a little after one o'clock, Basquet had Genevieve order him up some lunch from the Jardins de Clemence on rue Dunkerque and he'd eaten it at his desk, a steak baguette with a side-order of their fabulously crisp
frites,
washed down with a half-bottle of claret from his own drinks cabinet. By the time Genevieve put her head round the door to announce a Chief Inspector Daniel Jacquot, the remains of the meal and the empty bottle had been spirited away, Basquet working his way through a stack of that morning's flagged communiques. He'd been kept so busy since getting back to the office that he'd not had the time to ponder any further the reason for this visit from the
Judiciaire.

Getting up from his desk and brushing crumbs from his lap, Basquet came round to greet his visitor who was even now being ushered into his office.

The man was not what Basquet had expected. Tall, early forties, with a leather jacket, bright blue jeans, tasselled loafers and, of all things, a ponytail. The eyes were a light green and sleepy and the nose oddly bent - no doubt broken in the line of duty, thought Basquet. They shook hands and Basquet indicated a chair, returning behind the desk and making himself comfortable.

'So, Chief Inspector. How can I be of help?' Basquet began.

'It's kind of you to see me at such short notice, Monsieur,' the policeman replied.

'Of course. Anything I can do.' Basquet put on an expectant face. He noticed that the policeman looked uncomfortable. Embarrassed at what he was about to ask? Or just intimidated by the power? The wealth? Being in such a luxuriously appointed office?

'It's really just a formality,' the policeman began.

Basquet nodded. He reached forward for the Lajaunie pastilles, tapped one out into his palm, closed it in a fist and tossed it into his mouth.

'I believe your company was involved in the new open- sea development at Aqua-Cité?'

'One of my companies. That's correct.' Basquet nodded, rolling the pastille round in his mouth. 'An incredibly complex undertaking,' he continued, unable to resist the chest-beating. 'Nothing like it anywhere. Admissions up seventy-eight per cent because of it.'

The policeman looked suitably impressed. 'And I believe you also own a residential redevelopment at 44-48 Cours Lieutaud?'

'Cours Lieutaud? That's right,' he replied, sucking at his pastille. 'Our property division. Along with a number of other similar developments both in and outside the city. Commercial and residential. Soap'll get you just so far, Chief Inspector,' continued Basquet, leaning back in his chair. 'But nowadays you've got to diversify or drown. Simple as that. Which is why we also have interests in leasing, insurance, mortgage refinancing. We even have our own import and export arm, maritime trading . . .' Basquet spread his hands expansively.

The policeman nodded, said nothing, seemed uncertain how to proceed.

Basquet watched the man's eyes wander over the honey-coloured herringbone pattern of the parquet, the thick pile of the Persian rug on which his desk stood.

'And?' prompted Basquet, feeling comfortably in control of the situation, even if he couldn't see exactly where this line of questioning was headed.

'It's just. . . Well, you may have read, seen something
on TV ...
a body was recovered from the open-sea pool at Aqua-Cité yesterday morning. A young woman. She'd been murdered.'

'How dreadful . . .' Basquet tried a suitably concerned look. 'But I can't see . . .'

'And then, just last week, a resident at Cours Lieutaud, at number forty-six, was found drowned in a lake in Salon-le-Vitry.'

'And?' Basquet might have looked confused at this information, but he recognised it immediately for what it was. The police were investigating a coincidence, nothing more nor less, simple procedure, groundwork, in the absence of anything more substantial to follow up.

'It just seemed something of a . . . well, coincidence. I'm sure you'll agree . . .'

Basquet looked patiently at the man across his desk. You could almost hear him drink.

'Yeeeeesss . . . and . . . ?'

'Well, Monsieur, it's just that your company being the owner of Cours Lieutaud, and also involved in construction at Aqua-Cité...'

Basquet noted the words tailing off. His visitor was now clearly unsettled.

'Chief Inspector. Chief Inspector . . . What was the name again?'

'Jacquot. Chief Inspector Jacquot.'

'So. Chief Inspector Jacquot.
Bien sûr,
I can see how these facts might appear to have some relevance, given the coincidence, if not any particular significance, but really. . .' Basquet turned to his desktop and began to shuffle at his papers as though he had more pressing matters to occupy him.

'It just seemed worth a
call...
To see if you could help us in any way. Something we might not know . . .'

'Chief Inspector,' said Basquet patiently. 'Tell
me ... If
two people are run over by Peugeots in a single week, do you pay a call on Monsieur Peugeot? If a Laguiole knife is used in a stabbing, do you contact Monsieur Laguiole? If
a . . . if a. . .'
Basquet spread his hands, trying to think of an equally appropriate analogy, but suddenly he couldn't be bothered. This was all too ridiculous. Wasting his time like this. Really.

Across the desk, the policeman nodded his agreement. Of course, of
course ...
A silence fell between them, save for the shuffling of papers.

Basquet took his cue. 'Well, if that's all, Chief Inspector?' he said, managing to squeeze out a weary smile.

And then:

'I wonder, Monsieur . . .' began the policeman, pulling gently at his ponytail. 'How did that particular property, Cours Lieutaud, come into your possession?'

'Like most of our acquisitions, we probably got it from the City Council. Usually those places are in terrible condition. Overcrowding, poor sanitation. We simply turn them around. Relocate the families in residence and take the properties in hand. Redecorate. Refurbish. Put in proper plumbing, a lift, things like that

'And does your company own all the apartments in Cours Lieutaud? Or just some of diem?'

'Most of them, I believe, though we don't like to keep the places too long. Get shot of them. Loosen up some capital, you understand?' added Basquet, suspecting that the policeman probably wouldn't.

'So as well as holding rentals, you also sell leases?'

Basquet nodded. 'When the market's right. We have a division, Basquet Immo, that deals with that side of things,' he explained, wondering where all this was leading. The policeman, Jacquot, seemed to have found a rhythm, a line, and no longer appeared as hesitant, as uncertain as Basquet had first imagined. There was something steely about the
eyes ...
a confidence. As if somehow - though Basquet couldn't say how - he'd been seen through. It was an unsettling moment.

'And you'd have records of leases and rentals in that particular block?'

'Of course. But not here, you understand. Not in this building. As I said, that would be Basquet
Immo,
our property division over in Valmont. But I don't see—'