He motions them to sit down, allowing a silence to hover as he gazes at them, then eventually says:
‘Why is it that two junior cops from the 19th arrondissement are so interested in Maître Martenot?’
Straight to the point, and fast. The clerk must be working for Intelligence. Impressive. Noria and Bonfils have prepared their answer, Noria insists on taking the lead.
‘I was the only one to take an interest in Maître Martenot.’
Macquart looks from Noria to Bonfils and back at Noria who takes the yellow notebook from the inside pocket of her anorak, opens it at the last page. She leans over and places it on Macquart’s desk.
‘The magistrate’s personal diary.’
He reads the open page, flicks through the rest, stony-faced, closes it and puts it away in a drawer.
‘Where did you find that?’
‘In the magistrate’s apartment, on the day we found her body.’
‘And you kept it to yourself. Need I say more?’ Two smart, ambitious young cops, completely out of control. They could cause havoc in sensitive cases. Do I break them or bring them on board? ‘And while you’re at it, tell me how you came to be in the magistrate’s apartment too.’
‘We were involved in the identification of Fatima Rashed …’
‘I am aware of your connection with that case.’
‘… At that point, we thought there could have been a second man in the restaurant with Chardon and Fatima Rashed. That same man could have picked Chardon up in Fatima Rashed’s car, just after her murder, and that was the last time Chardon was seen, alive or dead.’
This girl, with her impenetrable dark eyes and taut body, possessed of a raw strength.
‘Go on.’
‘We wrote a report and we took it to the magistrate at the law courts.’
‘She wasn’t there.’
‘The clerk gave us her address.’
‘I don’t think so.’
Bonfils breaks his silence and says with a dazzling smile:
‘I found the magistrate a fascinating woman. One evening, I followed her home.’ He takes the additional report out of his pocket and places it in front of Macquart. ‘After her death, the investigation was put on hold and nobody’s asked us for anything further.’
‘So I’m the first person to see this report?’
‘That’s correct.’
He takes his time reading it. Good work. Excellent work. My mind’s made up. I bring them on board.
‘Would you be interested in a transfer to Intelligence?’
‘Yes,’ says Noria.
‘No,’ says Bonfils.
Macquart smiles, for the first time.
‘Just as I thought.’ Then, turning to Noria: ‘Why is the superintendent of the 19th so happy to see the back of you?’
Noria, her hands clasped on her knee, tense, her knuckles white, reflects for a second.
‘I think he’s afraid of me.’
Macquart rises, shows them to the door of his office and says, with a hand on Bonfils’ shoulder:
‘For your own good, if you don’t want to pay for her mistakes, forget the whole thing, Bonfils, including your latest report.’
‘I already have.’
‘And you, Ghozali, eight o’clock tomorrow morning in my office.’
As soon as Noria and Bonfils have left his office, Macquart calls in one of his inspectors.
‘Laurencin, drop what you’re working on. I have an emergency. I’m giving you this packet of photos, which you are going to show a few people. If the result confirms my suspicions, you can cancel all leave.’
Noria and Bonfils leave the office together and set off down the street with a sigh of relief. They walk quickly away, side by side, their heads down. Noria’s expression is inscrutable. But when he brushes against her, Bonfils feels the explosive tension in her muscles. They go into the Soleil d’Or, which is almost empty at this hour, and sit at the back of the café. A hot chocolate for Noria, a beer for Bonfils. He looks up at her.
‘Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for? The political police, champions of dirty tricks.’
She replies aggressively:
‘I’m not like you. I don’t have any choice, and I’m in a hurry.’
Then a smile. In a single movement, she undoes her chignon and loosens her hair. The shining, black, undulating mass spreads over her shoulders, sculpts her round cheeks, offsets her features. She stands up, presses her hands down on the table and leans towards him. She places her mouth on his upper lip and licks it with the moist tip of her tongue, the trace of white foam leaving a slight tickling sensation, her breath coming in warm, short bursts. A brief silence, then Bonfils, incredulous, says:
‘Now what happens?’
‘Forget the whole thing, Bonfils, forget the whole thing.’
And she ditches him there, at the table, with the beer and the chocolate, rushing out as fast as her legs will carry her.
‘Bestégui? … Good to hear you, I was just about to call you. Where are you? At home?’
‘…’
‘Yes, that’s correct, Flandin has just died of a heart attack … While we were having lunch together …’
‘…’
‘Rumour! What nonsense. The burial certificate has already been issued. It was the article in the Tribune de Lille that killed him. Have you read it?’
‘…’
‘I know it’s the dossier you had in your hands.’ Bornand’s voice is strained, aggressive, veering towards the shrill rather more than he would wish. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Do you know a certain Chardon?’
‘…’
‘And do you know who you are employing? A pimp, blackmailer and drug trafficker. Not exactly a brilliant move.’
‘…’
‘Of course I have proof. A prostitute was murdered ten days ago and Chardon is mixed up in it somehow. The Crime Squad is investigating him and they’ve uncovered the full extent of his activities. You can easily check, I’m sure you’ve got your contacts at Crime Squad HQ. They also have proof that Chardon works for your paper. It’s not certain they’ll use it, but you never know …’
‘…’
‘The best bit is still to come, André. Chardon is in the pay of the Intelligence Service.’
‘…’
Bornand sniggers:
‘His nose in your shit. The real question is: who dug up the Chardon dossier, which was well and truly buried three days ago? And the answer can only be: the Intelligence Service.’
‘…’
‘No, I’m not out of my mind. Chardon is involved in a heroin trafficking ring with a certain Beauchamp, head of security at the SEA. You know what I’m talking about, because you’ve had the dossier in your hands. He’s the source of the information. When the prostitute was murdered — I have no idea why, by the way — Chardon got scared. Intelligence covered up for him, either by hiding or by murdering him …’
‘…’
Bornand, exasperated, bangs his fist down on the desk:
‘Oh yes, of course it’s possible. Don’t act more naive than you are. Two months ago, your paper ran a press campaign on the Irish of Vincennes … I’m not blaming you, but remember, your informer, your only informer, was dealt with by military security. And now Intelligence have Chardon. These people hate us, André. The official police departments are poisoned by our political enemies. And besides, their sights are set directly on me, because through me, they’re targeting the Élysée unit, the bête noire of all the official police departments, because it’s the living proof of their ineffectiveness … What we are witnessing, André, is a police coup, and I’m weighing my words carefully, here. I don’t intend to let them get away with it. I need you, you can’t abandon me.’
When Bestégui hangs up, he is deeply disturbed. Paranoid, Bornand? Not totally, it would seem. So many facts stack up … His tone is violent, the threats barely disguised. But how to get away from him? Sooner or later, it’ll be payback time and the other version will surface. Ultimately, we’re in the same boat.