Jacquot and the Waterman (79 page)

Jacquot s fault, not Gastal's.

And here was Gastal busily covering his tracks, playing the innocent.

Jacquot felt a rising swell of anger.

'I told Danny we should leave it be,' Gastal was saying, 'but he wouldn't listen. Couldn't get this guy Raissac out of his head. Like he's obsessed. He can't get a handle on this Waterman so he starts off on this other line of inquiry - hanging round Raissac just because, like you say, boss, the guy owns this apartment. I mean . . .'

Gastal paused, took a breath, but started off again before Jacquot could order his thoughts and get a word in. 'Then, Friday, knowing how I feel about it - me transferring to Lamonzie and all - he deliberately sends me off on some wild-goose chase to some sleazy little gym downtown while he jumps in his car and heads off to Cassis. To Raissac's place down there. You ask me—'

But Gastal got no further.

Jacquot's knuckles brushed past the point of Gastal's jaw but connected an inch below the cheekbone, lifting Gastal back onto his heels. He staggered a few steps, hands reaching for the point of impact, then stumbled over a chair.

'Badaboum,' said Jacquot under his breath and launched himself at Gastal.

In the struggle that ensued Gastals nose was broken and Guimpier, trying to separate the two men, had an eye blackened by Jacquot s elbow.

Friday

'So. Policeman. How come?'

The uniform,' Jacquot replied lightly.

She looked at the linen jacket, the T-shirt, and smiled.

They were sitting at a corner table in Molineux's, the progress of their meal observed by a pair of lobsters in the fish tank beside them. It was after ten. They'd finished their main course, but the plates had still to be cleared away. She'd ordered the grilled oysters, served under a duvet of bubbling cheese, and a fillet of bream, its silvery skin crisply browned and curled. Jacquot had gone for the whitebait and Molineux's bouillabaisse.

'How long?'

'Quite some time,' he said. 'It's all I've ever done.'

'Don't you find
it. . . ?'
She couldn't seem to light on the right word.

'Depressing?' he suggested. 'Dangerous?'

'Yes. Both those, I guess.'

'Of course. But there's a lot else besides. Good things. Like being part of a team. Not letting the good guys down or the bad guys get away. Settling accounts. It's like . . . playing a game. A game you have to win. A challenge every time.'

'Just like any business, I'd have thought. Not just the police.'

'Sure, I suppose.'

'Wasn't there something else you could have done?'

Jacquot shook his head. 'Maybe. But you know how it is. Things happen. You get drawn in. Life.'

For a moment there was silence between them as she took this in. And then:

'You married?' she asked.

Jacquot shook his head. Smiled. 'Not so far.'

She noticed the wince that accompanied the smile, a small vertical cut on his top lip that had tightened the skin as it healed. He looked, she thought, more tanned than the last time she'd seen him, more relaxed. And more attractive too, his hair loose, black wavy curls reaching to his shoulders.

Which, given the last three days, was no surprise.

Suspended from duty with immediate effect pending an internal inquiry after breaking his partner's nose and blacking his boss's eye - apart from any action that Lamonzie might be planning - Jacquot had presented himself first thing Wednesday morning at Salette's office and the two of them skipped school and played truant. A case of beers and some Armagnac stowed in the bow, they'd taken Salette's boat and set off for a couple of days' sailing and fishing, anchoring overnight in the
calanques,
cooking their catch over driftwood fires, sleeping on deck under the stars. On the second night, when Jacquot told him about the bust-up with Gastal, the reason for his suspension, old Salette had laughed, punched him on the shoulder and told him that he was just like his father, all that stormy Corsican blood on the boil. Which had made Jacquot laugh too, suddenly warmed by the thought of his fathers proximity.

Now Jacquot was back, sitting there in Molineux's, the bubble-wrapped painting of the lemons which he'd bought the previous Sunday and picked up earlier from Gallery Ton-Ton resting against his chair leg.

It had been a fun evening. Starting at the Ton-Ton where they'd met, moving on to O'Sullivan's where she'd matched him Guinness for Guinness and, finally, arms linked, swinging along the quays of the Vieux Port to Molineux's.

He looked at her now. The dark hair, the brown eyes, an eyebrow arched.

'So how come the ring?' she asked, nodding at his left hand, like she needed an explanation.

He looked at the band of silver, twisted it on his finger. 'It was
just...
a joke, I suppose. Someone I knew.'

'But it was serious?' she asked.

