Jacquot said he had, told him about the flowers, that he shouldn't expect a visit any time soon.
'So who's taking over from me?'
'Gastal.'
Rully frowned, trying to place the name.
'You'll have seen him around,' said Jacquot, getting to his feet, pulling on his jacket. 'Came in from Toulon a couple of months back. Worked with Sallinger and the Vice boys to start with. Transferring to Lamonzie in Narcotics at the end of the month.'
'Fat guy?'
'Fat guy.'
Rully thought for a moment.
'Doesn't he do some trick with escargots?'
8
It was Sylvianes friend Carnot who'd arranged everything. He'd phoned her that morning and given her the time and place. The bar at the Sofitel. Twelve-thirty. She'd know him when she saw him, Carnot had said. And best behaviour, he reminded her. Monsieur Raissac was very particular about people's manners.
Sylviane had been waiting for the call. Carnot had briefed her a month into their arrangement, the way things could go, the opportunities. So long as she behaved herself, showed willing. Did as she was told. It was just a matter of time, he'd said. As soon as there was an opening, she was in. And now, it seemed, the opening was there. Her big chance. At last. The step-up she'd been waiting for.
Locking the door of her apartment, Sylviane took the lift down. It was small and cramped but big enough to rest a shoulder on the carpeted wall and slip a finger into the side of her shoe, ease it off her toes and heel. New shoes. Louboutin. And right now they were playing the very devil. She should have gone for the Manolos, she thought as the lift doors opened. They might have been a bit scuffed and worn but they were a whole lot more comfortable than these.
That morning Sylviane had dressed for the occasion. Cool and sophisticated. Just the kind of outfit you'd wear at a place like the Sofitel. The new shoes, of course (damn them); black silk stockings; a grey pinstripe Chloe suit; blonde hair secured at the back of her head the way Deneuve sometimes did it; and red lipstick, the colour Monsieur Raissac favoured, according to Carnot. For all the world she could have been a business executive representing some important corporation. Exactly the look she wanted.
Out in the street Sylviane let the first cab, an ageing Opel, go by, then spotted a Mercedes, flagged it down and slid into the back seat. She told the driver where she was going and used the time to check her make-up, her teeth, take a few deep breaths, and dry the sweat off her hands with a tissue. At precisely ten past twelve the Sofitel doorman was ushering her into Reception.
Sylviane was nervous. She needed to make a good impression and could feel a fluttering in her stomach. She might know the way to play it, had done it enough times after all, but this was different. This was serious. If she got this one right, she knew it wouldn't be just the one Chloe in her wardrobe, the single pair of Louboutins and the old Blahniks. This could be the big time. Big money. No more bars or private clubs, no more conferences or anonymous hotel rooms. A select clientele, arranged through Carnot. For which she'd get the new apartment he'd told her about. Off the Cours Lieutaud someplace, good and central. And a lot more money. Even with Carnot's cut, it was more than she'd ever earned in her whole life. A few more years and she'd be on her way.
At the reception desk the hotel staff were pleasingly attentive when she asked if they could direct her to the bar, called her 'Madame' and pointed across the foyer where a flight of stairs descended in a series of railed terraces to a long picture window overlooking the Vieux Port.
'I'll know him when I see him. I'll know him when I see him,' Sylviane repeated as she crossed the creamy marble expanse of the foyer, Louboutins tapping, and stepped down into the main bar on the first level. But she couldn't see him, couldn't see anyone who looked like they could be this Monsieur Raissac. So Sylviane found herself a small table, ordered a vodka tonic from the steward and made herself comfortable.
As time passed the bar grew busier, men mostly, a dozen or more business types in sharp suits and polished shoes, briefcases laid on the floor or on stools, mobiles on the bar, ordering their drinks from a white-jacketed barman who smiled and nodded and wielded the various bottles with the sure hands of a fairground juggler. Sipping her drink, helping herself from the bowl of smoked almonds on her table, Sylviane took it all in. She knew these kinds of men - all of them middle-aged, successful, away from their wives, their homes. There wasn't a single one there she couldn't have seduced away from their bored, nondescript lives. Not one. She'd worked crowds like this so many times, it was second nature. The likely ones. The generous ones. The tricky ones. But in a place like this, she knew, discretion was the watchword - or
she'd be out of the door faster than a bullet from a— 'Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle .. .?'
The voice was low and warm and inviting, but when Sylviane looked up it was all she could do not to gasp. His face. His face. Carnot had been right - 'You'll know him when you see him.' 'You are Sylviane?'
She nodded, unable quite to find her voice. The man stepped forward, reached for her hand and bent over it, dry lips brushing the skin. 'Enchante.'
9
Chief Inspector Gastal, a napkin tucked into his collar, was sitting alone in a booth in Fabien s, over the road from the Vieux Port, the sun's reflection off the water playing Hockney patterns across its ceiling. Picking up the last escargot from his plate, Gastal held it between ringed middle finger and thumb and, with the nail of his index finger, scratched a hole in the top of its shell. Satisfied with his handiwork, he clamped the shell's opening to his mouth and sucked loudly, the coiled black body and warm juices bubbling out like the last drops of a child's drink sucked through a straw.
