Carnot became aware that his foot was dancing, fast, to some unheard beat. He tried to stop it. Damn coffee.
'She work for you?'
'Work?'
The cop gave him a patient look. Carnot remembered the pictures on the Internet.
'This and that. Few odd jobs here and there,' replied Carnot with a smirk. Which he knew immediately was a mistake. The smirk.
'You put her on the game? When you finished with her?'
Carnot decided to go along with it. The smirk. He didn't have much of a choice.
He nodded. Then, for the tape: 'Yes.'
'How long?'
'Four, five months.'
'Tell me about her.'
Carnot shrugged. Where to start? 'She was a looker,' he said. 'Stop you in your tracks, man. But she was wild, you know. Unreliable. Say she'd be there and then not show. Hopeless. It wasn't going to work out. Took drugs, you ask me.'
'You supply her?'
Carnot shook his head. 'No, I didn't.'
'So you lost touch?'
'Like I said, she took off.'
'And then you heard she had some place up by Gare St-Charles?'
'That's right.'
'But you never saw her?'
'There was no point.'
'Never saw her around?'
Carnot shook his head. 'No.'
'Well, that's where we have a little problem, Monsieur.'
Carnot rearranged his shoulders, not quite a shrug, but a movement, he hoped, that suggested indifference to the policeman's 'problem'. Which was certainly not the case. He didn't like that word, 'problem', nor the way it was delivered.
'Problem?'
The cop stubbed out the cigarette and stretched back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head.
'You said St-Charles. Where she lived?'
'That's right.'
Carnot spotted what was happening. The cop was backtracking and the trap was closing. He could smell it. And now he knew what it was.
'But you never went there?'
'No. I said.'
'So what about Cours Lieutaud, Monsieur? Which is where she must have moved to after she left St-Charles. Or maybe she never lived in St-Charles?'
Carnot let his face go along with it, but his mind raced. Prints. They had his prints.
'Lieutaud. Of course,' said Carnot. 'Up Noaille way. Yeah. That's right. She moved. I heard.'
'According to the concierge she moved in just about the time you said you split up.'
'Yeah, well. . .' Carnot let it trail away. 'But you didn't go there? Drop by? Say "hi"?' Carnot went back to his fingernails. 'Yeah. Maybe. I don't recall,' he said at last, not looking up.
'Yes or no.'
'Yeah. I remember now.'
'This was what - calling by? Another party?'
'Must have been a party.'
'When?'
'Christmas. Round then.' 'She invite you?'
'No, course not. Just went along with friends. Some party was all they said. Didn't know who was throwing it. Didn't realise it was her place. Just a party, you know?' 'So you were surprised to see her?' 'Yeah. You could say.' 'And how did she react?' 'She was cool.'
'And did she tell you it was her party? Her apartment?' Carnot nodded, going along with it. He was feeling safe. The prints. The party. He'd got it covered. The cop gave him a look. 'Yeah. She did.'
'And did you ever go back? Call in after the party? Old times?'
'No. I never did.'
'So Christmas was the only time you were there? The last time you saw her?'
'Or New Year, maybe.'
'But around then?'
Carnot nodded. 'Yeah. Around then.'
There was a knock at the door and a fat guy came in, suit jacket tight under the arms, fingers thick and red as merguez sausages. Sweaty skin and short black hair coming to a point on his forehead. He leant over and whispered in the cop's ear. Carnot recognised him, the one leaning against his car the night they questioned him. You could feel the weight of him. Near lifted the car.
The one with the ponytail listened, then nodded.
'Nice one,' he said. 'Leave it to you?'
The fat cop nodded. 'On the case,' he replied and left the room without a look in Carnot's direction. Like he wasn't even there.
'So. Where were we?' asked Jacquot.
Carnot knew he didn't expect an answer.
'Right. Cours Lieutaud. What was it? First. No, second floor.'
'Fourth. Top.'
The cop swung a look at him.
Carnot tried not to flush. He'd blown it, knew it. Trying to be too smart. Just keep it short and sweet.
'Hey! You remember? One visit. Remarkable.' The cop pushed back his chair and stood up, stretched and walked to the window. 'Tell me,' he began, leaning against the window ledge and looking back at Carnot. 'She must have
been making some money, that place?'
'Could be. Neat address.'
'You know how? You know how she was making that land of money?'
'Like I said, it was a party. We didn't talk incomes.' He didn't bother to look at Jacquot, just kept his gaze idling on the empty chair. He felt more comfortable with the cop at the side of him like that.
'So she didn't show you the cupboard?'
Carnot was surprised. They'd found the cupboard. The first time he'd taken Vicki to the apartment, she'd searched the place high and low. Even took her in the bathroom, told her it was there, and she still couldn't see it. The cops must have gone over the place with a fine- tooth comb.
