37

‘TELL ME WHAT’S WRONG.’

Claudine laid down her paintbrush, one of a set she’d bought in the Forcalquier supplies shop, and took the mug of coffee that Jacquot had brought through from the kitchen. It was Sunday morning and she had started early in her studio – working on one of the largest canvases she’d attempted, a giant watermelon hacked open, spilling juice and seeds, with a peacock stepping past it, all deep reds and greens.

She pulled out a stool and settled herself on it, legs crossed, one heel clipped over the runner, holding the mug between her hands and sipping carefully.

‘You were in such a low mood at lunch yesterday, and you drank far too much. Even Midou noticed.’

‘Was I? Yes, I suppose I was,’ he began, thinking of his talk with Davide Chabran, remembering the sadness he’d felt as he drove back to Forcalquier for lunch – for the old man, so lost now and lonely in that empty house; and for Marie-Ange and Léo too. Such a loss, such a waste.

‘It’s to do with those friends of yours who died, isn’t it?’

Jacquot nodded, leant back against her mixing table, folded his arms. When Claudine had asked about them the previous Sunday, he had told her that they were colleagues, that they had worked on some cases together, and provided no further information. But things were different now. Since he was certain that the murders of Izzy Gilbert, Antoine Berri, Minette, Léo and Marie-Ange were linked, had been carried out by the same people, with a high probability that the motive was revenge for the killing of the Manichella brothers – either Virginie Cabrille on her own account, using some unknown muscle, or members of the Manichella family (they were Corsican, after all), or a third possibility as yet unknown – it was increasingly clear that his own name would be on the killers’ list. And that Claudine and Midou, as his nearest and dearest, were now at risk. He had worked undercover on the Lafour case, been a part of the action in the Golfe du Lion, and had stood beside Claude Peluze at the house in Roucas Blanc when Virginie Cabrille was led way in handcuffs. Since the deaths of Léo and Marie-Ange, this had preyed on his mind – the ‘low mood’ that Claudine was talking about – leaving him silent and uncommunicative, given to prowling round the grounds at odd times, checking that all the doors were locked at night, always keeping an eye open for a dark-coloured VW and on the look-out for anyone watching the property, anxious whenever Claudine and Midou went anywhere without him.

Catching Claudine’s eyes fixed on him over the rim of her coffee mug, Jacquot realised the time had come to explain himself, to let her and Midou know what was going on. And this he did, quietly, soberly, holding up a finger when Claudine tried to interrupt, until he had finished outlining his case – the murders, the links, and the biblical allusions which so clearly pointed at revenge as the motive. It would be interesting to see if, with all the information to hand, she came to the same conclusion. That she and Midou were at risk.

‘So these new murders, these are your “filling stations”?’

He smiled at the reference, remembering what he had told her after Gilbert’s death, and nodded.

‘So how long is it between the murders?’ she asked.

‘About a month, give or take. Time for them to set things up properly. Although they’ve had since the shoot-out last November to plan it all.’

‘And you’re suggesting there’s a possibility they may strike here? At us? Midou and me?’

‘A strong likelihood, in my professional opinion,’ corrected Jacquot. ‘And not just here, in the house. Anywhere.’

‘Well, you’re not sending us off somewhere, on our own, to be out of danger, I can tell you that. We are staying put.’

Jacquot smiled. He had certainly thought about sending them away, somewhere safe, maybe as far away as Midou’s home in the French West Indies. But where was safe? Where was out of reach for such professional, single-minded killers with revenge in their hearts? The answer, he’d concluded, was nowhere. So he’d already decided that Claudine and her daughter were better off staying here, at the millhouse, around Cavaillon, where he could keep an eye on them, life as normal. And he would have argued his case vigorously if Claudine had suggested otherwise. But, of course, she hadn’t.

‘I kind of feel safer in my own backyard,’ she continued. ‘If you know what I mean? Doing the things I normally do. Routine. Of course, it would be better if Midou hadn’t decided to come and stay, but there we are. We can look out for each other.’

And with that she put down the coffee mug, pushed off her stool and picked up her paintbrush and palette.

‘But right now you are wasting my time. And yours. Haven’t you got lunch to cook? Out with you. Out. Out.’