Jacquot and the Waterman

by Martin O'Brien

  'You ready?' asked Jacquot.

  Outside Aqua-Cités main entrance, a crowd of reporters was waiting for them. Jacquot wondered how they'd found out about the body so soon; which of the Aqua-Cité staff had called it in. There was even a TV crew from TF1. A security guard opened the gate for them and Jacquot moved forward. He kept his window closed, hoping to get through without having to say anything. But Gastal had other ideas. When he saw the camera he wound down his window and put an arm on the ledge.

  'Can you give us any details, Inspector?' asked the TV reporter, seeing her chance, pushing a microphone at Gastal. Beside her, the cameraman started shooting.

  Gastal put on a grave face, adjusted his tie. 'It's difficult to be sure at this precise moment in time,' he told her, his non-committal reply releasing a wave of questions from the other reporters crowding round his window.

  'Just the one body?' shouted one, from the back of the pack.

  'Man or woman?' asked another.

  'Did she drown?'

  'Was it suicide?'

  'Murder?'

  'Weapon?'

  'Was she shot?'

  'Stabbed?'

  'Raped?'

  To which Gastal furnished the relevant answers, adding: 'As far as we can tell, there appears to be no link yet with the other bodies found at Salon-le-Vitry and here in Marseilles.'

  Jacquot couldn't believe his ears.

  Nor could the reporters. They pounced, and Jacquot put his foot down.

  'Salon-le-Vitry?' asked the first, running alongside.

  'Marseilles?'

  'What bodies?'

  'Who?'

  'When?'

  26

  Sitting at a frail secrétaire that had once belonged to her grandmother, Madame Céléstine Basquet put down the phone and made a note in her diary. Sunday. Dinner with the Fazilleaux and, afterwards, a few hands of piquet. What fun. Such a lovely couple, such good friends. But she'd have to keep her eyes open. That Chantal was the most dreadful cheat. And Chantal's husband wasn't much better.

  When she'd done writing, Céléstine screwed the top on her pen and wondered if Paul would accompany her. But she shook her head as though she knew the answer all too well. An evening of cards? Not a hope. Not her husband's kind of thing at all. Pigs would fly first. Which was why she'd taken the precaution to warn Chantal that he'd likely be busy, wouldn't be able to make it.

  Which was a disappointment, in a long line of disappointments. An embarrassment, too. Knowing what her friends must think. She wished she didn't have to make these excuses. She would have liked Paul to be there, with her and their friends. Without all this . . . subtle, social subterfuge.

  But she knew there was absolutely no point suggesting it to her husband. All she'd get from him were those plaintive, pained eyes, as though she ought to know better, but if she really wanted him there, well. . . And then, an hour before they were due to set off, he'd get a call, beg off, something had come up. It was all becoming just too much to bear, the impositions on his time increasing rather than diminishing. Meetings here, business there, lunch, dinner. Sometimes she didn't see him from one morning to the next. The weekends were just as bad - a phone call and he'd be off somewhere, someone to see. A peck on the cheek and their housekeeper, Adèle, ready to serve lunch, or friends about to call by. Not a word of warning, and he'd be gone. It made her so cross.

  And sad, too. For the truth was that Céléstine loved her husband and missed him when he wasn't around. She wanted him to be there, to be with her. She frowned at the unfairness of it all. They'd always talked about it, said the same thing: when the boys were old enough, when Valadeau et Cie was strong enough, he'd retire; they'd take a break, go travelling, see the world. And now here he was, fifty-nine last birthday, the kids grown up and ready to take over; surely the time had come to take it easy?

  But still he kept on. Such a stubborn, stubborn man. Which was what, in the beginning, she'd so loved about him. His bullishness, his energy, the very strength of him. Despite herself, the thing she loved even now, thirty years on.

  The first time she'd set eyes on him, she once told her daughter Amelie, her knees had wobbled. Really. That thick thatch of curly black hair, the big chest pushed out defiantly, the glint in his eye and the smile he gave her when they met. The builders boy from Peyrolles winning his first contract , to extend the Valadeau plant, the family business her forebears had started in Marseilles, the business which had made the family fortune. Savonnerie Valadeau, makers of fine soap - hard bricks rich in pumice for Napoleon's army, cheaply scented bars for le gros public and richly perfumed, prettily wrapped cakes for the aristocracy. A family business that, despite her parents' best efforts to find their only child a more suitable match, the Peyrolles builder had finally married into.

  Taking over when her father's health had forced his retirement, Paul had steered the company through hazardous times but, after a shaky start, he'd begun to show profits his predecessors could never have imagined. Even though they'd have mightily disapproved of the means, moving away from the core business into property speculation and development, import and export - why, her husband even had his own fleet of merchantmen. An admiral in the family, no less. And though her father never gave him any credit, always putting him down, Céléstine knew that Paul cared deeply about the family business. There was no one more loyal, more determined, more driven than he was. Take this morning, no different from any other - they'd hardly finished breakfast when he was up from the table and off into his study, making calls, arranging meetings.

