'His name is Paul Doisneau. You'll find all you need in Records.'
And with that, Jacquot turned on his heel and walked back to his car, stepping on his shadow as it flickered ahead of him across the cobbles, feeling a strange mixture of anger, guilt. . . and not a little excitement.
65
They were waiting for him when he got back to his apartment building. Two of them, getting out of a grey Peugeot as he paid off his cab, the big one with a buzz-cut and rough-looking five o'clock shadow, his companion smaller, older, rolling his shoulders as though to loosen a stiffness, tugging his cuffs, the pair of them buttoning their jackets, coming towards him. The car was unmarked, the two men wore no uniform, but Carnot knew who they were.
With twenty metres between them, and closing, Carnot felt a sudden, burning instinct to turn and run. So he did.
Before the cops had registered Carnot's reaction, a handful of coins were spinning on the sidewalk, the cabbie had started swearing and the twenty metres between them had become thirty and rising. Pumping his arms, his lips tight, head back, Carnot sprinted for the corner, looking ahead for a break in the morning traffic. When it came - or as near to a break as you'd get on a Saturday morning in Belsunce - he leapt into the road and wove between the cars, pirouetting like a bullfighter around boots, bumpers and bonnets, oblivious to the hoots of car horns and the squeals of brakes.
He didn't look back so he didn't see the two men split up. It wouldn't have mattered if he had. Carnot knew where he was going, knew that he could shake them off. They might be cops but he knew the streets and alleyways around this city as well as he knew the face he looked at every morning in the mirror.
The day before the cops had caught him napping - no chance of escape. But his alibi was preparing breakfast and he'd sent them packing. Now they were back and that wasn't good news. Not today. Not this weekend. This weekend was booked and there was no way he could afford to spend a few idle hours in an interview room on rue de l'Evêché.
As Carnot ran, his mind raced with his feet. He was certain he knew what they wanted. Vicki again. They were closing in on him, he was sure of it. And all because of that loudmouth Vrech. He'd known straight away that it was the tattooist who'd given the cops their lead. The bones in the Dutchman's fingers would heal in due course, but he'd have to find someplace else to put his name, the two-by- four-inch rectangle of tattooed skin neatly razored from his scalp and bandaged round his broken fingers. All of which would teach the man a useful lesson.
But then, as he ran, Carnot considered another possibility. It might be a long shot, but maybe it had something to do with the woman in the pool. De Cotigny's wife. It had been all over TV the evening before. Maybe de Cotigny suspected that his wife's death was tied in with the blackmail, a little persuasion to keep his mind on the job of passing the development permissions? And maybe he'd said something to the police? Given them a description before he'd gone and shot himself.
Carnot gritted his teeth, sucked in a lungful of air and ran on. De Cotigny dead. Who'd have believed it? Now they'd have to find someone else to put the screws on, someone else to set up. Because Carnot knew that another pair of buttocks in the planning chiefs chair wouldn't deter Raissac when he had his mind set on something.
At Canebière, Carnot dared a glance behind him, saw nothing, then caught a friendly light and sprinted across the road. Thirty metres further on, he took a right into rue des Feuillants, and right again into the Capucins market where, for the first time, he allowed his pace to slacken. Jostling his way through the early-morning market crowds, using his shoulder and elbow to clear a path, he glanced back again but could see no disturbance in the flow of shoppers behind him. He had to be fifty metres clear, maybe more, he estimated. Enough to make his move and lose them.
And Capucins, he knew, was the place to do it. Although the throng of shoppers and market stalls slowed him down, this narrow passageway provided a means of escape he'd used more times than he could remember. Hallway down, he ducked to the left between a fish stall and a display of wrinkled dates and pink pomegranates and into a covered alleyway that doubled back onto rue du Musee. The opening was so narrow that his pursuers would pass right by without seeing it. Another five minutes and he'd be clear.
His only problem now, he realised, turning out of Musée and heading up to the Boulevard Garibaldi, was that with the cops after him, he'd have to stay clear of the apartment. And then he remembered Sylviane. Only four blocks away. He could hole up there. Perfect.
Loping down Garibaldi, Carnot took another look behind him. Nothing. He'd shaken them. He slowed his pace and stopped at a newsagent's kiosk on the corner of Mocquet, checking through the racks of magazines, glancing up and down the street while he caught his breath and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
He was about to stroll off when he felt the barrel of a gun press against the ledge of bone behind his ear, and heard a gravelly voice whisper in his ear: 'I know these streets too, Monsieur.'
66
It was Gus Delahaye, Suzies brother, that Benedict saw first, coming down to specify room numbers for the luggage, a stack of matching Vuitton cases and trunks which, for the last few minutes, had been piling up in the foyer of the Nice-Passedat. A nod of understanding from the concierge and a clipped wad of bills appeared from Delahaye's trouser pocket, the notes peeled off and pressed into the mans hand with fluid ease.
