Rough Cut

by Owen Carey Jones

  An hour or so later, Jacques walked into Gilles’ office. He was slightly nervous but confident that he would soon have the solution to the problem of how to pay for the maintenance and running of the Esprit de Jacques.

  The charter agency’s small office was wedged between the tower which kept vigil over the main entrance to the town and a restaurant. Inside there were two desks, at one of which Gilles was sitting going through the papers in front of him and occasionally signing his name. To the right of Gilles, a young man sat at another desk. He was Gilles’ assistant and it was he who looked after the agency when Gilles was not there. Between and slightly behind the two desks a flight of stairs led to another office on the floor above. In the window facing onto the Place, there was a large display board covered with photographs and details of boats which the agency had available for charter. Above the centre of the room, a large fan rotated lazily, helping the warm air to circulate.

  Gilles looked up from his paperwork as Jacques approached him tentatively.

  “Bonjour, Jacques. What can I do for you?” he asked.

  Jacques sat on one of the two chairs in front of the desk. “I’m looking for a bit of advice,” he said.

  “Advice? Advice about what?” asked Gilles as he adjusted his large frame, muscular from regular weight training at the gym in Sainte Maxime.

  “About chartering a boat, of course. What else?”

  “OK, Jacques. What did you have in mind? An inflatable? A rigid?”

  “No, no, you don’t understand. I don’t want to hire a boat. I want you to arrange for my boat to be chartered.”

  “You want me to arrange charters for your boat.” Gilles looked up at the fan as it made a leisurely rotation. “Jacques, it is usual for a person to own a boat before he hires it out. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you haven’t got a boat, have you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I have. I bought it a few days ago.”

  “OK, Jacques, so you have a little boat, good. The smallest size we deal with is five metres. How big is yours?”

  “It’s…” Jacques knew Gilles wasn’t going to believe him, “It’s a twenty metre Johnson with twin Detroit nine hundred diesels,” he blurted out.

  Jacques watched apprehensively as Gilles coloured with anger and rose from his chair. He rested his hands on the desk and leaned towards Jacques.

  “All right, Jacques, you’ve had your little joke,” he said threateningly. “Now push off back to your petrol pumps and leave me to get on with my work.”

  “But…” protested Jacques, rising from his seat and backing away slightly. Gilles was a big man and although Jacques was hardly a six stone weakling himself, he had always found Gilles intimidating and never more so than at that moment.

  “OUT!” shouted Gilles coming round from his desk and manhandling Jacques out of the office. “And don’t come back here wasting my time again!”

  Outside the office, Jacques found himself in the midst of a throng of tourists. He wanted to make himself invisible; his face was stinging red with embarrassment and the people in the square were staring at him, some with pitying smiles on their faces, some tut-tutting and shaking their heads sagely. He wanted to shout at them, to tell them that it was true, that he did have a boat and that Gilles was wrong to throw him out. Instead, he shook his fist impotently at Gilles and walked off.

  When Jacques got back to the apartment, his neck and ears were still warm from the humiliating experience. He recounted to his mother what had happened.

  “Why didn’t you show him the ownership document,” she said. “It proves the boat is yours.”

  Jacques slapped his forehead. “Idiot!” he said to himself, “Why didn’t I think of that.” He swept into his room and hunted for the shorts he had been wearing the day he had got the boat. They weren’t where he had left them.

  “Have you seen my blue shorts?” he called.

  “I washed them this morning. They’re drying on the balcony in my room,” said Claudine.

  A look of consternation came over Jacques’ face. What if she had washed them with the document still in the pocket? It might be ruined. Then he would never be able to prove anything to Gilles. He edged into the living room, hardly daring to ask the question. “Did you check the pockets first?”

  “Of course I did! I always check your pockets. Never know what I might find.” Claudine glanced up from her ironing and smiled. “There was an envelope. I put it over there, by the coffee pot.”

