Affairs of State (13 page)

‘It was more or less in the manifesto.’

‘Well I think it’s time to remind him.’

‘Sir, if you see the Minister, you know that Cecchi is waiting for his authorisation to reopen the Bois de Boulogne gambling club, which Intelligence is blocking.’

Surprised, Bornand stares at him and thinks for a moment.

‘I don’t think it’s appropriate to confuse the two issues.’

‘Cecchi is very useful to you, especially at the moment …’

‘Cecchi seems to me to be rather too compromising an individual under the circumstances. And I’ve got him on-side, in any case. I’ll look into that later, when I have the time and more elbow room.’ A silence. ‘Intelligence must have sent Chardon to a safe house. We’re not likely to see him again.’

‘That’s for sure.’

Back at the police station, a crushing workload has accumulated over the past few days. Noria and Bonfils plod on in silence. Noria looks up from time to time and glances at Bonfils, who doesn’t react, seemingly absorbed in his tasks.

Lunch break. After a dull morning, it’s now a glorious day. Bonfils suggests having a sandwich on a bench out in the sunshine, in the Buttes Chaumont park overlooking the lake. It’s still cold, but it makes a change from the office. He sits there, legs outstretched, silent, half absent. He finishes his sandwich under Noria’s gaze. A clear-cut profile, lips parted, very well
defined. His jacket is open. Under his grey polo-neck sweater, she can make out his regular breathing beneath the bulge of his chest. She has a clear image in her mind of the photo and wants to slip her hand under the wool and touch his skin, and let it linger there, with his nipple in the hollow of her palm. It’s fun toying with desire and ambiguity. These are completely new feelings for her. Halt there.

‘You didn’t come in to work yesterday?’ she said.

‘I took a day off. I was feeling down.’

‘I’ve got news of Chardon.’

Bonfils suddenly sits up.

‘You never give up …’

She wants to tell him about running away, the loneliness. But the words simply won’t come out.

‘Should I?’ she queries.

‘To be honest, I don’t know.’

And now she’s aggressive:

‘Well I don’t have a choice.’

He gazes at her for a moment in silence, then says:

‘If you say so. Shoot.’

‘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.’

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 doubtful:

‘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.’

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.