‘And the name of the boat?’ Duclos had asked.
‘Constance,’ Aris had told him.
Constance, Constance, Constance, he whispered, lying in the darkness.
He wondered if Polineaux knew about Constance. He certainly hadn’t mentioned it when they’d met for their lunch on plage Briande. But then he hadn’t mentioned anything, hadn’t so much as hinted he might know what was going on.
Bastard, thought Duclos, and closed his eyes.
87
THE WEATHER FORECAST had been right. When Jacquot came out on deck the following morning, the sky was a deep cloudless blue, the harbour waters barely rippled by a breeze, and the tricolores above the entrance to the Hôtel de Ville and on every mast in the old port were still. But without the breeze, Jacquot knew that even this late in the summer it would be hot by midday, so he set about preparing Constance for their trip to the calanques while Claudine and Delphie slept on below.
Sliding the companionway hatch closed, he slipped the mooring lines and hauled up the fenders. Then, treading carefully so as not to disturb the sisters, he went for’ard to raise the anchor, hand over hand, coiling the dripping rope and chain and stowing it all in the anchor locker. Back in the wheelhouse, floating free now, Jacquot started up the engine and felt the soft rumble as the twin Volvo diesels caught. Opening the throttles, he steered Constance into the fairway between the pontoons, put the helm hard to starboard and edged her into the main harbour.
It was the first time that Jacquot had taken her out since his trip with Claudine, and as he stood at the wheel, checking for traffic passing to and fro in the harbour, he felt a great lift of exhilaration. A skipper at the wheel of his boat, preparing for the open sea. The feel of the deck, smooth and warm beneath his feet, the slight judder in the wheel as he passed it through his hands, the comforting bass throb and throaty gargle of the engines beneath and behind him, and the first gentle rock as he steered out over a passing wake and pointed Constance between the forts of Saint-Jean and Saint-Nicholas.
Ten minutes later he was past the breakwater and heading east, cutting smoothly through a low chop, past plage Catalan and the Malmousque boatyards, the sea a dark, glittering blue. Looking to starboard he could see rougher water out past the Frioul islands and Château d’If, silent white-caps riding in from the open ocean, prancing along like snowy dolphins beside a ferry from Tunis coming in to La Joliette and a low-slung container ship, further off, heading out in to Golfe du Lion.
Jacquot took a deep breath and felt it course down to his toes, firing up every nerve ending, filling him with a bubbling joie de vivre.
God, this is the life, he thought. This is the life …
88
NIKO EMANETTI WAS dead.
Buried at sea.
While Duclos’ boys were chasing their tails up in Aubagne, Léo, Dhuc and Milagro had found an old netmaker in Madrague who had known him, been one of the funeral party that had pitched him overboard. Dead and gone, the netmaker told them, all that’s left an empty apartment on Tibido up for rent and his old boat down in Marseilles’ Vieux Port.
But Didier Lacombe was not a happy man. Not only had Polineaux vetoed his plan to bring in the boat’s owner after they’d finally tracked Constance down, he’d insisted that Didier take charge of the watching brief.
On Polineaux’s motor cruiser, Corsaire, now berthed in Marseilles’ Vieux Port.
And Didier liked neither the sea, nor Marseilles.
As far as he was concerned the ocean was a lovely thing to look at, but that was as far as it went, an altogether alien environment that hid below its surface all manner of lurking dangers. Didier preferred his size twelve Berluti loafers planted on firm ground, and if he wanted to swim he’d jump in a pool, merci beaucoup.
As for Marseilles … well, it was a pit. Nothing to recommend it. Where Nice was sleek and glamorous, Marseilles was dowdy and dismal, as far from the picture-postcard charms of the Côte d’Azur as it was possible to get. Their mooring on Quai des Belges stank of fish from the daily market, the seagulls never seemed to cease their screeching and there was absolutely no privacy. Whenever he went out on deck, there were always people walking by, just a few metres from the boat, looking in, pointing, admiring. Hardly surprising, he supposed. It was old now, but Corsaire was still a fine ship, handsome more than elegant, solid more than sleek, a thirty-metre cruiser from one of the finest Italian yards. Just the kind of thing the old man loved but which he, Didier, loathed.
