And the phone goes dead.
Beauchamp, heroin, the SEA, so that’s Chardon’s source. Bornand hasn’t identified it. The Crime Squad hasn’t made the connection between Katryn’s murder and the Iranian arms deals. I’m several steps ahead of the lot of them, and with the war between the police departments, I’ll be ahead of the game for a while. And I’m determined to make the most of it.
Cecchi immediately erases the message and turns to Mado:
‘Here’s the ideal opportunity. This time, I shan’t pass anything on to Bornand. I’ve got a treasure trove, and I’m keeping it, and I’m going to use it all for myself, like a big boy. Make me a coffee, then I’ll be off. I’ve got things to do. I shan’t be coming to pick you up tonight. Call a taxi.’
Noria goes home. At last. The end of an exhausting day. She’d had to console the concierge, comfort Bonfils, answer the Crime Squad’s questions precisely, without it being easy to explain why and how they were there, with Bonfils almost incoherent, go over all their movements, see the body in the bathroom again. And wait for the results of the autopsy.
According to the pathologist, the elderly woman appeared to have died from an embolism, some time on Wednesday, 4 December, between midday and five p.m. — in any case before the magistrate arrived home from the law courts. The magistrate could have committed suicide: the pathologist insists that it is possible to commit suicide by slitting one’s own throat. Given the shape of the wound and the position of the razor, in this case, it was even highly likely. The Crime Squad reckon that the magistrate learned she’d been taken off the case, went home depressed (the clerk confirms that is the case) and discovered her mother dead. So the suicide theory is highly plausible. The door and windows are locked from the inside, there are no signs of an intrusion, three people including two cops were there when the door was opened, suicide is certain, and the inquest will soon be over.
She does not switch on the light, but walks over to the window. The city is shrouded in mist and darkness. The Eiffel Tower is barely visible despite its illuminations, and La Défense not at all. The neon lights of the Grand Rex cinema are off, it must be after eleven p.m. She can hear the muffled noise of the traffic, quietly reassuring.
No hurry, she needs time to recover. First of all, a bath, feet resting on the rim of the tub, hair piled loosely on top of her head. No massage glove today, everything soft and gentle, take things easy. She lingers in the warmth of the bathroom, brushes her hair for ages, a ritual she finds relaxing, splashes on some eau de cologne and slips into a towelling bathrobe that’s several sizes too big for her. Then she puts away some clothes that are piled on a chair, makes the bed and gives the shelves a quick dust to remove the biscuit crumbs. She goes into her tiny kitchen, which is less than basic. Here there are never dishes simmering for hours, hissing, the smell of which reawakens family nightmares. She makes herself a steaming chocolate and butters a few slices of bread, which she places on her little Formica table. Next to the magistrate’s notebook. She can’t delay the moment of confrontation any longer.
Noria shudders. She touches the yellow leather cover and inhales its odour, to convince herself that it really is there. Because it shouldn’t be on her kitchen table. Curiosity, wanting to know. What? The fascination of that naked body, lying in the bathtub with its throat slit. Sensing violence, the violence of a woman, so close, the same as me, all warm, in the pit of her stomach. And vertigo. She visualises the movement, the razor, and suddenly, blood gushing everywhere, spurting onto the walls, the tiled floor, that self-destructive rage, she feels herself to be in danger.
And Bonfils. Flashback: in the lobby, on familiar terrain. A good-looking guy, his lips parted, lightly defined. Charming and hazy. Flashback: in the kitchen, on the brink of the abyss. Where’s he in all this?
The yellow notebook: she must pluck up the courage to open it.
She skims the pages quickly.
… Every time I come in or go out, I hear her double-turn each of the three locks, one after the other, the metal shutters clang down over the windows, noises I find heart-rending, day after day … and the minute I’m out, all I can think of is getting back as quickly as possible, behind the bars …
… Jeanne is preserving her energy, she never leaves the apartment any more (‘I don’t want to die away from home’), eats very little, scarcely breathes, all her energy goes into her determination to live, with a sort of fury, like a daily rebuke … She’s there, all the time, she invades me, she suffocates me, she says: you’re abandoning me … Impossible to focus my mind …
… Legs heavy, heart pounding, tiny veins on her thighs have burst creating red and blue filaments. An imaginary landscape …
… Mother and daughter facing each other. Absolute solitude, shared loathing. Jeanne is only interested in the weather. Clouds, sun, rain, the darkness — which fell very early today, the only dimension of history that is still accessible to her. I can’t bring myself to talk to her any more … Thoughts pass, like fleeting images, instantly forgotten … Her or me? …
… I look at my hands, the joints inescapably becoming deformed, like hers … I’m losing my grip, I feel as if nothing imprints itself on my memory any more, time is monotonous, ravaged. What cases did I read yesterday? Who did I meet? I have to piece together my memories from scattered clues. And frequently, I fail … Over the Rashed case, this afternoon, moments of confusion, as if my muddled thoughts were only holding together thanks to a huge effort of concentration. If I give way a little, everything disintegrates …
Noria gets her breath back. She hears the distorted echo of her own nightmares. But I got out, I saved my life. She stretches, massages her face and goes over to the window. The city, as always. And sits down to finish reading.
The last entry is very different:
At work, Simone put a phone call through to me: the Dupuis and Martenot law firm. Why did I take the call? I knew exactly what was going to happen. Lack of resolve, of self-confidence, as before. Nicolas greets me very politely, asks after my health, then my mother’s. Ten years since we last saw each other. Then he informs me that Mado is one of his clients. I already know this. That she won’t respond to my summons. As I’ve seen. And kindly warns me that incriminating Mado will upset a lot of people in high places. I hate him with every fibre of my being.
Noria closes the diary. The magistrate hated right to the death. Bonfils, not a word about him in all these pages. He’s somewhere else, a blip. And a mystery man, this Nicolas who played a part in the magistrate’s suicide. He’s protecting Mado who Katryn worked for, and Katryn was trying to blackmail one of Mado’s clients. This guy is somehow linked to the murder. What do I do with this information?