‘Who was on duty on Friday 14 March, at lunchtime?’
‘I don’t remember.’
Attali raised his voice, the waiters began to listen: ‘Pay attention, if you take us for half-wits we might get angry and even accuse you of complicity. Let me remind you that we’re investigating a murder. This girl was assassinated just after lunching with this man. Give me a list of all the waiters who were present that day.’
The maître d’hotel grumbled a bit, disappeared for a short time and came back with the required list. Attali took it and checked with the waiters present. Three of them had been there on March 14 at midday.
‘I’ll interview them one at a time. Where can I sit? That table will suit me very well.’
He had a table at the back of the room cleared.
‘Inspector, you’re going to disrupt my entire service.’
‘No way. I’ll have finished very quickly.’
It was the third waiter, a certain Judicelli, who formally identified Virginie Lamouroux.
‘It was I who served them. They were at that table.’ He indicated one of the tables at the back, not far from where they were at the moment. ‘They looked like a normal couple. I wouldn’t have noticed them if the woman hadn’t spilt a glass of wine over the man’s trousers. I don’t know how it happened, I didn’t see it. I myself had just knocked over a dish in the kitchen.’ He glanced at the maître d’hotel, not to worry, he was a long way off. ‘I remember thinking: “But it’s Friday 14 and not Friday 13.” I rushed over to try and repair the damage. What struck me was the man’s attitude. He was very good-mannered, so he said nothing, but he was overtaken by a kind of suppressed fury, it was remarkable. He was trembling. It seemed a bit over the top for a wine stain on a pair of trousers. Do you think that’s why he killed her?’
6 p.m. Villa des Artistes
Daquin had just come out of the shower, he had almost finished shaving in front of the wash-basin mirror. Soleiman appeared at the bathroom door. A sideways glance from Daquin. Soleiman looked relaxed, almost happy, he’d never seen him like that before.
‘I didn’t hear you come in. You look pleased with life this evening …’
‘Daquin, if you knew …’ Soleiman described his triumph at the Gymnase that morning. ‘And it’s been like that all day. I went round the workrooms. In the street people said good-morning to me, walked along with me, bought me coffees …’ He had begun to undress.
‘Only coffees?’
A smile from Soleiman. ‘Not only coffees, today. Quite a lot of rakis too. In the workrooms they shouted and applauded … Last night I didn’t know what to think. It was the first time I’d beaten up a guy. It made me feel sick, I was disgusted, and I hated you.’
He climbed into the bath and turned on the shower.
Daquin went to the kitchen for some coffee and drank it in the bathroom, leaning against the wash-basin, watching Soleiman as he stood still under the stream of water which he’d turned on full. He’s shot two men but hitting a man twice while he was down on the floor made him feel sick … So what?
‘Come out, Sol.’
Daquin took him in his arms, holding the damp body, leaning it against the washbasin. The two men were facing the mirror. They were both the same height, but Daquin was much heavier. He put his hand in Soleiman’s hair and pulled his head up.
‘Look at yourself, Sol, while I fuck you.’
*
Soleiman was already half-asleep under the duvet, while Daquin dressed. Collarless shirt, dark red, grey Hollington suit in a wool and cotton mixture. A glance at the mirror. OK. He leant over the bed, ‘I shan’t be back tonight.’
Kissed him on the neck. Today he’s submissive. When will rebellion set in?
9 p.m. Roissy
The plane from Marrakesh via Casablanca, with Anna Beric on board, landed on time at 3 minutes past 8. Daquin was waiting for her at the airport police window. The passengers arrived in groups. Daquin recognized her. Tall and slim, with shoulder-length hair. She was wearing a beige safari jacket and a matching linen skirt, A brown shirt blouse, apparently silk, brown leather sandals, and carrying a matching handbag.
‘Madame Beric.’
She turned towards him. Deep blue eyes, sunburnt skin, no makeup. He went up to her, kissed her hand and introduced himself.
‘I’m Superintendent Daquin.’ A faint smile, she was surprised. ‘Have you any luggage?’
‘Yes, one suitcase.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
He took her case from her. They went through the airport police offices and walked in silence towards the unmarked car that was parked just in front of the entrance. Daquin put the suitcase in the boot, opened the door for her, sat down at the wheel and drove off.
‘Where are you taking me, commissaire?’
‘To have dinner first of all. I’ve booked a table at the Pouilly Reuilly, a very good bistro in Pré-Saint-Gervais. You must have missed French cooking during that long month.’ Anna Beric looked at him without a word. ‘Afterwards I’ll take you home. We have an appointment tomorrow morning at 8 o’clock with Inspector Lavorel who’s dealing with your case in more detail.’
‘Am I under arrest or not?’
‘Yes, you are. Would you prefer me to take you to the local police station now?’
No reply. She looked at Daquin who was driving along calmly. Not more than 80 kilometres an hour in the outskirts of Paris. Meillant had told me he was ‘an out-and-out homo’. And I find a handsome man, a seducer.
‘I don’t understand. You blackmail Meillant to make me come back and stick me in prison. I arrive and you try to pick me up … for you really are trying to pick me up, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not trying to pick you up, I’m behaving like a man in love.’
‘You’re in love with me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve a right to a few explanations.’
‘When I went to search your apartment I already knew you were a strong woman, which for me is very attractive. And then I loved your lingerie, its delicacy, its scent. Your coffee. Your red dress, fabulous. Last summer I saw one very like it, in Venice, in a shop window in Campo Santo Stefano. Displayed on an incredible wooden mannequin with the head of a doge.’
They arrived at the Pouilly Reuilly, a bistro in a narrow deserted street in Pré-Saint-Gervais. A long narrow room, bright yellow table-cloths, waiters in black and white, the proprietress relaxed and smiling. They sat down at a table near the door and ordered two glasses of champagne.
Anna Berk leant against the banquette. Closed her eyes for a moment. I knew I was playing a dangerous game. But I hadn’t reckoned with this Daquin man. Pierre, help. She opened her eyes again.
‘That’s where I bought that dress. In Venice. In Campo Santo Stefano.’
Huge eyes. Daquin looked at her, then studied the menu. A violent urge to possess her. Don’t be led astray. Remain in command of the evening.
‘Eggs in wine sauce, then tripoux, twice, and a chilled Brouilly. Starting with that dress I imagined what you were like, and at the airport I recognized you. But your eyes surprised me. I hadn’t imagined them as blue. Your drawing-room had intrigued me through its negative quality, but I loved your office. And I was madly jealous of this O …’
He took the anthology of Persian poetry out of his jacket pocket and opened it at the fly-leaf: 27 January 1958, an unforgettable encounter. Signed: O. Anna Beric placed her hand on the book. She was moved. Daquin took her hand, turned it over and kissed the throbbing veins at the wrist.
‘Forgive me for borrowing it, I’m returning it to you. But tell me how you met Osman Kashguri.’