Merde, said Jacquot to himself as he drove off, leaving Benedict on the sidewalk. A journalist, for God's sake. How on earth could he have walked into that one? Glancing in his rear-view mirror, Jacquot could see the man a hundred metres back, standing at the kerb. Serve him right, decided Jacquot, as he turned off the Comiche road and followed the steep hillside lane into Vallon des Auffes.
Down on the quay a gendarme lifted a Do Not Cross perimeter tape and Jacquot pulled up behind Grenier's unmarked Peugeot.
Vallon des Auffes, thought Jacquot, getting out of the car and looking around. The place where his father had lived when he first arrived in Marseilles, a pocket-sized fishing port enclosed by a slope of fishermen's cottages and the towering arches of a Corniche flyover. It was different back then, in his father's day — a real working harbour: chandlers, metalworks and, as the name suggested, rope-makers. Now, most of the port-side premises had been turned into expensive seafood joints, of which Chez Fonfon was the oldest and most celebrated. A bouillabaisse here was even pricier than at Molineux's but, in Jacquot's opinion, not half so good. Here, in Vallon des Auffes, you paid for the view as much as the food. At Molineux's the only thing worth looking at was your plate.
Ten metres from the steps leading up to Chez Fonfon, in a space between two fishing skiffs, stood Grenier and Peluze. The body, covered in a dirty blue tarp, lay at their feet. Above them, inquisitive faces peered from the restaurants picture windows.
'It's not the Waterman,' said Grenier, the only man on the squad who didn't call Jacquot boss.
Jacquot squatted down and lifted the covering, peered inside. The body was naked, small, almost childlike, but the breasts and the tuft of pubic hair were unmistakable. A very petite, dark-skinned lady. Somewhere in her thirties, Jacquot estimated. Toe-and fingernails painted red, and professionally cared for by the look of them.
'You ask me, it's a copycat,' continued Grenier.
'What makes you think that?' asked Jacquot, trying to see what Grenier had spotted that he had missed. The victim was a woman. She was naked. She looked to be close in age to the other victims. She had bruises on her cheek and neck and since she'd been pulled from the sea the chances were that she'd drowned. Or been drowned. He couldn't see what Grenier was getting at. He lifted the tarp a little higher and noted an injury to the victim's foot. Her ankle lay at an odd angle and the skin was badly abraded.
Jacquot lowered the tarp and looked up at the flyover. And the line of pilings beneath. His money said the body had been tumbled off the Corniche from the boot of a car, but not far enough along the bridge to miss the rocks below, where the victim had sustained her broken ankle. She'd then slowly drifted ashore, much like the body of Jilly Holford at Aqua-Cité.
'Turn her head, boss,' said Peluze. 'In the neck. You'll see what Al means. And there's jewellery, too.'
Jacquot did as instructed and there, wrapped with strands of hair, was the gold hilt of a dagger, wedged at an angle between shoulder and neck. If this was a Waterman victim, it was the first time the killer had used a weapon. And the first time he'd left jewellery on a victim, a thick gold bracelet on one wrist and a pair of gold ear-studs.
'Lucky strike, that,' said Grenier. 'All the bone there. You ask me, the killer's right-handed, taller than the victim and came at her from behind, a little to the side.'
'Anything else, professor?' chuckled Peluze. Pushing aside the tarp Jacquot leant closer and studied the entry wound, the blade buried deep, a circle of bruised scarlet clearly showing against the caramel-coloured skin. Grenier was right, he thought, a lucky strike. First hit. And delivered with considerable force. It was a wonder the blade hadn't snapped. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Jacquot reached for the handle, got a grip on it with both hands and began to rock it back and forth, the victim's head moving with the action. Deep down, he could feel the blade grate and scrape against bone, then start to loosen, until finally it slid free. Jacquot got to his feet and turned the weapon between his fingers, the sunlight glinting off it. It was long and slim, more like a letter-opener than a dagger, but surprisingly hefty in the hand. It was also exotically styled, the thin silver blade sliding between the lips of a golden serpent whose scaled body formed the handle, its tail coiled around a large blue stone.
