Jacquot and the Waterman

by Martin O'Brien

  Two points up. Minutes to go. It was surely over. French supporters groaned like an upset stomach, the band from Dax started packing its instruments and people began making for the exits.

  Out on the pitch, as fast as they could, desperate now, the French had kicked from their twenty-two. Horrifyingly, one of the English pack caught it cleanly and ran like an old bull, dragging half the French scrum with him, barging on only to be mauled down a few metres from the French line.

  Around the pitch, that moment, you could have heard a cat walk on concrete, it was so silent. As the French coach said afterwards, seventy thousand scrotums squeezed tight as walnuts.

  So the referee calls a scrum five metres from the French line. And, unbelievably, gives the put-in to the English. Only a splinter of injury time left to play and La France two points down. In goes the ball, a solid grunting from the pack, and the English hooker gets it, heels it back to the Number Eight who tiptoes round it until the scrum-half sees his chance and reaches for it.

  That was the moment it all went wrong. The tiptoeing fazed him, made his hands skitter. He didn't get the grip he needed and fumbled it on the turn, juggling the ball like it was hot.

  A second, maybe two, that was all. But it was enough. Jacquot, debut flanker, brought on with twelve minutes to go, took his right shoulder off Souze's arse, slid free of Mageot and Pelerain in the second row and came out fast, like a runner from the blocks, from the blind side. He scooped the ball from the man's cradling arms, shouldered him aside and set the hell off.

  What Doisneau meant by 'ooufff - from nowhere!'

  But someone had seen him coming, the English wing - Courtney he was called. Except Courtney, like the rest of the English line, was wrong-footed. By the time he spun round, Jacquot, not the fastest runner in the world, was pumping arms and legs and eight metres clear.

  The thing Jacquot always remembered was the view. The distant posts, the mud-churned field of play, the rain slanting through the floodlights. So far to go. So empty. The sideline inches from his left boot, the stands a blur of faces, scarves, hats, umbrellas, flags.

  All he had to do was run.

  And, somewhere behind him, an Englishman in hot pursuit. Just the two of them. And thirty thousand Frenchmen rising to their feet, raising their fists, letting their scrotums unwind and their voices loose from deep down in their bellies. Urging him on, realising what was happening here. La France has the ball. Only two men. A race for the line. Run, man. Run, run, run . . .

  Jacquot never once looked back. Didn't dare. Just put his chin in the air and made those legs pump.

  Just run.

  For a moment, he wondered if the whistle had gone for some infringement. A knock-on? A forward pass? Some technicality he wouldn't know about. Maybe he should stop so he wouldn't make a fool of himself, going the length of the pitch when the whistle had blown. Or maybe it hadn't, and he'd make an even bigger fool of himself coming to a halt in the centre of the pitch for no good reason - handing the ball, and victory, to the English.

  So he didn't stop. He kept running. And now he could hear Courtney coming up behind him, boots sucking the turf. Which was when he knew for certain there'd been no whistle. Not if Courtney was still after him.

  Extravagantly he'd swung out into the centre of the pitch, wrong-footing his pursuer a second time, gaining a few more metres. Out in the open, you could really hear the crowd. French and English. Each baying for their man. But it was impossible to see them out there. Only the pitch he galloped over, the low grey sky and the wind gusting floodlit splatters of rain in his face.

  Across the halfway line - Jesus, he'd never forget how that felt - and now the posts were coming up, coming up. Closer. It didn't look so far now. Possible. Suddenly possible. Home not so far away, and the ball in the crook of his elbow, pressed to his chest.

  But somewhere behind him he heard a grunt, a final, desperate expulsion of air from the lungs as Courtney launched himself, five metres from the English line.

  And Jacquot felt the man's fingertips clip the heel of his boot.

  There was nothing he could do.

  The next second his left foot hit the back of his right knee and he was tumbling forward, reaching out with his free hand, his right leg managing just a final, hobbled step.