  But surely, she reasoned, the time was coming when he could safely start to delegate - Laurent, their eldest, a superb administrator, waiting patiently in the wings, and their second son, Lucien, finishing his MBA at Fontainebleau. Both boys born financiers, risk-takers too, just like their father.

  A new generation, thought Céléstine. Surely now it was the moment for Paul, like her father, to step aside. Their stake in the company was solid, the value of their stock secure. But still he kept going. One of these days, she feared, he'd have a stroke, or a heart attack, or he'd go and crash that fancy car of his, and it would all be over before they had a chance to start their future together.

  Céléstine got up from the secrétaire and walked to the fireplace. Carved above it, in a smoke-stained panel of stone, was the Valadeau coat of arms - three olive trees and a pair of millstones, the founding instruments of their wealth. And for five generations, since that shield had first been chiselled into the stone, the family had lived here, in this elegant, ancient bastide on the outskirts of Aix. Céléstine loved its grandness, its airy, high-ceilinged salons and its worn stone floors. The family furniture and portraits. The gardens and the vineyard. For fifty-two years she'd lived here, with her mother and father, and with Paul. Yet now, suddenly, the place felt empty. Cold. Not just because Paul was never there, but because she knew it was just too big for them now; their time here had passed. There was simply no point in delaying further. It was time to move on. Time to let Laurent or Lucien and their families move in, just as she and Paul had done.

  Except, for Paul, it was always business, business, business as usual.

  Either that, or . . .

  At which point the study door opened and her husband jostled out, pulling on a jacket, transferring his briefcase from one hand to another to get his arms through the sleeves. Céléstine went over to him and helped straighten his collar.

  'Busy day?' she asked, following him across the room and out into the hallway.

  'Like all the rest, chérie. No peace for the wicked.'

  At the front door, Basquet turned to embrace his wife, the scent of cachou pastilles on his breath, the briefcase he carried slapping gently at her legs.

  'I'll be back late. Dinner with the planning boys,' he said. 'I shouldn't wait up, if I were you.'

  And he kissed her again.

  'Paul. . .' she began, as he trotted down the steps.

  'Yes?' he said, beepin
g open the locks on his silver Porsche, tossing his briefcase into the passenger seat and sliding in behind the wheel.

  She came down the steps after him. 'It's just. . .'

  The Fazilleaux. Sunday. Should she try to pin him down?

  'Yes?' he said again, lowering his window and then leaning forward for the ignition.

  But she changed her mind. 'Oh, nothing. Nothing.' And then, to cover: 'Just be careful, you hear? No going too fast in this, in this

  'Porsche,' said her husband with relish. 'It's a Porsche, my darling.'

  And, with a wink, he started the engine and she stood back, waved him down the drive.

  'Please, God, look after him,' she prayed and, clasping her hands, she turned and made her way back up the steps.

  27

  The house was in the middle of one of three terraces, built on a slope of hillside and set around a dusty, sun-scorched square in the north of Hyeres.

  One of Jacquot's team, the stutterer Chevin, working through the phone directories, had found the name Monel, and an address, and phoned it through to Jacquot just as he and Gastal cleared the mob of reporters at Aqua-Cité.

  'N-n-nothing in the Marseilles directory, boss. Nothing in Toulon. And according to D-D-Desjartes, nothing in Salon-le-Vitry either. But in Hyeres. Just the one listing. Monel. Guilbert. Place Salusse. Number eleven.'

  'He'll be at work,' said Gastal, sidling up beside Jacquot at the front door, glancing back at a game of boules going on in the square. 'We should have rung, coming all this way. Or got the local boys to pay a visit.'

  Jacquot said nothing, still irritated by Gastal's inopportune comments to the press at Aqua-Cité. There'd be hell to pay for that slip of the tongue and the workload would quadruple. Dealing with the press, inundated with calls from people eager to confess, pass on useless information - all of which would have to be logged, looked into, followed up. Not to mention pressure from Guimpier and the office of the examining magistrate. The last thing Jacquot wanted was a toasting from Madame Solange Bonnefoy.

  There was no bell on the door frame, so Jacquot knocked. He breathed in deeply. The same gusting breeze that had ruffled the surface of the pool at Aqua-Cité blew here too and brought with it the sharp scent of salt from the salines at Etang des Pesquiers. He was about to knock again when the door swung open.

  Standing in a singlet and shorts, tonsure tufts of hair springing out from the sides of his head, a man in his fifties looked at them through squinting eyes. There was a black bruise of stubble on his chin and sleep in his eyes. He was barefoot and looked as if he'd just got out of bed.

  'Oui?' he said, looking from Jacquot to Gastal and back again. 'Help you?' From behind him came the sound of a radio.

  'Monsieur Monel? Guilbert Monel?'

  'That's me. Who wants to know?' The chin thrust out, hands went to hips. He wasn't looking sleepy now, noted Jacquot.

  'Police Judiciaire, Marseilles,' he replied.

  Monel rolled his eyes, let out a worn sigh. 'What's he done this time?'

  'May we come in, Monsieur?'

  Monel gave them a look and stepped aside, not allowing them as much room to squeeze past as he might have done.