Gus Delahaye did a lot of that, reflected Benedict as he sipped his drink and watched the performance. Never the parents, he'd been told. Always the brother. The Wall Street broker, the son and heir. Usually to buy silence, kill a story; there were men, Benedict knew, who were paid not to write about the Delahayes. Now there was a profession worth having.
Having dealt with the luggage and the concierge, Gus Delahaye came through into the bar, ordered himself a drink and stepped out onto the terrace where Benedict was sitting, shading his eyes from the sun-glare off the sea.
He was short and heavy-shouldered, with trimmed black hair and a pasty complexion. Almost as soon as he'd settled himself at a table, the barman was at his side, dispensing his order: a tumbler of caramel-coloured bourbon laid out on a paper coaster, a silver jug of iced water and a plate of tapenade toasts, the same type of toasts that Benedict had received with his own drink and promptly dispatched.
The two men were no more than thirty feet apart, their rooms even closer. According to his man behind the front desk, Benedict had established that the Delahayes had arrived that morning, only minutes before him, the parents billeted on the second floor at the front, looking out towards the Frioul Islands, their son on the third floor, at the side, next to his room, facing the Corniche J.F. Kennedy.
Benedict wondered if Gus Delahaye would recognise him, here on the terrace, or in the lift, or passing one another in reception or in the corridor outside their rooms. They'd never met but the stories Benedict wrote were always accompanied by a byline photo. It wouldn't have been the first time that someone had recognised Benedict's trade-mark half-tortoiseshells, and shaved, sun- freckled head.
Across the terrace Gus Delahaye caught Benedict's eye and nodded, cordially, one guest to another. Benedict was tempted to say something, but held back. Better by far to observe and record the small diminishings of grief - the stoop of a shoulder, the wipe of an eye, the whole sad, stately procession of it - than risk all access by dropping his cover with an ill-judged remark. And anyway, he'd already decided that this was not a dialogue stoiy. There was nothing the Delahayes would know or could say that he wouldn't be able to find out for himself. Enough for them to be there, silent, unsuspecting players in his stagecraft.
It would be the same with Madame de Cotigny, the grand, grieving matriarch. Benedict's man at the front desk had told him where the old lady lived and he would station himself there, in a bar or a cafe, to observe and record. All the bustling comings and goings, the black tulle, the flowers, the fluttering veils that would feature through the next few days.
Jacquot. Number Six shirt. The man who'd scored that winning try against the English. Benedict had done his homework. The man was a legend. And a policeman. The copy near wrote itself.
Benedict finished his drink, licked the tip of his finger to pick up the last crumbs of tapenade toast and called for the check. He signed with a flourish, nodded to Delahaye and headed for his room.
He'd made contact, a first sighting. The game had begun.
67
R
aissac watched the TV coverage in his dressing gown.
From his bed, from his breakfast table, and from the ottoman in his sitting room. Flicking on the TV in every room he entered. Missing nothing. National and local. Aerial shots from a helicopter hovering over de Cotigny's tutored lawns, terraces and pool; footage of the ambulance turning out of de Cotigny's gates; reporters speaking to camera with de Cotigny's home visible through the trees behind them.
With a grim expression, Raissac watched it all.
Everywhere dismay and disbelief - stunned responses from friends and neighbours, official statements from the steps of the Prefecture and, every few minutes, the victims' photos flashed onto the screen. Hubert and Suzanne de Cotigny. Suicide and murder. De Cotigny with his brisk, old-fashioned haircut and just-off-centre parting, dressed in tailcoat and sash at the opening of Aqua-Cité; his wife Suzanne, elegantly coiffed, in elbow-length gloves and haute couture at the opera.
What an extraordinary couple, thought Raissac; so utterly unalike. And it wasn't just their different styles - the outfits, the hair - or even the difference in age, he decided. The husband, a chill, humourless figure who looked like his childhood hadn't been much fun, something concealed and repressed about him - tight and coiled, with a smile he must have had to search for. And then the wife, firm and fresh, skin the colour of young cognac, up for anything and looking for trouble, with a smile to launch a fleet of ships. How on earth had they ever got that one together? If he hadn't known better, Raissac would have said Money. Or Position. Some kind of Advantage. One of those things that come with a capital letter. Like Sex. Which was why Raissac did know better, and had the film to prove it.
Except the film wouldn't do him any good now. Difficult to blackmail the dead.
So now he'd have to start all over again; have Carnot sniff out someone new. Raissac went through the likely names for de Cotigny's job - all of them loaded with the usual petty indiscretions, but none of them with anything big. Nothing like a video. Nothing like de Cotigny.
How long, he wondered, would it take to get the ball rolling? Two months? Three? It had taken Carnot and Vicki weeks to set things up with the de Cotignys, throw them the lure, draw them in. And now Raissac was back where he'd started.
