Jacquot and the Waterman (75 page)

In the salon she mixed herself a small vodka tonic and was twisting a slice of lime into it when Adele appeared to say that Monsieur Basquet was in the study, with two gentlemen.

Detectives, she added, from Marseilles.

Jacquot and Gastal missed Basquet at his La Joliette office by minutes. According to Geneviève Chantreau, his personal assistant, Monsieur Basquet had just left for home. Was there anything she could help them with in his absence, she enquired?

Rather than ask for Basquet's home address, and risk Chantreau calling ahead to let her boss know that two policemen were looking for him, Jacquot told her that it was nothing urgent and that maybe she could fix a meeting for later in the week? This she had duly done, an appointment, Jacquot was sure, that would not be kept.

Back in the car, a call to Headquarters had secured Basquet's home address and an hour later Jacquot and Gastal were sitting side by side in leather club chairs in front of Paul Basquet's desk.

As soon as they'd introduced themselves on the terrace, explained the reason for their visit - investigating a murder, a body found at Vallon des Auffes - Basquet had struggled to his feet and suggested that the library might be a more appropriate place for their questions, leading them from the garden back into the house. On the way he'd offered them drinks, which they'd politely refused. Tea or coffee? Again refused. Now, looking ridiculously out of place in shorts that were too tight for him and too high in the leg, Paul Basquet stood by the windows behind his desk, looking inquiringly at his guests.

'Does this have anything to do with . . . with the other murders you were investigating, Chief Inspector? The last time we met?' He said this with the trace of a smile, as though he didn't expect Jacquot to be any more challenging than he'd been at their previous meeting.

'Its not clear at the moment, Monsieur, but there could be a connection. Once again, it's just a question of following up.'

'Following up. Of course. So how can I be of help this time?' There was a tired, tolerant tone to his voice.

'We believe you may know the victim,' Jacquot began.

It took a moment for Basquet to register what Jacquot had said.

'Really?' he replied. 'Are you sure? I do hope not.'

'Anais Cuvry,' said Jacquot.

If Jacquot had been expecting a reaction, he was disappointed. The name should have hit Basquet like a tyre iron, but the only response was a deep drawing-in of breath, a thoughtful frown and the closing of his eyes, as though he was giving the name his full consideration.

'No, Chief Inspector,' he said at last. 'I'm sorry. The name doesn't ring a bell.' Then, digging his fists into his pockets, Basquet turned abruptly and looked out of the library windows, towards the distant slopes of the Montagne Sainte Victoire.

It was a masterful performance, delivered with cool, controlled assurance. But turning his back to look through the windows was the give-away - a cover, a chance to gather himself. Jacquot had seen the same move many times. The man was lying. There was now not the slightest doubt in Jacquot's mind that the
cachou
pastilles in Anais Cuvry's home belonged to the man behind the desk. That round yellow tin, he was certain, would be plastered with Basquet's fingerprints.

But what of the Zoffany letter-opener? Had Basquet bought it for his mistress? Had he had it engraved?
'Avec tendresse.'
It seemed a reasonable bet; the kind of gift a wealthy man like Basquet would give a mistress. Expensive, but suitably anonymous. No name or initials for the engraving and paid for in cash.

Which would mean, Jacquot had concluded on the drive up to Aix, that Basquet could not be the killer. If he was going to murder Anais Cuvry he'd hardly use a letter-opener that he'd bought for her, thoughtfully leaving it lodged in her spine for the police to find and trace.

But then, maybe Anais Cuvry had other lovers? Lovers that Basquet didn't know about. Any one of whom could have given her the letter-opener, ordered the engraving.

Which would certainly put Basquet back in the frame. If they were looking for motive, jealousy was always a good place to start - Basquet finding out that Anais was two-timing him with other men and having it out with her. And in his rage, killing her.

Jacquot decided it was time to change gear, toughen it up. He couldn't be bothered to wait for fingerprints to confirm what he already knew. That Basquet was lying. That Basquet was Cuvry's lover - and possibly her killer.

Across the desk, Basquet turned from the windows and gave the two policemen a questioning look, as though surprised that they should still be there. 'Was there anything else, Messieurs?'

'She lived in Endoume,' said Jacquot, crossing his legs, making himself comfortable. And making it clear he was in no rush to leave. '34 Avenue Corbusier. Maybe you know the address?'

Again Basquet shook his head. 'Of course, I know the area, but not

'So you're saying that you do not know the victim and that you never visited her home? Is that correct?'

'It most certainly is,' replied Basquet indignantly. 'I already told you

At which point there was a soft knock on the door and Céléstine Basquet appeared, drink in hand. 'Gentlemen?'

