Jacquot and the Waterman (74 page)

'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

B
asquet 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. The two men crossed the terrace towards him. One of them seemed familiar. As they drew closer, Basquet remembered where he'd seen him before.

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.

The two men walked down the hallway and into the salon. It was a night-time room - the blinds closed, the ceiling light still on - and clearly the scene of a struggle: a rug in the centre of the room was rucked; a chair lay on its back; and a blue silk gown, tossed onto the sofa, was darkly stained around its lacy cream neckline.

Gastal went to the gown and picked it up. The silk and lace were stiffly creased. He pulled at the material and the stained patch parted with dry, resisting ticks. The two men looked at each other. They had the right place.

While Gastal stepped through into the kitchen, Jacquot went to the bedroom. The same scent, but stronger here. The curtains half drawn, stirred by a ceiling fan, a soft evening light showing through open shutters. But no lights on in here, unlike the salon. Nothing out of place. Jacquot walked over to the bed, which was garlanded with pink silk drapes hanging from the ceiling. Only one of the pillows was crumpled, one side of the bed slept in, the top sheet pushed aside, just as anyone would push aside a sheet when they got out of bed. Whoever had slept here the night before had slept alone.

Jacquot crossed the room to a small dressing table set into a wall of panelled cupboards. Amongst the paraphernalia of make-up was a single silver-framed photo. He picked it up. A posed studio shot. Head and shoulders tilted to the lens, something a model might keep in her portfolio. A younger, prettier Anais Cuvry; the features were unmistakable. The face he'd seen at Vallon des Auffes.

Back in the salon, Jacquot tried to work it out. From the beginning.

First, and most important, no damage to the front door. Which meant one of two things: either Mademoiselle Cuvry opened it herself, or the killer had a key. One of her clients? A lover calling by late? Since the bed had been slept in, it seemed unlikely that the visit had been expected. As far as Jacquot could see, the victim had been woken by someone coming into the house or ringing the doorbell late at night.

But certainly the caller was someone she knew. Either because he had a key, or because she had let him in. Since there was no spyhole in the front door, and she wouldn't have been able to see who was there, a visitor without a key must have said something, made himself known. Or Mademoiselle Cuvry would surely have put the chain on its runner before opening up.

Gastal came out of the kitchen. 'Nothing in there, or the bathroom,' he said. 'You check the bedroom?'

Jacquot nodded, but Gastal went to take a look all the same.

So. Someone the victim knows arrives at the house. They come in here, into the salon. But they don't go through to the bedroom. Significant? Possibly.

And here in the salon, judging by the chair and the rug and the bloodstained gown, some land of confrontation had taken place, a struggle, which ended with the murder of Mademoiselle Cuvry.

One thing Jacquot knew for sure, the late-night caller hadn't come to kill. If he had, he'd have come prepared, brought his own weapon. This killing had been spontaneous, the heat of the moment. Snatching up the closest thing to hand, the Zoffany letter-opener, the killer had buried the blade in the victim's neck when her back was turned.

Afterwards, Jacquot guessed, the body had been stripped and carried out to a car, to be rolled off the Vallons des Auffes flyover, no more than a couple of miles from where he stood. Right now, in the evening rush hour, it would be nose-to-tail down there. But late at night, last night judging by the dried blood, a Sunday, it would have been a far quieter stretch of road - easy enough to pull over, dump the body and drive on without anyone seeing a thing.

Just like Grez's body at Longchamp. Make it look like another Waterman killing. Something to cover the killers tracks.

Then, standing there in the middle of the room, something caught Jacquot s eye.

On the table by the sofa.

Just lying there.

A round yellow tin.

Lajaunie's
cachou
pastilles.

'So?' said Gastal, coming out of the bedroom, fingering a slip of silk he'd found, lifting it to his nose. 'What next?'

'La Joliette,' Jacquot replied quietly. 'A company called Valadeau on Quai du Lazaret. There's a man there we need to see.'

It was rare that Céléstine took a nap in the afternoon and she felt strangely out of sorts as she pushed aside the sheet and swung her feet to the floor. She'd slept longer than she'd intended, the room cooler now than when she'd come up here, and the sun so low that shadows tented its corners. It was almost dark enough to switch on a light, but Céléstine left it as it was. She showered, and felt revived, selected a pair of slacks and a blouse and dressed quickly. It was nearly seven when she arrived downstairs, a cardigan draped over her shoulders, her hair brushed but still damp, the taste of spearmint on her tongue, a lick of lipstick, and a spray of Heliotrope on throat and wrists.