Jacquot and the Waterman (58 page)

'You've lost me,' said Jacquot, taking one of the two chairs set in front of the long oak table that served as Clisson's desk. Making himself comfortable, the first thing he noticed was how cool the room was. On the second floor of a building across the road from police headquarters, Clisson's office might have been on the wrong side of the street to benefit from any direct sunshine, but at least, one block back from the Metro works, the deafening rattle of jackhammers and the steady thump of piledrivers were muted here, the clouds of dust from the earth movers dispersed. Which meant that he was able to keep his windows open, shutters latched at an angle to catch the breeze.

'I left you a message,' continued Clisson, running his fingers through his wiry, ginger thatch. 'Something I thought you'd like to know. Something from Valéry.'

'Pronoprazone?'

Clisson nodded. 'And something else.'

Jacquot's favourite words again. Twice in one day.
'Yes...?'

'A splinter.'

'A splinter?'

'Valéry found a splinter. A wood splinter. In Madame de Cotigny's

Clisson cast around for the right word. For a man who'd seen more than his fair share of broken and abused bodies and recorded the full horror of human violence, Clisson was often surprisingly fastidious when it came to talking about certain things.

'In Madame de Cotigny's . . . ?' prompted Jacquot.

'In
her .. .
vagina,' sighed Clisson.

'Jesus.' Jacquot's head reeled. He'd been thinking a splinter in her finger, her foot - something small but possibly significant, one of Valéry s little observations. Like the salt crystals in Jilly Holford's hair. But this was altogether different.

'It would appear that Madame de Cotigny was not raped. Not in the usual sense. She was . . .' Clisson paused, trying to decide how best to describe, exactly, precisely, the nature of the assault. 'She
was. . .
bludgeoned. According to Valéry, it looks like penetration was effected with . . . some kind of blunt wooden instrument.'

'Some kind of blunt wooden instrument?' repeated Jacquot.

Clisson spread his hands. 'It's impossible to say exactly
what...
a wooden handle of some description, a truncheon, a kitchen pestle . . .''And the other victims?'

Clisson nodded. 'Of course it's too late to re-examine the first two victims - we'd need an exhumation order - and Monel was in the water far too long for any positive confirmation. But it's Valéry's considered opinion that the, uh . . . this method of penetration, the nature of the assault, is certainly consistent with the, uh . . . injuries sustained by the Holford girl. And, so far as he can recall, with the other victims as well.'

'Which explains

'The lack of semen. Spermicide. Lubricant. Quite so.'

This was clearly progress but Jacquot was uncertain how far it would take them. All it did was confirm that the Waterman was a few
sous
short of a franc. But then, they knew that already.

'What I don't understand—' began Jacquot.

'I know, I know. How come it took a splinter before he realised—'

'Well, you see my point. A blunt wooden instrument

'All he's prepared to say is that the condition of the victims' vaginas initially suggested intercourse, penetration, albeit of a, uh . . . of an aggressive nature. "A violent, abusive penetration" was the way he described it to me. Let's say, possibly, a man of some, uh . . . proportion. It's perfectly feasible, I'm sure you'd agree. However, it wasn't until Valéry found the splinter that he, uh . . . was able to revise that initial assumption.'

Jacquot got up from his chair.

'Thanks, Clisson. I don't know where this takes us, but it's certainly something.'

'My pleasure. Any time. We're here to help.'

'And on this one we're going to need all the help we can get,' continued Jacquot, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his ID card. "Which reminds me . . .'

'Yes?' said Clisson, looking at Jacquot suspiciously.

'The reason I came by,' said Jacquot, holding the card between his fingers as he laid it on Clisson's desk. 'A favour.'

Clisson peered at the card.

'I'm looking for a match. Vicki Monel's apartment.'

'But it's Friday afternoon,' replied Clisson.

'I appreciate it,' said Jacquot.

If Jacquot was quietly pleased with developments - Raissac's slip of the tongue, getting his fingerprints on the ID card, the confirmation of pronoprazone in the latest victim's blood and Valéry's discovery of a splinter, for whatever that was worth - there was even better news waiting for him when he got back to police HQ from Clisson's office.

The atmosphere in the squad room was electric, a bustle of restrained excitement behind the frosted-glass partitions. He could feel it the moment he stepped through the door.

'We got a match from the flat on Cours Lieutaud,' said Peluze, getting up from his desk and following Jacquot into his office.

'Whose?' asked Jacquot, pulling off his jacket and slumping behind his desk.

Peluze gave him a grin. 'Our friend Carnot. Everywhere - handles, shelves, sink, loo flusher - you name it.'

'Anything else?'

'Charlie called to say he's checked out Sardé's place. Walk-up in Bailie. A pit, by the sound of it. But sure looks like he's a peeker. Got an expensive photo habit - Nikon camera, telephoto lens, darkroom. And lots of pictures, mostly naked women at home. Swimming pools, bedroom windows. Long-lens stuff. But he hasn't changed his story. He was staking her out and got disturbed. And Charlie believes him.'

'So do I,' said Jacquot.

'What do you want to do with him?'

'He can go.'

'And Carnot?'

'Find him. Bring him in,' replied Jacquot.

Peluze nodded and turned back to the squad room. As he closed the door behind him, Jacquot's phone rang. It was Gastal.

'I'm in the apartment. Real little love nest.'

'Tell me.'

'Top floor on Paradis. The usual layout. Just a small place with the one bedroom. Under the roof. But nicely done. Music, a few books, magazines. But no address book, diary, correspondence. Some clothes, bedlinen, towels and that's it.'

'Neighbours?'

'There's three other flats in the building and a
pharmacie
on the ground floor. Old woman on the second floor, right below, says she sees her now and again, but said she doesn't live there full-time. Didn't know her name.'

'Callers?''She says she sometimes hears voices from the apartment, steps on the stairs, that kind of thing. But she's never seen anyone. Not her business, she says.' 'She say how long Madame de Cotigny's been there?'

'Couple of years. Said she couldn't remember for certain.'

'Any news on the gym? The Renault?'

'I've got some names. Thought I'd sit here and chase them up.'

'Call me when you've got something.'

Jacquot put down the phone. Then picked it up again, and tapped out the harbour master's number.

There was something on his mind, something he wanted to follow up - maybe another piece in the jigsaw, maybe not - and Salette was the man to help him. After the usual pleasantries, he got to the point.

 Salette had always kept an eye out for Daniel Jacquot, always ready to help. But last thing Friday afternoon and on his way out of the office? That was asking too much, surely? Yet the old harbour master did what Jacquot asked, settling back at his computer keyboard, accessing the information that his godson had requested.

Jean-Marie Salette had known the Jacquot family way back, long before it was a family. Long before Daniel arrived on the scene, or his mother for that matter.

Vincent had been first. Daniel's father. Built like a real g
orille
but with a heart made of butter and a voice like an angel. A real crooner. Should have gone professional was Salette's opinion; he could have made it. Really. Trenet, Rossi, Gabin, he could sing them off the stage any day. In his striped sailor shirt and white ducks, moving round the tables at the old Bateau Bleu off Canebiere, you'd see the girls twitch when he reached deep for 'Chagrin d'Amour', or knelt at their tables for 'Romance de Paris' or 'O Corse, Ile d'Amour'. But you suggested it, and he just smiled that smile of his and shrugged. 'For what?' he'd say. 'I got everything I need right here.'