There was no sign at the gates to indicate the presence of a refuge for abused women – which probably made sense, Jacquot reasoned – just a security camera on the wall and an entryphone. A woman answered his call and, when he held up his badge to the small camera, the gate creaked open.
‘How can we be of assistance, Chief Inspector?’ asked Sister Mercy, leading him down a lino-floored corridor that smelled of polish, distant food and candle wax.
‘I’m looking for some information on a Monsieur Niko Emanetti,’ said Jacquot, as the nun showed him into her office, sitting where she indicated, taking in the large crucifix behind her desk and the polychrome prints of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary to either side of it. ‘I believe you know him.’
‘I’m afraid that I don’t,’ replied Sister Mercy, her face chubby from the press of her wimple, cheeks red, eyes clear. ‘I regret to say the name is not at all familiar.’
Which threw Jacquot just a little. According to Cluzot, a considerable amount of cash had been sent by his office to this address, the last of Niko’s bequests.
‘Monsieur Niko Emanetti, of Roucas Blanc? Some people knew him as Philo?’
The sister shook her head, gave him a bright smile.
‘As I told you, I do not know the name, Chief Inspector.’
He decided to come at it from another angle. ‘I understand that recently you received a sum of money. A contribution.’
The sister coloured. ‘We receive many donations. It is how we survive.’
‘This was quite a considerable sum of money.’
She narrowed her eyes, nodded. ‘Then you are correct. There was such a contribution, yes.’
‘For your information, it was Monsieur Emanetti who made that donation.’
Sister Mercy sighed, spread her hands. ‘If he did, then we are most grateful for his generosity,’ she replied. ‘But that does not mean I have to know his name. There was no note with the money. Tout à fait anonyme.’
She folded her hands on the desk top and smiled. There was no intention to deceive, Jacquot was certain. The good sister really didn’t know the name. And why should she lie?
‘I believe he was married,’ Jacquot began again, feeling his way. ‘Maybe his wife was responsible for the donation?’
‘If I don’t know your Monsieur Emanetti, it is unlikely I would know his wife.’ Another beatific smile. And a discreet glance at her watch.
But Jacquot persisted. ‘Her name was Edina. Perhaps …’
The response was immediate.
‘Edina! Oh, but of course,’ said Sister Mercy, throwing up her hands. ‘You should have said. We knew her well. She came here often. But I didn’t know she was married.’
‘She came here? To the refuge.’
‘Mais, bien sûr. She read about us in the newspaper, when we first opened.’
‘And that would have been?’
‘Eight or nine years ago. That’s when we started up.’
‘And the reason for her visits?’
‘As I said, she had read about us in the newspaper, the work we do here, and she wanted to volunteer her services … offered to help with the children while their mothers worked. That sort of thing. Happy to do whatever we asked. I suspect,’ Sister Mercy continued, ‘that she might have been abused herself, by a husband or a father. I can’t say for sure, you understand. She never actually said.’
‘It wouldn’t have been Monsieur Emanetti,’ said Jacquot. ‘Could she perhaps have been married before?’ he asked, knowing she had been.
‘Possibly. Who knows? Edina was always very quiet, not at all forthcoming. But a beauty. In looks and in character. There was a kind of …’ Sister Mercy looked lost for words ‘… a kind of brilliance about her; she seemed to shine. And that smile … Oh, just … luminous. And the children adored her. Always such a commotion when she arrived, laden with gifts for them – toys, sweets. She quite spoiled them.’
‘You knew that she had died?’
Sister Mercy sighed, nodded. ‘We received a card, asking us to pray for her. She suffered an illness.’
‘She had written the card?’
‘I do not know. I never saw her handwriting.’
‘And then?’
‘A few months later I received a phone call from a man. He was sorry, he said, to pass on bad news but …’
A sadness settled on Sister Mercy’s face. It was clear to Jacquot that there had been a real affection for Edina at the refuge, and in particular from this woman sitting beneath the crucifix, and real sorrow at her passing.
‘Did Edina ever say where she had come from? Where she had grown up? Anything like that?’
Sister Mercy frowned, then brightened as though at something suddenly recalled.
