Jacquot and the Waterman (69 page)

This morning, Jalons noted, there was only one further notation on the
Aurore'
s file - made earlier that morning by Sergeant Dupuys in blue marker pen.
'Arrivée.'
Which meant, Jalons knew, that right now Dupuys would be down at the
Aurore's
berth, inspecting her crew documentation and confirming her registration papers and cargo manifest.

Jalons replaced the clipboard on its hook and, taking up a pair of binoculars, he walked onto the deck outside the office. A week earlier, with a berth still to be assigned to the MS
Aurore,
he'd decided on Bay Seven, at the end of Quai d'Arenc. As far away as possible. He trained the glasses on the spot, adjusted the focus, and there she was, all but hidden at the end of a long line of bulkier merchantmen, a low-slung rust bucket with white upperworks and mud-red flanks. The paintwork was patchy and she looked like she'd done some sailing. Jalons settled his binoculars on the flying bridge where two officers leant over the rails, one of them shouting at his crew through cupped hands.

Since there were no quay-crane facilities at Bay Seven - the steel track fell short by a hundred metres - the shore crews had already started unloading cargo using the ship's own gantries, each netted load to be transferred by pallet and fork-lift to Bond Hall Seven, the most distant of the dockside warehouses. Dropping the glasses from the
Aurore'
s bridge to the bustling quayside, Jalons picked out Dupuys making his way through the shore crews and pallets to his car. He watched him open the door, lean in and pick up his radio.

Behind him, in his office, Jalons heard his own radio crackle into life. He left the terrace, went to his desk and acknowledged Dupuys's call confirming that the
Aurore'
s hatches were open and derricks operating. Signing off, Jalons slumped behind his desk and ran a dry tongue across parched lips.

Now it was his turn.

An hour later Jalons pulled on his cap and headed down to his car in front of the Customs building. Procedure required that a senior Customs officer should be in attendance on at least two occasions during cargo discharge. At which time said senior officer was entitled, if he saw fit, to authorise searches using whatever means he judged appropriate - dogs, electronic sweepers, X-rays, even random sampling.

But, of course, Lieutenant Emile Jalons had no intention of doing any such thing. He knew that it would be enough for him to follow the code of practice as set down for investigating officers, put in his regulation appearances and then wave the cargo through.

That was all they'd asked him to do. Go easy. Look the other way. As if he'd never turned a blind eye to illicit cargo before.

It was going to be, he reassured himself, a piece of cake.

Adèle hadn't seen Monsieur Basquet in such high spirits for a long

time.

'Morning, Adele,' he bellowed, patting her arm as he took his seat at the breakfast table, thanking her as she poured his orange juice, which she couldn't remember him ever doing before.

Then thanking her for the yogurt and honey she brought him.

And the croissants.

And the
omelette fromage
that he'd requested.

In fact, everything Adele put in front of him, served with a tiny bob, Basquet thanked her for it, tucking in as if he hadn't eaten for a week. Which, she reflected, preparing another pot of coffee in the kitchen, had been pretty much the pattern for the last few days.

Back in the breakfast room, Basquet finished his omelette, leant back from the table and felt a great wave of contentment sluice over him. Anais finally out of his hair. The problem solved. And unexpectedly easy to negotiate.

He'd been quite surprised how little trouble she'd caused him, how little fight she'd put up.

At that moment Céléstine appeared, thankfully not in her jogging gear, Basquet observed, but more suitably dressed in her preferred slacks and cardigan. She came over and kissed the top of his head, scolded him for his snoring and for driving her off to Laurent's room once again, and told him he'd missed quite an evening.

"What party?' he asked, not aware that he'd been snoring.

The Fazilleaux,' replied Céléstine, taking her seat at the table. 'Remember?'

'You meet that Druet chap?'

'Duret,' his wife corrected him. 'Xavier Duret. Charming man. You'd have loved it.'

'The two of you get on?'

'Like a house on fire.'

'So call him,' said Basquet expansively. 'Get them round for dinner.'

Céléstine looked at her husband in amazement.

'You mean
dinner
? Here?' she asked, as though she must surely have misunderstood. It had been months since they'd last had guests at the house. Lately, her husband liked to do his entertaining in restaurants, usually without her.

'Why not? Live a little.'