  Jacques stopped holding his breath and exhaled a long, relieved sigh. He retrieved the envelope and checked inside to make sure the document was there. Clutching the envelope, he kissed his mother and dashed out of the apartment.

  As Jacques re-entered the charter office, Gilles stood up behind his desk and a look of barely restrained rage spread across his face.

  “Jacques, I warned you…” he said through clenched teeth as he came round in front of his desk to confront Jacques.

  He reached out to take hold of Jacques but Jacques, made bold by the document in his possession, held up his hands to fend him off.

  “Hold it! Hold it!” he said, as Gilles knocked his arms out of the way and moved closer.

  “Why? Why shouldn’t I throw you out again you mangy little rat?”

  Monique, Gilles’ tiny secretary, had come down the stairs from her office on the next floor and was watching open mouthed, as was Gilles’ assistant, who was still sitting at his desk.

  “Because I really do own a boat. Look!” Jacques held out the envelope, inviting Gilles to take it and examine the contents.

  Still poised to carry through his action, Gilles took the envelope from Jacques and extracted the legal form inside it. As he read the document, he moved back behind his desk and flopped into his chair. The hand holding the document fell onto his desk and he looked up at Jacques. Jacques detected a different demeanour now, not exactly respectful but not hostile either.

  “What can I say?” said Gilles, the businessman side of his personality now in control, “I’m sorry. I just never saw you as a boat owner.”

  Jacques grinned cockily. “You believe me now, then?”

  “I do. Sit down, please. Monique!” Gilles looked towards the stairs and saw Monique standing there, “Two coffees. And I think I could do with a Cognac as well. This has been a bit of a shock. What about you, Jacques?” Jacques nodded enthusiastically and Monique scuttled back up the stairs.

  Half an hour later, Gilles was examining the Esprit from top to bottom as Jacques followed him round keeping close watch. At one point Jacques noticed him touch one of the books on the bookshelf and glance across at him. The inspection over, Gilles turned to Jacques on the quayside.

  “A magnificent boat, Jacques,” he said, “How did you come by it?”

  “I received some money from my father on my birthday,” answered Jacques, “Enough to buy the boat.”

  Gilles eyebrows raced to the top of his forehead. “Jacques, I have to tell you that I know this boat, I’ve been on it many times. It belongs to Philippe Lacoste. I arrange a lot of charters for Monsieur Lacoste and I have bookings in hand for this boat. He hasn’t told me that he has sold the boat.”

  “That may be so but I have bought it. It’s mine now. You’ve seen the papers.”

  Gilles had to admit that this was true and the two of them returned to his office to sign the agency agreement. As Jacques was leaving, Gilles called up the stairs behind him.

  “Monique,” he said, “Get Philippe Lacoste on the line for me.”

  Jacques paused and smiled to himself and thought, he still doesn’t believe me!

  _________________________

  Later that day, the sun shone brightly on the boats moored at the Capitainerie as two men dressed in white tee-shirts and trousers carried cardboard boxes of supplies from a nearby Citroen van onto one of the yachts. This was the Hedonist, the boat that Philippe would use for his own purposes now that the Fleur de Grimaud belonged to Jacques. Philippe watched the proceedi
ngs with a critical eye as Gilles approached from the direction of the Rue Grande.

  “Philippe,” said Gilles tentatively as he reached Philippe’s side, “It seems that Jacques Armand has acquired the Fleur de Grimaud. Only now he’s calling her the Esprit de Jacques.” Gilles raised his eyes heavenward before continuing. “I didn’t know you had sold the Fleur.”

  Suddenly, Philippe’s attention was distracted. Unable to believe what he had seen, he marched towards the stern of the Hedonist where one of the men had just dropped a crate of champagne onto the rear deck.

  “Not there, idiot!“ shouted Philippe, “Stow it below, out of the sun.”

  The man froze when he heard Philippe’s voice. Slowly, he turned to face Philippe and stood, almost at attention. He nodded his head to Philippe as he spoke.