Where the blade appeared from the serpents mouth two words had been engraved into the silver.
Avec tendresse.
'I think you'll find it's a Zoffany,' came a voice from behind them. 'Got one just like it back home.'
Jacquot turned to see Benedict's blue eyes peering through his tortoiseshell spectacles, his freckled face wreathed in a helpful smile.
'They have a branch here in town,' he continued. 'Rue St-Ferreol, I think.'
87
Emile Jalons wanted very badly to go to the lavatory but the possibilities for a discreet pee on Bay Seven were limited. The side of his car, the wall of the warehouse, or over the edge of the quay - all of them out in the open and none of them dignified. Which was why he had left it so long. Trying to make up his mind. And now he was getting desperate.
He looked across at the Narcotics man, Lamonzie was his name, wondering if he could make his excuses and leave, but knowing that as senior Customs officer he'd probably have to stay till the bitter end. And right now, it was clear that this Lamonzie was in no mood to let anyone go anywhere. They'd searched through the goods in the bond hall without finding a thing and were now preparing to board and search the Aurore, Lamonzie and three of his men leaning over the bonnet of their car, poring over plans of the ship.
Which was good news for Jalons. It wouldn't have looked very good if they'd found something amongst the cargo that he'd signed off only minutes before their arrival. If the drugs were on board, at least that gave him a margin of professional security. His only concern was that if things did go wrong and they did find something on board, then a copy of the tape might still find its way to his wife or his boss.
But right then that prospect wasn't half so bad or pressing as his need for a pee.
Lamonzie was in a foul mood. After three hours in the warehouse searching through the Aurore's cargo they'd found nothing amongst the hefty black blocks of rubber, dusty sacks of kaolin, and woven bags of cocoa and groundnuts, all of them itemised on the ship's manifest. Nothing extra. Nothing unaccounted for.
Which, as far as Lamonzie was concerned, meant one thing. The cargo they were looking for was still on board, either concealed amongst the timber in the forward holds or scheduled for a later pick-up during the refit that Jalons had told him about. But searching a ship the size of Aurore was no easy matter.
Snatching up the plans, he passed out instructions to his men: clear and secure the vessel; release the shore gangs; and bring in lights, dogs, sensors - the works.
Lamonzie glanced at his watch. It was going to be a long night. And he had no doubt whose fault it was. Trying to order his thoughts - what to do next, how to proceed, please God let us find something - he caught sight of the senior Customs officer, Jalons, flies open, pissing against a stack of pallets. Already a long stream had wound a coiling path between his boots and out onto the quay where it had started to puddle.
'Hey, you, Jalons,' shouted Lamonzie. 'When you've got a moment
88
Sometimes an investigation went so fast that it left the head spinning. Which was how things proceeded that Monday afternoon.
As Grenier said, the Vallon des Auffes body looked like a copycat killing. Sliding the letter-opener into a plastic evidence bag, Jacquot was certain they'd find no trace of pronoprazone, nor any evidence of a sexual assault comparable with the other victims. And the chances were that the victim hadn't even drowned, dead before she hit the water. No, Grenier was right. The jewellery, the weapon. This was no Waterman kill. If it had been, Jacquot reflected, walking to his car, it would have been the Waterman's last. Which was when Clisson and Jouannay swung down into the port, parking their car beside his. Jacquot had hoped to make good h
is escape before the scene-of-crime boys arrived and for a moment he was tempted to say nothing about the knife in his pocket. Grenier or Peluze could tell them what he'd done. But as Clisson got out of the car, gave him a nod, Jacquot decided to play it straight. He pulled out the knife, told Clisson he'd removed it from the body and said he wanted to borrow it.
