Jacquot and the Waterman (52 page)

Downstairs, the breakfast table had been cleared, so he went through to the kitchen where, shakily, he poured himself coffee and chewed on a croissant. Across the counter, Adele was preparing a meal for Céléstine's pack of house cats, one of which mewed and coiled irritatingly around his legs. If he'd had the strength, and the necessary coordination, he'd have kicked the fucking thing through the window.

At that precise moment Céléstine came bustling in from the garden, carrying a truck-load of flowers. She gave him an accusing but forgiving glare for his failings the night before and, after an affectionate peck on the cheek, she started up a breeze of happy chatter as she searched for scissors and began snipping away at the flowers' stems.

And then Basquet was in his car, speeding south, only moving into the slow lane when he saw a blue light flashing in his rear-view mirror. An ambulance, thank God, racing past, siren wailing. Which reminded Basquet of the cop from the
Judiciaire
who'd turned up the previous day asking questions about a building they'd developed, an apartment belonging to a murder victim. As he'd told the fellow, it was nothing to do with him what the occupants of his apartment blocks did with themselves. But afterwards he'd remembered that Raissac owned one of the apartments and the butterflies had begun to flutter. Could the murder have taken place in Raissac's apartment? And if it had, could it have anything to do with Raissac? Or was Raissac, as leaseholder, as blameless as Basquet the freeholder?

Somehow, Basquet suspected not.

He reached across for his mobile and brought up Raissac's number. The least he could do was warn him about the apartment, the visit from the
Judiciaire,
let him know that he could probably expect a similar call.

Or not. Maybe that dullard cop would call it a day, not bother to follow it through.

Basquet listened to the ring tone and was about to disconnect when he heard Raissac's voice on the other end of the line.

Five blocks beyond the marble-slabbed slopes of the Gabriel Cemetery on the northern side of the A7 flyover, Jacquot spotted the sign for Piscine Picquart. A gaudily-painted board set at roof level ran the length of a square, single-storey building, one in a line of similar commercial enterprises - timber yards, kitchen-supply outlets, garden centres and furniture warehouses - each with a parking lot out front, each strung with bunting and every one of them flagged with offers of 'once-only' promotions, boldly advertised in extravagant poster colours to pull in what there was of passing trade.

At some time in the past the premises presently occupied by Piscine Picquart had been a garage and car showroom, closed down and sold on when the autoroute opened. Under a spread of sun-warped roofing, the raised island where the petrol pumps had once stood was now laid in AstroTurf and furnished with a Californian hot tub, the showroom was filled with an assortment of poolside furnishings and accessories, and the old used-car lot outside was crowded with Jacuzzis, more hot tubs and a range of blue, ear-shaped moulds for suburban swimming pools, lined up according to size and pitched against a wall of peeling whitewash. The only place that appeared to retain its original role was a large workshop at the back of the lot, its shadowy workbench interior slashed by a wedge of sunlight and filled with the tinny sound of a transistor radio.

Pulling into the forecourt, Jacquot parked beside the Californian hot tub and got out of the car. Fifty feet above him, traffic roared past, out of sight on the flyover. He was grateful for the shade and a tug of breeze that pulled the shirt off his skin. It had taken him nearly forty minutes to reach Piscine Picquart from Roucas Blanc and the drive had left him feeling cramped and grubby. As he walked across the forecourt to reception, Jacquot stretched, worked his shoulders and wondered how long before the ache behind his eyes eased off. If he'd known the day was going to start with an early wake-up call and another body, he'd have been more circumspect the night before.

Inside the showroom, behind the reception counter, a young woman two-fingered her way across a computer keyboard, black roots showing in her centre parting, a wad of gum rolling round her mouth. Jacquot was leaning across the counter to ask for the manager when a brown- skinned lizard of a man scuttled out from behind a frosted- glass door.

'Picquart,' he said, snatching at Jacquot's hand and shaking it furiously. His ears were the size of side plates, brown and freckled, and he wore a jaunty little sailor's cap braided with coils of gold. Salette would have taken one look at him . . .

'So, what can I do for you, Monsieur?' he breezed. 'Jacuzzi? Hot tub? Or maybe you're looking for something bigger?'

Jacquot reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his badge.