'It wasn't long enough to be serious,' he replied.

'But you kept it? The ring? Kept wearing it?'

Which surprised Jacquot. He hadn't thought about it like that.

'It doesn't mean a thing any more,' he replied. And he realised he meant it. It didn't. Not a thing.

She gave him a look.

He looked right back, liking what he saw, knew what was going to happen and was glad for it.

But first he needed to do something. For her. And for him. So he did.

Slipping the ring from his finger, he showed it to her, looked at it one last time, then dropped it with a clink into the remains of his bouillabaisse. A small bubble marked the spot where it had broken the surface of the soup. Then the bubble burst and there was no sign.

A moment later a waiter came to their table, cleared the plates, and asked if they needed anything more. Perhaps they would like to see a menu?

'You should try the souffle, it's very good,' said Jacquot. 'Lemon, with a shot of vodka.'

'If you say so,' said Isabelle Cassier and gave him a long, cool smile.

Saturday

ylviane had just about reached the end of her tether.

Another day of this and she'd go mad, she was sure of it. There was just so much a girl could take. Gritting her teeth, she stepped into the bath she'd drawn for herself and slid down into its foaming, scented warmth. How much longer, she wondered; how much longer would she have to put up with her unwanted, unexpected guest and his endless, unwelcome demands? Food, clothes, newspapers, whisky, cigarettes and, when he felt like it, her. She'd been run off her feet all week.

He'd been waiting for her in the shadows when she returned home on Tuesday evening. She'd been out of town for five days, invited by a girlfriend for a weekend party in Cannes, some American film producer over for the festival and looking for fun and company. The girlfriend, Sylviane and two other girls had been holed up in a spectacular villa in the hills, fabulous grounds, a pool the size of her apartment, with enough coke to keep them buzzing merrily along. All day, lying by the pool, working on their tans, and maybe just a couple of hours keeping the client happy - putting on a show for him last thing at night when he got home from the festival, or first thing in the morning before he headed off for his meetings along the Croisette.

Five days of fun in the sun, well-paid fun at that, and then, the moment she gets home, it looks like she's going to get mugged. She'd just turned the key in the lock when she heard someone scuffle up the steps behind her and barge her through the opening door, propelling her forward, an arm closing round her waist, her hip grazing against the door handle, the side of her suitcase banging angrily against her shins. She was about to struggle, pull herself free, fight back, when a mouth pressed against her ear.

'Quick, quick. Get in and close it.'

And there, in the hallway, with the door kicked shut behind them, the arm releasing her, she turned to find herself face to face with Jean Carnot. He hadn't shaved, his clothes were filthy, and he smelt bad.

Four days later he was still there, sharing her home and her bed. He needed to lie low, he'd told her. Just a few days. And there was nothing she could do about it. Not if she wanted to get her hands on that place on Cours Lieutaud, the apartment he'd promised her, even shown her round the previous week. It was sorted, Carnot had told her. Any day now. It was the only reason she'd put up with him all this time.

Then, this afternoon, sprawled on her bed, swinging a set of keys on his finger, he'd told her there was this little job he needed her to do. A favour. And then the place on Lieutaud was as good as hers.

Sylviane was just about to haul herself from the bath when the door opened and Carnot strolled in. He was wearing a black T-shirt and nothing else. Without saying a word, he went to the toilet, planted his feet either side of it and, not bothering to lift the seat, started peeing, the water in the bowl bubbling at the force of the stream, spraying out in extravagant arcs onto the seat and floor tiles. Sylviane could even see the soft tissue of lavatory paper puckering with damp spots. She clenched her teeth. Jesus Christ, what an animal.

When he'd finished, he turned to her, still shaking the last drops off him.

When you're ready,' he told her and walked back into the bedroom, not bothering to pull the flush.

Jean Carnot parked a block past the lock-up and handed Sylviane the key. They'd driven past the row of garages five minutes earlier and he'd pointed out the one he wanted her to check, the one with the looping scrawl of purple graffiti.

It was the third lock-up they'd checked that evening. Three more to go.

Carnot lit a cigarette and watched Sylviane walk back past the row of garages, pause at the graffiti and fit the key to the lock. In the setting sun her shadow was long and thin.

Maybe this one, he thought to himself. Maybe this time. And if the place was being watched, if the cops were waiting, all he had to do was put the car in gear and drive away. They wouldn't see him for dust.

Up ahead he watched the door to the lock-up spring open and Sylviane step out of sight.