Jacquot was breathing in this scent when the two girls in front of him stepped away from the desk and disappeared through a side door. The receptionist looked up and smiled at him. She was young, pretty, healthily tanned and wore a tight T-shirt with the club's name branded across the front.
'Can I help you, Monsieur?'
He showed her his identification and told her that he hoped so.
The smile disappeared. She frowned, grew serious. 'Of course, anything I can do.'
'You have a member here . . . the name of Monel?'
The girl turned to her computer and tapped in the letters.
'Monel. . . Monel. . . Yes. Here. Victorine Monel.'
'How long has she been a member?'
The girl consulted the screen. 'Two years. She takes . . . Steps, aerobics and yoga.' She looked back at him, a little concerned now. 'I hope there's nothing wrong . . .'
Jacquot shook his head. No, nothing wrong.
'Can you tell me when she was last here?'
The girl turned to the screen again, scrolled it down.
'The seventeenth. An evening session. Yoga.'
Jacquot nodded. And then, he couldn't say for certain how the idea came to him, he asked: 'And Grez? Joline Grez. G.R.E.Z. Is she also a member? And Ballarde. Yvonne Ballarde? With an "e"?'
The girl's fingers danced over the keyboard again, her eyes scanned the screen. 'Oui, both ladies. Swimming and circuits. Though they have not been here in some time.'
'Thank you,' said Jacquot.
'Do you need their addresses? I have them here if you want. . .'
'No, no. That's fine.'
Fine for now, thought Jacquot as he went back down the stairs and into the street, heart hammering at his discovery. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow he'd have someone in there with photos of Grez, Ballarde and Monel. The latest victim too, from Aqua-Cité. Talking to anyone who might know them. The steps teacher, the aerobics teacher, the yoga teacher, whoever monitored their circuit training and, given the girls' respective ends, thought Jacquot grimly, whoever worked in the pool - swimming instructors, cleaners. All of them. Employees. Members. The works.
A job for Gastal, thought Jacquot as he waited for a gap in the traffic and crossed the road. Something he could get his teeth into.
Which was when a woman, tugging a blue cotton mackintosh over the shoulders of a white pants suit, came out of the cafe-bar opposite the gym and almost collided with him. The two of them wrong-footed each other for a moment, exchanged appropriate smiles and apologies, and Jacquot started off again.
Then, as he turned into rue Haxo, he stopped in his tracks.
The cafe-bar. The row of stools set up against a wooden shelf that ran the length of the window.
Directly opposite the entrance to the gym.
A perfect vantage point.
Jacquot felt a shiver of possibility. A satisfying sense of movement. He'd put money down that this was where the killer had spotted Ballarde and Grez and Monel. And maybe even the latest victim, the one at Aqua-Cité.
He'd place someone there as well, but discreetly. Someone like Isabelle Cassier.
35
Celestine stood at the terrace doors looking out into the night. All she could see were her drawn features reflected against the darkness and, distantly, the room behind her. She finished her drink and glanced at her watch. A little after nine and Paul still wasn't home. What was it he'd said that morning? Dinner with the planners? How long did that take, for God's sake? Surely he should be back by now?
Céléstine turned and walked to the fireplace, her shoes tapping on the tiled floor, then muffled by the rugs that covered it. On the coffee table she put down her empty glass, took a cigarette from a silver box, and lit it.
And then, for the first time that day, she let herself acknowledge it, accept it, think the things she'd refused to entertain all day.
Paul wasn't having dinner with his planners. He was having dinner - or whatever - with his mistress. Whoever she was. The one who knew how to get him running, the one who had only to lift a finger to have him cancel all their plans. The storm cloud on the horizon, the threat to their future. What a fool he was making of himself. If the children should ever find out. . .
And then: how could he do such a thing? Put their lives on hold. Jeopardise everything. She should just divorce him, throw him out. Enough.
The problem was, of course, that she loved him too much, that she minded. Other wives, she knew, just shrugged their shoulders, relieved that there was someone else to share the load, someone else to put up with their husbands' boorish demands. And Céléstine marvelled at it. The way they gloried in their betrayals. For that was what it was, thought Céléstine. Betrayal.
But now she had had enough; things were going to change. It was time for ultimatums, time for a settling of accounts. Time to get on widi the rest of her life, what was left of it, with the man she loved.
Behind her, the door to the salon opened and Adele appeared. 'Shall I serve dinner, Madame?'
'In here, please, Adele. It'll just be me tonight.'
Adele nodded and withdrew.
Céléstine stubbed out the cigarette, and gritted her teeth.
But not for long, she thought.
36
Thursday
By the time Jacquot arrived at police headquarters the following morning, the latest set of glossies had been pinned on the incident board in the squad room. Black and white, and colour. A length of thread connected them to the flag he'd jabbed into Aqua-Cité the day before. He paused to look at them. The body laid out on the stone ramp. The cap of red hair slicked back by the water off the victim's forehead. The unresisting, useless limbs, laid straight. Eyes closed. Lips slightly open. A close-up of the scratch between her breasts, the angry red of the colour photos reduced to three grey stripes in the black and white images. Another unidentified body. Jacquot wondered how long it would take them to find the victim a name.
