Jacquot and the Waterman

by Martin O'Brien

  He looked at her now. The dark hair, the brown eyes, an eyebrow arched.

  'So how come the ring?' she asked, nodding at his left hand, like she needed an explanation.

  He looked at the band of silver, twisted it on his finger. 'It was just... a joke, I suppose. Someone I knew.'

  'But it was serious?' she asked.

  'It wasn't long enough to be serious,' he replied.

  'But you kept it? The ring? Kept wearing it?'

  Which surprised Jacquot. He hadn't thought about it like that.

  'It doesn't mean a thing any more,' he replied. And he realised he meant it. It didn't. Not a thing.

  She gave him a look.

  He looked right back, liking what he saw, knew what was going to happen and was glad for it.

  But first he needed to do something. For her. And for him. So he did.

  Slipping the ring from his finger, he showed it to her, looked at it one last time, then dropped it with a clink into the remains of his bouillabaisse. A small bubble marked the spot where it had broken the surface of the soup. Then the bubble burst and there was no sign.

  A moment later a waiter came to their table, cleared the plates, and asked if they needed anything more. Perhaps they would like to see a menu?

  'You should try the souffle, it's very good,' said Jacquot. 'Lemon, with a shot of vodka.'

  'If you say so,' said Isabelle Cassier and gave him a long, cool smile.

  97

  Saturday

  S

  ylviane had just about reached the end of her tether.

  Another day of this and she'd go mad, she was sure of it. There was just so much a girl could take. Gritting her teeth, she stepped into the bath she'd drawn for herself and slid down into its foaming, scented warmth. How much longer, she wondered; how much longer would she have to put up with her unwanted, unexpected guest and his endless, unwelcome demands? Food, clothes, newspapers, whisky, cigarettes and, when he felt like it, her. She'd been run off her feet all week.

  He'd been waiting for her in the shadows when she returned home on Tuesday evening. She'd been out of town for five days, invited by a girlfriend for a weekend party in Cannes, some American film producer over for the festival and looking for fun and company. The girlfriend, Sylviane and two other girls had been holed up in a spectacular villa in the hills, fabulous grounds, a pool the size of her apartment, with enough coke to keep them buzzing merrily along. All day, lying by the pool, working on their tans, and maybe just a couple of hours keeping the client happy - putting on a show for him last thing at night when he got home from the festival, or first thing in the morning before he headed off for his meetings along the Croisette.

  Five days of fun in the sun, well-paid fun at that, and then, the moment she gets home, it looks like she's going to get mugged. She'd just turned the key in the lock when she heard someone scuffle up the steps behind her and barge her through the opening door, propelling her forward, an arm closing round her waist, her hip grazing against the door handle, the side of her suitcase banging angrily against her shins. She was about to struggle, pull herself free, fight back, when a mouth pressed against her ear.

  'Quick, quick. Get in and close it.'

  And there, in the hallway, with the door kicked shut behind them, the arm releasing her, she turned to find herself face to face with Jean Carnot. He hadn't shaved, his clothes were filthy, and he smelt bad.

  Four days later he was still there, sharing her home and her bed. He needed to lie low, he'd told her. Just a few days. And there was nothing she could do about it. Not if she wanted to get her hands on that place on Cours Lieutaud, the apartment he'd promised her, even shown her round the previous week. It was sorted, Carnot had told her. Any day now. It was the only reason she'd put up with him all this time.

  Then, this afternoon, sprawled on her bed, swinging a set of keys on his finger, he'd told her there was this little job he needed her to do. A favour. And then the place on Lieutaud was as good as hers.

  Sylviane was just about to haul herself from the bath when the door opened and Carnot strolled in. He was wearing a black T-shirt and nothing else. Without saying a word, he went to the toilet, planted his feet either side of it and, not bothering to lift the seat, started peeing, the water in the bowl bubbling at the force of the stream, spraying out in extravagant arcs onto the seat and floor tiles. Sylviane could even see the soft tissue of lavatory paper puckering with damp spots. She clenched her teeth. Jesus Christ, what an animal.

