‘Chardon went home after leaving the Brasserie des Sports. He went out again alone at around four thirty, and a man driving Fatima Rashed’s Mini came and picked him up outside his house. He got into the car and hasn’t been seen since.’
‘How do you know that?’
She tells him about the house, the day it snowed, the kids in the street and their snowball fight … Bonfils looks pensive.
‘By that time, it’s likely that Rashed was already dead.’
‘The driver is almost certainly the man who followed him to the restaurant. Perhaps he and Chardon are accomplices.’
‘This is exciting. We should go back to the brasserie and try to find out more about this guy, and file an additional report. We’ll take it to the investigating magistrate.’
‘To the magistrate? Why not to the Crime Squad?’
He has dimples when he smiles.
‘Because the magistrate is a lot more attractive than the section boss at the Crime Squad.’
The irony is not lost on Noria: If you find him, be a darling and let us know …
‘OK, we’ll give it to the magistrate.’
Friday 6 December
At nine a.m. Bonfils and Noria turn up at the law courts. There’s no time to lose, at the station the pressure’s on. The clerk is alone in the office, sitting at her typewriter, and clearly surprised to see them.
‘Haven’t you heard? Proceedings have begun to remove the magistrate from the case.’ They are open-mouthed. ‘On Wednesday morning she went to search Madeleine Prévost’s premises, and I went with her, naturally. She didn’t call in the Crime Squad because she was afraid there might be a leak. So she asked the chief of the 8th arrondissement to provide her with police backup. And on Wednesday evening, the public prosecutor informed her that he was referring the case to the Court of Criminal Appeal because she had overstepped her prerogative.’
Bonfils has difficulty in maintaining his composure. Flashback: ‘If she goes for Mado, she won’t survive.’ She hadn’t survived. The clerk continues:
‘On Wednesday evening, she left feeling very shaken, and there’s been no sign of life since. I phone, no answer. It’s odd, because her mother lives with her and she never leaves the apartment these days.’
As they leave the courts, Bonfils takes Noria’s arm.
‘We’re going to the magistrate’s place to make sure nothing’s happened to her. It’s not far, only about fifteen minutes’ walk.’
Noria pulls up her anorak collar. Utterly disconcerting, this guy. He finds the magistrate attractive. He knows where she lives. Is he sleeping with her? What’s he dragging me into? But curiosity gets the better of her.
They walk up to the jardin du Luxembourg and turn into rue d’Assas, Bonfils tense and slightly distant. A grey light over the gardens, a flat prospect with a few rare visitors strolling up and down. On reaching rue d’Assas, Bonfils heads for a modern apartment block, built entirely of glass, enters the lobby and walks over to the lift — with the assurance of someone who is familiar with the building. Noria follows him. On the eighth floor, he rings the bell insistently. There’s no response. Bonfils goes to fetch the concierge, who follows him up with a set of keys and opens the door. Three locks, one after the other. They go in, call out, silence. To the left is a vast living room with two huge French windows that open onto a veranda protected by a metal grille. Empty. To the right, a kitchen, empty. Facing them, a corridor. First bedroom on the right, empty. Second bedroom, an elderly woman lying peacefully on a bed, her arms by her sides, wearing a well-tailored navy-blue suit. They approach the bed. Bonfils touches the emaciated, deeply jaundiced face with the back of his hand. It is stone cold: of course, she’s dead. The concierge invokes God almighty and groans. Noria stops breathing, her breath trapped in her chest, knowing the worst is certain. At the end of the corridor is the bathroom door. Bonfils opens it, reels and rushes into the kitchen. Noria leans forward and peers through the open door. In the bathtub is a naked woman, her head slumped onto her chest, her face concealed by a mop of short, thick hair. Her torso is drenched with blood, her wrists slashed and her throat slit. There’s blood everywhere, rivulets running down the bathtub, splattering the tiles, the walls, the sink, the mirror, the towels, dried blood, dark brown, a stale cloying smell. One arm is hanging over the edge of the bath, and beneath the dangling hand, lying in a pool of brown blood on the floor, is a wide open razor. The concierge shrieks. Noria grabs her by the shoulders and steers her into the living room, sits her down in an armchair facing the windows, where she stays sobbing. She hears Bonfils vomiting his guts out in the kitchen. For only his second corpse, this occasion was hardly an anti-climax.