‘Nice. I believe she came from Nice.’
72
THANKS TO MAÎTRE Cluzot and Madame Nallet, Nice was already on Jacquot’s list. But as he drove away from rue Clermond and Sister Mercy’s refuge, he decided it was too late in the day to make the journey. He would go in the morning, do what he needed to do, and stop for lunch at his favourite bistro in the old port. It was a long time since he’d been there, to the city and the bistro, and he was looking forward to it. The brief delay would serve to increase the pleasure.
Down in Marseilles’ Vieux Port, Jacquot walked along the pontoon towards Constance, a rucksack filled with provisions from the millhouse slung over his shoulder. There was a warm gusting breeze out in the harbour that he hadn’t really felt ashore, and a chop to the water that sucked and slapped at the pontoon.
‘They say it’s going to howl tonight,’ called Gala, as Jacquot passed her mooring. ‘Batten down the hatches. Pull a cork. Talking of which …’ She waved a bottle. ‘I was just about to start. Care to join me?’
He was still in his jeans and jacket, and could hardly wait to get into shorts and T-shirt. ‘Give me twenty,’ he called back. ‘Time to change. I’ll be back.’
Twenty minutes later he came aboard and stepped down into the cockpit. Gala handed him a glass, pointed to the bottle and indicated he should pour his own.
‘You’re just like old Philo. Never here more than a moment.’
‘I have another life,’ said Jacquot, sipping the wine, a sharp little gris de gris from the Ballon vineyards down the coast.
‘Maybe he did too,’ she said, lighting up a cigarette.
‘Maybe,’ said Jacquot. ‘Did you ever wonder where he went? Did you ever ask?’
Gala shrugged. ‘He’d spent his life at sea. Maybe that was enough. Maybe he just came back here every now and again to remind himself. By the way,’ she said, changing direction, ‘your friend came by last night.’
‘My friend?’
‘Boufff, you need to be told?’ she teased. ‘The one with the tight skirt and long legs. She was with you the other day.’
‘Ah,’ said Jacquot.
‘Ah,’ repeated Gala, giving him a look.
‘She’s a police inspector, Gala. She works for the Judiciaire.’
‘I’m sure she is, and I’m sure she does,’ Gala replied, but the look didn’t shift from her face.
‘She is an old friend,’ replied Jacquot. ‘There was a time … but those days are long past.’
‘Still,’ said Gala. ‘Sometimes, with old friends, there’s unfinished business, n’est-ce pas? That’s all I’m saying.’
‘I’m going to be a dad at Christmas, Gala.’
‘That doesn’t put you out of the frame – take it from an old hand at the game. All I’m saying, one sailor to another, is watch yourself.’
And then Gala paused, looked over Jacquot’s shoulder and smiled. ‘Well, what do you know?’ she continued, tipping him a wink.
Behind him, he heard steps on the pontoon, the click, click of low heels.
He turned.
It was Isabelle.
73
‘I DIDN’T MEAN to break up the party,’ said Isabelle, as Jacquot ushered her aboard Constance and follo
wed her down into the main cabin. ‘Your friend looks like she throws a good one.’
‘You’re right. She does. But don’t worry. You’ve saved me from a hangover. So, what can I get you? A beer? Some wine? Coffee?’
‘A glass of wine would be perfect. Red, if you have it,’ she said, slipping off her jacket and sliding on to the banquette, dumping her bag beside her and unclipping the holster and gun from her belt.
‘So how’s it been at the sharp end?’ Jacquot asked.
‘Non-stop. They’re dropping out of the sky,’ she replied, and as Jacquot pulled the cork on a half-finished bottle of wine, dished up some olives and bread, and reached for his cigarettes, Isabelle brought him up to date: Clara Garnolle, found dead in a street in Endoume, shot three times; her husband, Jean, the lead suspect in her murder until his own body was found two days later.
‘Garnolle, that rings a bell.’