Carnot sniffed, breathed out slowly, knew he was being boxed in. If they had his prints in the apartment, and they'd found the cupboard, then they'd have his prints there too. But if he'd told this cop he'd only gone to the apartment once, for a party, how come he knew about the cupboard? He gave it some thought.
'Cupboard?' he asked, to give himself some space. 'You got me.'
'In the bathroom. Behind the mirrored tiles.'
Carnot shook his head slowly. And then: 'Oh yeah. Yeah. You had to look, right.'
'So she showed you?'
'Nope. Found it myself. I was taking a leak. I was looking for a towel.'
Carnot smiled. Looking for a towel. . . That was a good one. He licked his lips, starting to enjoy himself. They didn't have a thing on him. He was out of there.
Jacquot nodded. 'So what happened to the camera?'
'Camera?'
'The one in the cupboard, Tarantino. The one you and Vicki used for your little films.'
'Like I say, you got me there.'
'You're right. We have.'
The cop smiled and something turned in Carnot's belly. Shit.
'Right now three of my men are picking up a search warrant with your address on it,' Jacquot began. 'And it's my bet they'll find a camera. Maybe not the films, but enough to tie you in to Vicki's death.'
'That's crazy, and you know it,' said Carnot, turning in his seat to give Jacquot an insolent look. 'It's got nothing to do with me. It's like they say in the papers. The Waterman. The one they're all talking about. I read it.'
Jacquot smiled, came back to the table. 'If it was just Vicki,' he said, 'we wouldn't have much to go on. But there's more.'
"What "more"?'
'A shop-assistant. Worked at Galerie Prime. We found her body in the Longchamp fountain. Name of Grez. Joline Grez. Remember her?'
The name meant nothing.
Carnot frowned, shook his head. What was all this?
And then...
'She had a picture of you,' the cop continued. 'In her bedroom. The two of you out together - a club, a bar. Real blonde hair. Cut short. Remember?'
After they took Carnot down to a holding cell, Jacquot was in the washroom when the Duty Sergeant, Calliou, came in and took a stall. He was off duty, his jacket undone. Jacquot glanced at his watch. A little after five.
'You get the message from Gastal?' asked Calliou.
Jacquot looked over. 'About the girl? Yeah.' Mo
re good news. Gastal had traced the driver of the Renault. A beautician in a local salon. He was going to check her out.
Calliou shook himself off, zipped up and turned from the bowl. 'Funny how it happens like that.'
'How do you mean?'
'The mobile. Your suspect's mobile.'
'Carnot's?' Jacquot shook his head. 'You've lost me.'
Calliou rinsed his hands and wiped the palms down the sides of his tunic. 'The suspect's phone,' he repeated. 'Soon as we get his stuff bagged up, the thing goes off. Three, four times.'
'You answer it?'
Calliou shook his head. 'Not at first. But it never stops, see. So in the end I switch it off. But I get the wrong button and this name pops up. The one who's calling.'
'And?'
'So I tell the Inspector. He said he'd pass it on. Thought it might be useful.'
'Remind me.'
'Some guy called Raissac.'
'Right,' said Jacquot. 'Yeah. Could be.'
69
'You'll love him. Believe me,' said Delphie to her younger sister, as their cab turned off Canebière and started winding through the back end of Belsunce.
'A policeman, for God's sake? A cop?' Claudine exclaimed. That's all I need. Nasty habits, suspect friends, unsociable hours; probably has a drink or a drug problem, maybe likes beating up wives or girlfriends
'Shush,' said her sister. 'You've been reading too many books. This one's nothing like that. A real hunk. I mean, if Sydne likes him he's gotta be special, don't you agree? And I'll tell you something else ... If I wasn't so happily married I'd . . .'
Delphie paused. She realised the moment she said the words 'happily' and 'married' that she was moving into dangerous territory. Six months earlier Claudine had come home unexpectedly to find her husband in bed with her best friend. In just six months her sister had gone downhill fast. Furious with her husband and furious with herself. It was probably the anger that kept her sane. How she'd managed to complete the work for her exhibition, Delphie had no idea.
Beside her, Claudine continued in a softer voice: 'I just wish you hadn't. Right now, you know ... It just doesn't feel right.'
Delphie felt for her sister's hand in the darkness of the cab's back seat and squeezed it. Heartache and hard work, she decided, might have blunted Claudine's usual enthusiasm for life but they didn't seem to have hurt her looks. Typical, thought Delphie, who'd long ago accepted that her younger sister had gotten the lion's share of the Eddé family's best features: their father's high and haughty cheekbones, their mother's lustrous auburn curls and calisson-shaped eyes, and a smile - when she managed one - as warm and wonderful as it had always been, tempered now with a wan sadness. All she had to do, decided Delphie, was put on a little more weight. She'd lost too much in the past few months and it didn't suit her. She needed fattening up. Some good, wholesome home cooking. That, and a new man in her life.
