Jacquot and the Waterman

by Martin O'Brien

  'So what next? What can I tell the press? The mayor? The chamber of commerce? Not to mention my boss.'

  'You can tell them—'

  Which was when Madame Bonnefoy's assistant buzzed through.

  'You're due in court in five minutes, Madame.'

  Solange Bonnefoy looked at her watch and pushed away from her desk. 'I'm afraid we'll have to leave it there, Daniel,' she said, getting to her feet, gathering up her papers and packing them into a briefcase. 'Although I doubt that worries you too much.'

  She gave Jacquot a comradely smile.

  'It's always a pleasure to see you,' replied Jacquot. 'I'll admit it's a difficult one, and I'm sorry I can't give you anything more . . . positive. But I do promise that we will get him, Madame.'

  Solange Bonnefoy came round her desk and headed for the door.

  'Believe me,' said Jacquot as he pushed it open for her and stood aside. 'Our man will make a mistake.'

  Madame Bonnefoy breezed past him and, over her shoulder, said:

  Then let us hope he makes it soon.' 'Let's hope so, Madame.'

  It was only later, in the lift, that Jacquot remembered Doisneau. He'd meant to ask Madame Bonnefoy a favour.

  39

  With no one to cook for her, Suzie de Cotigny prepared her own lunch. In the kitchen she whisked up a couple of eggs, melted butter in a skillet and found the makings of a salad in the fridge. Returning to the stove she took the pan off the flame, rubbed its bubbling surface with a stub of garlic, then poured in the beaten eggs. Tipping the pan and adding a pinch of salt and pepper, she worked the mixture into a roll and slid it onto a plate. As easy as that. Plain omelette with a frisée side-salad. Breathing in the warm garlic, she set her lunch on the kitchen table, took a bottle of Provençal rose from the fridge and poured herself a glass, recorking the bottle and placing it back in the rack. A single glass wouldn't hurt.

  Thursday was Suzie's favourite day. The house to herself. Hortense, the maid, and Gilles, the gardener, both had the day off and Hortense had left earlier than usual to visit her sister in L'Estaque. When Hortense did this she always stayed overnight so she would not return until the following morning.

  Thursday was also the day that Hubert had supper with his mother, going to her apartment in Castellane straight from work, rarely getting back to the house before ten. The old dame liked her suppers early - and her son alone. Suzie had long ago been excluded from these soirees, meeting up with the dragon only when some formal or family occasion demanded it, so that most Thursdays, from mid-morning until a little after ten at night, Suzie was on her own.

  Days off were rare treats for her. She might not have needed to work - her own trust fund from the States and Hubert's small allowance saw to that - but she was always on the go. Not necessarily of her own choosing. There were the dreary business dinners to arrange for Hubert's colleagues from the Prefecture or State Legislature, or family dinners with his atrocious daughter and her weedy husband, or receptions for visiting dignitaries, charity balls, cocktail parties, or gallery openings, the Opera or theatre. But Thursdays she always kept clear. Her day. A day to herself.

  Normally Suzie went shopping, called in at the gym, or curled up in her own little apartment off rue Paradis with whoever it was she had on the boil. She'd rented the place soon after moving to Marseilles and she'd taken as much care in its refurbishment as she had in the restoration of Hubert's dark and gloomy residence in Roucas Blanc - as soon as they'd managed to lever out the old lady and send her packing to Castellane. One of the many reasons why Suzie was not welcome at Thursday supper. Not that it bothered Suzie one jot.

  Suzie liked having her place on rue Paradis and used it frequently, as though she actually lived there. There was a TV, a hi-fi, a stack of discs, a stocked kitchen, loaded bookshelves, odd bits and pieces that she'd taken a fancy to at the markets - which Hubert would never have given house room to - and, in the bedroom, a packed wardrobe. Clothes she'd bought in town and brought back to the flat, clothes she never wore at home, that Hubert had never seen. It was all hers and she loved it. The independence of it all. Another life. She'd done the same in New York, briefly married to that investment banker Brad. Twenty minutes downtown from their Park Avenue duplex was her own little roost. The place she'd had as a student and kept on without Brad knowing. Not much different from her bolt-hole on Paradis.

  She finished her omelette and salad and pushed the plates away. She might cook for herself, but Suzie had no intention of clearing up, even if there was a dishwasher. Didn't even think about it; that was what maids were for.

  Of course the rue Paradis place was different. There Suzie gloried in her homekeeping, the apartment always scrupulously clean. At the de Cotigny residence she'd never dream of lifting a finger, but at Paradis she dusted, she hoovered and she cleaned the bathtub even when it didn't need doing. As though the effort suited the space, as though that was how it was done in such close, intimate quarters, in the lives lived in such places. And on those occasions when Suzie had company on Paradis, she never left without changing the sheets, making the bed, and filling the airing cupboard with fresh towels.

  But this Thursday she was going nowhere. Suzie was staying put.

  She'd got up late, made herself coffee and toast for breakfast - the empty cup, percolator and toast crumbs left untouched by the stove - and spent what was left of the morning by the pool. But now it was too hot to be there, the sun too fierce, the wasps that hummed around the pool too numerous and irritating. The best time was evening, when the sun slanted through the stand of pines lining the boundaries of their property, the air cool and the light that fabulous dusky gold.

