‘Can you tell us what this guy looked like?’
‘Vaguely. Tall, very dark, that French North African type, you know?’
‘How old?’
‘Around thirty, perhaps a bit older.’
‘Would you recognise him?’
‘Him, I’m not sure, but the jacket, yes.’
The owner signals to them. ‘A telephone call for you.’ Bonfils goes to take the call. It’s the station. The Crime Squad is on the way to 37–39 avenue Mathurin-Moreau, please meet them in the lobby. She grabs his arm.
‘I’ve been through my bills. It looks as though Fatima’s friends paid cash. I can’t find any cheques or credit card receipts that match.’
Bornand, ensconced in the executive chair behind his desk, legs outstretched, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes closed, is letting his thoughts wander. Françoise has gone to stay with a friend — for a break, she said. Without seeing him again. Just a note via Antoine. This woman, who unquestionably belongs to him and always has done, has suddenly escaped his control. She’s becoming a vague, disturbing silhouette that disintegrates if he stretches out his hand. A total stranger. And now she’s deserting him, leaving him on his own. He feels as if he’s suffocating. A whisky.
Enter Fernandez, rested after sleeping round the clock under sedation, at Mado’s place. Bornand sits up.
‘Listen to this, Fernandez my friend. The unit has informed me of several interesting conversations, and I have some news for you. Chardon’s dossier arrived on the desk of the editors of Combat Présent, the far-right weekly, this morning. It was a secretary at the Bavard Impénitent who thought Bestégui was dragging his feet and decided to take things in hand. If I’m not mistaken, isn’t Tardivel, whom we have such a pretty photo of, on the editorial staff at Combat Présent?’
‘Correct.’
‘What do you say to giving him a timely little warning?’
‘It’d be a great pleasure, chief.’
‘Green light.’ A half smile. ‘And don’t forget to tell me about it.’
‘I bumped into Beauchamp on the way in …’
‘He was leaving here.’
‘You were meeting that right-wing extremist? …’
Fernandez’s comment cuts him to the quick. In the past, at the time of the Liberation, the world had been simple: there was the Resistance on one side, collaborators on the other, and he’d been on the wrong side. You had to pretend, beg for resistance certificates, buy them if need be, but, above all else, you had to obtain one. The ultimate humiliation. Once and for all, politics has definitely become a network of personal friendships; the politically correct attitude that the left is left-wing and the right is right-wing — that’s pure naivety, and, with age, he is finding it harder and harder to act as if he believes in any of it.
Bornand’s face is ashen, his nostrils pinched, as he brings the palm of his hand down hard on the desk.
‘You think you’re on the left, do you? Look at you. The only things that are on the left are your wristwatch and your gold signet ring. And me? What does the left mean to me, can you tell me? Me, I’m in power, that’s all.’
Infuriated, Fernandez bites his tongue.
‘As you say, chief. I simply took the liberty of pointing out to you that receiving a veteran of the Organisation de l’Armée Secrète,6 as close as you can get to a militarised National Front party, here in your office is unwise. If word gets about, it is bound to be misconstrued.’
Bornand rises, turns his back on Fernandez, opens the window, leans out and draws the cold, damp air deep into his lungs. He gazes out over the outline of the rooftops, grey on grey. Beauchamp is a friend, I’ve known him for years, we worked together with the Americans. I’m the one who got him a job in the SEA’s security department, as soon as I began working with Flandin, and now he’s very useful to me. Fair enough, but Fernandez is right, I shouldn’t meet him here. Now calm down. He turns around and says in a neutral voice:
‘Mado phoned me an hour ago. Katryn’s been murdered …’
Fernandez sits there, dumbstruck by the news. ‘It happened on Friday afternoon, no doubt shortly after you saw her leave with Chardon.’
‘Did he kill her?’
‘Possibly, I have no idea. In any case, the police are looking for him. Pity, a beautiful and able woman.’ Fernandez nods. ‘I need you to find out all you can about this Chardon. There’s no way he could have obtained that press information by chance, he’s got contacts and I’d like to know who they are. He’s at the centre of the whole thing, this guy.’
Renewed silence. Bornand sighs.
‘And then, this evening, I’m on duty at the Élysée, and that means you are too. Let’s plan our evening. You select a few love letters from among the President’s correspondence, then phone up and invite them to dinner. Not with the good Lord, but with his saints. As long as it’s the Élysée, it’ll work.’
‘How do you want me to choose them, they don’t send photos.’
‘No, but we don’t give a shit. When we want beautiful girls, we go to Mado’s, or to Lentin, the film producer’s parties. Model figures guaranteed, and all that goes with it. What I fancy this evening is a surprise, something else, and even, believe it or not, anything. A fat one, for instance, with a double stomach and big, firm breasts, so I can give her a pearl necklace.’
Fernandez sighs.
‘I can find you that, but not in the President’s postbag.’
The Crime Squad inspectors meet Bonfils and Ghozali outside 37–39 avenue Mathurin-Moreau. Handshakes and a few condescending words of congratulation to the two rookies from the 19th arrondissement.
It is a large, modern apartment block, with several flights of stairs. At the centre of this social microcosm is the concierge. She immediately recognises Fatima Rashed in the photo the cops show her, and confirms that she does indeed live there, sharing a flat with Marie-Christine Malinvaud on the ninth floor, staircase D, left-hand door. Two ordinary girls. ‘Lived,’ say the cops, ‘she’s been murdered.’ Shock. No, she hasn’t seen the two girls for a day or two, she couldn’t be too sure.
‘Could you show us up to their apartment?’
‘Of course. I have a key. Just let me lock up my lodge.’
The apartment is empty. The Crime Squad begin a rapid search. Bonfils and Noria stand next to each other on the sidelines.
Inside it is vast, light, quiet. A spacious living room with a terrace running its whole length, a dining area on one side, a lounge area and TV on the other, a few books. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large kitchen. The furniture is comfortable, not particularly tasteful, parquet floors, beige walls. ‘A furnished let,’ says the concierge.
Women’s clothes in the wardrobes, toiletries in the bathrooms, two dirty coffee cups in the sink, a basket of fruit — apples, oranges, bananas, not rotten, the fridge half full, alcohol and soft drinks, supermarket dairy products. A hasty departure perhaps, but no signs of a struggle or violence. In the living room, a large, antique writing desk, full of personal papers. One of the inspectors rapidly leafs through them. Tax returns, bank statements, payslips, rent receipts etc.