Jacquot and the Waterman (70 page)

This was exactly what Benedict had hoped for, dining alone at Molineuxs the evening before and planning his strategy. With the Delahayes shuttered away, now was the time to track down this Jacquot character. In half an hour he'd present himself at the Prefecture and secure his press accreditation, which would give him access to press briefings on the de Cotigny murder and suicide but not much else. What it wouldn't do was get him into police headquarters, which was where he was going after the Prefecture. He had thought about calling ahead to say he had information, arrange a meeting, but over a wicked Molineux souffle he'd finally decided the best course of action was simply to arrive unannounced, try to make it as far as Jacquot and take it from there. If they hustled him out, if Jacquot proved difficult - it didn't matter what - Benedict would have enough for his piece however they wanted to play it. Maybe, along the way, he'd strike some kind of gold and the story would be made. Sometimes it happened as easily as that.

Benedict stood, pulled on his jacket and hefted his shoulder bag. As he slipped some money under his empty glass of
calva,
he saw the ambulance come back down Republique.

Its lights were off, its siren was silent and it seemed in no hurry to get anywhere fast.

Benedict knew what that meant.

Maître
Denis wasn't telling jean Carnot anything that his client didn't already know.

They have nothing on you. It's all circumstantial.'

They were sitting in an interview room, waiting for the officer in charge of the investigation - the one who'd interviewed Carnot on Saturday afternoon - to make an appearance. They'd been told by the Duty Sergeant that he was on his way.

'. . . But I must impress on you,' the lawyer continued, 'the need to be, air . . . cooperative. To be of assistance. Otherwise our friends here could be very

The door opened and Chief Inspector Jacquot came in.

'. . . Unhelpful,' finished
Maître
Denis in a whisper.

Jacquot took a seat and smiled at them both, pleased to note that Carnot was not looking his best - tired, anxious and unshaven after two nights in police custody.

'So, Messieurs.'

'Chief Inspector,' began Carnot's lawyer, gathering himself. He was plump and well nourished and looked too large for the chair that he sat in. 'I really must insist that my client be released without delay. You have kept him here far longer than is strictly, even legally permissible; you have yet to make any formal charge; and, despite a few thin coincidences . .
Maître
Denis waved his hand dis- missively,. . I would suggest you have no good reason to hold him a moment longer.'

'Quite so,' said Jacquot. 'As you say, nothing more than a few thin coincidences. If I were a betting man I'd say it's unlikely that your client is the person we're looking for.'

The two men across the desk glanced at each other, then got to their feet, Carnot first, almost springing up,
Maître
Denis much more slowly, heaving himself from his chair.

Jacquot remained seated. 'However, there is one more question I would like to ask.'

'My client is under no obligation—' began
Maître
Denis.

'And I am under no obligation to be so understanding,' interrupted Jacquot coldly. 'If Monsieur Carnot decides not to cooperate, you can be assured that some kind of charge will be made.' He looked at the two men. 'Believe me.'

The lawyer turned to his client, narrowed his eyes and gave him a 'Remember-what-I-just-said' look.

Carnot nodded. 'One question.'

Jacquot nodded back. It was all he needed.

'Tell me about Alexandre Raissac,' he said.

aissac was not amused.

First Carnot had gone missing - Saturday, of all days - and Raissac's calls had gone unanswered. It hadn't taken Raissac long to realise that there was only one possible explanation - Carnot had been picked up by the cops. He was a naughty boy, after all. What else had he been up to that Raissac didn't know about? Putting a callthrough to his contact on rue de 1'Evêché, Raissac confirmed it: Carnot was indeed in custody at police headquarters, and looked like he'd be there some considerable time, helping the Waterman investigators with dieir inquiries. According to his source, Carnot was now a prime suspect.

Vicki, thought Raissac. That fucking girl again. When he and Carnot had work to do.

That Saturday, with his fixer out of action and the
Aurore
just hours away, Raissac realised that he'd have to move fast. Since his man on the inside had still not been able to establish whether an action was scheduled, Raissac decided that he couldn't risk waiting for the
Aurore'
s cargo to be unloaded, as originally planned. Far too risky - the place could be crawling with cops. It had to be sooner. He'd have to reschedule for Sunday night. Direct. Ship to ship. Out in the Rades. Tricky but possible. Which was what Raissac arranged. Coupchoux and the boys had shifted the lot. Not a hitch. Every single kilo.

