He'd been quite surprised how little trouble she'd caused him, how little fight she'd put up.
At that moment Céléstine appeared, thankfully not in her jogging gear, Basquet observed, but more suitably dressed in her preferred slacks and cardigan. She came over and kissed the top of his head, scolded him for his snoring and for driving her off to Laurent's room once again, and told him he'd missed quite an evening.
"What party?' he asked, not aware that he'd been snoring.
The Fazilleaux,' replied Céléstine, taking her seat at the table. 'Remember?'
'You meet that Druet chap?'
'Duret,' his wife corrected him. 'Xavier Duret. Charming man. You'd have loved it.'
'The two of you get on?'
'Like a house on fire.'
'So call him,' said Basquet expansively. 'Get them round for dinner.'
Céléstine looked at her husband in amazement.
'You mean dinner? Here?' she asked, as though she must surely have misunderstood. It had been months since they'd last had guests at the house. Lately, her husband liked to do his entertaining in restaurants, usually without her.
'Why not? Live a little.'
Either her husband had lost his senses, Céléstine decided, or he wanted to meet this Duret more than she realised.
Adele came into the room with a fresh pot of coffee.
'Good morning, Madame,' she said with another little bob, and
filled their cups.
'Thanks, Adèle,' said Basquet, and Céléstine blinked.
79
Crossing Republique, Coupchoux never saw the autobus that hit them.
He'd just finished breakfast at Cafe Samaritaine and was on his way to the car when his attention was caught by two nuns headed in the same direction as him but on the other side of the road. Their hands were tucked into their sleeves, their robes billowed in the sunshine and the knotted cords of their belts slapped against the folds of their skirts. He watched them as they walked, the white wings of their starched wimples glaring bright in the morning light like the sails of a ship. He wondered where they were going. It had to be St Cannat, he decided; the cloister there was a favourite of his. Perhaps there was a Mass. A saints day, maybe.
Coupchoux checked the time. He was supposed to be in Cassis at eleven, picking up Raissac, but he reckoned there might be time for a detour. After all, he was in need of some spiritual cleansing. Thanks to a change in plans, he'd been up half the night. All of it for Raissac. Hard, bloody, dirty work it had been, too. And Carnot off gallivanting somewhere. Raissac would have his balls for that and no mistake - maybe even get Coupchoux to do the honours. Which would be fun. Coupchoux didn't like Carnot one little bit. Playboy type, a nasty piece of work who thought he was the dog's bollocks. And Arab, too. Pretended he wasn't, but you could see it a mile off. It was the pretending that Coupchoux particularly disliked.
Across Republique the two nuns stepped into a side street off the boulevard and in an instant they were gone. But Coupchoux had been expecting it. If they were headed for St Cannat, that sharp turn and shadowy street was the only way they could get there.
Fifty metres ahead of him the lights changed to red and the westbound traffic slowed to a stop. By the time Coupchoux got there, he knew they'd be back to green and he'd have to wait. He decided to cross Republique where he was, slipping between the traffic, and save himself the delay.
Which was just what the man in front of him decided to do, tugging his poodle's lead to indicate the change of direction. The poodle yelped and hunkered back but its owner lifted the lead to shoulder height and dragged the dog to heel, the two of them squeezing between the line of waiting cars.Coupchoux didn't see the dog again until he reached the middle of the road, where the poodle and its owner were waiting for a break in the eastbound flow. It was difficult to say exactly what made the poodle snap and dart at Coupchoux's ankles - maybe nervousness at the closeness and noise of the traffic - but the kick that Coupchoux aimed back at it certainly inspired the dog to fresh acts of bravado. In an instant of snarling, yapping aggression, it had snatched up the slack in the lead from its owner s hand and gone for Coupchoux, making him dodge to one side, then forwards, in a kind of tiptoe dance with the poodle jumping at the back of his knees, the two of them stepping into the path of an eastbound autobus, accelerating through the lights and making for the Prado Rondpoint.
There was no time for the bus driver to avoid them. First a thump on the bonnet right below the drivers cab, and then a fearsome jolt that lifted the driver out of his seat as the front nearside wheel ploughed over the obstruction.
At almost the same moment, in the nave of St Cannat, two nuns took their places in the choir stall and Mass began.
80
There was some commotion on République which meant that Max Benedict had no trouble finding a table at Cafe Samaritaine. He chose one by the window, in the shade, and as he ordered a cafe-calva an ambulance squealed round the Canebiere corner, sirens wailing, blue lights flashing. Cars pulled over and the white van hurtled past.
Marseilles, thought Benedict. Another gunfight at the OK Corral. France's Wild West. It beat Paris hands down. The contemplative, style-conscious, soft-bellied northerner, and this impulsive, hot-blooded southerner. He knew which he liked the most.
Benedict also knew the nightmare of driving in this city. So rather than face the horror of trying to find parking spaces for his jeep, he had taken a cab to the Vieux Port after an early breakfast on his balcony at the Nice- Passedat. Watching the sun come up over the crumpled, shadowy ridges behind Montredon, he'd been quietly pleased to see the shutters closed the next balcony along,
Gus Delahayes room. His compatriot was way behind him in the jet-lag stakes, and it would be hours before he, or his parents, made an appearance.
