Jacquot shook his head. 'Raissac? Should I?'
'Not necessarily. Alexandre Majoub Raissac. One of our North African cousins. Ugly bastard. See that apartment block there? By the underground-parking sign?'
Jacquot nodded.
'Well, that's where he lives when he's in town.'
'And?'
'So I want you to ring his doorbell and see if he's in.'
'And if he is?'
'Tell him you're looking for someone. Wrong bell. Whatever.'
Jacquot knew that he could easily override these instructions. They were tire same rank, after all, even if Gastal did have a couple of years on him, and they did have three homicides to investigate, a killer to track down. Gastal might be transferring to Narcotics some time soon, but right now he was working with Homicide, whether he liked it or not. For a moment Jacquot was tempted to say something but he remembered what Guimpier had said about not making waves. It wasn't worth the effort. He'd play the pussy like he'd promised. Another five minutes and they could be on their way. Switching off the engine, Jacquot pulled himself from the car and crossed the street.
There were five buttons on the entryphone. Raissac's was the top one. Jacquot pressed and waited. When there was no answer, he tried again, holding the button down a little longer.
'Yes, yes, what the hell. . . ?' came a voice over the intercom.
'Madame . . . Berri?' asked Jacquot.
'Madame who?'
'Berri,' Jacquot repeated, surprised he should pick that name, the name of his grandfather's dog, all those years ago in Aix.
'And what does the name on my bell say?' the voice demanded.
'Monsieur Raissac.'
'Doesn't sound much like Berri, does it, you fuck—' and the connection was broken.
Jacquot looked up at the front of the building. Four windows a floor, the top four shuttered.
Back in the car he told Gastal the man was in.
'So let's wait,' said Gastal, settling himself into his seat.
'Wait?'
'You anything better to do?'
'As a matter of fact. . .'
'Or just trying to get off early?' said Gastal with a wink.
Biting his tongue, Jacquot explained about the tattoo. He wanted to check it out. There was a tatouage parlour only a few blocks away.'So do it tomorrow, why not? First off. Right now I just gotta do this one thing.'
Nearly an hour later, leaning his elbows on the roof of the car, smoking a cigarette - Gastal had made such a fuss about it that he'd gotten out - Jacquot saw a young woman come out of the apartment block, go to the kerb and hail a cab. He watched her slide into the back seat and the cab move off, making an illegal turn twenty metres ahead and coming back towards them. As they passed, Jacquot saw the girl snap open a mobile phone and dial a number. She was pretty, nicely tanned, but had a hard look to her. He recognised the type.
Seconds later, he glanced back to the apartment block in time to see a black Mercedes with tinted windows slide up out of the underground car park, pause at the kerb, then swing into a gap in the traffic heading away from them. Only the Merc didn't turn back as the cab had done.
'Your man drive a black Merc?' asked Jacquot, leaning down to the window.
Gastal looked perplexed. 'Get in. We'll follow and see.'
By the time they edged out into the traffic, the Merc was some distance ahead. A set of lights went against them on Quai de Rive Neuve and their quarry drew even further away, up past Fort St-Nicolas headed for Catalans. As the lights changed, Jacquot put his foot down and when they turned into Avenue Pasteur they were only two cars back.
'Looks like he's making for the Corniche road,' said Gastal. 'You get a look at the number plate?'
'Not so far.'
"Well, let's stay on him, just in case.'
At the end of Pasteur, the Merc turned left and away from the Corniche road. Before either of them could get a fix on the number, the Merc pulled in to the kerb, the drivers door opened and an elderly woman got out from behind the wheel.
'Fuck,' said Gastal as they drove past. 'Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.'
12
After Sylviane had gone Raissac took a bath, ankles resting either side of the taps, head cushioned on a towel. A brandy glass floated among the suds.
A good day, he decided. The ship was on its way, distribution was in place and the new girl Carnot had found was top of the range. Much classier than the last one. Things were looking. . . good. He glanced at his watch. Another hour and Coupchoux would be back, ready to drive him home.
Finishing his brandy, Raissac hauled himself from the bath, reached for a towel and rubbed himself dry. Pulling on a gown, but leaving it untied, he wandered over to the mirror and ran a hand over his cheeks and jaw as though considering a shave. The skin beneath his fingers was deeply pitted with smallpox scars, pink and shiny below the left ear where an adversary's blowtorch had once scorched the skin, his right cheek purpled with a birthmark that had never lost its lividity. He thought of the doorman at the Sofitel and smiled. The man had near wet himself, seeing this face. And you couldn't really blame him.
Turning his head from side to side, Raissac inspected the damage. It really was quite dramatic, especially around the lips and eyes. Back when he was young, he had thought that it made him look hard and dangerous and he'd worked it to his advantage. Now he just accepted it, amused by the effect he had on people - their surprise, their embarrassment, their discomfort.
Baissac pulled back his lips, inspected his gums and teeth, then opened his mouth wide, like a snake dislocating its jaws. Baising his chin, stretching his neck, he felt the burn-mark tighten but watched with satisfaction as the cratering of scars across his cheeks creased into a kind of smoothness. Only the birth-stain remained, oddly distorted but no less colourful. Quite a sight, he thought to himself. Quite a sight.