  But the Englishman had left it too late. Jacquot was close enough for that final, desperate hop to work and over the line he went, ploughing through the mud, the ball pressed against his ribs and a plug of English turf up his nose.

  Five points. La France wins. On the touchline, the Dax band brought their instruments to their Hps and started up a triumphant Marseillaise.

  'You'll never buy a drink again, ami,' said Touche, the other flanker, as he hauled Jacquot to his feet and hugged him.

  Sixteen seconds, that was all it took. Jacquot timed it on the replay. Later he found out that Courtney was a solicitor. A solicitor chasing a policeman the length of England's home ground. Jacquot loved that bit.

  But it was all a long time ago now. Deep in the past. Another country. Now it was a cafe off Tamasin. Sharing a beer with an old comrade.

  'You see the others?' asked Jacquot, trying to recall the Chats. The names, the faces. Blanchard with the blond hair, Gouffrat, Kovacs, and Dee-Dee something. . .

  Doisneau shook his head. 'Decousse one time. Watching Olympique. He ran a hot dog stall there. Did the races too, at Borely. And Didier, Dee-Dee Ronat? Remember him?'

  Jacquot nodded. Didier Ronat, of course. 'Three-finger' Dee-Dee, the other two lost in the sawmill where his dad worked. An expert pickpocket even without the full complement.

  'Dead now, Didier. Cancer.' Doisneau sighed, looked to the ceiling, shook his head.

  The two men were silent for a moment, remembering.

  'You need something, don't you?' said Jacquot gently, making it easy for the man across the table, an old friend he hadn't seen for close on thirty years. For all the memories, the chance encounter, Jacquot was certain they weren't there just to talk about old times. He was right.

  Doisneau hooked his hands round his glass and levelled his gaze on Jacquot. 'A break, that's all I'm looking for, Danny. A word in the right place. I got four more months' parole work and no choice but hanging on to that stinking job.' He held up his hands, whether to show the effect a dishwashing job had on the skin or simply as a gesture. Jacquot couldn't decide. 'Another four months? I can't do it. I'll go nuts.'

  But if you don't, thought Jacquot, if you break parole conditions, you're back inside to work out the rest of the sentence. A week to find a job and six months holding it down. Working your way back into the community, they called it, starting you off. That was the deal. That's what they wanted. After that you were on your own. Sometimes it worked, most times it didn't.

  'I gotta move on, see, before it's too late,' continued Doisneau. 'My son Rene's down in Spain. Got himself well sorted. Said he might be able to fit me in someplace. Better than this, you know?'

  Jacquot took a sip of his beer, pinched his lips from side to side, wiping away the froth. His old friend was looking for a way out and reckoned that Jacquot, the cop, could wangle something for him.

  'So what do you need?'

  Doisneau smiled, shook his head. 'Not money, don't worry. Just get them to lighten up, is all. I'll do another month, Danny. I just want to know they won't come after me.'

  Jacquot nodded. 'I'll try. No promises.'

  Doisneau s face lit up. 'I knew you'd help. Jesus, you've got no idea. . .' And then he hunkered down over the table, cast around the bar and leant forward, speaking low. 'And now here's something for you. Up front, if you like. Just to show willing.'

  'Okay,' said Jacquot. 'What have you got?'

  'You ever hear of a man called Raissac?'

  Only the second time that day.

  'Raissac?'

  'That's the name. Ugliest son of a bitch you ever set eyes on. Real bad pox when he was a kid, a birthmark slapped across half his face. And if that was
n't enough, he's got a burn from a blowtorch across the other half. A war wound, you might call it. Used to live in Toulon but moved out a few years ago. A real big operator back then. A real parrain. Girls. Drugs. You name it, he was into it. But things got tricky and he lives out Cassis way now. Villa someplace. Word is he's started up again. Going for the big time. And very soon.'

  'Big-time what?'

  Doisneau glanced around. 'Drugs. Coke, you know . . . ? A lot.'

