Jacquot and the Waterman (56 page)

A minute after pressing the button, the entry-phone speaker clicked into life.

'Yes?' A man's voice. Immediately familiar. The entry-phone on rue des Allottes. Raissac himself.

Jacquot leant forward. 'Chief Inspector Jacquot,
Police Judiciaire,
Marseilles. Be grateful for a word with Monsieur Raissac.'

In answer the connection went dead and the gates began to ease open, one ahead of the other.

Jacquot got back into his car, waited for enough space between the opening gates and then pulled into Raissac's drive.

Raissac had a knack for faces and he knew this one immediately. As he came down the steps of his house to greet his visitor, he noted the shoulders, the broken nose, the ponytail. Rugby. Jacquot. One of the great tries. France versus England. In London, fifteen . . . maybe sixteen years back? Raissac knew his rugby. He probably had a video somewhere.

'Chief Inspector,
bonjour,'
said Raissac.

'Monsieur Raissac,' Jacquot replied, coming round the side of his car. 'Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,' he continued, reaching into his jacket pocket for his ID. But he didn't get a proper grip on the card and it flipped out of his fingers onto the ground at Raissac's feet.

Raissac bent down, picked it up and handed it back, not bothering to check it.

'My pleasure,' he replied, sensing the policeman's surprise at the way he looked - trying as hard as he could to keep his eyes off the ravaged cheeks, the splash of colour. 'Anything I can do to be of assistance, Monsieur. Here, let's go out to the terrace,' he said, leading the way round the side of the house, the path bordered by banks of lavender.

Following behind, Jacquot took in the lines of the house and grounds - a two-floor cube of glass and concrete terraced into a tutored bank of lawn, the mountains of the Baume Massif rising up above the pine and cypress that bordered the property, a feathering of clouds on their peaks. It wasn't quite Jacquot's style - too lean, too modern - but there was no denying that it was a very impressive property.

'Jacquot. Jacquot,' Raissac was saying, as if the name seemed familiar. 'Tell me, Chief Inspector, you're not by any chance
the
Jacquot, are you? Flanker? Number Six shirt?' They'd reached the terrace and Raissac led the way to an umbrellaed table and cushioned chairs. 'Can't remember the Christian name, I'm afraid, but your face is very familiar. And, if you'll excuse my saying, you do rather look like you play rugby.'

'You have a good memory, Monsieur,' Jacquot conceded, taking the seat that Raissac indicated. 'Daniel. Daniel Jacquot. Début match. And you never saw me again.'

'But that try . . .'

'The right place at the right time, Monsieur. A loose ball and fresh legs. I came on as a substitute, remember?'

'But still. .

There was a moments pause as they made themselves comfortable, and Raissac took a look at his companion, trying to get the measure of him - a useful strategy when the police came calling. The flattery, the recognition, was water off a ducks back with this one, he noted. His visitor from the
Judiciaire
wasn't interested in reliving past glory. That was done and gone. And no bad thing, thought Raissac. Living in the past was the fast lane to nowhere.

A man in an embroidered cream burnous came out of the house and walked over to them. He looked to be in his sixties, thin, a little hunched, and carried a tray under his arm.

'I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know you had a visitor.'

'All yes, Salim, thank you. Chief Inspector, what will you have?'

Beers were requested and Salim retreated.

'So, what can I do for you?' continued Raissac, getting down to business.

Jacquot didn't waste any time: 'I believe you own the lease on an apartment on Cours Lieutaud, Marseilles?'

Raissac pretended to give it some thought. 'I believe so, yes.'

'You seem uncertain?'

Raissac waved his hand at the house and grounds. 'I'm afraid I need more than one city leasehold to keep me in my old age, Chief Inspector. As far as I remember, my company, Raissac et Freres Maroc, has a number of residential and commercial properties in the city. Two of the properties are used for business - colleagues from out of town, meetings, that sort of thing. I don't actually have an office in France since most of the day-to-day business is carried out in Rabat. The remaining properties will have been purchased for rental income and market speculation.' He waved his hand dismissively. 'Just a sideline, really.'