  When he'd finished, he turned to her, still shaking the last drops off him.

  When you're ready,' he told her and walked back into the bedroom, not bothering to pull the flush.

  Jean Carnot parked a block past the lock-up and handed Sylviane the key. They'd driven past the row of garages five minutes earlier and he'd pointed out the one he wanted her to check, the one with the looping scrawl of purple graffiti.

  It was the third lock-up they'd checked that evening. Three more to go.

  Carnot lit a cigarette and watched Sylviane walk back past the row of garages, pause at the graffiti and fit the key to the lock. In the setting sun her shadow was long and thin.

  Maybe this one, he thought to himself. Maybe this time. And if the place was being watched, if the cops were waiting, all he had to do was put the car in gear and drive away. They wouldn't see him for dust.

  Up ahead he watched the door to the lock-up spring open and Sylviane step out of sight.

  It had been one hell of a week, Carnot reflected while he waited. So much had happened since that bastard had pressed a gun against the back of his head and taken him into custody. But judging by the way things had gone down, it was maybe just as well he'd missed the party.

  Raissac dead.

  Coupchoux dead.

  He'd seen the newspaper report of Raissac's murder half an hour after the cops released him Tuesday morning, pending inquiries. Then, searching the pages for more information about the hit in Cassis, he'd chanced upon the single paragraph devoted to Coupchoux's unfortunate accident on Republique.

  But nothing, nothing at all, about any drugs haul. Not a single word. As Carnot saw it, either the two hundred kilos of cocaine scheduled for landing the previous day were sitting in a bonded warehouse down at the docks, waiting for a pick-up that would never happen. Or, in his absence, they'd been spirited away by Raissac and Coupchoux before the ship docked. It wouldn't have been the first time someone had done a transfer at night, ship to ship, and with Carnot sitting in a cell on rue de l'Evêché it was just the kind of move Raissac would have made. Plan A compromised. Go to Plan B. It's what Carnot would have done in Raissac's shoes.

  And if they'd done that, Carnot reasoned, then the chances were high that the load had been secured in one of the half-dozen lock-ups that Raissac kept in town. Stored safely until the deal went down.

  And he, Carnot, had the keys to every single one of them.

  But there were still risks. If Narcotics had made a connection between him and Raissac they'd be watching him like a hawk, looking to trace the coke. And collar him in the process. So he'd gone back to his apartment and stayed only long enough to pick up the keys and get out of there. What he needed was somewhere to hole up, some place they didn't know about.

  It hadn't taken him long to work out where. Sylviane's apartment. There was no chance she'd turn him away, not with the Cours Lieutaud place on offer. Even if she'd read about Raissac, he'd easily persuade her it was still a runner, that he could fix it. No problem. So that's where he'd gone, waiting for this moment, waiting for the dust to settle.

  Two hundred kilos of pure, uncut cocaine. And all his, no one left to chase him down. No Raissac. No Coupchoux. No one. If it worked out right, he was made for life. And Sylviane wouldn't be a problem. He'd sort her.

  Five minutes later she was back in the car, the key dangling on the end of her finger.

  'Sacks, you said?'

  Carnot nodded, taking the key.

  'W
ell, they're there okay. Eight of them.'

  Carnot pursed his lips, gave a short, non-committal grunt, and started up the car.

  But inside he whooped with an exultant, crazy, disbelieving delight and his heart soared. Oh yeah!

  98

  Cavaillon, Friday, October 21st

  Jacquot felt the chill as he stepped into Place Lombard and he turned up his collar against it. It was warm enough during the hours of daylight, but once the sun slid away over the rooftops it wasn't long before the shadowy lanes and empty squares of Cavaillon grew grim and cheerless. Which just about summed up how Jacquot felt in this small provincial market town where he'd been transferred following his spat with Gastal.