Clisson gave Jacquot a sharp, angry little look. But since the knife had already been removed from the body, there wasn't much he could do except make the point that it was Forensic's duty to secure a scene of crime and his job to collect and record evidence. Behind his boss, Jouannay raised his eyebrows and shook his head wearily.
Jacquot said he understood, apologised, but five minutes later he was reversing his car back past the police tape, the knife still in his possession and Benedict, knapsack on his knees, in the seat beside him.
'Where are you going to drop me this time, Chief Inspector?' the journalist asked, as they pulled away from the port and wound their way up to the main road.
'Back in town, Monsieur. Or at your hotel. Whichever you wish. It's the least I can do. But first. . .'
Up on the Comiche, Jacquot parked his car, told Benedict to stay where he was and, fingers idling along the stonework, he set off along the seaward edge of the flyover above Vallon des Auffes.
He found what he was looking for quickly enough: a smear of dust on the parapet as if something had been dragged across it, and a dry, dark bloom of scarlet. He looked over the edge. Far below the sea lapped at the pilings. At night, you'd never see them.
As Jacquot headed back to the car, his mobile bleeped. It was Gastal reporting in. The driver of the Renault, he said, was called Berthe Mourdet. Apparently she and the victim had met at the gym just a few days back and, under pressure, she'd admitted why she'd gone to the house in Roucas Blanc. According to Mourdet, Suzie de Cotigny had been alive and well when she left the de Cotigny house round 6:30 p.m. and she'd gone straight home. Her flatmates had backed up her story. They'd ordered in pizzas and watched a video. "She said she heard about the murder on the radio at work the following morning. Some beauty salon up on rue Sibie. At first she didn't realise that it was the woman she'd met at the gym and spent the afternoon with because the victim had given her another name. It wasn't until she saw the evening TV news and the pictures of Suzie and the house that she realised it was the same woman. After that she decided to keep quiet, keep out of it."
'You give her a hard time?' asked Jacquot.
'Oh yes,' replied Gastal.
'Good,' said Jacquot, and told him to meet up with him at the jeweller Zoffany on rue St-Ferreol.
Twenty minutes later, after dropping Benedict at the top of the lane leading to the Nice-Passedat, Jacquot left his car in the underground car park beneath Place de Gaulle and started along rue St-Ferreol. He didn't have far to walk. As Benedict had said, there was indeed a branch of Zoffany here, the kind of shop where you rang a bell for the door to be opened by a uniformed commissionaire. Waiting outside was Gastal.
The saleslady who greeted them was of a certain age, exquisitely polite and elegantly turned out, a silk cravat tucked into the collar of a blue Chanel suit. When Jacquot showed her the knife, a trace of blood from its blade smearing the inside of the sealed plastic bag, she blanched a little as though she'd been shown something that Gastal might have picked up on the sole of his shoe. But she confirmed that it was indeed a Zoffany piece, a silver-gilt letter-opener.
'It's the latest design,' she told them. 'It's called "Serpent". We've only stocked it for the last few months.'
'Have you sold many?' asked Gastal.
'Lots,' she replied. 'They've been enormously popular.'
'Could this be one of them, Madame?'
The sales lady spread her hands, shrugged. 'It's possible . . . But we have many branches, Messieurs. It could have been bought in any of them. In Paris, in Nice ...'
'There is an engraving, Madame,' said Jacquot. ' "Avec tendresse".'
She smiled, shook her head. 'I'm sorry, Monsieur, I don't remember it. But I have only been here since March. It could have been done before I arrived.'
'So you do carry out that kind of work? Engraving? If a customer wants something . . .' asked Jacquot.
'Bien sûr. We have a workshop in the basement. If you like, I can check for you. It shouldn't take too long.'
Five minutes later she was back, bearing the workshop's order book. According to their records, she told them, resting the book on the counter and flicking through the pages, the engraving had indeed been carried out on the premises. In February. She found the page she was looking for and gave them the precise date. And the address where the letter-opener had been delivered after the work was completed. And the name of the recipient.