Another silence settled between them as Jacquot took this in.

Raissac smiled helpfully. He had no reason to hold anything back. And knew better than to do so. The policeman sitting in front of him might have the looks and build of a bruiser, but there was a fineness to the features, an intelligent set to the eyes. Unlike Basquet's take on the man, Raissac recognised an operator when he saw one, and this fellow was not to be underestimated. He was also, Raissac decided, a very attractive man. Fleetingly, he wondered what this Jacquot would look like with his hair untied, loose, hanging around that wide breadth of shoulders . . . and those strong legs, the slim hips.

Salim returned with their beers on a tray, set them on the table and retired.

'So property is your main business, then, Monsieur?' continued Jacquot, raising his glass to Raissac and taking a sip.

Raissac shook his head. 'Not at all, Chief Inspector. Not at all.'

Give him everything, he thought. There was nothing to hide.

'Property, of course, is always a sensible investment,' he continued, 'and it's how we started. But our company has many other interests.'

'You said "our company". You have partners, then?'

'Just the one,' replied Raissac. 'My brother, Henri. When our father died, we took over the family business. Building supplies, that land of thing. Based in North Africa. Morocco. My brother, who is ten years older, went in first; and I followed later. We did well in the Sixties when tourism opened up. New hotels meant building on a large scale. Supplies, materials, workforce. And local know-how for foreign companies coming in. We made sure we were the best operation in town. Since then,' Raissac spread his hands, 'we have, of course, tried to expand. Import, export, a little shipping, maritime trade . . . We try to cover the board.'

'And your brother lives here in France?' asked Jacquot, his eye caught by the swallows diving at the swimming pool to scoop up beakfuls of water, leaving a pattern of circular ripples across its surface.

Raissac shook his head. 'Venezuela. Caracas. We have other operations there - mining, drilling, natural resources. Another string, you understand . . . Nowadays, "diversification is the key to economic health", as they say.'

'Coming back to your properties . . .' asked Jacquot. 'Do you know any of your tenants personally?'

Baissac shrugged. 'With so many properties, Chief Inspector, it would be extraordinary if I knew every tenant's name,' he said, regretting the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Not for any information he'd disclosed, but for the way he'd said it. Rather pompous, on reflection. The kind of thing Basquet would say. What I mean is, Chief Inspector . . .'

But Jacquot was holding up his hands, deflecting Raissac s attempt to right the situation. 'No, no, of course, I quite understand.' He took another sip of his beer. 'So, then, it's unlikely you'll have heard that one of your tenants, in a block of apartments on Cours Lieutaud, has been found murdered?'

'Mais non,
I hadn't heard that.' Raissac put on what he hoped was a suitably concerned expression. 'But then . . .'

'But then it would be dealt with by someone else. In Rabat?'

'Through our legal department there.' Raissac nodded. 'Or the various agents we use. For all purchases, sales and rentals we use local
immobiliers.
On the spot. They know the markets and we leave things to them. Something like
this ... a murder ...
If they don't already know about it, they soon will, I'm sure. But it's not something I would get to hear of.'

'And you haven't read about the murder? In the papers? Or seen anything on TV?'

Raissac shook his head. 'Just the business pages,' he replied with an easy smile. 'And sport, of course. Nothing else, I'm afraid. As for TV . . . well, it's for morons,
n'est-ce pas?
All those game shows . . .'

Raissac caught himself. Again, he'd said too much. The wrong tone. For all he knew this Jacquot watched TV the whole time and just loved game shows. He might not look like it, but you never could tell.

Much to his relief, his guest nodded in agreement and smiled. It didn't look to Raissac like his visitor had taken offence.

'I wonder,' Jacquot began again, 'do the names Grez, Ballarde, Monel or Holford mean anything to you?'

Raissac gave the names some thought. There was only the one he recognised. Monel. Vicki Monel. He shook his head. 'I'm sorry. No, not a single one. Is one of them the girl who was murdered?'

'Actually, they are all murder victims.'

Raissac put on a suitably concerned expression. 'I'm sorry to hear that. Terrible. Terrible.'