  It was Guimpier, still nursing a black eye, who had made the call. Gastal was pressing charges, Guimpier told him, which meant there'd have to be a disciplinary hearing. And then there was Lamonzie. The old man was sorry but there was nothing he could do. Three weeks later Jacquot had been given two choices: Cavaillon, and a spell with their undermanned regional crime squad. Or early retirement. Take it or leave it. As for the ongoing Waterman investigation, Guimpier was handing it over to Bernie Muzon.

  So Jacquot packed up the apartment at Madame Foraque's, paid her three months' rent in advance and told her to let the place out as soon as she could. He'd be back, he told her, but he didn't know when. There were tears in the old girl's eyes as he jammed his bags in the back of the Peugeot and drove north to Cavaillon.

  Of course, Isabelle Cassier had made everything easier. She came up to Cavaillon the first weekend and helped him find a place to live, helped him furnish it and kept him company whenever she could get away, keeping him up to date on all the gossip: how Gastal had been bypassed by Lamonzie and then, out of the blue, promoted to an ill-deserved posting in Lyons; how the Waterman seemed to be lying low; how Guimpier was already hustling for Jacquot's reinstatement; and that Lamonzie was blocking the move at every turn.

  Then, the beginning of October, Isabelle phoned him one evening, an evening she was supposed to be visiting, and announced that she wouldn't be coming after all. Gently, without any anger or resentment, she explained that she knew his heart wasn't in it, and that she understood. Sure, it had been fun, but it wasn't doing her any good, she told him, and maybe the time had come to call it a day. Best to stay friends, she'd said. And Jacquot hadn't pressed her, just thanked her for all she'd done and wished her good luck. Told her to take care.

  Two weeks on, unlocking the street door, checking his empty mail slot in the hallway and then scuffling up the four flights of stairs to his apartment, Jacquot knew she'd been right to end it. His heart hadn't been in it. But that didn't mean he didn't miss her. The weekend off and no one to share it with, two whole days stretching out ahead of him with no prospect of company.

  Letting himself into his apartment, a cramped one-bedroom space under the eaves overlooking Cours Bournissac, Jacquot hung his coat on the peg behind the door and pulled off the rubber band from his ponytail. Fifteen minutes later, showered and shampooed, wrapped in a dressing gown, he went back to the front door, dug around in his coat pockets and pulled out a small brown paper bag. Inside was a nuggety black truffle presented to him that afternoon as a thank-you from a farmer he had helped out a week or two earlier. 'Makes a woman soft and a man hard,' the old fellow had said as he pressed the bag into Jacquot's hand. Already the apartment reeked of its scent, as did his office.

  Taking it through to the kitchen, Jacquot rolled the gnarled tuber between his fingers, savouring the woody, earthy aroma, and tried to decide what to do with it. There was a good stock he'd made the previous day - though nowhere near as good as the Widow Foraque's - and he decided a plain risotto would do the truffle justice. Until he discovered he was out of rice. There was only one thing for it. Cracking some eggs in a bowl, Jacquot whisked up an omelette, shaved a good half of the truffle into its heart and folded it over. Atrocious waste, he thought to himself, taking his plate through to his sitting room, switching on the TV and settling himself in the sofa. Shameful. Wicked. He sliced off a corner of the omelette with his fork, popped it into his mouth and smiled luxuriously. He was still smiling half an hour later when the phone rang.

  It was Bernie Muzon in Marseilles.

  Although the two men hadn't spoken since his suspension in May, when Muzon had interrupted Jacquot's desk-clearing to wish him luck and help him lug his belongings down to the underground car park, Jacquot recognised the voice immediately.

  'So,' prompted Jacquot, after the preliminaries were dispensed with - the how-are-yous, the catching up, a grumble about Guimpier, and the news that Isabelle had transferred to Paris.

  At the end of the line, Muzon cleared his throat.

  Thought you'd like to know. He's started again.'