‘Early sixties. An accountant, by profession, but long suspected of money-laundering for the families. Everything above board; a regular, respected practice in Toulon, and then here in Marseilles. But if anyone’s money needed cleaning, if accounts needed to be fixed, Garnolle was the man they called in. As far as we can tell, the Famille Duclos in Toulon was his primary client before he was honourably discharged. Or rather, he made it to retirement without getting a bullet in the head. Maybe he’s done a few odd jobs since then, on the side, a bit of consultancy, but nothing major.’
‘So where did he turn up?’
‘A crabbery in Saint-Cyprien. Caged in a lobster pot, and half-lowered into a tank of boiling water. It seems whoever did it had trouble with the lifting mechanism, or they left him like that deliberately. Half-boiled, and steamed.’
Jacquot winced.
‘He’d been pretty badly beaten, too.’
‘Like Dupont and his wife? Could it be the same team?’
Isabelle shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. First off, the Duponts were secured with wire, wrists and ankles. But Garnolle had rope burns, wrists only. And Garnolle definitely had the worst of it. Fingernails gone. Left eye popped. And he’d lost his teeth. Extracted, according to Clisson. Pulled out, not knocked out. Also, none of them were shot …’
‘… in the knee and ankle, like Suchet. So you’re telling me two different teams? Possibly more?’
‘That’s how it looks. Also, according to Clisson, Suchet wasn’t the only one in that sinkhole with gunshot wounds to the knee and ankle. So far he’s identified similar trauma on five of the bodies, like a trademark.’
‘Punishment? Or did the killers want something?’
‘I’d say they wanted something from Dupont. Remember the house? Properly turned over. But I can’t be so sure with Garnolle and Suchet. Neither of their homes was touched. Their deaths may just have been payback for something they did. And there’s another thing. Suchet was hidden, but Dupont and Garnolle were left to be found.’
Jacquot took a last pull of his cigarette and dropped it into the empty wine bottle, blowing the smoke towards an open porthole. He was quiet for a moment, thoughtful.
‘In my experience, when it comes to the Milieu, there are usually two ways of getting rid of your enemies,’ he began. ‘You set an example, like Dupont and this fellow Garnolle. Or someone just disappears, like Suchet in his sinkhole. It’s hard to say which is worse, for the families involved.’
Isabelle waved her hand dismissively. ‘Daniel, you’re going soft in your old age.’
‘It’s not soft, Issy, it’s just … Even the bad boys have mothers and fathers. Wives, kids.’
‘I know, I know. I do try not to forget it,’ she replied, warmed by the ‘Issy’; it was a long time since she had heard him use that name. ‘But sometimes it’s difficult, you know? You see so much … What’s certain is that there’ll be no shortage of weeping wives and mothers and kids after this is all over. It’s like clearing up after a bar-room brawl, only bloodier. Oh … Did I mention Castel? You remember? The man Ranque transferred from solitary to the hospital wing?’
‘He’s dead?’
‘Apparently he killed a prisoner, some kid they found in his cell. No one knew how the lad got in there – or if they do, they’re keeping quiet about it – but some of his friends weren’t too happy about it. A couple of days later Castel was let out in an exercise yard off “S” Wing and an access gate to the main prison yard was left unlocked. It was an invitation they couldn’t resist.’
‘That has to be deliberate, leaving a gate unlocked.’
Isabelle nodded. ‘That’s how it looks.’
‘Ranque? Covering something up?’ he asked, fetching another bottle of wine.
‘Could have been. But now we’ll never know. He’s been hit too.’
‘Ranque? Dead?’
‘Shot, in the street. He was on his way to a restaurant for dinner with his wife. Their anniversary. A passer-by found him beside his car. A neighbour heard a motorbike stop, then speed off. Very professional. Again, the Milieu. Has to be.’
‘Why on earth …?’ Jacquot started to shake his head, trying to fit a pattern to the various deaths but not succeeding. It all seemed so random, so … unconnected.
‘If you ask me,’ said Isabelle, holding out her glass, ‘it looks like our friend Dupont was busier than we imagined. Otherwise, I just don’t see how all this ties together.’
‘Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it’s not meant to. Just a settling of scores,’ said Jacquot, pouring more wine into her glass and noting the sway of her hand; it looked like this wasn’t the first drink she’d had that evening, a fact confirmed when she drew back her hand before he’d finished pouring and wine spilled over her wrist and sleeve and splashed on to her blouse.