The man's face lost its showroom glitter and set itself in stone. 'Let's go through to the office,' he said, indicating that Jacquot should follow.

'So,' he continued, dropping into a chair behind his desk, gesturing for Jacquot to make himself comfortable. 'What can I do for you?'

'The de Cotigny residence. Roucas Blanc. I believe they have a service contract with you?'

'They certainly do,' said Picquart, nodding behind him to an open cupboard, hung with keys on hooks. 'And there's many more besides them, I can tell you. Contract work for more than fifty owners. Pool cleaning, filtration units, pump servicing - we do the lot.' Even with a policeman in his office, it was clear that Picquart couldn't resist the spiel. 'And very competitive prices, too, I don't mind telling you. You'll not find cheaper. Or maybe you will but there's no one in this town that'll look after you quite so well for the price.' Picquart caught the look on Jacquot's face. 'So. Anyway. You were saying. The de Cotignys?'

'You keep a key of theirs here. For a garden gate on Allee Jobar.'

'That's correct.' Picquart extended a finger under his cap and scratched his scalp with a raspy fingernail. Jacquot guessed that a toupe lurked beneath the braid.

'Would you mind seeing if the key is there?'

Picquart tipped back in his chair and peered into the cupboard.

'Up there, second row, fourth from the left.'

Jacquot looked. The only single key on the row. The rest in pairs or threes. Simple enough to replace with one from another bunch.

'And that's where the key has been for the last twenty- four hours?'

Picquart nodded. 'Lock the cupboard myself. Every evening. I'd see if one was missing. Stand out like a sore thumb, it would, one of those keys goes missing.'

'And when was the last time you visited the de Cotigny property?'

Picquart pulled open a drawer in his desk and his fingers danced across a rack of files until he found what he was looking for. He flicked through some pages, ran his finger down the last and said: 'Monday. Test for chlorination and a check on the overflows.'

He pushed the file over in case Jacquot wanted to take a look.

He didn't. 'And since then?'

Picquart shook his head, closed the file and slid it back into the drawer.

'You do the job yourself?'

Picquart waved to the wall behind him. 'Leave all that to the grease monkey out back. Sardé's his name. Not the most reliable when it comes to starting a day's work, you get my drift. But good with his hands. Real mechanical- minded. Cleaning, servicing. That sort of stuff.'

Jacquot took this in.

'You have anyone else working for you? Apart from Sardé and your receptionist?'

Picquart shook his head.'And how long have they been with you?'
'Maxine, six months give or take. Always need a pretty face out front, even if she's not so hot with the typing and the filing.'

'And Sardé?'

Picquart gave it some thought. 'Two years. Could be longer. Like I say, he does have his off days but he's real good with machines. Got the touch.'

'He married? Single?'

'Not married, no.'

'Girlfriend?'

Picquart shrugged, spread his hands, didn't think so.

'And yesterday? What time did you close up?'

'Around five. The usual, give or take. Sometimes we got a customer comes in last thing we don't send him packing, you understand my meaning.'

'And you were here all day?'

Picquart thought about that. 'Well, not yesterday. Not the whole time. I had some things to collect for the boat. My cruiser, down on the Vieux Port. Thirty feet of fun. Marvellous. Nothing like it. Do you sail, Chief Inspector?' He tapped the peak of his captain's hat.

Jacquot gave him a look, got to his feet and started moving round the office. Filing cabinets, a cork board pinned with business cards, notes and flyers, a couple of pictures of Picquart aboard his boat, and a Sunseeker calendar hung on the back of a second door. Picquart's eyes never left him.

'Well, like I was saying, I needed some supplies. Brush, gas, some tarp, so round three I went up to Marina Supply - 'bout half a mile back.'

'Leaving Maxine here, and Sardé?'

Picquart nodded. 'Just the two of them.' 'And you locked the key cupboard? Your office? While you were away.'

Picquart shrugged. 'No reason to. Like I say, it wasn't more than fifteen
minutes I was out.'

'Could you ask Maxine to step in here a moment?'

Picquart shouted out her name and a moment later Maxine shuffled into the office, straightening her sleeves and brushing the lap of her skirt. The waist was too tight and a salami-sized roll of fat bulged under her button- fronted jumper. Also, without the gum to disguise it, her bottom lip was too full and gave her face a sullen slant.