  'And how soon?'

  'Could be any time. This week. Next week. End of the month, latest.'

  'Where?'

  'The word is L'Estaque. Or the harbour at Saumaty. One of them for sure.'

  'And?'

  'He's got someone on the inside. Your lot.'

  'Any names?'

  Doisneau spread his hands, shook his head.

  'So why are you telling me this?'

  Doisneau finished his beer and got to his feet.

  'It was Raissac got me done. Put me away. And you know the Chats, Danny. Always return a favour. See you around,' he said, and as Jacquot felt in his pocket for the bill Doisneau slid from the booth and slipped away into the night.

  By the time Jacquot got back home on the Moulin's hill, Madame Foraque's door was closed, no light coming through the panels of coloured glass.

  Monday, he realised. The weekly card game over at her brother's. Which was a relief. He didn't fancy a repeat of

  her observations and opinions on the subject of Boni, even if she wasn't far off the truth.

  Up in their apartment - his apartment now - Jacquot pulled the rubber band from his hair, stripped off his clothes and fell onto the bed. Their bed. In a few moments he was sleeping deeply, and alone.

  17

  Tuesday

  Resting the backs of his thighs against the cream leather trim of the skippers chair, Pamuk eased back on the Ferrettis throttles and the seventeen-metre cruiser buried her bow into the inky blue Mediterranean. As he steered her into the wind, a low chop slapped against the hull and the sound of her twin engines dropped to a chesty rumble. Pamuk knew this stretch of coastline like the back of his hand, but he cross-checked their position on the chart display and glanced at the echo sounder - it was shallow enough to anchor if they had to.

  Leaning over the wheel, he reached for a pair of binoculars and scanned the horizon - a few distant sails taking advantage of the blow around Calseraigne and the lie de Riou, the ladened bulk of a container ship heading west past Cap Croisette, and an incoming Tunis Line ferry shivering in the heat off the water. Then he turned and trained the glasses on the scrubby headlands of pine and glaring white limestone that rose up not two hundred metres off his starboard side. Satisfied, Pamuk put down the glasses, reached for the phone cradled on the dashboard and called down to the master cabin to let Monsieur Basquet know they'd arrived.

  There were only the two of them aboard.

  Pamuk had arrived at the Vallée des Eaux berth in the Vieux Port at six-thirty that morning, at about the same time that the fishermen's wives were setting out their stalls on the Quai des Beiges. Genevieve, Monsieur Basquet's assistant, had called the evening before to schedule the trip. By the time Monsieur Basquet boarded at eight-forty-five the tanks were full, the air-conditioning set low and the engines warming at a purr over eight hundred revs.

  Pamuk had brought with him a bag of fresh croissants and chocolate brioches from Joliane's, and some fruit and dates from the Capucins market. Down in the galley, the fruit had been juiced to Monsieur Basquet's specifications, the Blue Mountain coffee had been brewing since eight-forty, and the saloon TV was tuned to CNN. Pamuk had also stopped off at the tabac on the corner of Pytheas to buy a small tin of Lajaunie's cachou pastilles. They were Monsieur's favourite brand, but he was always forgetting where he'd put them, leaving them places. Pamuk made sure he carried a fresh supply just in case.

  The Vallée des Eaux may have been a splinter over fifty feet but she handled like a dream. You could berth and tie her up single-handed if you had to, and set off the same way. Five minutes after Monsieur Basquet disappeared below deck they were cruising down the channel alongside the Rive Neuve quay and drawing looks before heading out to sea between the twin forts of St Jean and St Nicolas. Now, twenty minutes later, they drifted gently some six kilometres west of Cassis, the idling engines a soft rumble somewhere aft.

  'You see anyone?' asked Basquet, coming up onto the bridge and looking around.