  Jacquot didn't need to be told who Muzon was talking about.

  'Marseilles?'

  'Not Marseilles. You were right, there. Not a thing since you left. This time it's Aix.'

  'Aix-en-Provence?'

  'No, Aix-les-Bains.'

  'How did you find out?'

  'An old friend from Academy days. Lescure. Ferdie Lescure. He heads Serious Crime in the Savoy. Based in Grenoble. Two bodies so far. Out of the lake. Lac du Bourget. At first they thought it was just drownings. Or rather, that's how the local boys filed it. Until Lescure discovered the bodies had washed up naked. He knew about Marseilles and ordered tests . . .'

  'Pronoprazone.'

  'Dioxy. . .' There was a pause on the end of the line, Muzon trying to get his tongue round the word. 'Dioxymi. . . Di-oxy-mi-ro-pla-zo-hyp-nol.' The name came out in laboured syllables. 'Jesus,' said Muzon. "Why don't they ever use words you can pronounce?'

  'And?'

  'Same basic effect as pronoprazone, but even faster acting. There's a derivative, much weaker, called Rohypnol. Remember? The date-rape drug? But this one, this dioxy-whatsit, it's a whole heap stronger. Just a scratch with a needle and you're out.'

  'Easy to get hold of?'

  'Very difficult,' replied Muzon. 'Only a dozen or so hospitals in the country. Geriatric centres for the most part. In dilution, it's used as a pre-med in geriatric surgery. According to Clisson, who got it from Valéry, it lowers the risk of blood clots forming during anaesthesia.'

  'And these hospitals are where, exactly?'

  'Well, there's two in Aix for starters. Which got Lescure geared up. He checked their dispensary records against stock and found a discrepancy at one of them. Very small, but a discrepancy all the same. Something like two phials unaccounted for. Just fifty milligrams total, but enough to put a whole street to sleep.'

  He's made a mistake, thought Jacquot. The Waterman's made a mistake. Changing the drug: his only access a very limited, secure source. Which he probably didn't know about.

  'He's in the business,' said Jacquot. 'Has to be. A doctor or a nurse.'

  'Looks that way,' said Muzon. 'And there's something else.'

  Jacquots favourite words.

  'Yes?'

  'They've had a complaint. Came in while Lescure was visiting. Seems there's a girl reckons she's being followed, stalked.'

  'Any description?'

  'Nothing. She said she'd never seen anything. Anyone.

  Said it was just a feeling. Nothing she could put a finger on. But she was certain someone was tailing her. And she was scared. Really spooked. If Lescure hadn't been there, the local boys would probably have filed a domestic and done nothing about it.'

  'So what got Lescure interested?'

  'This girl, she works on the lake. Ferry terminal.'

  'He's a smart one, your friend. So why's he calling you? Sounds like he's got it stitched up.'

  'He wanted to speak to you. Didn't know you'd . . . moved on. I told him about Gastal. What happened.' Muzon paused. 'They're setting up something. He thought you'd like to be in on it. Maybe do the honours.'

  Three days later, after calling Lescure, Jacquot arranged a leave of absence from Cava
illon and took the autoroute north, branching east at Valence for the final lap to Aix-les-Bains.

  99

  Aix-les-Bains, Friday, October 28th

  It was time to move on, the Waterman decided. Time to move again.

  In Aix-les-Bains the tourist season was over. From now till the spring the old and infirm, the lame and the halt would reclaim this ancient place. Grey-haired curistes with their sticks and their stabilisers, their hobbling and shaking, their crumpled, anxious faces.

  The Waterman strolled along a gravel path that followed the shoreline, watching the ferry from Chanaz scratch a rippling, feathery path across the dark waters of Lac du Bourget. Already, the Waterman noticed, its decks were more thinly packed than the previous week. There were clouds, too, gathering behind the peaks of the Dent du Chat and a chill breeze was sweeping the leaves along. Winter knocking at the door.