Somewhere, he thought, going into his office, somewhere out there you're up to no good. And I am going to catch you.
Gastal wasn't around so Jacquot dialled up his mobile.'Yes?' Gastal's voice came through with a backing soundtrack of traffic. He was out on the street somewhere.
Jacquot told him about Allez-Allez Gym and the three victims all having been members there.
Not bad, Gastal told him. Not bad.
There was something odd about the man's voice. And then Jacquot knew what it was.
'Where are you?' asked Jacquot.
'On Republique,' replied Gastal. 'Thought I'd walk in.'
And stop for a slice of pizza on your way, thought Jacquot, or a sugared length of churros. The man was always eating, always something in his mouth or his hand, or on his chin, or his tie.
'Can I leave it to you? The gym? You're close.' Jacquot didn't imagine there'd be any complaints.
'You got it,' came his partner's muffled response and then the line went dead.
Next Jacquot called in Isabelle Cassier and told her about the gym, the memberships and the bar opposite. Her eyes lit up at the possibility of a lead, not a sign of her interest from the night before. Thoroughly professional. Jacquot was impressed - and relieved.
'I'd like you to spend some time in the bar,' he told her. 'Lunchtimes. And after work. But low profile. Crossword, classified, cup of coffee, you know the sort of thing. If someone's watching the gym, maybe you'll pick them out.'
Isabelle nodded.
'Start right now, and while you're about it, take a photo of the Aqua-Cité girl down for Gastal. He's working the gym. She might have been a member too. Someone might recognise her.'
'Good one, boss,' she said and was on her way out of his office when the state pathologists assistant arrived.
'Chief Inspector Jacquot?' he asked, making room for Isabelle to pass in the doorway and eyeing her up as she slid by.
Jacquot nodded, waved him in.
'Doctor Valéry asked me to drop this in t
o you.' He handed over a slim blue file. 'Preliminary findings on the body retrieved from Aqua-Cité. He says he'll get you a full report tomorrow, but that this should keep you going for now.'
'Tell him thanks,' said Jacquot and flicked open the file.
'No problem,' replied the young man. When the door closed behind him, Jacquot made himself comfortable and started reading:
Blanche inconnue - white, unidentified female; sixty- one kilos; medium height; aged between twenty and twenty-five; short, auburn hair; blue eyes. Cause of death: drowning. Signs of a brutal sexual assault, like the other victims, but no initial evidence of semen, spermicide or lubricant. Further tests would be made. Also a blood sample had been taken to check for the presence of drugs, which was when they'd find out if pronoprazone had been used and thereby establish a link between the victims.
Jacquot turned to the second page where Valéry had added the usual additional remarks and observations - the tiny details that Jacquot loved, stored away.
According to their dental expert, Valéry reported in his spidery handwriting, the victim was not French. Unless she'd had all her fillings done while she was visiting England. Apparently they used different techniques, amalgams, something like that.
Also, just as Jacquot had done, the state pathologist noted that the victim had rough hands. At first he'd thought that the skin was simply wrinkled from her time in the water. But it wasn't. The skin stayed rough. Whatever she did, the victim worked with her hands.
And there was something else that Valéry had found. Salt crystals in her hair. Looked like dandruff. Really stuck to the skull like they'd been there a long time.
Jacquot closed the report and smiled to himself.
A yachtie. Had to be.
It was Jacquot's first call of the day. The harbour master's office. 'Permission to come aboard, Capitaine?'
The old harbour master was doing what he did best. Feet on the table, ankles crossed, a thick roll of charts crumpled under the heels of his blue sail shoes and a copy of L'Equipe, folded into paperback size, held in a meaty fist. Outside the morning sun gilded the stone flanks of Fort St-Jean across the water and a breeze ruffled the blue-glass surface of the Vieux Port.
'You,' said Salette, looking over the top of his paper as Jacquot closed the door behind him. 'Can't you see I'm busy right now?'
The words were short and sharp but the tone was affectionate. If there was one policeman for whom Salette had time it was Daniel Jacquot, the son of a man he'd sailed with more times than he could remember, a man who'd saved his hide on and off the water just as often.
Jacquot helped himself to a coffee from the electric plate and wandered over to Salette's desk. The old man had returned to his paper.
'Help yourself to some coffee, why don't you?' he grunted.
'Already did,' replied Jacquot and put his cup on Salette s desk. Picking up a pair of binoculars, he went to the window and aimed them at the port. Boats, hundreds of them, sailboats, motor cruisers, fishing skiffs, tied to their respective pannes, the metal slipways that stretched out into the Vieux Port from Quai de Rive Neuve on the south side and Quai du Port on the north like a set of ribs. From his vantage point above Marseilles s Vieux Port, Salette could see an eel squirm on the fishmonger stalls of the Quai des Beiges.