This was exactly what Benedict had hoped for, dining alone at Molineuxs the evening before and planning his strategy. With the Delahayes shuttered away, now was the time to track down this Jacquot character. In half an hour he'd present himself at the Prefecture and secure his press accreditation, which would give him access to press briefings on the de Cotigny murder and suicide but not much else. What it wouldn't do was get him into police headquarters, which was where he was going after the Prefecture. He had thought about calling ahead to say he had information, arrange a meeting, but over a wicked Molineux souffle he'd finally decided the best course of action was simply to arrive unannounced, try to make it as far as Jacquot and take it from there. If they hustled him out, if Jacquot proved difficult - it didn't matter what - Benedict would have enough for his piece however they wanted to play it. Maybe, along the way, he'd strike some kind of gold and the story would be made. Sometimes it happened as easily as that.
Benedict stood, pulled on his jacket and hefted his shoulder bag. As he slipped some money under his empty glass of calva, he saw the ambulance come back down Republique.
Its lights were off, its siren was silent and it seemed in no hurry to get anywhere fast.
Benedict knew what that meant.
81
Maître Denis wasn't telling jean Carnot anything that his client didn't already know.
They have nothing on you. It's all circumstantial.'
They were sitting in an interview room, waiting for the officer in charge of the investigation - the one who'd interviewed Carnot on Saturday afternoon - to make an appearance. They'd been told by the Duty Sergeant that he was on his way.
'. . . But I must impress on you,' the lawyer continued, 'the need to be, air . . . cooperative. To be of assistance. Otherwise our friends here could be very
The door opened and Chief Inspector Jacquot came in.
'. . . Unhelpful,' finished Maître Denis in a whisper.
Jacquot took a seat and smiled at them both, pleased to note that Carnot was not looking his best - tired, anxious and unshaven after two nights in police custody.
'So, Messieurs.'
'Chief Inspector,' began Carnot's lawyer, gathering hims
elf. He was plump and well nourished and looked too large for the chair that he sat in. 'I really must insist that my client be released without delay. You have kept him here far longer than is strictly, even legally permissible; you have yet to make any formal charge; and, despite a few thin coincidences . . Maître Denis waved his hand dis- missively,. . I would suggest you have no good reason to hold him a moment longer.'
'Quite so,' said Jacquot. 'As you say, nothing more than a few thin coincidences. If I were a betting man I'd say it's unlikely that your client is the person we're looking for.'
The two men across the desk glanced at each other, then got to their feet, Carnot first, almost springing up, Maître Denis much more slowly, heaving himself from his chair.
Jacquot remained seated. 'However, there is one more question I would like to ask.'
'My client is under no obligation—' began Maître Denis.
'And I am under no obligation to be so understanding,' interrupted Jacquot coldly. 'If Monsieur Carnot decides not to cooperate, you can be assured that some kind of charge will be made.' He looked at the two men. 'Believe me.'
The lawyer turned to his client, narrowed his eyes and gave him a 'Remember-what-I-just-said' look.
Carnot nodded. 'One question.'
Jacquot nodded back. It was all he needed.
'Tell me about Alexandre Raissac,' he said.
82
R
aissac was not amused.
First Carnot had gone missing - Saturday, of all days - and Raissac's calls had gone unanswered. It hadn't taken Raissac long to realise that there was only one possible explanation - Carnot had been picked up by the cops. He was a naughty boy, after all. What else had he been up to that Raissac didn't know about? Putting a callthrough to his contact on rue de 1'Evêché, Raissac confirmed it: Carnot was indeed in custody at police headquarters, and looked like he'd be there some considerable time, helping the Waterman investigators with dieir inquiries. According to his source, Carnot was now a prime suspect.
Vicki, thought Raissac. That fucking girl again. When he and Carnot had work to do.
That Saturday, with his fixer out of action and the Aurore just hours away, Raissac realised that he'd have to move fast. Since his man on the inside had still not been able to establish whether an action was scheduled, Raissac decided that he couldn't risk waiting for the Aurore's cargo to be unloaded, as originally planned. Far too risky - the place could be crawling with cops. It had to be sooner. He'd have to reschedule for Sunday night. Direct. Ship to ship. Out in the Rades. Tricky but possible. Which was what Raissac arranged. Coupchoux and the boys had shifted the lot. Not a hitch. Every single kilo.
But now, Monday morning, it was Coupchoux that he couldn't reach. Not a word since breakfast when his driver had called to say he was on his way. Which meant that he should have arrived by now. It didn't take two hours to drive from Marseilles to Cassis. And why wasn't Coupchoux answering his mobile? For a moment Raissac was tempted to call his mole again and find out if Coupchoux, too, had been picked up by the cops. But there was no way they could have made any link between Carnot and Coupchoux. And through Coupchoux to him. Unless Carnot had talked . . . But that was ridiculous. Carnot knew better than that. At least, Raissac hoped he did.
