Read Online Jacquot and the Waterman by Martin O'Brien - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Martin O'Brien
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his elbows in a plongeur's yellow rubber gloves. And trying to catch his attention.
Jacquot had never planned calling in at Molineux's. But then, he hadn't planned any of the things he'd done in the hours after dropping Gastal at Headquarters. It was just that going back to his empty apartment was not a prospect Jacquot relished. So he put it off, parked his car in rue Thiars and did the rounds - a cold Guinness at O'Sullivan's, another drink along the quai at Bar de la Marine, before ducking down rue Neot for a steak at La Carnerie and some attentive mothering from Gassi, the proprietors wife. Fifty dressed as thirty, Gassis smile was as wide as her hips and her skirt as short as her breath. Jacquot adored her; and she adored him right back.
La Carnerie, a basement bistro that served only meat in a city block that at pavement level served only fish, was as it should have been at a little after nine on a Monday evening - a few meals ending, others just beginning - but not so busy that Jacquot's favourite spot in a screened corner was taken. The table might still be covered with dirty plates and breadcrumbs but the chairs were as empty as the bottle and glasses. He nodded to Leon in his chefs whites, taking a restorative marc at the bar, and settled himself down. In an instant, Gassi was at his side, shooing away the waitress and doing the job herself, clucking away as she cleaned the table and set it for one.
'Such a long time, Monsieur Daniel, we don't see you . . . you're looking pale, and thin, you need some more weight, and someone to go home to at night, n'est-ce pas?' She'd snapped open a napkin, used it to flick away the last remaining crumbs from the chequered cloth, then spread it in his lap. 'Don't tell me. The pavé ? Just a little bit over the rare?'
Jacquot smiled, nodded. 'And a demi. Bandol,' he added, as she turned to go.
While he waited for his steak and his wine, Jacquot decided he had two choices. Think about Boni, or think about work. He opted for work and fell to musing about the case that had come to occupy most of his time, the murders he'd been investigating with Rully and the rest of his squad, going over the facts to see if there was something they'd missed, some connection they hadn't made.
Like the journey home, he knew the route by heart.
Three bodies in the last three months. Three young women. The primary-school teacher Yvonne Ballarde drowned in her bath; the shop-assistant Joline Grez dumped in the fountain at Longchamp; and now the owner of the tattoo in his pocket, the body in the lake up at Salon-le-Vitry. Not to mention four naked bodies washed up along the coast between Carry-le-Rouet and Toulon since last summer. Bodies that could have been tagged as murder victims were it not for the absence of matching forensic evidence, any likely indication of foul play long compromised by the fishes and the rocks after weeks in the water. Three confirmed homicides, four 'maybes'. Seven possible murders in less than twelve months. Maybe others they hadn't found. Would never find.
But always the water - salt or fresh - the victims routinely drugged, abused and drowned. And still not a single suspect, no one worth bringing in for questioning. They'd been over Grez's and Ballarde's families and friends like a rash. Nothing. No links. No leads. No coincidences or inconsistencies. And nothing that touched Jacquot's instincts, nothing that gave him pause for thought. Painstaking, time-consuming investigation with no return.
But now, with this third confirmed victim, Jacquot sensed a way forward. This time, this girl up at Salon-le-Vitry, this one would set them on their way. Jacquot was sure of it. And the tattoo was the place to start.
Two hours later, the pave demolished and three demis downed instead of one, Jacquot was standing beside his car and wondering whether he should drive home. He shook his head, pocketed the keys, and decided to walk.
Which was how, ten minutes later, he'd found himself outside
Jacquot had never planned calling in at Molineux's. But then, he hadn't planned any of the things he'd done in the hours after dropping Gastal at Headquarters. It was just that going back to his empty apartment was not a prospect Jacquot relished. So he put it off, parked his car in rue Thiars and did the rounds - a cold Guinness at O'Sullivan's, another drink along the quai at Bar de la Marine, before ducking down rue Neot for a steak at La Carnerie and some attentive mothering from Gassi, the proprietors wife. Fifty dressed as thirty, Gassis smile was as wide as her hips and her skirt as short as her breath. Jacquot adored her; and she adored him right back.
La Carnerie, a basement bistro that served only meat in a city block that at pavement level served only fish, was as it should have been at a little after nine on a Monday evening - a few meals ending, others just beginning - but not so busy that Jacquot's favourite spot in a screened corner was taken. The table might still be covered with dirty plates and breadcrumbs but the chairs were as empty as the bottle and glasses. He nodded to Leon in his chefs whites, taking a restorative marc at the bar, and settled himself down. In an instant, Gassi was at his side, shooing away the waitress and doing the job herself, clucking away as she cleaned the table and set it for one.
'Such a long time, Monsieur Daniel, we don't see you . . . you're looking pale, and thin, you need some more weight, and someone to go home to at night, n'est-ce pas?' She'd snapped open a napkin, used it to flick away the last remaining crumbs from the chequered cloth, then spread it in his lap. 'Don't tell me. The pavé ? Just a little bit over the rare?'
Jacquot smiled, nodded. 'And a demi. Bandol,' he added, as she turned to go.
While he waited for his steak and his wine, Jacquot decided he had two choices. Think about Boni, or think about work. He opted for work and fell to musing about the case that had come to occupy most of his time, the murders he'd been investigating with Rully and the rest of his squad, going over the facts to see if there was something they'd missed, some connection they hadn't made.
Like the journey home, he knew the route by heart.
Three bodies in the last three months. Three young women. The primary-school teacher Yvonne Ballarde drowned in her bath; the shop-assistant Joline Grez dumped in the fountain at Longchamp; and now the owner of the tattoo in his pocket, the body in the lake up at Salon-le-Vitry. Not to mention four naked bodies washed up along the coast between Carry-le-Rouet and Toulon since last summer. Bodies that could have been tagged as murder victims were it not for the absence of matching forensic evidence, any likely indication of foul play long compromised by the fishes and the rocks after weeks in the water. Three confirmed homicides, four 'maybes'. Seven possible murders in less than twelve months. Maybe others they hadn't found. Would never find.
But always the water - salt or fresh - the victims routinely drugged, abused and drowned. And still not a single suspect, no one worth bringing in for questioning. They'd been over Grez's and Ballarde's families and friends like a rash. Nothing. No links. No leads. No coincidences or inconsistencies. And nothing that touched Jacquot's instincts, nothing that gave him pause for thought. Painstaking, time-consuming investigation with no return.
But now, with this third confirmed victim, Jacquot sensed a way forward. This time, this girl up at Salon-le-Vitry, this one would set them on their way. Jacquot was sure of it. And the tattoo was the place to start.
Two hours later, the pave demolished and three demis downed instead of one, Jacquot was standing beside his car and wondering whether he should drive home. He shook his head, pocketed the keys, and decided to walk.
Which was how, ten minutes later, he'd found himself outside
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