And it moved, constantly. Didier could sense it in every step he took. A shift, a sway, sometimes so gentle he wondered afterwards if he’d imagined it. He’d have checked in to one of the hotels along the harbour if there had been one worth staying in. But this was Marseilles, and Sofitels and Novotels and Mercures didn’t do it for Didier. And the Nice Passédat was just too far away from the port to be a viable proposition in terms of surveillance.
Not that he’d done much of that. Since leaving Antibes the previous afternoon and berthing in Marseilles he’d spent most of his time aboard Corsaire in his cabin, watching movies and flicking through the sports channels while his boys kept an eye on Constance. The night before he’d drunk too much of Polineaux’s cognac and had woken with a dry mouth and squinting eyes to the screeching call of gulls. He was lying in his bed, wondering if he was strong enough to handle breakfast, when the phone beside his bed trilled lightly.
It was Cassel, Corsaire’s skipper, up on the bridge.
‘She’s moving out. You want us to follow?’
Didier pushed himself up with a low groan. ‘Who’s aboard?’
‘Same as last night. The man and the two women.’
He licked his lips. ‘Follow them.’
89
LIKE JACQUOT, GALA Desfornado had woken early, taking her breakfast beneath the sunshade stretched above the cockpit of her yacht, delighted that at last the breeze was gone. It seemed the Metéo boys had got it right for a change. The last three days she’d had to paint below decks, where the sand and dust and grit snatched up by the wind could not reach her palette and canvas, always having to compensate for the occasional tilt and roll before touching brushtip to canvas. Passing wakes were bad enough but the continual shift of a harbour chop was the very devil for the detail strokes.
But while painting in the main cabin was the safe option, there were significant problems attached to working on a canvas below decks. First of these was the size of the main cabin – too cramped to properly accommodate her easel and canvas – and by mid-morning, too hot to paint comfortably. And when she painted she liked to see what she was painting, in this case the rising, clustered roofs of Le Panier across the harbour. But below decks, hemmed in by boats to either side of her, there was no view to speak of, and she had to keep clambering up into the cockpit to remind herself of the shades of colour, the play of light and the angles. Sometimes she wondered why she bothered. And then she remembered. It was cheaper painting here than hiring a studio in town. But today would be different. She could set up her easel right here, in the stern, and paint without interruption from the breeze.
She was finishing her second mug of coffee and lighting up her third Gitane when she heard an engine fire up at the end of the pontoon, spotted a curl of blue exhaust smoke from Constance and saw Jacquot at the wheel, manoeuvring Philo’s old Customs cutter out of its berth. She watched him nose into the fairway between the pontoons and negotiate the turn out towards the harbour, pausing a moment before pulling out into the main channel. He stood tall at the wheel, feet apart, checking to left and right, confident in command. Not bad for just a few short weeks, she thought to herself. He looked as if he was born to it. And as far as she could see, no sign of the two women who had come aboard the previous afternoon. If he hadn’t told her that his wife and sister-in-law were visiting she didn’t know what she might have thought. That Jacquot. Every woman after him, like as not. And she could see why. Twenty years younger, and a few kilos lighter, and she’d
have given him a try herself.
Thirty minutes later, a paint-stained smock over her one-piece swimming costume, her hair tidied away under a scarf, and her easel set up in the cockpit, Gala was mixing a dab of blue and yellow on her palette for the treetops above Le Panier when she saw three men coming down the pontoon, looking from side to side, checking the names of the boats. Her first thought was, They’re hoodlums. Just from the look of them. Two in jeans, sneakers and black tees under black leather jackets, the leader, in front, taller than his companions, with a blue shirt under a cream linen jacket, pleated cotton trousers and tasselled loafers. They passed her with just a brief glance at the name of her boat and headed on down the pontoon until they came to the empty berth where Constance had been moored. She watched them shade their eyes and look out into the harbour, confer in a huddle and then come back down the pontoon.
