'You'll like Tim,' Ralph told her. Six months bumming his way round South America and now headed home, an extra pair of hands for the voyage.
Which was the problem. Jilly did like Tim. Very much. A younger, fresher version of Ralph who suddenly didn't look quite so good beside his younger brother, getting all skipperish once Tim was aboard, something he'd never done before, something Jilly didn't much like.
They were two days out of the Azores, heading for Marseilles, when Ralph discovered what was going on, saw the way Tim gave her a nod to go below, before following a few minutes later. When Ralph confronted them as they came back topside, and as Tim tried to deny it, Jilly had interrupted the exchange to say yes, right out, it was true. That's all there was to it, and if Ralph didn't like it he could turn back for San Miguel and drop her off, get someone else along the quay to take her place. But Ralph wasn't having any of it and, setting his lips in a thin, silent line, had sailed on.
And then the storm broke.
Ralph would have known it was coming. Jilly and Tim didn't. Not until they noticed the heightening swell rising up behind their transom, the cool breeze off its crest ruffling their hair and licking their bare ankles. The first smacking pellets of rain, from a line of black clouds banking up above their wake and gaining on them fast, confirmed it.
The blow carried them north-east, had them clinging on tight, sails down, all-hands-to, and lifelined. By the time the storm overtook them and raced on ahead, they were only a day from Gibraltar.
Jilly had asked to get off there, but Ralph sailed on regardless - Gibraltar made no sense, he said; Marseilles was the place to be - and when Tim, for obvious reasons, agreed with his brothers decision she'd barred him from her cabin and put both brothers out of mind. They were good guys in their different ways, she liked them both and didn't want to hurt their feelings, but. . .
Now, just a day's sail from Marseilles, Jilly watched the dolphins play and plunge only inches from her toes. They were leading her home, she decided, and she felt the future beckoning, up ahead, across the blue water.
Then, the veiy next moment, the wind veered, the sails luffed and Anemone swung to starboard. The bow crushed through a wave and a spray of cold sea water dashed up between her thighs, spattered across her face and snatched the breath from her body. With a rush of delighted laughter, Jilly let go of the rail, pushed back her cropped, salty hair, and raised her face to the sun.
6
R
aissac favoured cars that didn't draw attention.
Brown, grey. Anything dark blue or green. And always unwashed. A skirt of mud, dusty windscreens. Citroens, Peugeots, a couple of old Renaults, the beaten-up Toyota off-road that looked like a Nissan. Just the kind of cars you'd use to get round town without being noticed, visit a site, call in on a contractor or supplier without giving the game away. And all of them registered as company vehicles, Raissac et Freres, kept in half a dozen lock-ups around Marseilles. Of course there was the Bentley, tucked away in his garage, but Raissac only used that for long journeys. To Lyons or Paris. Or along the coast road into Italy. Anywhere else, it was the anonymous family saloons that Raissac preferred.
And he always sat in the front. Beside his driver, Coupchoux. Never in the back seat.
That Monday morning Coupchoux arrived with a seven- year-old Renault, scarred along the flank, its aerial a wire coat-hanger, the bodywork around its windows speckled with rust. As Raissac came down the steps from the house, unwrapping a toffee bar, he saw the drivers door swing open and Coupchoux start to get out, shoulders straining against a black T-shirt, arms and neck layered with muscle.
Raissac waved the toffee, caught the mans eye and Coupchoux settled back in his seat. Too much weight- training, thought Raissac, strolling round to the passenger side, too much attention to the body beautiful. Compensation, he guessed, for the mans weak chin, the dull black eyes brooding under a bulge of brow, and those ridiculous baby teeth of his set in wet pink gums. The parts of his body that Coupchoux couldn't do anything about. At least, Raissac reflected, the muscle had its uses. Not to mention his other considerable talents.
"Where to, Monsieur?' asked Coupchoux as they pulled out of the gates and turned inland, uphill, away from Cassis. A wooden crucifix, strung by its rosary beads to the rear- view mirror, swung across the windscreen like a pendulum.
'Marseilles,' said Raissac. 'And get rid of the trinket.'
'Of course, Monsieur,' replied Coupchoux, not needing to be told what trinket Raissac had in mind. He unwound the rosary from the mirror and slipped it into his breast pocket, pressing the beads against his heart. 'Anywhere particular?'
Raissac finished his toffee, crumpled the wrapping and tossed it onto the floor. 'The Sofitel,' he replied, trying to get comfortable. There was just one problem with the cars he used. Space. He was over six feet tall and it was difficult knowing what to do with his legs. After a few minutes squirming in his seat, Raissac found a suitable position, then leant forward to the dash and realigned the air vents in his direction. Not that it made much difference. The air-conditioning was crap too.
The call came as Coupchoux turned left onto the D559, the old secondary route into Marseilles. Raissac slid the phone from an inside pocket and flicked it open.
He said nothing, just listened. And then:
'When did she leave Accra?'
He nodded. 'How long till she gets here?'
Another silence.
'And the other young lady? Sylviane?'
Raissac smiled. 'Good,' he said. 'That's right. Sofitel bar round twelve-thirty.'
