showroom; then sweep the forecourt, making him squeeze behind the blue pool moulds that rested against the side wall to finish the job off properly; and then, when Sardé should have been stopping for lunch, Picquart had him dismantle and fix two faulty filtration units that had come back to the workshop in the last few days. It was an easy enough job, but in the early afternoon the heat in the workshop was cruel. In twenty minutes the sweat was rolling off him as he manoeuvred the units around the workbench. And dirty work too. Oil on his fingers, working its way into his cuticles, the very devil to get out. As if Picquart had known it would annoy him.
Then, last of all, right when he was thinking he could call it a day - the yard swept, the filtration units sorted, the van cleaned inside and out, stock-checked and re-equipped - out comes the creep to the workshop, fanning his face with the collar of his shirt, and tells him there's a chlorine job needs doing. Pronto. Out in Roucas Blanc.
Which made Sardé's heart beat a little faster. He took the order form from Picquart and read the address.
The de Catigny place. Ta-daa!
Thirty minutes later he was parking the Citroen van outside the back of the lady's house and calling up on the intercom from the lower gate.
The maid answered and buzzed him through. Three terraces later, each one densely laden with hibiscus and flowering jasmine, lawns cropped to a uniform toothbrush texture, Sardé set down his kit beside the pool and, taking his time, started the prep for the chlorine tests. But the setting sun was against him, burnishing every window with a sheet of gold. No matter where he went around the pool, taking his samples, no matter what the angle, standing or squatting, the sun had got there first. No chance to see through a single one of them.
Not like the first time, a few weeks back. Sardé had been right here, checking the flow gauges and drain flues, when he saw her in the library, running her fingers along the shelves like she was checking for dust or looking for a book. Only the lady was naked. Not a stitch. He couldn't take his eyes off her, and when she turned he was certain she must have seen him, couldn't have missed him where he was standing, shirt off in the sun, boner in his shorts. But she'd carried on like he wasn't there, just checking those shelves until she seemed to grow bored and left the room.
And it wasn't just the once, either. A week later he'd called by unannounced, on the maid's day off (easy enough to find out from the file in Picquart's office), wandered around the side of the house and there she was, Madame Suzie de Cotigny, in all her glory, spread out on a lounger by the pool. When she opened her eyes and saw him standing there, not twenty feet away, the coils of the suction cleaner slung across his shoulder, she'd just got to her feet and walked back to the house, naked as the day she was born, not a word, dragging a towel behind her.
Just like that. Like he wasn't even there.
Or maybe, precisely because he was there.
And the arse on her. The tits. Those legs. Holy Jesus, but she was brazen, parading herself round like that. As far as Sardé was concerned it was there on a plate, his for the taking, just a question of opportunity, timing. Just like the rest of them. When it came down to it, there was only one thing these rich, bored, spoiled women wanted and that was a little bit of action. A little work-out with the paid help. A little bit of rough and tumble while hubbie was off at work earning the bucks.
And he, Sardé, was the man.
Right now though, it looked like the lady of the house was a no-show, just the maid calling out to ask if he wanted a beer.
Which he did.
And a lot more besides.
14
B oni Milhaud loved underwear. Jacquot often wondered how she ever managed on her salary. In the two years they'd been together, Jacquot could swear to it, every time they passed Secrets Dessous on rue Saint Saens, or Pain de Sucre on rue
Then, last of all, right when he was thinking he could call it a day - the yard swept, the filtration units sorted, the van cleaned inside and out, stock-checked and re-equipped - out comes the creep to the workshop, fanning his face with the collar of his shirt, and tells him there's a chlorine job needs doing. Pronto. Out in Roucas Blanc.
Which made Sardé's heart beat a little faster. He took the order form from Picquart and read the address.
The de Catigny place. Ta-daa!
Thirty minutes later he was parking the Citroen van outside the back of the lady's house and calling up on the intercom from the lower gate.
The maid answered and buzzed him through. Three terraces later, each one densely laden with hibiscus and flowering jasmine, lawns cropped to a uniform toothbrush texture, Sardé set down his kit beside the pool and, taking his time, started the prep for the chlorine tests. But the setting sun was against him, burnishing every window with a sheet of gold. No matter where he went around the pool, taking his samples, no matter what the angle, standing or squatting, the sun had got there first. No chance to see through a single one of them.
Not like the first time, a few weeks back. Sardé had been right here, checking the flow gauges and drain flues, when he saw her in the library, running her fingers along the shelves like she was checking for dust or looking for a book. Only the lady was naked. Not a stitch. He couldn't take his eyes off her, and when she turned he was certain she must have seen him, couldn't have missed him where he was standing, shirt off in the sun, boner in his shorts. But she'd carried on like he wasn't there, just checking those shelves until she seemed to grow bored and left the room.
And it wasn't just the once, either. A week later he'd called by unannounced, on the maid's day off (easy enough to find out from the file in Picquart's office), wandered around the side of the house and there she was, Madame Suzie de Cotigny, in all her glory, spread out on a lounger by the pool. When she opened her eyes and saw him standing there, not twenty feet away, the coils of the suction cleaner slung across his shoulder, she'd just got to her feet and walked back to the house, naked as the day she was born, not a word, dragging a towel behind her.
Just like that. Like he wasn't even there.
Or maybe, precisely because he was there.
And the arse on her. The tits. Those legs. Holy Jesus, but she was brazen, parading herself round like that. As far as Sardé was concerned it was there on a plate, his for the taking, just a question of opportunity, timing. Just like the rest of them. When it came down to it, there was only one thing these rich, bored, spoiled women wanted and that was a little bit of action. A little work-out with the paid help. A little bit of rough and tumble while hubbie was off at work earning the bucks.
And he, Sardé, was the man.
Right now though, it looked like the lady of the house was a no-show, just the maid calling out to ask if he wanted a beer.
Which he did.
And a lot more besides.
14
B oni Milhaud loved underwear. Jacquot often wondered how she ever managed on her salary. In the two years they'd been together, Jacquot could swear to it, every time they passed Secrets Dessous on rue Saint Saens, or Pain de Sucre on rue
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