'Ba-da-boum,' said Gastal, with a leery wink.
'And the purchase, Madame?' asked Jacquot. "Would you have records of the purchase?'
'Mais certainement, Monsieur. It's here in the book.'
Jacquot's heart lifted.
'Cheque? Credit card?'
The saleslady consulted the ledger once more, running a long, lacquered fingernail along the line.
'Purchase price. Engraving costs. Delivery'. Tout compris. Cash,' she replied, and smiled helpfully.
89
Basquet left work early. Negotiating his Porsche up the ramp from the underground car park, he joined the flow of traffic along Quai du Lazaret in the shadow of the autoroute and set off along the Littoral for home. There was still an hour or more before rush hour clogged the road, so he found the outside lane quickly - it was pleasingly empty - and put his foot down.
It had been a good day and he was in a buoyant mood. Valadeau-Basquets tendered offer on a planned hospital extension in Aix had been accepted, a shopping-mall development in Capelette was ahead of schedule and below budget for the month, and Valadeau et Cies share price was up after a report in the financial press had listed them among the South of Frances most energetic and forward-looking companies. All of it most gratifying.
And there was more. According to Raissac, whom he'd spoken to that morning, the Aurore had docked and was unloading cargo. But there was no need to worry, his friend had assured him. Their merchandise was already safe, spirited away. In a matter of hours it would be off their hands, and the money in their pockets.
With Anais finally out of his hair, Basquet reflected, the only rumple in the fabric of his happiness was the calanques deal, and the still-to-secure permis. The representation of his plans before the planning committee had been scheduled for a week on Wednesday, but with de Cotigny's suicide there'd clearly be delays until Raissac could work his magic. At least the money would be in place. No going cap in hand to the Valadeau trustees. His first, very own, personal project. Not a sou to borrow, to beg for. A Paul Basquet project.
Céléstine was resting when he arrived home. Upstairs in his dressing room, tiptoeing round so as not to wake her, Basquet changed into tennis shorts and polo shirt and went down to the terrace where he had Adèle fetch him a drink. Carrying a chair onto the lawn and positioning it in the last rays of the setting sun, he made himself comfortable and gazed contentedly over his land: the barns and outbuildings coated in thick, rustling ivy, the pool and tennis court, the slopes of striped lawn, the braided sweep of the family vineyards - the vines greening and thickening, a soft emerald haze - and not another house in sight.
And beyond it all, rising up against the evening sky, the crumpled flanks of the Montagne Sainte Victoire. It was an awesome sight, Basquet decided, its steep, stony slopes brushed by the setting sun, a different colour every time you looked. Now the pale blush of peaches, now a soft, rosy blue, now a shifting violet, now mauve. Simply magical. Maybe when he retired, he'd follow Céléstine's example and learn to paint. Another Cezanne in the family.
Basquet was on his second Scotch and soda when he spotted Adele coming out onto the terrace followed by two men. She pointed in his direction, bobbed a curtsy and disappeared inside. T
he two men crossed the terrace towards him. One of them seemed familiar. As they drew closer, Basquet remembered where he'd seen him before.
90
Anais Cuvry's front door had been easily forced, Gastal's shoulder enough to splinter the frame, free the lock and effect entry.
The first thing that struck them was the lingering scent of a woman's perfume, a warm, musky, intimate fragrance. Jacquot breathed it in; Gastal sniffed appreciatively. And then the colours: soft pastels, creamy shades, nothing bold or bright. This was a woman's home. A single woman's home. No children here.
And no men apart from those just passing through, guessed Jacquot, sizing the place up. At lunchtime. During the afternoon. Early evening on the way home. But never overnight.
Which was how it was starting to look to Jacquot. The petite, dark-skinned body; the perfectly manicured nails; the discreet little villa; expensive gifts from expensive stores. If Mademoiselle Cuvry wasn't on the game, she was clearly a well-maintained mistress.
Jacquot and the Waterman Page 36