  'Nothing, Skip,' replied Pamuk, playing the wheel, glancing across at his employer. Heftily built, in his late fifties, with a crop of grey hair bristling over a tanned skull, Basquet had a short, muscly neck, a fat, shiny face and small button ears. He'd come aboard wearing a silk two- piece suit that caught the light and a well-buffed pair of lace-up brogues, but had changed below deck into shorts, a polo shirt and leather espadrilles. A gold chain and cross hung from the roll of his neck and a diamond Rolex sparkled on his wrist. He wore mirrored sunglasses and carried a mug of coffee which slopped messily over the deck when the Ferretti swung through a larger than average chop.

  Apart from the Rolex, Paul Basquet looked like any middle-aged tourist waiting for a table at a Prado beach club. But Pamuk knew better than to be fooled by appearances. The man beside him was certainly no tourist. Monsieur Basquet was one of the region's most prominent businessmen, a property developer who'd turned large stretches of the coastline into a country-club fairway of pantiled villas, swimming pools, golf clubs and tennis courts. And all of it in less than a decade.

  Everyone knew the story. For two hundred and fifty years the Valadeau family that Basquet had married into had made their money from soap and essential oils. When his father-in-law died and Monsieur Basquet took over the running of the company, he'd used that security to underwrite a programme of diversification that had started with residential and commercial property development in the centre of town, before spreading out along the coast. It was said there wasn't a brick laid between Marseilles and St Raphael that didn't bear the Basquet stamp. And Pamuk believed it.

  Tossing the remains of his coffee over the side, Basquet hoisted himself onto a seat and leant an elbow over the rail. Take her in,' he said. 'Let's have a look.'

  Gunning the engines, Pamuk turned against the offshore breeze and powered in towards the coast, a craggy wall of limestone that ran from Montredon, a little east of Marseilles, to the outskirts of Cassis, its desolate, thirty- mile length cut with narrow, fjord-like calanques. It was the mouth of one of these, maybe fifty metres across, that now opened up ahead of the Ferretti's prow. Passing between the headlands that guarded its entrance, the chop flattened and Pamuk reduced speed, letting the cruiser chortle along between the bluffs, the sound of its engines growling off the stony sides of the inlet.

  Beside him, Basquet looked to port and starboard, the sloping sides of the inlet rising a hundred metres above them. Slim, twisted pines and bursts of golden mimosa clung to its rocky skirts, their roots trailing out for a precarious grip on the stony soil. At a little past ten in the morning it was already hot, the sun climbing high above the canyon rim, warming the deck beneath their feet and the handrail that Basquet gripped.

  One day soon, thought Basquet, this stretch of water will be the most sought-after address on the coast, nothing to compare with it between Marseilles and the Italian border. A dozen sumptuous villas cantilevered into the sides of the calanque, each with its own wrap-around terracing and private dock, the peculiar geography of this twisting inlet ensuring that no two villas were in sight of one another. Complete privacy. Basquet could see the properties now, superimposed onto the slopes and bluffs that rose around him: the mahogany decking under low pantiled roofs, Jacuzzis and glass walls, each estate connected by roped pathway to its private jetty and headland terrace.

  Right now, of course, all this land, every calanque between Marseilles and Cassis, was protected, development forbidden. You couldn't spit without a permit. But all that was going to change if Basquet had
his way. He took a deep breath, puffed out his chest and smelt the fresh salt tang of the sea in his nostrils.

  And what the hell was the objection anyway? Why shouldn't he start development here? Over the years they'd done it all the way from Catalans Plage to Prado without anyone saying squat. Even built an autoroute right bang along the coast. Four lanes of concrete and tarmac. And if that wasn't bad enough, they'd gone and called it after a fucking American president! So what was the problem going a little further east, Basquet reasoned, as he did a hundred times a day? The way the city was growing, the way people swarmed down here from the north to spend their money on somewhere swanky to live, someone was going to do it someday. So why not him? Paul Basquet. And why not now? In a couple of days he'd have the money. And permission. And who was going to stop him then?