Jacquot and the Waterman (48 page)

Suzie sucked in a last lungful of smoke and dropped the cigarette into the ice bucket - a swift hiss as it extinguished. She stood and looked across the lawn. Private, no windows bar their own to intrude on her, a conspiracy of pines and high walls, battlements of hibiscus and frangipani and the subtle, sloping contours of the land to protect each residence from its neighbour. Suzie stepped off the stone flags and felt the grass give beneath her feet. It was still warm enough to be naked she decided, the water from the pool almost dry on her skin, just a coil of moisture leaking between her shoulder blades and down her back from the fall of her hair. She raised her hands, leant back and squeezed the water from it, twisting it out.

She wondered what she'd miss, when the time came to move on. Not France, certainly. And increasingly not the French. Not Hubert's interfering mother, nor his spoilt, self-opinionated daughter. If she never set eyes on the two of them again, it wouldn't be too soon for Suzie. As for Hubert, he'd be heartbroken, of course, but
tant pis
as the French would say. He might plead with her to stay - in vain, of course - but he'd survive, he'd get over it.

But where to go, thought Suzie? Where to move on to? Strolling across the lawn she considered the possibilities, the grass prickling underfoot, not a whisper of breeze to whip away the days sultry, leaden heat. There was the Caribbean, of course, but that was way, way too close to home. North Africa, maybe? Or Spain, perhaps? Or further afield? Bali, Malaysia, the tropics? Somewhere hot. Somewhere exotic. Somewhere her parents would disapprove of. She liked it when they disapproved. Even now.

And then, in the middle of the lawn, Suzie paused, aware of a sound, a movement, at the far edge of the terrace, among the pines.

Her first thought was a cat or dog chasing through the undergrowth. But then there was a voice. Someone calling out. Someone on her side of the boundary wall.

Realising that she was naked, Suzie turned back to the pool for something to cover herself. She picked up her wrap from the flagstones, belted it around her, then retraced her steps across the lawn.

And there, from the darkening shadows at the far edge of the property, where the pines twisted up into the night sky, was a figure, coming towards her.

Berthe? Hortense? Their neighbour, Madame Des- landes? But then she saw trousers. Gilles the gardener? Hubert home early? She peered into the gloom, but couldn't make out any feature, save that the figure was tall.

Taller than Berthe, but about right for Madame Deslandes. Or Gilles. Or even Hubert.

'Who's there?' she called out, noticing for the first time the citrus scent of aftershave. 'Hubert? Is that you, honey?'

The figure approaching across the lawn spoke again, sounding concerned, as though something had happened of which Suzie was unaware, and she knew at once it wasn't Hubert.

'Madame, Madame, are you all right? I thought I saw something

And before Suzie could do anything about it, before she had time to react or defend herself, the figure was leaping at her, toppling her to the ground. And then . . . something hitting the side of her head, stars springing into her eyes, more stars than she remembered in the night sky, spinning through her vision, the breath crushed from her body ... a weight on her chest, her arms and legs pinned down and a prickling of grass on her neck . . .

And up above . . . The sky darkening, the stars still there but blinking out, one by one, fast. . .

Until. . . just an irresistible urge to giggle. To laugh at the . . . And then . . .Nothing

La Residence Cotigny, Marseilles, Friday

I
t was early morning when Gilles, the de Cotignys' gardener, arrived for work, the sun still to breach the peaks above Montredon, the white stucco of the house the pale gold of a chamois cloth, its cornered recesses chill and angled with shadow.

He entered the grounds where he always did, at their lowest level, through the garden gate on Allée Jobar, a panel of weathered grey wood set into a boundary wall that rose nearly twelve feet above the pavement, so that only the crowns of the garden palms and pines could be seen from the road.

Closing the gate behind him and pocketing the key, Gilles made his way up to the house, taking the long route around the bottom lawn beside the chip-bark path of the flower beds, then up the steps to the middle terrace. There'd been a blow the night before, down from the mountains, only now heading out to sea, chopping the water in the bay. It had been strong enough to strip away palm fronds and loosen pine cones, which now lay scattered across the grass. They'd need picking up, tidying away.

Halfway across the terrace, Gilles paused, his attention caught by something else on the grass. And nothing brought down by last night's blow.