Back in the bedroom Baissac slipped off his bathrobe and began to dress. He was buttoning his shirt when he heard his mobile. It was Basquet, over at Valadeau, returning his call from the day before.
'Paul, thanks for getting back to me . . . Yes, yes. I thought we could meet up . . . Tomorrow? The calanques? Of course. No trouble. Say ten . . . ? Give or take . . . ?' Baissac listened a moment more, nodded, then broke the connection. As he tossed the phone onto the bed, he felt a smile play over his lips.
Greed, thought Raissac as he continued with his dressing, that was Basquet's problem. His problem, and his weakness. Wanting it all, and never thinking to watch his back; putting it all at risk for the promise of more. A dog with a bone, looking for a bigger bone. And Raissac had determined to play that dog for all he was worth.
Just twice a year. The two trips - that was what Basquet was expecting. That was what Raissac had told him. Just two cargoes out of the twenty or thirty that Basquet Maritime moved each year. A little space in the hold. That's how Raissac sold it. Just that. Two cargoes; and Customs in their pocket, he'd added for good measure, even though, back then, arrangements had still to be finalised. Two hundred kilos a time. Pure cocaine. Four hundred kilos a year. At three hundred francs a gram and leave cutting and distribution to someone else, the mathematics were mesmerising. Take out production and delivery costs, and they were looking at what, a hundred million? A hundred and twenty million the first year? Not that Basquet had wanted to hear any details. Forty million clear, no questions asked, had been enough bone for this little doggie, invested on his behalf in a cover corporation in Rabat, accessed through Raissac's property and building divisions. As for the rest - say sixty, seventy million - well, that would suit Raissac very nicely - merci beaucoup.
And Basquet had believed him. The doggie had rolled on his back with his little legs in the air and believed that Raissac would keep his word - keep it to the two trips, keep it to the four hundred kilos. Bumptious little shit, thought Raissac, tightening the knot of his tie and reaching for his jacket. Basquet liked to think he was sharp, but the man didn't have a clue. It astonished Raissac tha
t his new friend had got so far.
It was the builder Fouhety, over in Batarelle, who'd put Raissac onto Basquet. A debt repaid. Apparently the boss of Valadeau et Cie had overextended himself. He'd just launched into a massive redevelopment scheme, said Fouhety, and money was tight. He was vulnerable. So Raissac called in another favour from one of his Union contacts and suddenly life had become very precarious indeed for Monsieur Paul Basquet. Which was when Raissac arranged a suitably discreet introduction through Fouhety.
And not once, not for a single second, had it ever occurred to Basquet that Raissac might have been behind the hold-up in the first place.
Remarkable.
Leaning across the bed he picked up the phone and dialled Carnot.
'De Cotigny. Is it fixed?'
He listened a moment.
'Good. Make the fucker sweat.'
13
Sardé was done in. It had been a long, hot, tough goddamned day at Piscine Picquart, but at least he was finishing on a high note. It had started first thing, before they even opened, when usually Sardé could put his feet up and enjoy a coffee and croissant before his boss, Picquart, made an appearance. But for some reason Picquart was there before him, striding around the forecourt, opening this, checking that, like some platoon sergeant inspecting a barracks.
First the old bastard had him move the flower tubs and shake out the AstroTurf in front of the showroom; then sweep the forecourt, making him squeeze behind the blue pool moulds that rested against the side wall to finish the job off properly; and then, when Sardé should have been stopping for lunch, Picquart had him dismantle and fix two faulty filtration units that had come back to the workshop in the last few days. It was an easy enough job, but in the early afternoon the heat in the workshop was cruel. In twenty minutes the sweat was rolling off him as he manoeuvred the units around the workbench. And dirty work too. Oil on his fingers, working its way into his cuticles, the very devil to get out. As if Picquart had known it would annoy him.
Then, last of all, right when he was thinking he could call it a day - the yard swept, the filtration units sorted, the van cleaned inside and out, stock-checked and re-equipped - out comes the creep to the workshop, fanning his face with the collar of his shirt, and tells him there's a chlorine job needs doing. Pronto. Out in Roucas Blanc.
Which made Sardé's heart beat a little faster. He took the order form from Picquart and read the address.
The de Catigny place. Ta-daa!
Thirty minutes later he was parking the Citroen van outside the back of the lady's house and calling up on the intercom from the lower gate.
The maid answered and buzzed him through. Three terraces later, each one densely laden with hibiscus and flowering jasmine, lawns cropped to a uniform toothbrush texture, Sardé set down his kit beside the pool and, taking his time, started the prep for the chlorine tests. But the setting sun was against him, burnishing every window with a sheet of gold. No matter where he went around the pool, taking his samples, no matter what the angle, standing or squatting, the sun had got there first. No chance to see through a single one of them.