There were no adieus. Raissac snapped the mobile shut and slid it back into his pocket. For a moment or two he looked ahead, then noticed the trees flashing past them.
'You're going too fast,' he said.
Obediently Coupchoux eased his foot off the gas and Raissac felt their speed drop. No point getting pulled over, he thought, and settled down as best he could for the trip into town.
So far it was all good news. According to Carnot, the ship was on its way - four, maybe five days out - and the people they needed were in place. All of it down to Carnot, his man in Marseilles. Carnot and one of those tidy little breaks that come along when you least expect them, a slant of sunshine from a cloudy sky, usually some juicy weakness that laid their victims wide open, made Raissac's life so much easier. Over and over again, hundreds of them, just asking to get hit. Sometimes it was the sex thing, or greed, or debt, or love, or hate. Emotions let loose. Life spinning out of control, isolating them from the herd. Leaving them vulnerable.
Whatever the reason, it always boiled down to stupidity;pure and simple. And weakness. Raissac had a nose for weakness. More effective than the barrel of a gun pressed to the side of the head. Like the building inspector who liked a flutter on the horses with other people's money. Or the union boys with their big bellies and their Corsican weekends who made sure his work-gangs were solid. Or the Customs boys in Toulon who got to take their family holidays in Martinique, and the new one here in Marseilles that Carnot had set up, a married man playing with boys. Even the cops. You could even get to them. And once you had one of them . . . well, then you were well ahead of the game. Like that cop in Toulon, or the other one in La Ciotat. All it took was a little time, a little patience, a little perseverance. Like his old Maman used to say, misquoting Richelieu: 'human frailty is only a matter of time.'
And now de Cotigny - of all people. The man himself. Raissac couldn't believe his good fortune. And all thanks to Carnot. A single chance encounter, and an interesting set of coincidences. First there was the American woman, de Cotigny's wife, coming on to their girl at the gym and Vicki, knowing money when she saw it, going along with it. The wife first, and then with the husband. And Raissac wouldn't have known a thing about it if Carnot hadn't gone round to Vicki's one evening and seen the two of them on the stairs, coming down from her apartment. According to Carnot, he'd heard their footfalls on the landing above and had had tim
e to stop at a door on the floor below and fiddle at the lock with his keys, as though he lived there, until they'd passed. The husband and wife. Carnot had recognised the man immediately - de Cotigny, Hubert de Cotigny. Head of Marseilles town planning. A very important gentleman. And paying a call on Vicki, the only apartment they could have been visiting.
Knowing Carnot, Raissac suspected it wouldn't have taken him long to find out what was going on: that it was the third time they'd met up - twice before with the woman, and that evening with the husband too - and most important, that it was an ongoing thing.
Silly bitch, thought Raissac, as they pulled up through the bends of Monts de la Ginestre, the Renault groaning with effort, its automatic transmission playing between first and second as though it couldn't make up its mind what land of revs the corners and gradient needed. Silly, silly little bitch. Hoping to make a little on the side, was she? Trying to go independent. If it hadn't been for Carnot calling by, she'd never have said a word. And after they'd set her up like that. Some stupid twenty-something trying it on for size. Trying to get the better of them after all they'd done for her.
In Raissac's game, you always had to look out for that. Girls thinking they could go independent, and get away with it. Which, Raissac acknowledged, was yet another fatal flaw. Underestimating the opposition. Who the hell did she think they were? Choirboys? But she'd soon discovered how far out of their league she was.
As the Renault rounded the last bend on the Ginestre Col and started the long, winding descent into Vaufreges and the city beyond, Raissac put Vicki out of his mind and settled his thoughts on more pleasing matters. New friends to tap, a new route to use, and the money as good as in the bag. All in all, he decided, everything was shaping up pretty much as planned, and by the time Coupchoux drew up at the Sofitel, Raissac was feeling very contented.
Equally contented was Toni, the Sofitel doorman, in his braided hat and burgundy topcoat. Conference delegates on business expenses - it didn't get any better. Only an hour into his shift and already a thousand francs up. The notes were easy to carry, but any more coin and the seams in his pockets would split. The thought of his money rolling across the forecourt made him wince. Pretty soon he'd have to unload at the Caisse desk inside, or have one of the porters take a bag of it down to his locker. Neither prospect appealed. Rudi at the Caisse would be sure to touch him for a cut, and not being able to count it out there was no telling how much the porter would lift en route to the staff changing room.
Toni was considering his options when a dusty old Renault swung up the drive and rattled to a stop not twenty feet away. One look at the scraped paintwork, the coat-hanger aerial and mismatched hubcaps was all it took. A franc if he was lucky, and he had enough of those already. Without another thought Toni turned his attention to the "Welcome Delegates' board, busying himself with minute adjustments to the lettering until he heard a car door slam and steps approach.