They stopped at her mooring and the boss man called out to her, wished her Bonjour and asked if there was a boat called Constance on the pontoon. His hair was black, rippled with curls, oiled back, curling behind the ears and over his shirt collar. In need of a trim. He also had a goatee, black and pointed, the rest of his jaw cleanly shaved.
For a second Gala was tempted to say ‘no’, pretend she’d never heard such a name. But there was just something about them. The kind of men you didn’t lie to. She felt a quiver of guilt as she said, ‘Mais oui, the empty mooring at the end.’
‘You know where it’s gone?’
This time she was quite happy to answer, because she really didn’t know where. When Jacquot had told her about his wife and her sister visiting, he hadn’t said anything about a trip.
‘Je sais pas,’ she replied, with a shrug, a paintbrush in one hand, the other pressing down on the hem of her smock so it wouldn’t blow up and show anything. ‘Cassis? L’Estaque, maybe?’
‘The owner. You got a name?’ He asked the question like a cop might ask it, or like a true-blood, no-good bastard gangster – which he clearly was; the kind of bruiser who was used to getting answers to his questions. The right answers. Without too much delay.
She frowned, tried to look confused, as though she didn’t know or couldn’t remember the name. Goatee man’s eyes bored into her.
‘Jacquot,’ she said. ‘Daniel Jacquot.’ And felt the wince of betrayal. Whatever trouble Jacquot had got himself into, she wasn’t making it any easier for him.
‘He’s a cop, right?’ Goatee called up to her.
Gala nodded. ‘Yes. That’s right. He is.’
‘In town?’
‘À l’intérieur,’ she replied. ‘Up-country.’
Goatee took this in, looked around, left and right, then straight back at her. Laser eyes. Black. Cold as ice.
‘When he gets back, no need to say we called by, you understand?’
It wasn’t a suggestion.
‘Hey, I’m an old girl. Blind as a bat, me.’
She felt ashamed of herself, but she couldn’t do anything about it. She was suddenly very frightened, skin chilled and puckering even as the sun bore down on her. Exposed. Vulnerable. With Michel still away in Corsica there was no one within fifty metres of her. Except these three gorilles. At the end of her gangplank. From now on, she swore to herself, she’d keep her gangplank up. Just in case. Not that they’d dare do anything in broad daylight. Then again …
‘You got a radio on board? VHF?’ Goatee asked, as though he’d just thought of it.
‘Yes, I do. But it’s broken.’
‘Don’t you need it when you take the boat out?’
Gala managed a smile. ‘This boat hasn’t left its berth in five years or more. All I’ve got down there is a cassette player.’
‘Okay, then. Good,’ said Goatee. ‘See you around.’
And with that the three men turned and headed back to the quay and Gala Desfornado hoped, and prayed, that none of them would ever see her around again.
90
JACQUOT WAS CLOSING on Cap Croisette, with the ports of Pointe Rouge and Madrague just a couple of kilometres off his port side, when the companionway hatch slid open and Claudine climbed up on deck. She was wrapping a silk gown around herself, pushing a hand through tousled hair, and when she caught his eye she gave him the kind of smile that would fill any man’s heart. Two hours earlier he had woken her softly with warm exploring fingers, their love-making silent. Not a whisper, hardly a movement, with Delphie so close. Cupped like spoons. Just a final sigh, like someone falling asleep. Which was what Claudine had done. Now she was beside him, sliding an arm round his waist, resting her head on his shoulder.
‘Bonjour, mon Capitaine. And how are you?’
‘Pleased to have my crew reporting for duty,’ he replied.
‘You seem to have managed quite well all by yourself,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d leave it to you.’
‘Is that so?’ said Jacquot taking a hand off the wheel and wrapping his arm around her, bringing her closer.