Damn dogs, he thought, kicking a sun-dried
crotte
out of his path. It looked like a shrivelled brown finger. Now he looked, he could see half a dozen more that would need shifting before he mowed the lawn. They might be hard on the outside, those
crottes,
but there was always a soft- centre core to them. And tuhen the blades caught them and spat them out. . . well, the smell was enough. Clung to his trouser legs and all. They weren't even good manure.

Of course, he knew the culprits. Deutsch, the big old German shepherd that belonged to Doctor Crespin along the road, and those three little yapping monsters of Madame Deslandes's. By the look of the
crottes
this morning, it was the mutts from next door that were to blame. Deutsch always left far more substantial calling cards. If only Madame remembered to close the front gates, it wouldn't have been a problem. He'd mentioned it to the boss a hundred times, but the message had failed to filter down to her. Or, if it had, it didn't seem to make any difference.

Gilles climbed the steps to the top terrace and started off across the lawn, the house rising above him, the pool away to his left, the land banking up to his right, where he was headed, rising gently to a border of pine, oleander and aloe. It was round this side of the house, near the service entry, that Gilles kept his work shed, stored the spades and shovels, rakes and secateurs, all the things he needed to keep the place in order. It was also, in the middle of the day, a cool spot to stop for his lunch and the
eau de vie
he kept amongst the seed trays. As for the mornings, a nip of
calva
from a weedkiller bottle was all it took to get him motivated.

The first hour was always the best, early enough to be on his own, trundling the wheelbarrow back down to the bottom terrace, dropping off tools as he went: shears and canvas sheet on the top terrace for clipping back the bougainvillaea on the balustrade; a rake and shovel on the middle terrace where he'd seen the dog crap; his secateurs and a trug by the climbing roses; and a hoe by the fruit beds on the bottom terrace. Anyone walked round the garden and they'd think he was the hardest worker in the world - four jobs on the go at once. But they'd be lucky if he finished one.

It was around six, while wheeling a lightly loaded barrow of palm fronds and pine cones to the compost heap beyond the pool, that Gilles saw her first. Or rather her outline, and the jet-black hair, through the back of the see-through inflatable pool chair she liked to use - high enough out of the water to keep her books and magazines dry, and easily manoeuvrable when the sun got too hot and she needed the shade. What surprised the gardener was the fact she should be up and about so early.

But there she was. Madame. And yet, as he steered his barrow along the edge of the terrace so as not to disturb her, Gilles was aware of something not quite right, his eyes seeking her out almost against his will. And it wasn't just the possibility she was topless. Great tits, Christ.. . Something else altogether. But no, not her tits. Something in the way she sat in the chair; she looked. . . uncomfortable. Slumped.

As he drew parallel, maybe ten metres from the edge of the pool, Gilles slowed his pace and peered cautiously in her direction. She seemed to be asleep, head lolling, an arm slung out, fingers trailing in the water. He lowered the barrow handles, ready to stoop and pick something up if she sensed him there arid turned in his direction.

Which she proceeded to do, a whisper of breeze moving the chair and bringing her round to face him, head tilted, eyes fixed on him, as though su rprised that there should be anyone there that early.

And very pale, it seemed to Gilles. Madame always had such a good colour. But not this morning. As pale as the stucco on the house that rose above them.

It was only when he stepped onto the flagstones edging the pool that Gilles saw what was wrong.

Whose mobile?' It was Cesar's voice, calling from
the kitchen. And then, after checking his and Sid's: 'Daniel, it's yours.'

Jacquot roused himself. Squinted at his watch. Six- thirty. Jesus. His head ached. The brandy. The joint Cesar had rolled after Sydne had gone to bed. He looked around, tried to get his bearings. A tented room, painted furniture and terracotta colours. A Moroccan feel. Sid and Cesar's spare room. The smell of patchouli and coffee percolating.

He tried to remember where his jacket was, his mobile. Out in the hall. Bleating away.

It was Gastal, chewing on something. 'We got us another one.'

The address Gastal had given him was in Roucas Blanc, at the end of a cul-de-sac off Avenue des Roches. Jacquot had to use a street map to find it, hidden away in a fold of hills closer to Prado Plage than the Vieux Port. Exclusive territory. When he saw the squad cars, the Forensics van, and an ambulance all drawn up in a semicircle under a stand of pines at the end of the lane, jacquot knew that he'd arrived.