But now, Monday morning, it was Coupchoux that he couldn't reach. Not a word since breakfast when his driver had called to say he was on his way. Which meant that he should have arrived by now. It didn't take two hours to drive from Marseilles to Cassis. And why wasn't Coupchoux answering his mobile? For a moment Raissac was tempted to call his mole again and find out if Coupchoux, too, had been picked up by the cops. But there was no way they could have made any link between Carnot and Coupchoux. And through Coupchoux to him. Unless Carnot had talked . . . But that was ridiculous. Carnot knew better than that. At least, Raissac hoped he did.

At close to midday and still no sign of Coupchoux, Raissac realised there was no option but to drive himself. It was an important meeting, the last piece of the jigsaw, and he didn't want to keep his man waiting.

In Coupchoux's absence, Raissac decided on the Bentley - the only car he ever drove himself - and in a leathery cocoon of chill air-conditioning, he swept out of the Cassis compound and headed for the autoroute. He was having lunch in Bandol with Monsieur Condé, an associate from Toulon days. Arrangements had to be made. Time, place, people. Raissac didn't want two hundred kilos of uncut cocaine sitting in one of his rented lock-ups in Marseilles any longer than was necessary.

An hour later the two men met at L'Auberge du Port, on the first-floor terrace overlooking the harbour. Condé, as ever, was keen to get moving, agreed to the price and conditions that Raissac suggested and the deal was finalised over a dish of grilled red mullet washed down with a Pibamon rosé. All most agreeable. As soon as Raissac had confirmation that the money was in place, he'd have his man deliver the merchandise.

At three Raissac was on his way back home, easing off the autoroute and heading down the slope towards Cassis. In a funny sort of way he was glad that Coupchoux had failed to make an appearance. He'd enjoyed the ride - the leather closeness of his Bentley, the wheel sliding through his hands, its seamless, silent power. Ten minutes later the gates to his property swung open and then, one after another, closed behind him.

As he steered the Bentley up the drive, Raissac let his gaze wander across the gardens, admiring the sweep of lawn, the clicking rainbow spray of sprinklers and, rising above the stand of cypresses that lined the northern boundary of his property, the craggy ridges of the Baume Massif.

What Raissac didn't see, as the garage doors slid down behind him, was a man dressed in black biking leathers waiting in the shadows.

Raissac had switched off the ignition and was reaching for the door handle when the rounded tip of a silencer tapped against his side window, a black hole rimmed with a halo of grey steel. There was no time to do anything. The last thing that Raissac saw was a gloved finger squeezing the trigger.

In the space of four seconds Raissac took six nine- millimetre bullets at close range. The first, a bull's-eye in the centre of his birthmark, punched him over onto the passenger seat. The remaining five followed a rough line from his upper chest to his kidneys, the sound of the gunfire reduced by the silencer to a hollow popping.

When the last note died, leaving only the subsiding tick of the Bentley's engine and the tinkle of glass falling from the shattered window, the killer slipped the gun into his jacket and left the estate the way he had come in. Starting up his bike a few hundred metres down the road, he decided his dad would've approved of the way that things had worked out.

Two hours later Paul Doisneau's son joined the Autoroute Languedocienne at junction twenty-six outside Nîmes and turned south-west, heading for the Spanish border.

accquots thumb played with the ring on his finger.

Standing at the table, Carnot gave Raissac's name some thought, then shook his head.

'Alexandre Majoub Raissac,' Jacquot repeated, watching Carnot's eyes shift around the room. 'Not at all familiar?'

'Not at all,' said Carnot, turning to
Maître
Denis as if to let him know that he'd done what he'd been asked - a single question - and now it was time for his attorney to get him out of there.

'One question, remember, Chief Inspector. . .' began
Maître
Denis gently, light-heartedly admonishing Jacquot in a finger-wagging tone.

Jacquot's reply was anything but gentle or light-hearted. 'Well, that's unfortunate,
Maître,
because I have to say I'm not at all happy with your client's reply. So. If you wouldn't mind, Messieurs . . .' Jacquot gestured to their chairs and the two men sat down again.

Jacquot watched them settle themselves. For the first time since they'd picked him up, Carnot looked worried.

Raissac's name had rattled him. As for
Maître
Denis, Carnot's lawyer looked perplexed, clearly unprepared for this new line of questioning. This had not been a part of his brief - no mention of Monsieur Alexandre Raissac, a man he had never met but whose name rang many bells.
Maître
Denis, decided Jacquot, was starting to look as ill at ease as his client.