Not like the first time, a few weeks back. Sardé had been right here, checking the flow gauges and drain flues, when he saw her in the library, running her fingers along the shelves like she was checking for dust or looking for a book. Only the lady was naked. Not a stitch. He couldn't take his eyes off her, and when she turned he was certain she must have seen him, couldn't have missed him where he was standing, shirt off in the sun, boner in his shorts. But she'd carried on like he wasn't there, just checking those shelves until she seemed to grow bored and left the room.
And it wasn't just the once, either. A week later he'd called by unannounced, on the maid's day off (easy enough to find out from the file in Picquart's office), wandered around the side of the house and there she was, Madame Suzie de Cotigny, in all her glory, spread out on a lounger by the pool. When she opened her eyes and saw him standing there, not twenty feet away, the coils of the suction cleaner slung across his shoulder, she'd just got to her feet and walked back to the house, naked as the day she was born, not a word, dragging a towel behind her.
Just like that. Like he wasn't even there.
Or maybe, precisely because he was there.
And the arse on her. The tits. Those legs. Holy Jesus, but she was brazen, parading herself round like that. As far as Sardé was concerned it was there on a plate, his for the taking, just a question of opportunity, timing. Just like the rest of them. When it came down to it, there was only one thing these rich, bored, spoiled women wanted and that was a little bit of action. A little work-out with the paid help. A little bit of rough and tumble while hubbie was off at work earning the bucks.
And he, Sardé, was the man.
Right now though, it looked like the lady of the house was a no-show, just the maid calling out to ask if he wanted a beer.
Which he did.
And a lot more besides.
14
Boni Milhaud loved underwear. Jacquot often wondered how she ever managed on her salary. In the two years they'd been together, Jacquot could swear to it, every time they passed Secrets Dessous on rue Saint Saens, or Pain de Sucre on rue Grignan, or Nocibe on rue St-Ferreol, or Clairtiss on rue Pisangon with its lacquered blue door and cabinet windows, Boni would tug at his arm, draw him back, look with imploring, then promising eyes, and lead him in. As easy as that.
Probably because Jacquot loved it too. All those flimsy, wispy nothings which, later, she would bring to such animated, stunning, unimagined life. For Boni, underwear wasn't clothing, it was costume. Theatre. Extravagance. All colour, texture and form. The black and the white; the pastels and creams; the scarlet, greens and blues. Clean, crisp cotton; rough, abrasive lace; shiny, sliding silk and satin. The panels and trims, straps and hooks, ruffles and cups; all those sly, secret conjunctions and gentle overlappings. All of it, delicious counterpoint to her smooth, tanned skin.
And shopping was Boni's way to sharpen his appetite, quicken his pulse. Her passion for it, her mischievous tempting, making sure to include him in any decision - smoothing the satin cup of a bra against his cheek, taking his hand to run it across the ribboned bodice of a wasp-waisted basque, a questioning look as her fingernail traced a stiffened border of filigreed lace or a dangling length of ruched garter.
For Boni, it was all a part of the performance. The first act. Intimacy in public. A conspiracy of sorts. With Jacquot to begin with and then, when the sales assistant approached, with her as well. Boni would draw in the newcomer as though she, too, had a part in the action, creating - with a smile, a touch, a shared confidence - a teasing, taunting complicity between the two of them that played to his role in all of this, both of them looking to him for confirmation, a nod, his own complicated smile of approval.
'Hey, dreamer. Wake up. We're off.'
Jacquot came to with a start. Beside him Gastal nodded ahead impatiently. The traffic was moving again, thanks to an old Citroen van merging from the right. It had run up against a corner bollard, crumpling its corrugated flanks, and was blocking the busy one-way street feeding into theirs. For the last five minutes he and Gastal had been waiting for the gridlock to ease, stalled on rue St-Ferreol, right outside Nocibe's show window. Now, with the van driver clambering out to inspect the damage, waving off the blare of horns from cars caught behind him, the road was clear. Jacquot put his foot down and Nocibe's shop window slid behind them.
Nocibe. Of all the places to be caught in traffic, thought
Jacquot, making the lights and swinging out towards Le Panier.
For most of the day - briefing Guimpier, calling by on Rully at La Conception, meeting up with Gastal, chasing down this Raissac character, and then trailing the wrong car - Jacquot had managed to forget his lonely apartment, forget the woman he'd spent the last two years with, forget the fact that she was now - he was certain of it - gone for good. But five minutes stalled in front of Nocibe's front window a
nd it had all come streaming back.
The only good thing, Jacquot decided, turning onto Quai du Port, was Gastal's ferocious mood, stoked up by getting it so ridiculously wrong with the Mercedes. By the time they reached Headquarters and Jacquot pulled in to let him out, Gastal had worked himself up into quite a state.
'Fucking door,' he swore, tugging at the handle until Jacquot leant across to release the lock. Without bothering to acknowledge Jacquot's help or his cheerful 'À demain', Gastal hauled himself from the car, brushed past the guards at the security barrier and disappeared inside the building.
Jacquot chuckled as he pulled away from the kerb and headed home. Serve the fat bastard right, he thought. Playing the big deal like that. Watching The French Connection too many times. Who did he think he was? Popeye Doyle?
15
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Jacquot and the Waterman Page 5