Jacquot, making his way to Gastal's table, watched the performance and wondered at it. He was glad he had already eaten.
Gastal put down the empty shell, pulled the napkin from his collar and wiped away the trail of melted butter that glistened over his dimpled chin. When he spotted Jacquot approaching, he tossed down the napkin and held out his hand.
'Gastal,' he said with a shiny grin. 'Alain to you. Take a seat, why don't you?' he offered, hauling his backside along the banquette to make room. 'The paquet's good if you're hungry. Or I'd offer you one of these,' he said, indicating the pile of empty shells, 'but, as you can see, that was the last.' Having made enough room, Gastal reached back for his glass and the newspaper he'd been reading, leaving the dish of empty snail shells and dirty napkin where they were. 'Go on, take a seat,' he repeated, pointing beside him where the warm shape of his buttocks, gently inflating, was still impressed in the seat's red plastic cover.
'One of Sallinger's boys on the third floor told me you'd be here,' said Jacquot. 'I was on my way back so . . .'
'It's Danny, isn't it?' said Gastal, reaching for a clean napkin and working it into his collar.
A waiter appeared, cleared away Gastal's plate. 'M'sieur?' he asked, turning to Jacquot.
Jacquot shook his head. He wouldn't be staying.
'Come on, sit yourself, have a drink.'
'If it's okay with you
Gastal shrugged. 'Sure, sure. Suit yourself,' he said, not appearing to be bothered one way or the other. He picked up the last bread roll, broke off a piece and smeared it across the top of the butter dish. 'How's your partner? I heard he's down.'
'He'll live.'
Gastal's cheek swelled with the bread. 'Rugby, wasn't it? Bastards. Football, you break a leg and you can retire. Didn't you play one time?'
Jacquot nodded, watching Gastal's jaws work the wad of bread, a buttered crumb caught in the corner of his mouth.
The waiter reappeared with a rack of lamb and a dish of pommes lyonnaise the colour of old ivory.
'So,' said Gastal, lifting the hunk of meat and sawing a cutlet off the end of the rack. 'See you back at the office, then, if I can't tempt you.' He picked up the cutlet, turned his wrist and looked at his watch. 'Say three? Thereabouts?'
'Three's fine,' replied Jacqu
ot, and turned for the door.
'Why don't we meet on the third, eh?' Gastal called out. 'My office.'
Jacquot looked back, raised a hand to say 'understood'.
At his table, Gastal took his first bite of the cutlet, stripping away the meat. His cheek ballooned again and he waved back with the clean, curving bone.
10
Raissac wasn't expecting visitors. It was late afternoon and he was lying in bed watching Sylviane dress. The shutters were closed but the windows were open. He could hear traffic below, the screech of seagulls on a nearby rooftop and somewhere out across La Joliette the distant, mournful hoot of a merchantman. The sun was beginning a slow descent towards the city's pantiled roofs, the shutter blinds throwing bars of gold across the girl's body.
They'd had lunch at his favourite restaurant, Le Chaudron Provencal on nearby rue Lafonde, just the two of them, its formal, faintly intimidating atmosphere the perfect test.
And Carnot's latest girl had passed with flying colours.The way she peeled and delicately dunked the quails' eggs, for herself and for him, dipping their sides in the celery salt, rinsing her fingers afterwards with an almost hypnotising delicacy, the lime-scented water trickling from her fingertips.
So impressive a performance that Raissac had left the choice of courses to her and she'd ordered for the two of them, with an easy confidence, barely glancing at the menu as though she knew it off by heart, only occasionally referring to it when she suggested he might like . . . what? Oysters? The moules farcies? Langoustines?
And then performing as adeptly with the wine list, choosing a half-bottle of a white Chateauneuf-du-Pape to accompany the grilled oysters, and a meaty red Gigondas for the daube. She even made a point of saying which Gigondas she preferred, the one from Domaine de la Vauquaquilliere, the name tripping perfectly and prettily off her tongue, the sommelier bowing acknowledgement as though agreeing absolutely with her choice.
Nor did it stop there. When the food arrived Sylviane had eaten carefully and daintily, the knife and fork held just so, elbows tucked into her sides, back straight, sipping her wine and water but never leaving a trace of lipstick on either glass or napkin. And all the time she held his gaze, never once letting her eyes drift to the scarring on his face and the angry pool of claret splashed across his cheek and neck.
Later, when he began to ask his questions, getting down to business after the bright and insignificant chatter over drinks at the Sofitel and on the cab ride to the restaurant, she'd answered politely and concisely, holding nothing back. Everything that Carnot had told him - about her background, how she'd got into the business - she repeated it all with never a blush nor a stammer. She knew the score and she was looking to move up, she told him. They could rely on her. She wouldn't let them down.
Raissac nodded. Of course, of course. Sizing her up.
She was young and pretty with a flinty edge he rather liked. And if she didn't match up, or tried getting smart like the last one, there were plenty more where she came from. By the end of their meal he'd decided she'd do very nicely indeed. A perfect choice.
There'd been only one more piece of business to attend to.