She swings into action. A call to the cops at the High Court. Everyone will be there within fifteen minutes. Bonfils is splashing water on his face in the kitchen. I’ve still a few minutes to myself here. Time to check out the apartment. The first bedroom, the magistrate’s, no doubt. Impeccably tidy, and fairly spartan. A narrow bed, two huge wardrobes, a bookcase, not many books, and a magnificent mahogany English writing desk that’s out of keeping with the rest of the furniture. Lying on the desk is a fat notebook bound in yellow leather. Noria opens it using the tip of her nail and flicks through the pages. Neat, close handwriting, in felt-tip pen, stilted phrases, jumbled, no points of reference, it looks like a disjointed personal diary. Bonfils joins the concierge in the living room. They can hear the lift operating, the cops arriving. Without thinking, Noria takes the diary and secretes it in the inside pocket of her anorak.
The black BMW saloon with tinted windows leaves the underground car park in avenue Foch and heads towards Mado’s building. Sitting in the back, side by side, are Cecchi, in a navy-blue suit and a diagonally striped tie, and Mado, in a grey trouser suit, chatting about this and that. In front are the driver and the bodyguard, paying attention to the road.
‘Bornand dropped by last night to try out Katryn’s replacement. He agrees with me, she’s not up to the job. Too heavily into fucking and not enough class,’ is Mado’s opinion.
‘Well, send her to Amédée, and find another girl. There’s no shortage, as far as I know. Did you talk about Katryn’s murder?’
‘Briefly. He doesn’t know that Fernandez shot her.’
‘He can’t keep his men in line.’ He leans over to her with a smile. ‘I know you find him charming, elegant …’
‘He’s a loyal customer.’
Cecchi looks doubtfuclass="underline"
‘Was. Right now, he’s pushing his luck. According to Fernandez, only yesterday he refused to use his influence on behalf of the gambling club. As he’s having problems with this Chardon dossier … Didn’t I tell you? I got hold of the dossier, through that faggot at Combat Présent, very accommodating, the poofter … I’ll find a way of putting pressure on Bornand … You, in the meantime, keep away from him. I don’t want to see him in your lounge any more.’
The BMW pulls up in front of Mado’s place.
‘Wait here for me. I’ll see Madame upstairs and I’ll be back down.’
In Mado’s office is an answering machine, connected to a line whose number is strictly private and which changes monthly. Cecchi presses the button to play back the message. A man’s voice, muffled by a handkerchief, you can’t be too careful, speaks in a flat voice. He must be reading from notes.
‘The investigation into Chardon continues to progress. He still hasn’t been located, and the Intelligence Service states that it has had no contact from him these past few days. But he has been identified as the purchaser, two years ago, of the pearl worn by Fatima Rashed at the time of her murder, which confirms that they had a regular relationship going back some time.’ Cecchi groans. Regular relationship going back some time, and I wasn’t aware of it. High time to review my organisation. ‘What’s more, the Crime Squad found Fatima Rashed’s diary and keys at his place. Which makes it all the more vital to find Chardon, prime witness and perhaps more. The Crime Squad is systematically going through all the papers confiscated from his house. They’ve already identified one of his friends, a certain Beauchamp, and currently the head of security for an arms manufacturer, the SEA.’ Cecchi’s heart starts racing. The SEA, the Chardon affair. The man clears his throat and continues. ‘Beauchamp is not unknown to the Drugs Squad. His name has come up several times in connection with the smuggling of Lebanese heroin into Europe via Gabon and Côte-d’Ivoire, the same as that found at Chardon’s house, without anything specific ever being pinned on him. He was questioned during the investigation, but he had a cast-iron alibi: the day the prostitute was killed, he worked at the SEA until late into the evening, alibi confirmed by a number of employees. Cleared for the time being. That’s the latest.’