As far as he could see, there was only one advantage to be gained from the previous day's body count. With a murder and a suicide to investigate, it didn't look like the Judiciaire would be much of a nuisance over the next few days. And with a first consignment of two hundred kilos of cocaine about to land on French soil, that could well prove a blessing.
The last time Raissac had checked with Carnot, Basquet Maritime's Aurore was only a day's sail from port. And everything in position - skipper and Customs all squared away. As good as it got. If it all went according to plan, he'd have a new route and a new carrier by the following week.
As for the calanques deal, well, Basquet would just have to wait for his permis. No other option - take it or leave it. At least they'd have the money. And, if the gods were with them, all it would take to get that permis from whoever replaced de Cotigny on the planning committee was a large bundle of that money sous table. It would never have worked with de Cotigny, of course, but it sure as hell might with someone else.
Filling his cup with the last of the coffee, Raissac reached for his mobile and put a call through to Carnot. Check up on progress. See how everything was going.
The answering service came on instead, but Raissac didn't leave a message.
It was the same when he tried later.
And later still.
68
Patience had never been one of Carnot s strengths. And today of all days. So much to do, so much to arrange. When the Aurore dropped anchor, everything had to be in place. Or Raissac would be all over him. Which was why he'd run.
He'd been at police headquarters over three hours now, sitting in the same chair, pacing the same interview room with its barred and frosted window overlooking rue de l'Evêché. And no one seemed to know what to do with him. Except bring him coffee. Strong and black. So far he'd tossed three empty styrofoam cups into the bin and his foot was beginning to tap.
Of course he knew their game. Make him sweat. Stretch him a little. Once again, he tried to guess what they'd brought him in for. Monel or the de Cotigny woman? It had to be one or the other. The lid was too damned tight for anything else.
Carnot was speculating how much longer they might hold him, whether or not he should start making a fuss, demand a lawyer, when the door opened and a cop came in. Plain clothes like the others, a file in his hand, long hair tied in a ponytail. A big guy. A real gorille, and clearly someone you didn't play around with. The same guy, Carnot realised, who'd tapped him on the shoulder outside Club Maras a few days earlier.
Monel. It was Monel he was here for. That's what all this was about. But him making a run for it wouldn't have helped.
The cop pulled out a chair and sat down, put the file on the table and flicked it open.
Carnot didn't move, sprawled back in his seat as though he had all the time in the world, watching the man leaf through the pages, trying to remember what he'd told them before. All he had to do was keep the story level, just keep it straight. That was all he had to do. But he knew he'd have to watch his step.
The cop took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offered him one.
Carnot shook his head. Not a word more than was necessary.
The cigarettes and a lighter were left on the table and from his other pocket the cop took a cassette tape, unwrapped it and slid it into the player. He pressed a button and a red light came on.
'My name is Jacquot. Chief Inspector Jacquot. It's a Saturday. May seventeenth. 2:40 p.m.' He turned towards Carnot. 'And you are . . . ?'
Carnot said nothing.
The cop looked to his file. 'Jean Alphonse Carnot. Born Tunis. Resident Marseilles for. . .' The cop looked up, gave a little smile. 'Twenty years? Off and on?'
The man held his eye, waiting for an answer.
'If you say so,' replied Carnot. Then, tipping forward, laying his arms on the table, he said: 'Maybe you can tell me what I'm supposed to be doing here?'
Jacquot spread his hands. 'Helping with police inquiries, Monsieur. Of course, if you'd like to have a lawyer present. .. ?'
'I don't think there's any need for that, do you?' replied Carnot carelessly.
The policeman shrugged. The kind of shrug that suggested the facts to hand certainly pointed in that direction. But he wasn't going to push the matter, not if Carnot was happy to continue.
'Entirely your decision, Monsieur. But I have to warn you that I am recording this interview and that anything you say . . .'
Carnot held up a hand. 'Please. Let's get to the point. Whatever it is I'm here for.'
The cop gave him a long look.
'Vicki Monel,' he said. 'You knew her. Remember?'
'You know that already.'
'You said, let's see . . .' The cop looked back to his notes, turned a page. 'You said you haven't seen her for more than a year. Maybe two. That you thought she lived somewhere up round Gare St-Charles. That correct?'
Carnot nodded.
The cop raised his eyebrows, indicated the tape recorder. He needed words.
'Yes. That's right.'<
br />
'You said she came from Toulon, Hyères, someplace down the coast?'
'That's right.' 'She live with you when she arrived in town?'
'To start with,' replied Carnot, pushing back cuticles with a fingernail.
'Where and when did you meet?'
Carnot let out a pouff of breath, stopped his manicure. 'Like I said, a couple years back. Some bar.'
'You told us "a party" last time.'
'Party. Bar. It's two years ago, man. Maybe more. I don't remember.'
The cop nodded, shook out a cigarette and lit it. Smoke spiralled upwards into the still air.
'And the nature of your relationship?'
'The usual. Girlfriend.'
The cop nodded.
Jacquot and the Waterman Page 30