‘My fault, my fault,’ said Jacquot, knowing it wasn’t.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Not a problem.’ And then, getting to her feet, dabbing at the wetness, she asked, ‘Do you mind if I change it? I’ve got a spare in my bag.’
‘Help yourself,’ said Jacquot, nodding to the for’ard cabin. ‘And while you’re at it, I’ll get us something to eat. Hungry?’
‘Ravenous,’ she said, as she slid past him.
In the small galley kitchen, Jacquot set about unpacking the rucksack he had brought from home: plastic containers of cheese from the previous night’s dinner, the remains of Claudine’s blanquette, and a generous slice of the tarte tatin that Delphie had brought from Ladurée Royale in Paris.
He was bending down to slide the veal into the oven when a movement caught his eye. The door to the for’ard cabin was open, and Isabelle, with her back to him, was drawing the wine-stained blouse from her shoulders. Her skin was brown and smooth and he could see the narrow arch of ribs from her spine, the gentle swing of a breast as she reached forward for the dry blouse she had laid on the bed.
It was at that moment, straightening up, that she suddenly turned her head, caught him looking at her. She smiled, turned to face him, brought the blouse up to cover her breasts and then lowered it.
Jacquot’s heart was in his mouth, and beating fast. Before he could say anything, she was coming towards him, the tight jut of her breasts utterly mesmerising. She dropped the blouse on the table and stood there, not a metre from him, the smile still on her lips.
‘I wouldn’t say anything,’ she said, softly. ‘No one need ever know.’
Jacquot knew she meant Claudine and saw for the first time the longing in her eyes, the hunger. She stepped closer and slid an arm round his waist, brought the tips of her breasts close to his chest, her mouth turning up towards his.
Jacquot was rooted to the spot, and astonished to find himself stirring at the closeness and heat of her body.
It would be so easy … so, so easy, he thought.
She was right, no one need know.
And they had been lovers before. It wouldn’t be the first time.
But he knew that he wouldn’t, couldn’t go through with it, so he bent down and kissed her lightly, just to sh
ow he cared, just to show he didn’t want to hurt her. They’d been lovers after all. There was still an affection there between them. An understanding.
But somehow, in the space of a few moments, that affection and that understanding changed, and his lips stayed on hers, and her tongue was at work, trying to part his lips, her breasts hot points pressing against his T-shirt.
‘Isabelle …’
‘It would be our little secret,’ she said, and stepped even closer, taking his hand and leading it to her breast, holding it there, tightly, so that he could feel the hardness of her nipple and the beating of her heart, her other hand reaching behind him to press him against her.
‘I want you, Daniel,’ she whispered, the words just warm breath at his ear, ‘and I think you want me. That’s all. That’s all I want.’
74
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Jacquot waited till the rush hour had eased and then drove north out of Marseilles, up through Aubagne on the A52, stopping to fill up with petrol at the Baume de Marron service station. A few kilometres further on he crested that last ridge out of the city and saw the long, steely bulk of Mont Sainte-Victoire up ahead, its chalky flanks rising above the stream of mid-morning traffic on the Nice–Aix autoroute, and diminishing it. The sun was bright and sharp in a clear blue sky, the slipstream through his open windows warm and fresh and filled with a sharp sent of pine from the wooded slopes either side of him.
And as he drove, keeping to the slow lane, arm hanging from the window, he thought of Isabelle. Gala had been right, and he felt foolish that the old girl had spotted it, and he hadn’t.
The whole thing had been so entirely unexpected, the evening before on Constance, him and Isabelle, the two of them in the main cabin, lights low, but no music, catching up on the Dupont case.
Unexpected for him, maybe.
But Isabelle? Not for her, he was certain. Isabelle knew exactly what was going to happen. Because she had decided to make it happen. Spilling the red wine on her blouse, the spare in her bag, changing in the for’ard cabin with the door open. She’d known all right. That bare back, the way she drew off the blouse, shoulder blades as sharp and straight as bookends. And then turning, catching his eye.
The Dying Minutes Page 26