  “Oui, Monsieur Lacoste. Pardon.”

  Philippe continued to watch as the man picked up the crate and disappeared into the boat with it. Philippe turned on his heel and returned to Gilles.

  “You were saying?” snapped Philippe.

  Just as Jacques was intimidated by Gilles, Gilles was intimidated by Philippe. There was no physical threat from Philippe but the man carried himself in an imperious manner born of his considerable wealth and many years of running his businesses with an iron hand. It had never occurred to him to clothe it in a velvet glove and even if it had, he probably wouldn’t have bothered.

  Gilles, now even more tentative than before, continued, “The Fleur de Grimaud, Philippe. Jacques is the new owner. I knew she was for sale but I didn’t know you had sold her.”

  Philippe looked away from the two men who had been engaging his attention and focused on Gilles. “Yes, I agreed the sale while you were in Paris. I was going to tell you when you got back but I forgot. What of it?” Philippe returned his gaze to the men loading the boat.

  “Well, it’s nothing really. Just that he came to see me to tell me he wants to hire her out on charter.”

  “Well what’s wrong with that?” asked Philippe, not looking at Gilles as he spoke.

  “Nothing. I’ve already given him the Baines charter. As you are now using the Hedonist instead of the Fleur, I had planned to switch the boats for that job anyway.”

  “Good.”

  Philippe started walking away from the Capitainerie, satisfied that his employees would not transgress again, and Gilles followed him, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

  Philippe noticed Gilles at his shoulder and sensed that Gilles had more to say. Becoming a little exasperated, he stopped and turned to face him.

  “Was there something else?”

  Gilles nodded nervously. “Philippe, you know I always inspect boats before taking them on to my books.”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I inspected Jacques’ boat, and…”

  Gilles hesitated for a few seconds and Philippe became impatient and irritated by Gilles’ reluctance to speak his mind.

  “What? What is it? What is it that’s worrying you?”

  “The book was still there! On the shelf!”

  The two men stared at each other, Gilles unsure what to expect from Philippe and Philippe, for once, lost for words.

  _________________________

  Carter sat at the desk in his hotel bedroom poring over the printout of Rob’s email which Nicole had given him. His mind wasn’t really on the strange message; he wanted to be with her. After twenty-five years of pining for her, the possibility of finally getting back together with her again was not something he could easily put to the back of his mind but he was trying to concentrate.

  As he stared at the printout, Carter wondered if it would be possible to track down the sender of the email. He thought it surely must be possible but he wasn’t certain about it. What he was certain about was that if he could identify the owner of the email address, he would be able to determine whether or not the message was in any way relevant to his case or just an annoying distraction. He decided to speak to Conrad about it. Conrad was much more interested in computers and technical things than he was; Conrad would know the answer. He picked up his phone, found Conrad in his contact list and pressed the button to call him.

  “Carter! Hi!” said Conrad as he answered the call. “What’s up?”

  “Hi Conrad, I’d like to pick your brains about something.”

  “Good luck!” joked Conrad.

  “I’ve been given a printout of an email that might have something to do with our case and I’d like to find out who sent it. What are the chances of doing that?”

  “I guess it’s not clear from the email address it came from who sent it or you wouldn’t be calling me?”

  “The address it came from isljsherwood@hotmail.com. It was sent to Rob Darrington a few days before he was killed but his mother says he didn’t know who this L J Sherwood character was. She says he told her that he didn’t know anyone with that name.”

  “There are ways to track the owner of an email address if it’s been used to access services or buy something on the Internet but that would mean it’s a genuine email account.”

  “And if it’s not?”

  “Well, if it’s not, if it’s someone using a false name and trying to hide his identity, then all the account holder details at Hotmail are going to be false too.”

  “Not much chance then if that’s what we’ve got here?”