Back at his apartment.
'You want another, help yourself, and then skedaddle,' said Raissac wearily, reaching down beneath the sheet to coddle his balls.
The girl had been stepping into her panties and pulling them on, but left them where they were, mid-thigh, and moved over to the chest of drawers where he'd left the kit. She looked faintly ridiculous, shuffling around the bed like that, panties at half-mast, but when she leant over to cut the line he'd offered, Raissac changed his mind. Not ridiculous at all. And she knew it, stretching her hindquarters out at him as she snorted up the cocaine, wriggling her hips like a dog wagging its tail.
A good arse for spanking, he decided, and no mistake.
With a sigh, Raissac changed his mind a second time. 'Stay like that,' he told her, 'just stay like that and—'
He was halfway across the bed, reaching out a hand, when the buzzer sounded.
11
At three, as agreed, Jacquot went up to the third floor
of police headquarters on rue de l'Eveche. At the top of the stairs he bumped into Corbin, one of Sallinger's Vice boys. He was dragging a plastic sack crammed with video-cassettes across the landing.
'Gastal? Any ideas?' asked Jacquot.
The fat one?' Corbin reached forward and pushed the button for the lift.
Jacquot smiled. That's him.'
'Down the end, last on the left,' said Corbin with a sour look. 'And you're welcome to him
When he reached Gastal's office, Jacquot tapped on the door jamb and looked in. The man had his feet on his desk and a box of dates in his lap. Licking his fingers, Gastal tossed the dates onto his desk and struggled out of his chair.
'We'll talk and drive,' said Gastal, bustling past Jacquot and heading down the corridor to the lift. 'Your car. I got something I need to check. Over near the Opera.
Shouldn't take long. You mind?'
Five minutes later, with Gastal buzzing down the window and sliding his elbow out, they turned past the striped flanks of the Cathedrale de la Major and set off down Rue de l'Evêché. There was a hold-up a hundred metres ahead on the corner of rue du Panier, so Jacquot took the scenic route, working the wheel and gears through a maze of sun-starved alleyways with only a few inches to spare either side of the wing mirrors. Above them the tenement balconies were strung with washing. Peering up, Jacquot remembered his own clothes hung out to dry. Even now he could still hear the squeak of the pulley as his mother strung them out across the street like a set of flags on the mast of a ship - the short trousers, the shirts, socks and, most embarrassing, his underpants. Back then, he was certain everyone would know the underpants were his.
'You know your way around,' observed Gastal as they rejoined du Panier a half-dozen blocks past the hold-up.
'Years of practice,' replied Jacquot.
'More of the old stuff here than Toulon, and that's for sure,' said Gastal. 'So, what you got on the boil anyway?'
'Three homicides. All women. Spread around. The first two in Marseilles, a third up near Salon-le-Vitry. Rully and I reckon they're related.'
'Related?'
'Water. All three drugged, sexually assaulted, then drowned.'
'And you're thinking the same guy?' said Gastal, releasing his tiepin to use as a toothpick.
'That's how it looks,' replied Jacquot, drawing up at a set of traffic lights on rue de la Republique.
'So what you're saying, it's serial?'
Jacquot nodded. 'That's how it seems.'
Gastal withdrew the pin from his teeth, inspected the morsel from lunch, or maybe a shred of date, that was speared on its tip and licked it up.
'Yeah, well. . . That's why I'm moving,' he said, looking down to clip the tiepin back into place, his jowls folding over his collar. 'You don't make money chasing skirt squeezers - serial or otherwise.'
Which brought Jacquot up short. Was this a line from his new partner, feeling him out? And what exactly did he mean by 'make money'? Was he talking cash or career?
Jacquot decided not to pursue it, pulling out onto Republique when the lights changed and turning right. At the Quai des Beiges, at the head of Marseilles's Vieux Port, he manoeuvred into the flow of traffic around the old harbour and played the lanes.
'Opera's up ahead,' said Jacquot.
'Take the next left and pull in wherever you can,' Gastal replied, pointing vaguely ahead. 'I just need to see if someone's in. Lamonzie has his eye on someone. Something going down; and I want to be up to speed when the time comes to join his team.'
Jacquot did as he was asked, reversing into a tricky space between a van and motorcycle, wondering what Gastal was up to and when they could get on with the homicides they were meant to be investigating. In his pocket Jacquot had a picture of the tattoo - Le Vieux Port - found on the body at Lac Calade. There was a tattoo parlour
close to the office, another near Long- champ, even one behind the Mercure Hotel that he wanted to visit, show the photo around. Maybe someone would recognise the pattern, the style. Maybe tattoo artists kept records, recognised each other's work. Maybe there'd be a lead they could follow. Right then the tattoo was all that Jacquot had to go on, unless they came up with a print match from Records or a Missing Persons report. Three women - dragged, sexually abused and then drowned - and here he was playing driver for Gastal who seemed to have his own agenda, out to score points before moving to Narcotics and Lamonzie. At Jacquot's expense.
'You know the name Raissac?' asked Gastal, winding up the window and adjusting the air-conditioning.
Jacquot and the Waterman Page 4