  She looked at her watch. It would be another hour or more before the terrace was bearable. Even in the shade.

  Time to freshen up, she decided, time to get herself ready.

  She had a visitor coming by.

  Her new friend from the gym.

  40

  The call came through on his mobile as Jacquot pushed through the doors of the Palais de Justice and stepped out into the bright midday sunshine, eyes squinting against the glare.

  It was Luc Jouannay, Clisson's number two on the forensics team, calling from Vicki Monel's apartment. They had gone in there that morning to give the place a proper going-over, looking primarily for prints to see if they could turn up any matches with Records.

  'How's it going?' said Jacquot, pressing the mobile to his ear. The lunchtime traffic on me Grignan was loud with the beep of horns and the gunning of engines.

  'Plenty of prints so far, coming on for thirty separate sets the last count.'

  'Good, good,' replied Jacquot, crossing the road to his car, wondering why Jouannay should be calling him.

  'But there's something you should see,' said Jouannay. 'It could be important.' Taller and younger than his boss, with thick black brows and lazy grey eyes, Jouannay was far less bothered by scene-of-crime protocols. When he came across something interesting, he called it in straight away, rather than waiting and typing it up like Clisson.

  'I'll come right over,' said Jacquot.

  'We'll be here,' replied Jouannay and the line went dead.

  Twenty minutes later, Jacquot arrived at Vicki Monel's apartment building. This time he avoided Madame Piganiol's bell and rang the one for Vicki's apartment. It was Jouannay who buzzed him in. On this visit the lift was working, the sign forbidding its use no longer strung from the door handle. By the time he reached the top landing, Jouannay was waiting for him in the open doorway. He was dressed in his usual kit, a white zip-up Tyvek suit and white booties, with a face mask loose around his throat.

  'Thought you'd like to see this,' said Jouannay with a grin, leading Jacquot into the apartment.

  There were four of them, including Jouannay, in the apartment, all dressed in zip-ups. Jouannay s three colleagues were patiently dusting down every door frame, door handle and light switch they could find, taps and cooker knobs, TV and hi-fi controls, picking fibre
s off the sofas and carpets, working their way silently and thoroughly through the apartment.

  'Christian here found it by accident.'

  Christian, in the kitchen, was going through a bag of rubbish, its contents spread across the kitchen table. He was masked. He looked up and nodded as they stepped past him into the bathroom.

  'And?' said Jacquot.

  'There,' said Jouannay, pointing at a built-out panelled corner at the head of the bath. It would have made a perfect space for an immersion heater, or for storing towels and linen. But there was no handle, no evidence that this was anything other than a wall, possibly concealing a chimney flue from the floors below. 'Just push your fingers there,' said Jouannay.

  Jacquot pushed where Jouannay indicated and, with a click, the entire panel opened up from ceiling to floor. Inside the 'cupboard' Jacquot reckoned there was room for two people standing side by side. So far as he could see there was no light, and with the door closed this cramped space would have been pitch black. Except for three square apertures set at about shoulder height. One looked down on the bath and shower unit, the second into the larger of the two bedrooms, while the third looked straight ahead into the sitting room where one of Jouannay s team was numbering a sample bag and dropping it into his case.

  Jacquot stepped out of the cupboard and looked at the wall at the head of the bath. A square of mirrored tiles. He left the bathroom and looked into the bedroom and sitting room. Two more mirrors screwed to the walls. A perfect way to watch whatever was going on in most of the apartment without being seen. Or, Jacquot reflected, the perfect place to set up a camera. In one easy sweep, someone with the right equipment could film or photograph anything going on in all three rooms.

  Well, well, well, Jacquot thought to himself. A change of gear. Things were beginning to move.

  41

  The phone hadn't stopped since Basquet arrived back at the office. An apologetic call from the architect whose teeth had played up, his voice appropriately muffled with novocaine; a call from his finance director telling him that the trustees' meeting had been rescheduled for the following week; and a dozen others.

  At a little after one o'clock, Basquet had Genevieve order him up some lunch from the Jardins de Clemence on rue Dunkerque and he'd eaten it at his desk, a steak baguette with a side-order of their fabulously crisp frites, washed down with a half-bottle of claret from his own drinks cabinet. By the time Genevieve put her head round the door to announce a Chief Inspector Daniel Jacquot, the remains of the meal and the empty bottle had been spirited away, Basquet working his way through a stack of that morning's flagged communiques. He'd been kept so busy since getting back to the office that he'd not had the time to ponder any further the reason for this visit from the Judiciaire.

  Getting up from his desk and brushing crumbs from his lap, Basquet came round to greet his visitor who was even now being ushered into his office.

  The man was not what Basquet had expected. Tall, early forties, with a leather jacket, bright blue jeans, tasselled loafers and, of all things, a ponytail. The eyes were a light green and sleepy and the nose oddly bent - no doubt broken in the line of duty, thought Basquet. They shook hands and Basquet indicated a chair, returning behind the desk and making himself comfortable.

