Jacquot and the Waterman

by Martin O'Brien

  At a drinking fountain beside the path the Waterman leant down to take a drink, a loop of cool water, eyes searching out the ferry office a hundred metres away, at the entrance to the landing quay.

  There was a girl there . . .

  Two Sundays back the Waterman had bought a ticket from her, a half-day cruise across the lake to the Abbaye de Hautecombe. Their fingers had touched as money changed hands and the ticket was issued. As close as that. Young, blonde bobbed hair with a clip either side, dressed in a black polo neck and short check skirt. And so much prettier than the others. Not a trace of make-up. Freckles and blue eyes. She'd even smiled.

  The Waterman had been watching her for more than a month now, drawing the moment out. Here at the quay, idling past to take a look, to see if she was there; and sometimes calling in at the Casino where she worked nights behind the grille of the Caisse.

  It just seemed the right thing to do, getting to know her like this. It suggested respect, a sense of closeness. The Waterman knew where she lived, knew where she shopped and, even, what she liked to eat. Once, in the supermarché on the corner of Boulevard Wilson, there'd been a small steak in her basket and a bag of frisee salad. The Waterman bought the same, cooked the meat that evening, prepared the salad and laid two places; it was like having dinner together.

  The Waterman even knew her name.

  Ginette. Ginette Brunet.

  Just one more time. That was what the Waterman had decided. Just one more time. Before moving on again.

  Fresh water, too. The Waterman's favourite. So pure and clean. And here in Aix-les-Bains, so much of it, springing up from the earth, lapping at the shore, gushing here, there and everywhere. Urgent. Persuasive. The pulse of it. Irresistible.

  The Waterman found a park bench and sat down, watching the ferry manoeuvre into the dock. The last of the day. When the final passenger disembarked, they'd secure the terminal for the night, close the ticket office, and Ginette Brunet would make her way home, along this very path.

  Like so many times in the last few weeks, the Waterman would follow. Past the Marina, the short cut through the woods, across that little stream with its deep swirling pools. Only this time the Waterman would catch her up, take her. . .

  'Excusez-moi, Madame?'

  The man had come from nowhere, startled her. There was an unlit cigarette in his hand.

  Did she have a lighter, the stranger asked? Some matches?

  She knew she didn't, but felt in the pockets of her mackintosh all the same, patted the pockets of her nurse's pants suit, really just to be polite. She looked up to shake her head and paused. A familiar face. Somewhere, she knew, she'd seen that face before. The size of him. The bulk. The gently broken nose, those sleepy green eyes and the way his hair was tied back in a ponytail.

  The stranger smiled, flicked away the cigarette and sat down beside her, gathering his overcoat into his lap. He took a deep breath, savouring the evening air, and looked out across the lake.

  The Waterman looked too. But it wasn't the view that drew her attention, the darkening sheet of water, the sheer sides of the Dent du Chat rising above them a mile across the lake. It was the girl she saw, Ginette, her dear Ginette, standing outside the ticket booth, arms folded across her chest as though she were keeping off the cold, hunched, shivering. Two men stood beside her, either side, as though shielding her. One looked to be speaking into his lapel. A radio.

  The Waterman glanced back along the path, towards the town. A police car had drawn up in the small car park and three men leant against it, looking in her direction.

  She turned and glanced behind her, into the trees. Uniforms. Capes. Kepis. Five, maybe more, closing in.

  And somewhere far off the wail of a siren.

  The man beside her stretched out his legs, crossed his ankles, and sighed.

  'Its been a long time, Madame,' he said.

  100

  Cavaillon, Friday, November 4th

  'Cest une femme?'

  Solange Bonnefoy didn't need to introduce herself. The voice was enough for Jacquot to know exactly who was phoning him that blustery Friday morning.

  'Une femme,' he replied, settling behind his desk. Rain rattled against his window, still dripped from the coat that hung behind his door.

  'Not what we expected, Chief Inspector?'

  'Not at all, Madame.'

  'But she is the one?'

  'Without question.'

  There was a pained sigh at the end of the line. 'You forget, Daniel. I'm an examining magistrate, remember? I don't do "without question".'