‘Mornings like this,’ she sighed, ‘does it get any better? It’s just so beautiful, isn’t it? Out here, at sea. Just us and the ocean.’
‘And Delphie.’
‘And Delphie. She’s up by the way, and taking a shower.’
‘Tell her the skipper says not to use too much water. She’s not in Paris now.’
Claudine gave him a pinch, nuzzled closer.
‘So is Constance really ours? Does she really belong to us? All this?’
‘She’s ours for as long as we want her.’
Claudine nodded. ‘That’s good. Because I want her to be mine, too. You’re going to have to share. And teach me how to drive her.’
‘Then I’ll need more insurance,’ he said, and gave her a squeeze, kissed the top of her head, smelled the warmth of their makeshift cabin bed on her, the sweet remnants of her scent, and sex.
‘So get it. And be quick about it,’ she said, pulling free of him and turning back to the cabin door. ‘I’m making coffee. You want some?’
Twenty minutes later both sisters were out on deck watching the coastline and the islands of Jarre, Calseraigne and Riou pass them by as they sipped their coffee and shared a basket of flaking croissants, their hair flicking in the breeze, the sleeves of their silk wraps billowing and then filling like tiny sails. Standing at the wheel, Jacquot decided he had never been happier. The two Eddé sisters and him, and hidden away two tiny people who by Christmas would make his world complete.
‘So where are you taking us?’ called Delphie, as a Cassis Sunseeker powered past them, its prow high, heading for Marseilles.
Jacquot eased off the throttle and turned into the approaching wake, cursing the inconsiderate skipper, whoever he was.
‘A little place I know,’ he said, riding the first crest, then straightening up and applying some revs.
‘Where we went last time?’ asked Claudine.
Jacquot shook his head, smiled. ‘That’s ours. Just you and me. No strangers,’ he said, nodding at Delphie.
‘Stranger? I’m family, for fuck’s sake.’
The retort was ripe and fruity, just as Jacquot had expected. And friendly. No offence meant, and none taken.
‘Where we’re going now is for threesomes,’ he said.
‘You should be so lucky, mister,’ said the two sisters, almost together, and burst out laughing.
‘It’s called Calanque des Sirènes. It’s smaller than the others and too narrow for the tourist boats,’ he told them, nodding at a thirty-metre monster overtaking them on their port side, heading for Morgiou or Sormiou, its rails crowded with passengers. ‘You’ll love it. We can have lunch on board, or there’s this little cabanon where they have an outside grill and their own vineyard. It’s Marseilles’ best-kept secret.’
91
ISABELLE CASSIER WAS half-way across the squad room when the phone on her desk started ringing. She dumped her bag on the floor, dropped into her chair and reached for the handset.
‘Oui? Cassier.’
‘Chi
ef Inspector Cassier, this is Gala Desfornado.’
Isabelle frowned, tried to place the name but couldn’t.
‘I am a neighbour of your friend, Daniel Jacquot,’ the voice on the other end of the line continued. ‘Down in Le Vieux Port. He was with me the other evening when you came calling.’
Isabelle sat up at the mention of Jacquot’s name, remembered the lady on the yacht, an artist. Every time she’d seen the woman, she’d had a glass in her hand. ‘Yes, Madame. I remember. You’re the artist. What can I do for you?’
‘I wasn’t sure what to do, but I thought I should do something.’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘About twenty minutes ago, three men came looking for Jacquot. Nasty-looking men. Real toughs, if you know what I mean.’
‘Okay … So what happened?’
‘Nothing. Jacquot wasn’t there. Took off earlier this morning with his wife and sister-in-law. They’re staying with him.’
Isabelle wanted to correct her, then and there. Claudine was not Jacquot’s wife. Instead, she thought of the gold bar, and Clem, and said, ‘These men, have you seen them before?’
‘No. And I hope I never do again.’
‘Did they speak to you?’ asked Isabelle.
‘When they discovered he wasn’t there, they came back down the pontoon, asked me if I knew where he was.’
The Dying Minutes Page 31