There was a stir in the group, a few smiles. It was clear that Jacquot wasn't the only one feeling the way he did, but he needed to contain it.
'Hold on, now - let's not get too excited,' he began. The group quietened. 'For starters, we shouldn't assume this Renault driver's the killer. Could have been just a friend visiting, then leaving, tooting the car horn to say goodbye. And you don't toot a horn to say goodbye to someone you've just killed.'
In the middle of the group, the old-timer Grenier nodded his head. It made sense. Jacquot looked at the other faces and he could see that the possibility had registered.
'Okay,' he began. 'This is what we do. Isabelle, get down to that bar and stay there. Get a make on everyone. And this time speed things up. Who owns the place?'
'Old man, Patrice Carré, and his wife, Nadine. Both in their sixties. They rent the place, live upstairs. Been there twenty years.'
'Up front with them. Show the badge. But don't let them know what it's all about. Names of regulars, new faces, that sort of thing.'
Isabelle nodded.
'By the way,' said Jacquot, his mind racing. 'Any word on the Internet boys you were chasing?'
'Clean as a whistle,' she replied. 'Photographer. Models. All of them watertight alibis.'
'And the aquarium?'
'Not a thing.'
Jacquot took this in. He'd been hoping for a lead, either at Aqua-Cité or with the Internet site, but now it looked like they'd have to close those avenues down. Maybe Isabelle would have more luck with the bar . . .
'Okay, then,' he continued, getting back to business. 'Bernie, Luc. Chase up that guy Carnot. Where was he last night, blah, blah, blah? And don't be worried about applying some pressure. Also, pay a call on those English lads down at the Carenage. The brothers. I know they're not on our list, but it won't hurt to check their whereabouts last night. We don't want any loose ends here, okay? Etienne, Charlie - give the harbours a rest
A look of relief spread over their faces. It had been an impossible job to get landed with. A lot of shoe leather and no answers.
'. . . Get together with Pierre, Al and Claude and start going through the victim's diary, address book, correspondence. Anything you can find . . . and Alain.' Jacquot turned to Gastal.
'I hear you. Back to the gym and check Madame for membership, like the others. When was she last there? Who was there at the same time? Say, the last two weeks?'
Jacquot nodded. 'And . . .'
'. . . And find out which member drives an old Ren—'
'In one.' Jacquot was impressed. Gastal was starting to pay attention.
Jacquot turned to Chevin. 'What about the keys? You find out about the garden gate?'
'Five in all,' he replied. 'One key, with a spare, in the k-k-kitchen; one with the gardener, and another in de Cotigny's study.'
'And the fifth?'
Chevin flipped open his notebook. 'P-P-Piscine Picquart. Pool supply company out on L-L-Ladollie. They didn't install the pool but according to the gardener they've got a service contract. Call in every couple of weeks.'
49
Basquet had not slept well, his brain refusing to settle, his body refusing to find comfort, the bedlinen wrapping around him like a hot, sweaty shroud. Yet when he finally dredged himself awake, eyes squinting, neck stiff from the bolster, his shorts rucked up between his buttocks, he could see from the morning sunshine that he'd somehow managed to oversleep by a couple of hours. He also discovered that he'd woken up alone.
And that meant one thing. He'd been snoring. The few times he'd actually fallen asleep, he must have bellowed, could even remember Céléstine elbowing him quite firmly, trying to coax him off his back and onto his side. But clearly, at some stage in the night, she had given up the struggle and taken herself off to one of the kids' rooms. She always did that when he snored.
And if he'd been snoring, Basquet reasoned, he must have been drinking. The two went together like bricks and mortar, explaining the muscly press of pain behind his eyes and the tight clench of his cranium. It hadn't been an epic outing, so far as he could recall, but it had clearly been enough. It had started with the two large tumblers of Scotch and soda that he'd poured himself when he arrived home the evening before, early enough to have Céléstine greet him with surprise and delight. And after tire Scotches, the half-bottle of white Rhone with Adele's poivrons and the bottle of Vosne Romanée with her daube.
And then, as if that was not enough, he'd gone and fixed himself a couple of brandies in the salon, sitting in front of the fire after his wife went to bed. He hadn't been there that long, still nursing the first, when Céléstine made a point of coming down from their bedroom to say goodnight, dressed in a long, lacy sheath of satin.
Basquet knew what was on her mind but, for the life of him, he knew he'd never be up to the job. So he'd taken the second brandy and stayed up a little longer. By the time he got himself upstairs, the satin gown had been replaced by a cotton nightie, Céléstine was fast asleep, and he was off the hook. With a pregnant mistress to contend with, the last thing on Basquet's mind was sex with his wife.
Remembering Anais's pregnancy brought Basquet more fully awake. Head hammering, he shifted in the bed, reaching down to disentangle his shorts from his scrotum, trying to ignore the healthy erection this constriction had caused - the damn thing that had got his mistress pregnant in the first place.
Wadding up his pillow, Basquet closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. How in God's name could he have got himself in this mess? The whole thing had seemed so perfect, so easy, so amenable. It wasn't as if he owed Anais anything; it wasn't as if he'd taken years out of her life. He'd always been kind to her, hadn't he? Treated her well, been generous, always little gifts? Yet this was how she repaid him.