  'From the beginning, then?'

  'If you please.'

  Jacquot reached for his cigarettes, lit up and pulled the

  ashtray closer. He swung his chair round, put his feet on the corner of his desk, crossed his ankles and made himself comfortable.

  The man in charge of the investigation, Ferdie Lescure, hears about two bodies washed up near Aix-les-Bains. Both female. Both in their twenties. Both naked. The bodies were found about three miles from each other, seven weeks apart. Both women were tourists. One was staying in Aix, the other further up the lake at a campsite near Brison-les-Oliviers. According to the pathologist both women had been drinking heavily just before they died, which was why the local boys put them down as accidental drownings. The girls get drunk, decide to go skinny-dipping; it's night-time, they get into trouble ... it happens.'

  'Stop making excuses,' scolded Madame Bonnefoy.

  'Anyway,' continued Jacquot. 'Its too late to check the first body because she's been flown home to Stockholm and cremated. But the second's still in the Aix morgue. So Lescure orders a test for pronoprazone

  'And it's positive.'

  'Negative. No pronoprazone. Not a trace. But the pathologist finds something else, something even more effective. Another drug - don't ask me to give you the name - but from a very limited source. Maybe a dozen hospitals in the country. And in Aix, just two private clinics, something like forty beds between them. The other nearest outlet is Lyons. So Lescure checks their dispensary supplies, finds a minute discrepancy at one of them and takes a look at personnel

  "We didn't think of doing this in Marseilles?' There was a vexed edge to Madame Bonnefoy s voice.

  'We thought of it, of course, and we had people working on it. I told you that, remember? But Marseilles is a whole lot bigger than Aix, Madame. By a long way. Which means more hospital beds, more staff, and less efficient paperwork. Just think. . . State and private, specialist and general - convalescent homes, geriatric centres, hospices, asylums . . . you name it. All with access to pronoprazone. Maybe we would have got there in the end, but. .

  'Yes, yes, yes ... I remember. Resources. So what does our enterprising Lescure discover?'

  Jacquot smiled. He could tell from the way she said it that Madame Bonnefoy had savoured the 'enterprising'.

  'Nothing,' he replied. 'Every single member of staff at the clinic, from doctors down to orderlies, lives in Aix. At least three years. As far as their records show, everyone's local. So then, as a last resort, Lescure checks leaves of absence, holiday rosters and discovers that over the last eight years one member of staff, a Julianne Perot, comes and goes on a fairly regular, and significant, basis. A month away. Four months. It varies. But she always comes back to Aix. According to the clinic, she was employed part- time, got called in when they were busy, or to cover for staff holidays or illness. A first-class orthopaedic nurse, apparently; they'd tried to contract her full-time but she said she couldn't do it. Something about having to care for an elderly relation.'

  'You said "significant".'

  Jacquot leant forward and stubbed out his cigarette. 'The dates of her various absences. Although the clinic had no idea where she went, Lescure discovered that her trips away, ostensibly to care for this elderly relation, appeared to coincide with known Waterman activity.

  There was something else, too. While Lescure was in Aix, he happened to hear about a local girl who'd put
in a complaint that she was being followed. No description of the stalker, but when he heard that she worked at the ferry terminal he set up surveillance on our friendly nurse. Sure enough, she seemed to spend a lot of time lakeside, walking the shoreline, taking the ferry, that kind of thing.'

  'So what do we know about this Julianne Perot? Her background?'

  'Well, she's not Aixoise. And nor is she Marseillaise. We were right there. According to her employment records she comes from - you'll love this - Villars-les-Dombes.'

  'The Dombes? Lakeland?'

  'The same. Just along the road from Aix.'

  'What else?'

  'Forty-three years old. Unmarried. Only child. Both parents dead. Taken into care when she was thirteen. Finished school in Villars and trained as a nurse in Lyons, going on to specialise in orthopaedics. Co-workers at the clinic said she was friendly and conscientious but she kept to herself. After her arrest, the local police searched her home - a small, one-bedroom apartment a few streets from the clinic - but found nothing of any significance. Except for a stack of tourist brochures, maps and guides to—'

  'Don't tell me,' interrupted Madame Bonnefoy. 'Marseilles, La Rochelle ..."