Jacquot and Gastal got to their feet, and Basquet came bustling round the side of his desk, his trainers squeaking on the polished wood floor.

'I won't bother to introduce you, my dear,' he said, kissing her on the cheek. 'These two gentlemen were just leaving.'

'On the contrary, Madame,' said Jacquot with a light smile. 'Actually we do have some more questions we would like to ask your husband.'

'Questions?' asked Céléstine.

'These gentlemen are investigating a murder, my dear, someone . . .' Basquet groped for words, an explanation.

'Someone we believe your husband may have known,' said Jacquot. 'A friend of his.'

Basquet threw Jacquot a menacing look.

'How dreadful,' said Céléstine, patting her husband's hand as though to comfort him. Then, going to a sofa and arranging herself there, a look of concern settled across her features. 'But which friend? Who? Tell me.'

At this point, Jacquot reasoned, Basquet had two possible options. He could either maintain his indignation and deny everything - particularly with his wife present. Or he could make an effort to cooperate, covertly, without arousing her suspicions. If he opted for the latter route, Jacquot knew that they'd find his prints on the tin of pastilles, confirming that Anais Cuvry had been his mistress.

'It appears that someone from Valadeau, one of the staff, has been killed,' said Basquet to his wife, returning to his desk, pulling out the chair and sitting down.

As they took their own seats, repositioning their chairs to include Madame Basquet in the conversation, Gastal caught Jacquot's eye and mouthed what looked like 'Bada- boum'.

They had him.

Now all they needed to do was find out if Paul Basquet was the killer.

'So,' continued Jacquot. 'You were saying, Monsieur. Mademoiselle Cuvry worked at Valadeau?'

'I think so. I think so,' replied Basquet, tapping a finger against his temple as though to jog his memory, but using the cover of his hand to shoot Jacquot a meaningful look without his wife seeing. 'Human Besources? I can't quite recall. Something like that.'

'Is it the Waterman? The one in the paper?' asked Céléstine, sipping her drink, eyes bright with curiosity.

Jacquot turned to her. 'We don't think so, Madame. There are certain similarities, but also certain differences . . .'

Céléstine nodded but said nothing more. For a moment there was silence in the room.

'So, Messieurs,' said Basquet, trying to regain his composure, clearly anxious to bring the meeting to an end. 'Is there anything else I can help you with? Perhaps you should come to the office tomorrow. Maybe we can check our records

Jacquot knew what Basquet was after. Now that he'd as good as admitted that he and Anais Cuvry were lovers, he was rather hoping they'd be kind enough to get the hell out of his house before they got him into any trouble with his wife. They were men, after all. They would understand

the position he was in. Surely.

But Jacquot had no intention of going quite yet. Or of letting Basquet off the hook, interested to note that it had still not occurred to him that he might be a suspect.

It was time to apply more pressure. Play the advantage.

'Did you ever visit Anais Cuvry at home?' he asked, starting to enjoy the man's discomfort.

'At home?' repeated Basquet, giving Jacquot another hooded look. 'Not that I recall. It doesn't seem likely.'

'Valadeau employs well over a thousand people, Chief Inspector,' said Céléstine, from the sofa. 'You can't surely expect my husband to know everyone? Or where they live?' She gave them a patient smile, then reached for a silver box on the coffee table, took out a cigarette and lit it.

Jacquot nodded. Of course, it was ridiculous. Nevertheless .. .

'So that would be a "no", Monsieur?' he continued.

Basquet frowned fiercely, pretending for his wife's benefit to give the question some thought, but actually levelling another look in Jacquot's direction. He began to shake his head. 'Not so far as I can recall. Endoume, you said?'

'Tell me, Chief Inspector.' It was Céléstine, from the sofa. 'How exactly did this Mademoiselle Cuvry die?'

'The victim was stabbed, Madame. In the neck, with a letter-opener.'

Out of the corner of his eye, Jacquot registered a look of surprise on Basquet's face.

'So far as we can establish,' he continued, 'it appears that the letter-opener was bought from a jeweller called Zoffany. Here in town. Rue St-Ferreol. Four months ago.' Jacquot turned back to Basquet. 'Are you familiar with the store, Monsieur?'

'Zoffany, you say? It certainly sounds familiar.'

'It certainly should,' said Jacquot. 'According to their records, your credit card was used to buy that letter-opener. Your signature is on the payment slip.'

Across the room, on the sofa, Jacquot noticed Basquet's wife stiffen, pale.

Basquet saw it too.

'My credit card?' he blustered, suddenly uncertain, trying to remember if he'd paid with cash or by card. Surely, he'd have paid cash? He'd never have used a credit card, would he?