The two of them had met nearly a year earlier, at an industry fund-raiser in Avignon where Anais and another girl had been responsible for presenting the lots at the charity auction that followed dinner. Basquet's table was right next to the stage and every time Anais made an appearance, his eyes latched onto her, mesmerised by the blue sequin dress she wore, the split up its side revealing a length of lush brown thigh, its plunging front an enticing expanse of tawny cleavage. And the way she presented each lot - tipping her knees to one side, pushing out her derrière, and always bowing low enough to show that there was no room for underwear beneath those sparkling sequins. She was sinfully pretty, in a kittenish sort of way, eyes dark as old timber, lips a glistening, outlined red, teeth white as sugar. He judged her to be in her early thirties, of Caribbean rather than African extraction - which later proved the case - and found himself intoxicated by her presence, prickling with excitement whenever she made an appearance. As a result Basquet bid outrageously on things he really hadn't needed - a dinner for four at the Jardins des Sens in Montpellier, a pair of super-ski downhill Rossignols used by Jean-Claude Killy in the 1967 World Cup and, with Céléstine tugging at his sleeve to stop him bidding, a jet ski owned by Elton John, the vehicle pulled on stage with Anais draped seductively across its driving seat dressed in a one-piece, high-cut fluorescent pastel swimsuit. It was the swimsuit that had done it.
Basquet introduced himself an hour later, discreetly, and handed Anais his card. Marvellous performance, he'd told her. If she was ever in Marseilles . . .
Of course she'd called, a week later, and he'd driven up to Avignon to see her, an hour there and an hour back on the autoroute, and three hours in a dingy apartment near the old city walls. Five hours out of his day. But worth every second. Every sou. Once a week, for close on a month, Basquet made the same journey. Until Anais let it be known that she would have absolutely no problem relocating, moving down in his direction, and . . . maybe he could help her find someplace?
Two weeks later he found her a small villa in Endoume, twenty minutes from his office in La Juliette, and she moved down from Avignon. She signed the papers, he paid the rent and twice a week - sometimes three times - he'd pay a call.
; Until now. Now it was over. Dead in the water.
Easing himself gently from the bed, wincing with the effort, Basquet hobbled to the bathroom, reaching for support from a bedpost, an armchair, and the side of a chest of drawers. It was a pitiful display, one that he was grateful Céléstine had not been present to witness. He was getting too old for all this, he thought glumly - late nights, drinking too much. Maybe Céléstine was right. Maybe it was time to slow down, get Laurent in to help, all the day-to-day stuff. Of course he'd still keep his hand in, keep an eye on things. But generous with the leash. Not like Céléstine's father. The old man never let up, never got off his back. He'd do well to remember that, Basquet reflected, as he closed the bathroom door with a gentle click.
Ten minutes later, after gulping down a couple of ibu- profen with a glass of Resolve and clinging to the taps under an alternating shower of hot and cold water, Basquet decided that he felt marginally better, though the process of cleaning his teeth, stooped over the sink, made his stomach heave and his head pound. Back in the bedroom he dressed slowly - a crisp cotton shirt, a knitted tie, a lightweight linen suit - and as he buttoned and knotted and zipped himself up, selecting a pair of slip-ons that he didn't need to bend down to put on, Basquet acknowledged gratefully that his hangover did appear to be receding.
Downstairs, the breakfast table had been cleared, so he went through to the kitchen where, shakily, he poured himself coffee and chewed on a croissant. Across the counter, Adele was preparing a meal for Céléstine's pack of house cats, one of which mewed and coiled irritatingly around his legs. If he'd had the strength, and the necessary coordination, he'd have kicked the fucking thing through the window.
At that precise moment Céléstine came bustling in from the garden, carrying a truck-load of flowers. She gave him an accusing but forgiving glare for his failings the night before and, after an affectionate peck on the cheek, she started up a breeze of happy chatter as she searched for scissors and began snipping away at the flowers' stems.
And then Basquet was in his car, speeding south, only moving into the slow lane when he saw a blue light flashing in his rear-view mirror. An ambulance, thank God, racing past, siren wailing. Which reminded Basquet of the cop from the Judiciaire who'd turned up the previous day asking questions about a building they'd developed, an apartment belonging to a murder victim. As he'd told the fellow, it was nothing to do with him what the occupants of his apartment blocks did with themselves. But afterwards he'd remembered that Raissac owned one of the apartments and the butterflies had begun to flutter. Could the murder have taken place in Raissac's apartment? And if it had, could it have anything to do with Raissac? Or was Raissac, as leaseholder, as blameless as Basquet the freeholder?
Somehow, Basquet suspected not.
He reached across for his mobile and brought up Raissac's number. The least he could do was warn him about the apartment, the visit from the Judiciaire, let him know that he could probably expect a similar call.
Or not. Maybe that dullard cop would call it a day, not bother to follow it through.
Basquet listened to the ring tone and was about to disconnect when he heard Raissac's voice on the other end of the line.