  '. . . Cherbourg, Dieppe, Annecy. In Marseilles, Lescure discovered that she worked at La Conception. Four months.' Jacquot thought it prudent not to add that it was the same hospital where his partner, Rully, had been laid up. The possibility that Jacquot might have passed the Waterman in a corridor, shared a lift with her, or that Rully might have had his pillows plumped by her had not escaped him.

  There was a long pause at the end of the line. And then:

  What else? There's something you're not telling me, Daniel. I know it.'

  Jacquot smiled, recrossed his ankles. He was enjoying this.

  'Her parents.'

  'Yes?'

  'They both drowned.'

  'Drowned? You are joking?'

  'Absolutely not, Madame.'

  'So? Tell me.'

  'After Perot's arrest, Lescure had a couple of his boys go to Villars, ask around. According to police files, her father died first. Nearly forty years ago. The family had a smallholding, a few hectares outside Bouligneux. Maize in the summer, fish, a few ducks. He was clearing a channel between two ponds when a sluice gate gave way. The weight of water crushed him against the second sluice gate and that was that. Accidental death.'

  'And the other?'

  'Perot's mother died ten years later. Cause of death, a heart attack, in the bath.'

  'Incredible.'

  'But that's not all,' continued Jacquot, saving the best for last. 'She'd been raped first.'

  After a second's delay, Madame Bonnefoy came back on the line: 'Did they find who did it?'

  'They drew a blank. No suspects. No arrest.' 'What about the daughter? She was what, fifteen, fourteen? Didn't she see anything, hear anything?'

  'Asleep in bed, according to the reports. Didn't see or hear a thing. And there's something else. While Lescure's boys were in Villars they traced a journalist who'd covered the case for the local paper. Old fellow, retired now, called Davide. According to him, it wasn't the happiest of families. Father was a drunk, mother a loud-mouth and bully. People he spoke to after her death seemed to think "good riddance". She wasn't popular. There were even whispers that she might have been responsible for her husband's death. Apparently his skull had been fractured, but this was put down to the force of water hurling him against the sluice gate. Whatever, no one had a good word for her, but they all said how sorry they felt for the daughter, growing up in a home like that.'

  'Abusive?'

  'Who can say, Madame? It was a long time ago.'

  'So where is she now, the daughter?'

  'Police custody in Grenoble. But not for much longer. Lescure says he'll have to release her for clinical evaluation. If she won't talk, won't cooperate, he has no option.'

  'Maybe the doctors will get somewhere with her.'

  'I'm not holding my breath.'

  'You don't think so?'

  Jacquot shook his head as though Solange Bonnefoy was across the desk from him. 'She was blank, Madame. Just closed down.'

  'You were there?'

  'At the lake. Sitting beside her, Madame.'

  'In Aix? That's Savoyard jurisdiction.'

  Jacquot smiled. Just the kind of thing Marseilles's examining magistrate would latch onto. 'Chief Inspector Lescure was kind enough to include me in his team,' he replied.

  'Impressions?'

  'Lescure or the Waterman?'

  There was silence down the line, then another sigh.

  'Resigned,' said Jacquot. 'Not particularly happy at being picked up, but not sorry either.'

  'I heard she tried to make a run for it.'

  'Hardly a run, Madame. When I introduced myself, she gave me a long, hard look, as though she recognised me from somewhere, then got up and started walking away - like I'd said something offensive, propositioned her, you know? It was Lescure who did the honours, falling in beside her. Took her arm in his and just steered her along the path to a car.'

  'A good result, then.'

  'A good result, Madame.'

  There was another silence from Solange Bonnefoy. And then: 'So when are you coming home to Marseilles, Daniel? We miss you.'

  'Who can say, Madame?' replied Jacquot, swinging round in his chair, watching the rain spatter across his window. 'Who can say?'

  Dorothy Linda O'Brien 17th 1921 - September 4th 2000