In 1963, Édouard Thomas dies of lung cancer. TCP, which has become France’s fifth biggest pharmaceuticals company, is sold to Roussel, and Bornand and his wife benefit. Bornand entrusts his affairs to the Martenot law firm, his late father-in-law’s lawyers. His wife leaves him the same year and moves to one of her properties in the Saumur region, where she still lives and breeds horses.
In 1965, he plays a key role in Mitterrand’s presidential campaign, liaising with the major French industrialists who finance the campaign. This is his only known public appearance. He remains in the background afterwards, but is still very close to Mitterrand. In 1981, after François Mitterrand is elected, Bornand sells his import-export company, at a vastly inflated price, via the Parillaud bank, thanks to a lucky set of circumstances and the President’s connections. But he holds on to some of his overseas interests, in particular in the International Bank of Lebanon (IBL) of which he is one of the founding trustees. He becomes the President’s personal advisor at the Élysée where he influences foreign policy as a result of his numerous relations with the Americans, the Israelis, and with the Arab countries. He is also involved in internal security, and in this capacity plays a part in setting up and running the Elysée’s ‘anti-terrorist unit’ in August 1982. He maintains a key role in controlling and managing this private presidential police force.
Bornand is a great womaniser; his conquests are many and fleeting. In 1966, three years after his wife left him, he meets Françoise Michel, who becomes his mistress, and still is, although without any sign of a diminution in the number of his female conquests. Furthermore, he regularly frequents prostitutes, and is on very friendly terms with Mado, France’s most famous madam. He has intervened on her behalf on countless occasions when she has run into difficulties with the police, and he regularly calls on her services when he entertains foreign visitors. He is a consumer of class C drugs and some class B drugs. As far as we know, he has no problem finding suppliers and has not been threatened with blackmail.
Mado snorts on entering Macquart’s office.
‘It’s too cold for words.’ The perfect bourgeois lady, as ever. Her hair is lacquered into an immaculate French pleat and her make-up discreetly minimal. She’s wearing an ankle-length pearl-grey sheepskin coat and boots, and sporting a black leather Lancel handbag. Macquart waits, watching her closely, a set expression on his face. He indicates a chair. She keeps her coat on and smiles at him:
‘What do you want of me, superintendent? You know that my coming here isn’t exactly good publicity for my business.’
‘Precisely, madame, given the nature of your business, I don’t see where a police superintendent could meet you other than in his office.’
‘I love your sense of humour, superintendent.’
‘Good. I’m looking for Fernandez. He hasn’t been seen since yesterday afternoon.’
Mado affects surprise, slightly overplayed.
‘Why are you telling this to me, superintendent?’
‘Because he’s one of your regular customers and he’s, shall we say, in business with Cecchi. I think you have more means than I do of reaching him, and he’s more useful to me than he is to you. As he’s done for, it’s a deal where I have a lot to gain and you have little to lose. We should be able to reach an understanding.’
Silence. Mado weighs up his offer. He knows more than I thought. Cecchi’s not going to like this. After the Katryn and Chardon business, the boat is definitely letting in water. She replies evasively:
‘I’ll ask my girls …’
‘I expect to hear from you today, or by tomorrow morning at the latest.’ He rises to see her to the door. ‘You’re untouchable, Mado. But how long would you last without Cecchi? A month? Two months? Less?’
As soon as the Annecy social security offices open, Laurencin is sitting facing the director. As luck would have it, a woman. But at first glance, he reckons there’s no point turning on the charm. He plays the police card, Antoinette Michel is probably under threat of blackmail. ‘Can you tell me what’s in her file, it’ll save me time and no one will be any the wiser.’
The woman takes out the file without serious protest. Born on 24 January 1926. Worker at the SNR ball bearings company in Annecy from 1946 to 1966. She draws an early retirement pension which is paid into the Leydernier bank. Never ill. And that’s all. A perfectly ordinary little lady.
At the bank, Laurencin finds himself in a tiny office with a bank employee, pretending he wants to open a current account, and perhaps, depending on the terms the bank is prepared to offer, a home-buyer’s savings account … he opens the conversation. Madame Michel, his neighbour, a charming woman. He’s only known her without a husband, a single woman and a very young pensioner, with no financial worries. Some people are luckier than others.
‘That’s for sure. With what her daughter sends her every month, she’s got nothing to worry about, believe me.’
A phone call to Macquart:
‘If there is blackmail going on, it seems to be the mother and daughter who’ve got something on Bornand.’
‘Right.’
‘If we cross-reference, we know that Antoinette Michel was in Lyon in 1943, that’s where she gave birth to her daughter. Bornand was in Lyon, in the collaborationist Militia, the same year. A troubled time. Might be interesting to go and see what we can uncover?’
‘Indeed it might.’
Mid-afternoon in Lyon. In the local archives, a charming, slightly podgy young lady, passionately interested in her work, and in attractive young lads. Laurencin weighs up the situation. This time, turning on the charm is essential, but I already know that there’ll be no surprises with her. The pair of them bury themselves in the files, cross-referencing 1943 and Militia. And they find: Jules Michel, Antoinette’s father, chief of the Croix-Rousse Militia. And Bornand was in his group, before disappearing without trace in mid-1943.
Laurencin looks up, smiles at the librarian and buries himself once more.
September ’44, Michel is killed by the partisans. In the newspapers of the day is a photo of Antoinette Michel walking forlornly down a street, her head shaven, a polka-dot dress, carrying a baby, Françoise no doubt, and a line of young men behind her, taunting her. The caption reads: ‘A shorn woman, rue de Belfort.’ The same street where the Michels lived, at number 29.
It is ten p.m. A cosy little dinner for two at the Brasserie Georges, the famous Lyon sausage with pistachio and a half-bottle of Brouilly. No surprises there either, but it’s very pleasant. Like the wine, the librarian’s lips taste of wild strawberries.
The unmarked car is parked in avenue de la Bourdonnais, with the entrance to Bornand’s apartment block in view. Levert is sitting behind the wheel. He laughed when Noria told him that she couldn’t drive. ‘What about taking photos, do you know how to do that?’ No, she can’t do that either. He sits doing crosswords and chewing gum. A window is wound halfway down. Noria sits stiffly beside him. Waiting, an enclosed space, proximity, a whole set of new sensations to cope with.
A white Peugeot taxi pulls up in front of the gate. Levert drops his paper and starts up the engine. Noria feels a slight contraction in her chest, the chase is on. A woman emerges, tall, slim, her camel coat belted at the waist, brown leather boots, dark brown felt hat perched on a blonde chignon, a big leather shoulder bag. Noria recognises her: the blonde she’d glimpsed at the exit to the cemetery, yesterday. Then the other person, the tall, slim guy, must have been Bornand. Noria recalls the way he grabbed her arm, pinning her to his side. The woman submitted.
The taxi pulls away. It is 15.59, she notes. Easy to follow, heavy traffic, nothing noteworthy. Arrival at the Gare de Lyon at 16.32. Françoise Michel purchases a ticket for the TGV to Geneva (and so do Ghozali and Levert), buys a pile of magazines, boards the Train Bleu and has a drink, alone. At 17.15, the train departs. Seated in first class, Françoise Michel flicks through her magazines, dozes, watches the night fly past, bored. Around 19.30, she orders a meal tray and only eats half.