  The front door led straight into the front room. The floor was a polished concrete softened here and there with the land of rugs old ladies make from used tights. A table and three chairs stood against the far wall, and two fake-leather loungers faced a TV and a two-bar electric fire. There were empty bottles of beer on the mantelpiece and a scatter of newspapers around one of the loungers, an ashtray balanced on one of its arms.

  Closing the door and pushing ahead of them, Monel crossed the room and pulled out a chair, settling himself at the table with another deep sigh. He brushed at his two wings of hair, as if he knew they'd be sticking out, but the effort made little impression.

  'Don't tell me. Let me guess . . .' said Monel, lowering the volume on a transistor radio but not switching it off. A breathy, excited woman was telling everyone to buy Aveda moisturiser. So soft, so rich . . .

  'You said "he", Monsieur. Would that be your son?' asked Jacquot, taking a chair and joining Monel at the table. It was covered with a rumpled blue check cloth, stained a darker shade where oily food had fallen.

  Monel reached for a tin, snapped it open and pulled out the makings of a cigarette. Across the room, with a rattle from the blinds, Gastal leant back on the windowsill, folding his arms across his chest.

  'I need to tell you?' Monel pulled out a web of tobacco from the tin and palmed it onto a leaf of paper, rolled and licked it tight.

  Jacquot shrugged, suggesting he'd like to know.

  'Philippe. Crazy boy.' Monel shook his head, digging around in the pockets of his shorts and pulling out a Zippo. He snapped up the lid, flicked the wheel and put the end of his cigarette to the flame.

  'He's been in trouble?' asked Jacquot.

  'Isn't that why you're here?' asked Monel, whistling out a plume of smoke above their heads and pocketing the lighter.

  'Actually, no. Not your son. It's about your daughter.'

  The man squared up at that. Jacquot had his attention now.

  'And?'

  From his pocket, Jacquot took the photo they had of Vicki Monel and offered it to her father. It had been printed off from one of the gallery of pictures on the Internet, but cropped to a head shot. His daughter's eyes were set hungrily on something out of frame, black hair licking across her face, lips curled in a smile.

  Monel took the picture, turned it to the light and scrutinised it. 'Yes. That's her,' he confirmed with a nod and a drag on his cigarette. He put the photo on the table.

  'May I ask when you last saw your daughter?' asked Jacquot, picking up the photo and sliding it back into his pocket.

  Monel gave Jacquot a long look. 'Four, five years,' he said at last.

  'I believe she lived in Marseilles?'

  'Well, that's where you're from, you tell me.'

  'Her name is Vicki?'

  'Vicki. That's right. So. What's the interest? What's she been up to?'

  Jacquot broke the news as quickly and as gently as he could: how a body had been found in a lake near Salon-le- Vitry, how it had been identified as one Vicla Monel.

  When Jacquot finished speaking, spreading his hands with regret, Monel took a last drag of his cigarette and dropped it into an empty beer bottle. He put a hand to his mouth, tipped back his head and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. Something seemed to go out inside him.

  Monel took the hand from his mouth, wiped the side of his face with it, drawing down a bloodshot eye.

  'Drowned, you say?' Searching for some way to get a grip on himself.

  'I'm afraid it was not an accident,' said Jacquot softly.

  Monel nodded, made another unsuccessful attempt to brash back his hair. 'Had to happen, I suppose,' he said at last.

  'What makes you say that, Monsieur?' Gastal's voice across the room, leaving the man no space for his sorrow.

  Monel took his time replying, as though he needed to gather himself before he risked speaking.

  'She didn't leave five years ago,' he said at last. 'I threw her out. Nineteen and too much trouble, you know? Her mother leaving like she did. I just couldn't handle it on my own. You know how it is ... ?'

  Monel leant forward, put his elbows on the table and lowered his head into his hands. He was trying to hold his composure, but Jacquot could see that it was a lost battle. The fight had gone out of him. A muffled sob from behind his hands confirmed it.

  'I'm very sorry,' said Jacquot.

  Monel raised his head, wiped a hand across his eyes and mouth.

  'She was a handful, all right. Ask anyone round here. But she didn't deserve . . .'

  He couldn't continue. Dropping his head into his hands once more, shoulders heaving, Guilbert Monel wept for his daughter.

  28

  Carnot loved Wednesdays. His favourite day of the week. This particular Wednesday he was where he always was, sitting
in the middle of the bleachers at Plage Catalans with a newspaper on his knee, a styrofoam cup of espresso in his hand and his mobile in his pocket. He liked to think of the place as his office. It was mid-morning and the sun had shaken off a wreath of low clouds above Montredon and was blasting down from a blue, uncluttered sky, glittering off the sea and baking the wood plank he was sitting on.

  Below him, twenty metres away, shifting on the breeze, came the shouts and screams of half a dozen girls, barefoot, bikinied, tanned and slim, three either side of the volleyball net, calling the shots. Wednesday morning, as per usual. Wednesday morning when the Seniors' team from Lycée Catalans left their classrooms for volleyball practice on the beach.