‘So, little poofter, calmed down, have we?’ Fernandez caresses the back of his neck, the muscles are rigid. ‘We’ve decided to be reasonable, that’s better, old fellow.’ Tardivel is ashen, slightly bloated, holding his breath, not the slightest defensive movement. ‘What about your friends of the “work, family and fatherland” persuasion? A photo like this would cause quite a scandal among your respectable friends, wouldn’t it?’
He replies in a hoarse voice:
‘I’ve already paid.’
Fernandez caresses him more intensely.
‘I know and I don’t give a fuck.’
Moving at a crawl, the saloon turns into place de l’Alma, and onto the freeway hugging the Seine, in the direction of porte de Saint-Cloud.
‘Yesterday, your paper received a dossier on the plane that went belly up over Turkey …’
‘I don’t know anything about it, I haven’t been asked to cover the story.’
Fernandez abruptly tightens his grip on Tardivel’s neck making him groan and bangs his head against the door frame; his glasses fly off and Fernandez crushes them underfoot.
‘You’re going to make damn sure you are asked to cover the story. And take your time to check out the information. All your time. Because the day the story breaks in your rag, I send this photo to your friends, and to mine too while I’m at it.’
Tardivel, his head thumping, dazzling spots of light in front of his eyes, feels himself losing consciousness. Fernandez bangs his head against the door once more.
‘For the fun of it,’ he says with a real smile. ‘Did you hear, faggot? Answer me.’
‘I’ll do it.’
Fernandez lets him go and looks at his watch. Not even one o’clock. Enjoyable, but not difficult. He’ll have to embroider it a bit to amuse Bornand. He leans towards the driver, whose expression remains deadpan.
‘Turn around, we’ll drop him off at his lunch appointment.’
‘No, drop me here, please.’
‘As you wish.’
The car pulls up. Fernandez gets out and holds the door open for him. As Tardivel straightens up, he hits the tip of his chin, half dig, half punch.
‘Don’t forget me, you filthy little poofter.’
Noria leaves the 19th arrondissement police headquarters in the early afternoon. ‘Time in lieu,’ she announces. Rue Philippe-Hecht, the neighbourhood of the pimping grannies and firecracker kids, a godsend.
Madame Aurillac’s restaurant is empty at this hour. Sitting alone at a table, she’s playing patience and drinking Suze. Very welcoming, Madame Aurillac.
‘Sit down and I’ll bring you a coffee … the firecrackers stopped after your visit. The kids are still around, of course, making a noise … Monsieur Chardon, rue Philippe-Hecht?’ Her face becomes inscrutable. ‘No, I don’t know him. Never been to the restaurant.’
Noria leaves with the bitter taste of the coffee in her mouth. If you have to choose between a madam and a pimp, which is worse? She walks down the narrow streets. On a long, empty pavement, four kids are taking turns on a skateboard. It’s them. Her lucky day. Noria stops and watches them. They’re not really expert, but that doesn’t stop them showing off. One of the boys picks up the board and walks towards her with a big grin, stopping a couple of paces away.
‘Hi, copwoman. What brings you back here?’
The other kids form a circle. Cocky little bastards, like all those she’d hated as a child.
‘Hi, Nasser.’ The circle closes in. ‘I’ve come to chat to your friend, the restaurant owner.’
Nasser makes an obscene gesture. Noria sits down on a bollard.
‘One of her good friends, Chardon, who lives in the brick house over there at number 38, is suspected of murdering a woman, Fatima Rashed …’
Noria pauses and looks at them. They’re listening. A murder has to be worth their attention. On top of that, Fatima Rashed … They’re kids, don’t go into detail.
‘… Fatima Rashed was my cousin.’
The effect is instantaneous.
‘Your cousin? Your family?’
‘Exactly. I’m not sure that Chardon’s the killer, but I’d like to ask him some questions. He’s disappeared. And the restaurant owner knows where he is, but she’s refusing to tell me. I was looking for you because perhaps you’ve seen him in the last few days?’
She glances at the boys. Tacit agreement.
‘On Friday, the day it snowed, at around four thirty, five in the afternoon, we were having a snowball fight. The guy was standing at his front door, he was waiting.’
‘At number 38?’
‘Yes, there. A red Mini came and picked him up …’
‘A Mini?’
‘Yes, the soapbox on wheels. He got in next to the guy …’
‘It wasn’t a woman at the wheel?’
‘No, it was a guy, in a pathetic little car like that. A real sad case.’
Night has fallen. The dark mass of the Buttes Chaumont park broken up by a few haloes of orange light gives off a damp chill. Meanwhile, the nearby rue des Pyrénées is very animated. Noria walks up it slowly, her chest bursting with this new feeling of relaxation, of well-being, alone in the midst of the passing crowds which she scrutinises. There’s a second man, it’s perhaps … go on, say it, it’s probably whoever followed Rashed and Chardon to the Brasserie des Sports. When he picked up Chardon, Rashed was most likely already dead. An accomplice of Chardon’s? Rashed’s killer? The killer of both? There’s a second man, and I’m the only one who knows. She’s in no hurry to go home.
The bus shelter affords a pocket of light. Noria stops in her tracks. Facing her is a poster depicting a man, larger than life, full-frontal and bare-chested, perched on the edge of a piece of furniture, black and white underpants, tight and bulging, his face slightly fuzzy, his profile turned to the left, his eyes lowered, vaguely absent, submissive, offering himself. Bonfils. A total shock. She hesitates and is unable to tear her eyes away. She lets herself go, with pleasure. The sharply contrasting black and white photo is magnificent. His chest and stomach muscles are rippling, well-defined, alive. She wants to trace the contours with her finger, stroke the smooth skin. Attractive, the groin, just hinted at. A hot flush, the shock. She presses her palms on the glass, over his nipples, leaving two moist patches. The three women waiting for the bus watch her in amazement. Noria smiles at them and goes on her way. She pictures Bonfils, cigarette dangling from his lips, ‘You won’t learn much from watching me.’ That depends.
Bonfils and the Crime Squad meet at the Brasserie des Deux Palais before going up to the office of Magistrate Luccioni who is in charge of the investigation into Fatima Rashed’s murder. ‘Not exactly a pushover,’ says the group leader. Then, corridors, staircases, followed by a door into a cramped, ill-lit office. They are greeted by a tall, very slim, almost skinny, woman with a striking, angular face; big, very pale greenish-blue eyes, a prominent nose, high cheekbones, dark hair cut just below the ear. She’s wearing a silk shirt and a flowing grey mid-calf-length skirt, slit down one side, which makes her look even taller. She conspicuously glances at her watch.
‘I was waiting for you, gentlemen.’ She indicates three chairs. ‘Take a seat.’
She skilfully cultivates a frosty image and smells of mint, thinks Bonfils, suddenly interested.
The Fatima Rashed dossier lies open on her desk. The group leader goes over the young woman’s civil status: born in Algiers in 1958, obtains a three-month tourist visa for France in 1978, and arrives alone. And stays. Meanwhile the magistrate ticks off the details in the dossier. Situation regularised in 1980, granted French citizenship in 1983.
The magistrate looks up:
‘The authorities don’t always move so fast. I assume her case was fast-tracked …’
‘That is possible.’