  “Well, it’s not quite as black and white as that. If you have access to the computer that received the email then it should be possible to find out the IP address of the sender from the full message header. That would identify the computer that the message came from and all the other computers involved along the way. That should at least get you to the country of origin of the message although probably not much further than that. To find out more, you would need a court order requiring Hotmail to give you any information they have about the source computer but even that probably still wouldn’t get you any closer to the real identity of the sender.”

  “OK, so basically, if it’s a fake email account, even if I could get the IP address, which I can’t because Rob’s iPad was stolen when he was killed, I probably wouldn’t be able to find out who it came from?”

  “That’s about the size of it. But I’ll check out that email address for you and see if anything comes up.”

  “Thanks Conrad. See you in a few days.”

  Carter pressed the button to end the call; he was no further forward. He looked out of the window as he mulled over what he had learned from Conrad. He decided to use the hotel’s business unit to scan the printout of Rob’s email and send it to John at the FIDT; maybe John could get it deciphered and then he would know if it was of any importance.

  _________________________

  Having flown from Moscow to Nice via Paris a couple of days earlier, Eloise had spent the day working with the staff of the Hotel du Promenade in Sainte Maxime, getting the conference suite ready for the gathering of salesmen and customers who would arrive the following day. Apart from a four hour break in the afternoon, when everyone had suddenly disappeared and during which she had gone for a stroll along the sea-front and sunbathed on the beach, the whole day had passed with her directing and advising various workmen in the windowless conference rooms.

  Despite the hotel having hosted the event for the past four years, there was still a great deal upon which they required decisions: where to put the lecterns; how to set out the tables and chairs; where to put the advertising banners; how to arrange the exhibition spaces; testing and adjusting the sound and lighting systems, and so on. It had seemed to Eloise that they would never be ready but then, as the French working day drew to a close at seven o’clock, miraculously it had all seemed to come together. After a final check round the empty rooms, she had sat in the bar waiting for Jeremy and Anna to arrive. They had decided to spend a couple of days in Paris while Eloise went on to Sainte Maxime to oversee the preparations for the conference.

  An hour later, she had given up and dined
alone in the restaurant before returning to her room. She knew that Jeremy and Anna were due to arrive at some point during the afternoon but she had no details of exactly when. She had been expecting them to walk in at any moment and was surprised that they had still not appeared; she was in the shower when the phone rang in her room. She turned the shower off and quickly wrapped a voluminous soft white towel round her wet body before going to answer it.

  “Hello? Is that you Eloise? It’s Jeremy here.”

  “Hi, Jeremy. Have you just arrived? I was expecting you earlier.”

  “Our plane was delayed leaving Paris for four hours because of a bomb warning. But we’re here now. Is everything ready for tomorrow?”

  “Yes, it’s all done,” said Eloise confidently, “Do you want to have a look round this evening, just to make sure?”

  “Yes, that would probably be a good idea,” said Jeremy before adding quickly, “Not that I don’t have every confidence in you.”

  Eloise smiled to herself. “I’ve just had a shower and I’m dripping all over the floor. It’ll take me a few minutes to dry myself and get dressed. How about meeting in the bar in, say, twenty minutes?”

  “Fine. See you then.”

  Twenty minutes later, Eloise was sitting in the bar at a table near the windows gazing out at the brightly lit promenade where courting couples wandered along slowly beneath the line of palm trees. The street lights cast shadows under the trees and from time to time one of the couples would stop under a tree and the pair would turn to face each other before embracing and kissing. Beyond the promenade, she could see the sea glinting in the moonlight as it rippled in the soft evening breeze.

  Eloise turned from the window when she heard Jeremy’s voice and smiled as Jeremy and Anna approached and sat at the table with her.

  “Hi,” said Eloise, looking at Anna, “Jeremy said you had to wait for four hours for your flight. What a bore!”

  “Oh, it wasn’t too bad,” said Anna, cheerfully, but she looked drawn and tired.

  Jeremy was just finishing ordering drinks for himself and Anna when he noticed that Eloise’s glass was empty. “Et la même chose pour la mademoiselle,” he added in a hopelessly English accent.