Either her husband had lost his senses, Céléstine decided, or he wanted to meet this Duret more than she realised.

Adele came into the room with a fresh pot of coffee.

'Good morning, Madame,' she said with another little bob, and

filled their cups.

'Thanks, Adèle,' said Basquet, and Céléstine blinked.

Crossing Republique, Coupchoux never saw the autobus that hit them.

He'd just finished breakfast at Cafe Samaritaine and was on his way to the car when his attention was caught by two nuns headed in the same direction as him but on the other side of the road. Their hands were tucked into their sleeves, their robes billowed in the sunshine and the knotted cords of their belts slapped against the folds of their skirts. He watched them as they walked, the white wings of their starched wimples glaring bright in the morning light like the sails of a ship. He wondered where they were going. It had to be St Cannat, he decided; the cloister there was a favourite of his. Perhaps there was a Mass. A saints day, maybe.

Coupchoux checked the time. He was supposed to be in Cassis at eleven, picking up Raissac, but he reckoned there might be time for a detour. After all, he was in need of some spiritual cleansing. Thanks to a change in plans, he'd been up half the night. All of it for Raissac. Hard, bloody, dirty work it had been, too. And Carnot off gallivanting somewhere. Raissac would have his balls for that and no mistake - maybe even get Coupchoux to do the honours. Which would be fun. Coupchoux didn't like Carnot one little bit. Playboy type, a nasty piece of work who thought he was the dog's bollocks. And Arab, too. Pretended he wasn't, but you could see it a mile off. It was the pretending that Coupchoux particularly disliked.

Across Republique the two nuns stepped into a side street off the boulevard and in an instant they were gone. But Coupchoux had been expecting it. If they were headed for St Cannat, that sharp turn and shadowy street was the only way they could get there.

Fifty metres ahead of him the lights changed to red and the westbound traffic slowed to a stop. By the time Coupchoux got there, he knew they'd be back to green and he'd have to wait. He decided to cross Republique where he was, slipping between the traffic, and save himself the delay.

Which was just what the man in front of him decided to do, tugging his poodle's lead to indicate the change of direction. The poodle yelped and hunkered back but its owner lifted the lead to shoulder height and dragged the dog to heel, the two of them squeezing between the line of waiting cars.Coupchoux didn't see the dog again until he reached the middle of the road, where the poodle and its owner were waiting for a break in the eastbound flow. It was difficult to say exactly what made the poodle snap and dart at Coupchoux's ankles - maybe nervousness at the closeness and noise of the traffic - but the kick that Coupchoux aimed back at it certainly inspired the dog to fresh acts of bravado. In an instant of snarling, yapping aggression, it had snatched up the slack in the lead from its owner s hand and gone for Coupchoux, making him dodge to one side, then forwards, in a kind of tiptoe dance with the poodle jumping at the back of his knees, the two of them stepping into the path of an eastbound autobus, accelerating through the lights and making for the Prado
Rondpoint.

There was no time for the bus driver to avoid them. First a thump on the bonnet right below the drivers cab, and then a fearsome jolt that lifted the driver out of his seat as the front nearside wheel ploughed over the obstruction.

At almost the same moment, in the nave of St Cannat, two nuns took their places in the choir stall and Mass began.

There was some commotion on République which meant that Max Benedict had no trouble finding a table at Cafe Samaritaine. He chose one by the window, in the shade, and as he ordered a
cafe-calva
an ambulance squealed round the Canebiere corner, sirens wailing, blue lights flashing. Cars pulled over and the white van hurtled past.

Marseilles, thought Benedict. Another gunfight at the OK Corral. France's Wild West. It beat Paris hands down. The contemplative, style-conscious, soft-bellied northerner, and this impulsive, hot-blooded southerner. He knew which he liked the most.

Benedict also knew the nightmare of driving in this city. So rather than face the horror of trying to find parking spaces for his jeep, he had taken a cab to the Vieux Port after an early breakfast on his balcony at the Nice- Passedat. Watching the sun come up over the crumpled, shadowy ridges behind Montredon, he'd been quietly pleased to see the shutters closed the next balcony along,

Gus Delahayes room. His compatriot was way behind him in the jet-lag stakes, and it would be hours before he, or his parents, made an appearance.