50
Five blocks beyond the marble-slabbed slopes of the Gabriel Cemetery on the northern side of the A7 flyover, Jacquot spotted the sign for Piscine Picquart. A gaudily-painted board set at roof level ran the length of a square, single-storey building, one in a line of similar commercial enterprises - timber yards, kitchen-supply outlets, garden centres and furniture warehouses - each with a parking lot out front, each strung with bunting and every one of them flagged with offers of 'once-only' promotions, boldly advertised in extravagant poster colours to pull in what there was of passing trade.
At some time in the past the premises presently occupied by Piscine Picquart had been a garage and car showroom, closed down and sold on when the autoroute opened. Under a spread of sun-warped roofing, the raised island where the petrol pumps had once stood was now laid in AstroTurf and furnished with a Californian hot tub, the showroom was filled with an assortment of poolside furnishings and accessories, and the old used-car lot outside was crowded with Jacuzzis, more hot tubs and a range of blue, ear-shaped moulds for suburban swimming pools, lined up according to size and pitched against a wall of peeling whitewash. The only place that appeared to retain its original role was a large workshop at the back of the lot, its shadowy workbench interior slashed by a wedge of sunlight and filled with the tinny sound of a transistor radio.
Pulling into the forecourt, Jacquot parked beside the Californian hot tub and got out of the car. Fifty feet above him, traffic roared past, out of sight on the flyover. He was grateful for the shade and a tug of breeze that pulled the shirt off his skin. It had taken him nearly forty minutes to reach Piscine Picquart from Roucas Blanc and the drive had left him feeling cramped and grubby. As he walked across the forecourt to reception, Jacquot stretched, worked his shoulders and wondered how long before the ache behind his eyes eased off. If he'd known the day was going to start with an early wake-up call and another body, he'd have been more circumspect the night before.
Inside the showroom, behind the reception counter, a young woman two-fingered her way across a computer keyboard, black roots showing in her centre parting, a wad of gum rolling round her mouth. Jacquot was leaning across the counter to ask for the manager when a brown- skinned lizard of a man scuttled out from behind a frosted- glass door.
'Picquart,' he said, snatching at Jacquot's hand and shaking it furiously. His ears were the size of side plates, brown and freckled, and he wore a jaunty little sailor's cap braided with coils of gold. Salette would have taken one look at him . . .
'So, what can I do for you, Monsieur?' he breezed. 'Jacuzzi? Hot tub? Or maybe you're looking for something bigger?'
Jacquot reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his badge.
The man's face lost its showroom glitter and set itself in stone. 'Let's go through to the office,' he said, indicating that Jacquot should follow.
'So,' he continued, dropping into a chair behind his desk, gesturing for Jacquot to make himself comfortable. 'What can I do for you?'
'The de Cotigny residence. Roucas Blanc. I believe they have a service contract with you?'
'They certainly do,' said Picquart, nodding behind him to an open cupboard, hung with keys on hooks. 'And there's many more besides them, I can tell you. Contract work for more than fifty owners. Pool cleaning, filtration units, pump servicing - we do the lot.' Even with a policeman in his office, it was clear that Picquart couldn't resist the spiel. 'And very competitive prices, too, I don't mind telling you. You'll not find cheaper. Or maybe you will but there's no one in this town that'll look after you quite so well for the price.' Picquart caught the look on Jacquot's face. 'So. Anyway. You were saying. The de Cotignys?'
'You keep a key of theirs here. For a garden gate on Allee Jobar.'
'That's correct.' Picquart extended a finger under his cap and scratched his scalp with a raspy fingernail. Jacquot guessed that a toupe lurked beneath the braid.
'Would you mind seeing if the key is there?'
Picquart tipped back in his chair and peered into the cupboard.
'Up there, second row, fourth from the left.'
Jacquot looked. The only single key on the row. The rest in pairs or threes. Simple enough to replace with one from another bunch.
'And that's where the key has been for the last twenty- four hours?'
Picquart nodded. 'Lock the cupboard myself. Every evening. I'd see if one was missing. Stand out like a sore thumb, it would, one of those keys goes missing.'
'And when was the last time you visited the de Cotigny property?'
Picquart pulled open a drawer in his desk and his fingers danced across a rack of files until he found what he was looking for. He flicked through some pages, ran his finger down the last and said: 'Monday. Test for chlorination and a check on the overflows.'
He pushed the file over in case Jacquot wanted to take a look.
He didn't. 'And since then?'
Picquart shook his head, closed the file and slid it back into the drawer.
'You do the job yourself?'
Picquart waved to the wall behind him. 'Leave all that to the grease monkey out back. Sardé's his name. Not the most reliable when it comes to starting a day's work, you get my drift. But good with his hands. Real mechanical- minded. Cleaning, servicing. That sort of stuff.'
Jacquot took this in.
'You have anyone else working for you? Apart from Sardé and your receptionist?'
Picquart shook his head.'And how long have they been with you?' 'Maxine, six months give or take. Always need a pretty face out front, even if she's not so hot with the typing and the filing.'
'And Sardé?'
Picquart gave it some thought. 'Two years. Could be longer. Like I say, he does have his off days but he's real good with machines. Got the touch.'
Jacquot and the Waterman Page 24