‘Of course I know her, she’s one of our regulars. She usually looks better than that. What do you want with her?’
Noria, in a daze, hears herself say:
‘She was murdered three days ago.’
Immediately, the news carries the length of the bar. Hubbub. Customers and waiters crowd round. ‘She used to come here often … with a girlfriend, always the same … Or a male friend who she played snooker with … do you want to see the snooker table? … Of course we know her … Murdered … Unbelievable …’
I must work fast and methodically, not get out of my depth, Noria keeps telling herself. Method, method. I can’t handle this on my own. Flashback: the police headquarters, the posters, the burden, the loneliness, the chief with his ‘be an angel’, while she stood there silent and humiliated. Difficult. Flashback, Bonfils: ‘My first corpse … you won’t learn much from watching me,’ a man who was more approachable.
‘I have to call my superiors at the station.’
A quarter of an hour later, Bonfils is there, still laid-back, but now with an air of mild astonishment.
‘It’s a stroke of luck, pure luck,’ says Noria, clutching her card wallet deep in her pocket.
‘Of course.’ A pause. ‘I’ve just spoken to the superintendent. We have the go-ahead to start taking statements here, he’ll inform the Crime Squad. He’s quite chuffed to have something to crow about. To work, young lady.’
First of all, the owner. A practical person, she’s rummaging through the credit card slips.
‘She had lunch here not long ago. Not Saturday or Sunday, on weekends there are fewer people and I’d remember. So Friday? That must be it.’ Aloud: ‘Who served her? Was it you, Roger? Which table, do you remember? Number 16 … There you are. Fatima Rashed …’
A shock. That name … Impossible to shake off the feeling that she and I could be distant cousins. Every fibre in me is resisting that kinship. Not with a victim, not with an abandoned corpse. A glance at Bonfils. If he dares say a thing, it’s war.
‘… Do you want her credit card number?’
Bonfils takes out his notebook and starts to write down the name and number, without saying a word and calls the station again, to have them find her address. Meanwhile, Ghozali sits on the terrace. Friday, the day of the murder. No panic. A steaming hot chocolate, little sips. A completely new feeling, a sort of joy in being alive. Beside her, men are arguing heatedly in a language she doesn’t recognise, as they fill in their betting slips.
Bonfils is back. The owner allocates them a round table, not far from the till but slightly set apart so they can question the waiters one by one along with any customers who have something to tell them. Bonfils settles down to take notes and allows Noria, who’s taken aback at first, to conduct the interviews. They finish with the barman quickly, his customers are waiting, and besides, she never used to sit at the bar, maybe a tomato juice from time to time, while waiting for a table, not even sure he’d recognise her. But the restaurant waiters are voluble.
‘A very beautiful girl, classy, tall, never wore make-up, casual clothes, easy-going.’
‘She came regularly, at least twice a week, maybe a bit more often, in the morning at around eleven, to have breakfast — café au lait and scrambled eggs — or lunch between one and two. She’d have the day’s special and a coffee. Never a dessert, never any alcohol, never any trouble.’
A waiter hangs a large slate at the entrance to the restaurant. Today’s special is Auvergne sausage and mashed potato with Tomme cheese. The regulars arrive. The owner waylays them at the bar and tells them the news, nods towards the cops’ table. The restaurant fills up. The atmosphere is friendly, the din grows louder, the waiters move from table to table, weaving around the plants. Noria continues to question Roger:
‘Did she come alone, or with someone?’
‘Sometimes alone, and sometimes with someone. Always the same two people. A tall girl who looked like a blonde version of her. Or a man, average-looking, hard to describe, not very tall, not very good-looking, thirty-something, maybe a bit older.’
‘Have this man or this girl been back since last Friday?’
‘No. We haven’t seen them.’
‘Friday, what time did she come?’
He casts his mind back.
‘It’s hard to say exactly. I think it was just before the lunchtime rush. Probably earlier than usual. Around twelve, twelve thirty maybe …’
‘Was she on her own?’
‘No, with the guy. And after lunch, they played snooker, in the basement. They often played. One day, I watched the game, we weren’t very busy and I’d finished serving. She played better than him. Much better focus. In my opinion, she was quite an authoritarian woman. I reckon she wore the trousers as they say. But we never saw her arguing with her two friends.’
The restaurant is now packed, the noise level very high. For the cops, it’s lunch break. They listen to two elderly pensioners on the next table complaining.
‘Nowadays, you try talking to the young about Maxence Van Der Meersch, they haven’t a clue who he was. They’ve barely heard of L’Empreinte de Dieu, still less that it won the Goncourt book prize, and even then …’
Noria risks a baffled glance at Bonfils, who smiles at her.
Local office workers are noisily discussing the French hostages being held in Lebanon.
‘They’ve been locked up over there for nearly eight months now. Can you imagine being a prisoner of those raving loonies for that length of time?’
‘Didn’t you see it all on TV yesterday? The government say they’re optimistic, very optimistic …’
‘You’re kidding … They don’t even know where they are, or who’s holding them.’
‘I’d send in the paras …’
The waiters are rushed off their feet. Precise movements, threading in and out, never empty-handed, and always ready to exchange a few words with one of their customers.
A few regulars pause at the cops’ table before leaving. They have nothing to contribute. They often saw Fatima Rashed, but as a matter of fact didn’t even know that her name was Fatima. Actually, their paths crossed, that was all. They weren’t even able to say what she might have been talking about with her friends.
‘When she was on her own, she’d read Libération,’ says an elderly man in a severe suit disapprovingly.
‘So do I,’ says Bonfils. ‘It’s not a good enough reason to go and get murdered.’
The old man remains doubtful.
Two o’clock, and calm is restored. One by one the tables empty. The waiters move less speedily. The owner serves the cops grilled sirloin and chips, apologising that there’s no more sausage and mash. An elderly woman comes in to drink a cup of tea. Roger, the waiter who served Fatima Rashed and her friend on the day she was murdered, returns to sit at their table.
‘I talked to the boss and she said I should tell you about this. Last Friday, I had the feeling that someone was following Fatima Rashed. I’m not certain, but it came back to me.’
Noria glances at Bonfils, who takes out his notebook without saying a word.
‘Tell us anyway, we’re interested.’
‘The girl and her boyfriend came in and I sat them at table 16.’ He points it out in a corner of the restaurant. ‘Just behind them, this lone guy I’ve never seen before walked in. He was wearing a beautiful leather jacket. You know, one of those hip-length jackets, belted at the waist, very fine leather, beautiful. I had the impression it was fur-lined, but I couldn’t swear it. I said to myself that a jacket like that would cost me practically a month’s salary.’ He pauses. ‘Without tips, of course. I pointed to the free table next to number 16. There were still quite a few empty tables, which is what makes me think it must have been around midday, you see?’ Noria nods to show she follows. ‘He said no, and went and sat on the other side of the greenery, as if he didn’t want the girl and her friend to see him. Anyway, then I got on with my job — as you’ve seen, there’s no time to hang around. At one point, Fatima and her friend go downstairs to play snooker. They stick around downstairs for forty-five minutes or an hour, as usual.’ Bonfils scribbles, makes a quick calculation and whispers to Noria: ‘That possibly corroborates the time of the murder.’ The waiter goes on: ‘I finish clearing the tables, and I go behind the bar for a drink before going home. At the end of the bar, I notice my man with his leather jacket. Fatima and her friend come upstairs at that point and leave. The guy pays for his coffee and sets off in the same direction as them. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence.’