  'So, Chief Inspector. How can I be of help?' Basquet began.

  'It's kind of you to see me at such short notice, Monsieur,' the policeman replied.

  'Of course. Anything I can do.' Basquet put on an expectant face. He noticed that the policeman looked uncomfortable. Embarrassed at what he was about to ask? Or just intimidated by the power? The wealth? Being in such a luxuriously appointed office?

  'It's really just a formality,' the policeman began.

  Basquet nodded. He reached forward for the Lajaunie pastilles, tapped one out into his palm, closed it in a fist and tossed it into his mouth.

  'I believe your company was involved in the new open- sea development at Aqua-Cité?'

  'One of my companies. That's correct.' Basquet nodded, rolling the pastille round in his mouth. 'An incredibly complex undertaking,' he continued, unable to resist the chest-beating. 'Nothing like it anywhere. Admissions up seventy-eight per cent because of it.'

  The policeman looked suitably impressed. 'And I believe you also own a residential redevelopment at 44-48 Cours Lieutaud?'

  'Cours Lieutaud? That's right,' he replied, sucking at his pastille. 'Our property division. Along with a number of other similar developments both in and outside the city. Commercial and residential. Soap'll get you just so far, Chief Inspector,' continued Basquet, leaning back in his chair. 'But nowadays you've got to diversify or drown. Simple as that. Which is why we also have interests in leasing, insurance, mortgage refinancing. We even have our own import and export arm, maritime trading . . .' Basquet spread his hands expansively.

  The policeman nodded, said nothing, seemed uncertain how to proceed.

  Basquet watched the man's eyes wander over the honey-coloured herringbone pattern of the parquet, the thick pile of the Persian rug on which his desk stood.

  'And?' prompted Basquet, feeling comfortably in control of the situation, even if he couldn't see exactly where this line of questioning was headed.

  'It's just. . . Well, you may have read, seen something on TV ... a body was recovered from the open-sea pool at Aqua-Cité yesterday morning. A young woman. She'd been murdered.'

  'How dreadful . . .' Basquet tried a suitably concerned look. 'But I can't see . . .'

  'And then, just last week, a resident at Cours Lieutaud, at number forty-six, was found drowned in a lake in Salon-le-Vitry.'

  'And?' Basquet might have looked confused at this information, but he recognised it immediately for what it was. The police were investigating a coincidence, nothing more nor less, simple procedure, groundwork, in the absence of anything more substantial to follow up.

  'It just seemed something of a . . . well, coincidence. I'm sure you'll agree . . .'

  Basquet looked patiently at the man across his desk. You could almost hear him drink.

  'Yeeeeesss . . . and . . . ?'

  'Well, Monsieur, it's just that your company being the owner of Cours Lieutaud, and also involved in construction at Aqua-Cité...'

  Basquet noted the words tailing off. His visitor was now clearly unsettled.

  'Chief Inspector. Chief Inspector . . . What was the name again?'

  'Jacquot. Chief Inspector Jacquot.'

  'So. Chief Inspector Jacquot. Bien sûr, I can see how these facts might appear to have some relevance, given the coincidence, if not any particular significance, but really. . .' Basquet turned to his desktop and began to shuffle at his papers as though he had more pressing matters to occupy him.

  'It just seemed worth a call... To see if you could help us in any way. Something we might not know . . .'

  'Chief Inspector,' said Basquet patiently. 'Tell me ... If two people are run over by Peugeots in a single week, do you pay a call on Monsieur Peugeot? If a Laguiole knife is used in a stabbing, do you contact Monsieur Laguiole? If a . . . if a. . .' Basquet spread his hands, trying to think of an equally appropriate analogy, but suddenly he couldn't be bothered. This was all too ridiculous. Wasting his time like this. Really.

  Across the desk, the policeman nodded his agreement. Of course, of course ... A silence fell between them, save for the shuffling of papers.

  Basquet took his cue. 'Well, if that's all, Chief Inspector?' he said, managing to squeeze out a weary smile.

  And then:

  'I wonder, Monsieur . . .' began the policeman, pulling gently at his ponytail. 'How did that particular property, Cours Lieutaud, come into your possession?'

  'Like most of our acquisitions, we probably got it from the City Council. Usually those places are in terrible condition. Overcrowding, poor sanitation. We simply turn them around. Relocate the families in residence and take the properties in hand. Redecorate. Refurbish. Put in proper plumbing, a lift, things like thatr />
  'And does your company own all the apartments in Cours Lieutaud? Or just some of diem?'

  'Most of them, I believe, though we don't like to keep the places too long. Get shot of them. Loosen up some capital, you understand?' added Basquet, suspecting that the policeman probably wouldn't.

  'So as well as holding rentals, you also sell leases?'

  Basquet nodded. 'When the market's right. We have a division, Basquet Immo, that deals with that side of things,' he explained, wondering where all this was leading. The policeman, Jacquot, seemed to have found a rhythm, a line, and no longer appeared as hesitant, as uncertain as Basquet had first imagined. There was something steely about the eyes ... a confidence. As if somehow - though Basquet couldn't say how - he'd been seen through. It was an unsettling moment.