Up ahead the Gallery Ton-Ton came into view, its picture window a square of white, welcoming light on an otherwise dull street. Their cab slowed and pulled into the kerb.
'Well, you never can tell,' said Delphie brightly, letting go her sister's hand, reaching for the door handle and bustling her out. 'He might even buy a picture.'
But he didn't buy a picture. Because he didn't show.
Which made Delphie, keeping an eye on the door of the gallery, just a little cross. Three days earlier, at Sydnes party, he'd promised her he'd make it for the first-night show. Had sounded really interested. And according to Sydne, whom Delphie called the very next morning to check him out, he was on his own. The ring on his finger, Sydne had told her, didn't mean a thing. Some girlfriend had given it to him and then, clearly not in her right mind, she'd walked out on him. And good riddance, Sydne had remarked tartly.
As for Claudine, her sister's no-show was just that. A relief, if she'd thought about it. Which Claudine hadn't, beyond considering the possible nuisance factor of this unknown man being steered in her direction on the first night of her first-ever exhibition. Right then, there was too much on her mind, too much at stake to waste her energies on some man her sister was trying to set her up with. That first night, it was the gallery, her work, and nothing else.
It began the moment Claudine stepped through the door: the way her paintings looked against the whitewashed brick walls, the order in which they'd been hung, the play of the down-lighting, the title cards, catalogues, the trays of canapes, the wine. So much to feel anxious about, so much to test her nerve. But too late to do anything about it.
And then, suddenly, the way the room started filling, the crush, the noise. All directed at her - friends to greet, a word with her agent, introductions, watching people break off from the hubbub to approach her work, take it in, Claudine straining for their unguarded comments amongst all the hellos, how-are-yous and friendly but clearly fraudulent congratulations. If she was as good as they said she was, she'd be living in St-Remy-de-Provence by now and not on the outskirts of Cavaillon.
But three hours later, when they closed the gallery and walked down to the Vieux Port for a late supper, Claudine felt reprieved. She'd done it. She'd come through. Her first night had been a success and so elated was she - some really genuinely flattering 'overheards' - that all she wanted to do was talk to her sister about the show, hear all the things she'd missed and badger her agent about the critic from Côte Sud who'd just turned up out of nowhere, asked her some questions, scribbled notes on his catalogue. What did he think? What would he say? When would it appear? Questions, questions.
Better still, she'd even sold some paintings. A half- dozen red dots on the title cards. A little over thirty thousand francs. Enough to cover her week's rental of the Ton-Ton, and pretty much her total framing costs.
That night, against all her expectations, Claudine was bursting with delight.
After the last six months, life was just. . . beginning.
70
Ever since the post that morning, the Widow Foraque had been waiting for him.
Now it was past ten and Jacquot still wasn't back. And a Saturday. A soul could work too hard, and that was the truth. Even if there was this Waterman stalking the streets. Disgusting, she called it. Her day, things were different. All this TV and stuff. Wasn't good for you.
Which hadn't stopped her switching on Celebrity Lives of the Rich and Famous after she'd had her supper, fed the canaries and poured herself a small digestif. Then, halfway through the show, she heard the outside door squeak open and close, the same squeak they'd had when the same front door opened onto her husband's shop.
Madame Foraque reached for the TV remote, turned down the volume and listened out. She heard the familiar footsteps cross the tiled hall, a pause at the old sideboard and the shuffle of mail. She'd put the postcard at the bottom of the pile. The one from Washington. An aerial shot of the White House.
Madame Foraque had spotted it right away, among the bills and circulars in the postman's hand. The vibrant colours beside the cream and the buff. The stiffness of it. The glossy, exotic shine to it. And the foreign stamp. She knew immediately who'd sent it, and was desperate to be rid of the talkative postman so that she could take a proper look. Finally he bid her adieu and, closing her front door, she flicked the card over and read the message.
Her first impulse had been to throw it away. It had never arrived; he'd never know. But just as quickly she changed her mind. He needed to know, had to know that it was over and she was gone. The words on the postcard were clear enough on that score. The man was paining for her and it wasn't right, shouldn't be, oughtta stop. Before it got a hold on him.
All week the Widow Foraque had seen it: the frown, the tight lips, the tired eyes and weary wave of his hand as he made his way upstairs. And an equally weary look, behind the put-on smile, when he went off to work each morning.
Outside her door, the footsteps moved off. Lighter this time, it seemed to Madame Foraque. No heavy tread, but a brisk, jogging ascent. And was that a whistle she h
eard, a few faint notes, or was it one of the canaries? Setding herself back in her chair, Madame Foraque turned her attention to the TV screen, satisfied with the way things had turned out.
But it didn't take long for the Widow Foraque's mood to change dramatically. Something was wrong. Something was badly wrong. She sat bolt upright in her chair. She knew at once what it was. The TV presenter. She couldn't hear a word he was saying. Not a single thing. She'd lost her hearing. She'd gone deaf. Just like that. In an instant.
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