At close to midday and still no sign of Coupchoux, Raissac realised there was no option but to drive himself. It was an important meeting, the last piece of the jigsaw, and he didn't want to keep his man waiting.
In Coupchoux's absence, Raissac decided on the Bentley - the only car he ever drove himself - and in a leathery cocoon of chill air-conditioning, he swept out of the Cassis compound and headed for the autoroute. He was having lunch in Bandol with Monsieur Condé, an associate from Toulon days. Arrangements had to be made. Time, place, people. Raissac didn't want two hundred kilos of uncut cocaine sitting in one of his rented lock-ups in Marseilles any longer than was necessary.
An hour later the two men met at L'Auberge du Port, on the first-floor terrace overlooking the harbour. Condé, as ever, was keen to get moving, agreed to the price and conditions that Raissac suggested and the deal was finalised over a dish of grilled red mullet washed down with a Pibamon rosé. All most agreeable. As soon as Raissac had confirmation that the money was in place, he'd have his man deliver the merchandise.
At three Raissac was on his way back home, easing off the autoroute and heading down the slope towards Cassis. In a funny sort of way he was glad that Coupchoux had failed to make an appearance. He'd enjoyed the ride - the leather closeness of his Bentley, the wheel sliding through his hands, its seamless, silent power. Ten minutes later the gates to his property swung open and then, one after another, closed behind him.
As he steered the Bentley up the drive, Raissac let his gaze wander across the gardens, admiring the sweep of lawn, the clicking rainbow spray of sprinklers and, rising above the stand of cypresses that lined the northern boundary of his property, the craggy ridges of the Baume Massif.
What Raissac didn't see, as the garage doors slid down behind him, was a man dressed in black biking leathers waiting in the shadows.
Raissac had switched off the ignition and was reaching for the door handle when the rounded tip of a silencer tapped against his side window, a black hole rimmed with a halo of grey steel. There was no time to do anything. The last thing that Raissac saw was a gloved finger squeezing the trigger.
In the space of four seconds Raissac took six nine- millimetre bullets at close range. The first, a bull's-eye in the centre of his birthmark, punched him over onto the passenger seat. The remaining five followed a rough line from his upper chest to his kidneys, the sound of the gunfire reduced by the silencer to a hollow popping.
When the last note died, leaving only the subsiding tick of the Bentley's engine and the tinkle of glass falling from the shattered window, the killer slipped the gun into his jacket and left the estate the way he had come in. Starting up his bike a few hundred metres down the road, he decided his dad would've approved of the way that things had worked out.
Two hours later Paul Doisneau's son joined the Autoroute Languedocienne at junction twenty-six outside Nîmes and turned south-west, heading for the Spanish border.
83
J
accquots thumb played with the ring on his finger.
Standing at the table, Carnot gave Raissac's name some thought, then shook his head.
'Alexandre Majoub Raissac,' Jacquot repeated, watching Carnot's eyes shift around the room. 'Not at all familiar?'
'Not at all,' said Carnot, turning to Maître Denis as if to let him know that he'd done what he'd been asked - a single question - and now it was time for his attorney to get him out of there.
'One question, remember, Chief Inspector. . .' began Maître Denis gently, light-heartedly admonishing Jacquot in a finger-wagging tone.
Jacquot's reply was anything but gentle or light-hearted. 'Well, that's unfortunate, Maître, because I have to say I'm not at all happy with your client's reply. So. If you wouldn't mind, Messieurs . . .' Jacquot gestured to their chairs and the two men sat down again.
Jacquot watched them settle themselves. For the first time since they'd picked him up, Carnot looked worried.
Raissac's name had rattled him. As for Maître Denis, Carnot's lawyer looked perplexed, clearly unprepared for this new line of questioning. This had not been a part of his brief - no mention of Monsieur Alexandre Raissac, a man he had never met but whose name rang many bells. Maître Denis, decided Jacquot, was starting to look as ill at ease as his client.
'I don't want to waste any time here,' continued Jacquot, pulling a tape from his pocket, sliding it into the cassette machine and pressing the record button. 'So let me begin by telling you what we know. Since you were taken into custody, Monsieur Carnot, a number of calls have been received on your mobile phone. All of them from a certain Alexandre Raissac. So I'm sure you'll agree that it's pointless your trying to persuade me that you don't know him.'
&nbs
p; Maître Denis was about to say something.
'Wrong number?' Jacquot asked. 'I don't think so. According to phone records, Maître Denis, your client and Monsieur Raissac have spoken together on numerous occasions in the last three months.'
Which wasn't exactly accurate. Muzon was still chasing down the phone company for information, but Jacquot was certain he wouldn't be too far off the mark.
Carnot swallowed.
'So. Let's begin again, shall we? Alexandre Raissac.'
'Okay. I know him. I do the odd job for the guy.'
'What lands of jobs?'
'Personal security. That kind of thing.'
'So why didn't you say so?'
Jacquot and the Waterman Page 34