Dusting off his gloved hands he stood back to check his handiwork, then turned to greet the new arrival. How he kept his cool, he'd never know. Strolling towards him across the forecourt, buttoning up a slickly double- breasted suit and loosening a silk scarf, was the nastiest piece of work Toni had ever set eyes on. And ugly. Jesus, what a face. Jesus . . . The kind of man you didn't want to cross if you could possibly help it. The kind of man you opened a car door for, or God help you. That long thin face, those sleepy eyes, that tight, icy smile. Sent a chill right through you.
'Bonjour, Monsieur, bonjour,' Toni managed, but the man was past him, trotting up the steps.
Out on the forecourt, the Renault driver caught Tonis eye, shook his head and smiled.
7
It was the other side's prop. He just came out ofnowhere. Not so fast, you know. But heavy, and looking for trouble.'
Rully, hair awry, bare-chested, his groin artfully crumpled with a sheet, peered mournfully down the bed.
Jacquot looked with him. The left leg was plastered in a bright white cast that reached to the top of his thigh, the peeping toes a bruised red, the joints blackened with bristly black hairs. An inch above the ankle, the cast was cradled in a sling, the sling attached to a steel cord stretching up through a system of pulleys and secured to a large silver weight.
'Last match of the season, you know? Amicale. Just a testimonial,' sighed Rully.
'Prop, you said. Left ear gone? Nose flat?'
Rully nodded. 'That's the one.'
'Mastin, from Brives. Has to be. Used to play for Perpignan.' Jacquot knew the man. A tough little bugger. Any excuse. And he didn't care if the referee saw him. It was what those Brives fans wanted. And Mastin gave it to them. 'Nasty piece of work,' continued Jacquot, sliding a finger into the neck of his T-shirt. Not mid-morning yet and the temperature was already climbing into the twenties.
The two men fell silent. Jacquot leant back in his chair and looked around. Third floor in La Conception. A private room at the back. Jacquot had been here a few times - other colleagues. Knife wounds, bullets, baseball bats - anything sharp, heavy or blunt. Now it was Rully.
'I was turning to pass and he hit me like a train,' his partner began again. 'I went down over the leg. Heard it break.' Rully nodded at the lower half of the cast. 'Then the knee twisting. Funny,' he continued, looking at Jacquot. 'Didn't feel a thing.'
'You don't,' replied Jacquot. 'I know.'
And he did. Not a bone for him, but the long stretch and surrendering snap of an Achilles tendon, the foot trailing, a wave of nausea. But no pain. Not then.
Outside in the corridor a trolley rattled past.
'I'm sorry, Dan,' said Rully quietly. 'I know it's not a good time.'
'Hey, it happens,' replied Jacquot, waving it away. 'But I'm sorrier for you. How long?'
'Week here like this. Then maybe I get out. Who knows? They don't tell you much.' Rully shrugged, then changed the subject. 'You get any leads up in Salon?'
Jacquot brought his partner up to speed, the same information he'd given Guimpier an hour earlier. 'The victim was in the lake a week, maybe longer. Naked. Mid-twenties. Nothing bar a tattoo to identify her. No jewellery and no clothing. The local boys went over the shoreline as much as they could but didn't find a thing.
They can't say for certain where she went in, but this little beach the far side of the lake looks the most likely.'
'So what do you think?'
'It's got to be the same guy. A copy of the autopsy report is on its way but Desjartes called me on the way here with a few details. Pronoprazone, just like the others, but administered above the shoulder blade this time, which means he was probably coming up from behind. And definite penetration. She was badly bruised internally, with significant laceration.'
'But no semen?'
Jacquot shook his head. 'And no evidence that he used a rubber. No trace of lubricant or spermicide. They're water-based, remember?'
Rully nodded. 'Have the papers got it yet?'
'Sailboat accident. Just a local story so far. No one's linked it with the other deaths. Not yet anyway.'
'Well, let's hope it stays that way.'
There was a tap at the door and a nurse breezed in. She was young and fresh-faced, a junior's striped cotton shift showing tanned arms and bare legs.
'And how are we today?' she asked, plimsolls squeaking on the lino floor as she moved around the bed, checking the weight and pulleys before asking Rully if she could get him anything.
Rully smiled and told her no, unless she knew a way to get him out of there.
'You want to leave us already?' she exclaimed, giving them both a hurt look, tucking back a stray wisp of dark hair that had slipped from her cap. 'Maybe we need to make you a little more comfortable,' she continued and, sliding an arm around Rullys shoulders, she drew him
forward and held him against her while she plumped up his pillows, glancing across at Jacquot as she did so. Her fingernails were painted, Jacquot noted, which surprised him. Pink - easy to miss but there all the same.
'There you go,' she said, easing Rully back down, fingers brushing across his bare shoulder. 'What would you do without me?' And with that, and a smile, she straightened her cotton shift and left the room.
Jacquot and Rully looked at each other, thinking the same thing.
'It's that dress does it for me,' said Rully with a wink. 'The older nurses wear slacks.' He picked at the folds of sheet between his legs. 'Better have a book here for next time,' he said.
'Nothing so weighty,' replied Jacquot. 'A newspaper should do it.'
The two men smiled at each other, not really sure where to go next. Rully started it: 'You see Guimpier?'
Jacquot and the Waterman Page 3