'So what can I do for you, Chief Inspector?' Salette tossed the paper onto his desk and swung round to face his visitor.
'A glance at your records, old man, nothing more,' replied Jacquot, setting the binoculars back on the desk.
"What is it this time?'
'New arrivals in the last week. And any significant departures in the last forty-eight hours.'
'No need to look,' said Salette, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back to inspect the ceiling as though the information that Jacquot wanted was to be found there. 'Let's see. Thirty-two craft total as of this morning, either moored in the port or the Carenage.'
The Carenage, Jacquot knew, was the small marina directly below the crenellated towers of the St-Victor basilica and the battlements of Fort St-Nicolas. Old hands knew it was the better berth. Not so public and you didn't have to cross the busy Rive Neuve to get to the chandlers and repair yards. The only downside was the encircling belt of dual carriageway leading to the harbour tunnel, and the endless drone of traffic.
'And departing?'
Salette shook his head. 'Nothing since Sunday afternoon.
The Remy bound for Antibes. Everything else accounted for.'
'How many in the Carenage?'
The harbour master swung round to his computer screen and tapped in a command.
'Five,' he said.
'I'll start with them,' said Jacquot. 'Maybe you could print out a list for me, if your busy schedule allows.'
Salette snorted. 'For you, Chief Inspector, I'll make an exception.'
The first two yachts that Jacquot visited on the Carenage, tied stern to slip, were French-crewed, their tricolores shifting and settling in the breeze. All hands accounted for. The third had its deck-way secured and was closed down tight as a clam. The fourth, with the name of its home port, Toulon, painted on the transom, looked as if it had never put to sea, or at least had never strayed further than the sea lane between Marseilles and its registered port. Jacquot knew the type who owned boats like these, rarely doing anything more energetic than popping a cork, inviting friends on board for a drink - that sort of thing. He wondered if the sails had ever been unfurled. More likely they motored everywhere, keeping the batteries charged for the fridge and chill cabinet.
But the last vessel Salette had listed for the Carenage, further along the quai, looked like it had been through a hurricane. It was a mess: the sails untidily wrapped around the boom, the deck crowded with carelessly wound rope, its waterline hung with a green border of seaweed crisping in the sun and the wheel strung with clothing set out to dry. Jacquot noted a bikini top among the T-shirts and cut-off jeans. On the transom was the yachts name, Anemone, and its home port, BVI. The British Virgin Islands.
'Anyone home?' called Jacquot, tapping his boot against the gangway handrail.
From below deck came the sound of someone moving around, something knocked over, the smash of china - a mug, a plate - and a muffled 'Shit!' A moment later a head appeared from the galley hatch, all tousled hair and suntanned features.
Jacquot reckoned the man was somewhere in his mid- thirties. He wore a hefty sea-going watch and had a piece of braid tied around his neck and right wrist, the colours long faded. He scratched his head, tried to flatten down a mat of curling blond hair and squinted painfully in Jacquot s direction. He looked like he'd just woken up after a heavy night along the Rive Neuve. Jacquot knew how he felt.
'Oui?' he asked, returning Jacquot's once-over with one of his own.
'Chief Inspector Jacquot. Police Judiciaire.' Jacquot dug for his wallet and held out his badge.
The man peered at it, nodded, and hauled himself onto deck. He was wearing blue cotton shorts and was barefoot, his shoulders heavily freckled and his chest, arms and legs well muscled, not an ounce of superfluous flesh. He looked like he'd spent a lot of time at sea.
'You speak English?' the young man asked, swinging round the wheel and taking a seat in the cockpit.
Jacquot nodded. 'If I have to,' he replied.
'Then come aboard. You want a beer? Coffee?'
'Nothing, thank you,' replied Jacquot, pulling himself up onto the walkway and then stepping down into the cockpit.
'So what can I do for you?' asked the Englishman, rubbing his eyes and yawning.
'Just a few questions, Monsieur . . . ?'
'Wraxton. Ralph. Go ahead.'
'According to the harbour master you got in . . .' Jacquot checked Salette's list. 'Tuesday?'
Ralph nodded. 'From St John's, Antigua. Thirty-one days out. A real slow crossing till the end.'
'Crew?'
'My brother Tim, and Jill. Jilly Holford. Just the three of us.'
; 'And they are where, exactly?'
Ralph shrugged, pushed out his bottom lip.
'Your brother? Tim Wraxton?' prompted Jacquot; he had a problem with the surname. It came out missing the r.
'Last seen at Bar de la Marine,' reported the Englishman. 'Late last night. Not back aboard yet.'
'And Mademoiselle Holford?'
'Left the boat late Tuesday afternoon. Meeting up with her sister somewhere. Nîmes?'
Jacquot and the Waterman Page 16