Affairs of State (11 page)

Fernandez abruptly tightens his grip on Tardivel’s neck making him groan and bangs his head against the door frame; his glasses fly off and Fernandez crushes them underfoot.

‘You’re going to make damn sure you are asked to cover the story. And take your time to check out the information. All your time. Because the day the story breaks in your rag, I send this photo to your friends, and to mine too while I’m at it.’

Tardivel, his head thumping, dazzling spots of light in front of his eyes, feels himself losing consciousness. Fernandez bangs his head against the door once more.

‘For the fun of it,’ he says with a real smile. ‘Did you hear, faggot? Answer me.’

‘I’ll do it.’

Fernandez lets him go and looks at his watch. Not even one
o’clock. Enjoyable, but not difficult. He’ll have to embroider it a bit to amuse Bornand. He leans towards the driver, whose expression remains deadpan.

‘Turn around, we’ll drop him off at his lunch appointment.’

‘No, drop me here, please.’

‘As you wish.’

The car pulls up. Fernandez gets out and holds the door open for him. As Tardivel straightens up, he hits the tip of his chin, half dig, half punch.

‘Don’t forget me, you filthy little poofter.’

Noria leaves the 19th
arrondissement
police headquarters in the early afternoon. ‘Time in lieu,’ she announces. Rue Philippe-Hecht, the neighbourhood of the pimping grannies and firecracker kids, a godsend.

Madame Aurillac’s restaurant is empty at this hour. Sitting alone at a table, she’s playing patience and drinking Suze. Very welcoming, Madame Aurillac.

‘Sit down and I’ll bring you a coffee … the firecrackers stopped after your visit. The kids are still around, of course, making a noise … Monsieur Chardon, rue Philippe-Hecht?’ Her face becomes inscrutable. ‘No, I don’t know him. Never been to the restaurant.’

Noria leaves with the bitter taste of the coffee in her mouth. If you have to choose between a madam and a pimp, which is worse? She walks down the narrow streets. On a long, empty pavement, four kids are taking turns on a skateboard. It’s them. Her lucky day. Noria stops and watches them. They’re not really expert, but that doesn’t stop them showing off. One
of the boys picks up the board and walks towards her with a big grin, stopping a couple of paces away.

‘Hi, copwoman. What brings you back here?’

The other kids form a circle. Cocky little bastards, like all those she’d hated as a child.

‘Hi, Nasser.’ The circle closes in. ‘I’ve come to chat to your friend, the restaurant owner.’

Nasser makes an obscene gesture. Noria sits down on a bollard.

‘One of her good friends, Chardon, who lives in the brick house over there at number 38, is suspected of murdering a woman, Fatima Rashed …’

Noria pauses and looks at them. They’re listening. A murder has to be worth their attention. On top of that, Fatima Rashed … They’re kids, don’t go into detail.

‘… Fatima Rashed was my cousin.’

The effect is instantaneous.

‘Your cousin? Your family?’

‘Exactly. I’m not sure that Chardon’s the killer, but I’d like to ask him some questions. He’s disappeared. And the restaurant owner knows where he is, but she’s refusing to tell me. I was looking for you because perhaps you’ve seen him in the last few days?’

She glances at the boys. Tacit agreement.

‘On Friday, the day it snowed, at around four thirty, five in the afternoon, we were having a snowball fight. The guy was standing at his front door, he was waiting.’

‘At number 38?’

‘Yes, there. A red Mini came and picked him up …’

‘A Mini?’

‘Yes, the soapbox on wheels. He got in next to the guy …’

‘It wasn’t a woman at the wheel?’

‘No, it was a guy, in a pathetic little car like that. A real sad case.’

Night has fallen. The dark mass of the Buttes Chaumont park broken up by a few haloes of orange light gives off a damp chill. Meanwhile, the nearby rue des Pyrénées is very animated. Noria walks up it slowly, her chest bursting with this new feeling of relaxation, of well-being, alone in the midst of the passing crowds which she scrutinises. There’s a second man, it’s perhaps … go on, say it, it’s probably whoever followed Rashed and Chardon to the Brasserie des Sports. When he picked up Chardon, Rashed was most likely already dead. An accomplice of Chardon’s? Rashed’s killer? The killer of both? There’s a second man, and I’m the only one who knows. She’s in no hurry to go home.

The bus shelter affords a pocket of light. Noria stops in her tracks. Facing her is a poster depicting a man, larger than life, full-frontal and bare-chested, perched on the edge of a piece of furniture, black and white underpants, tight and bulging, his face slightly fuzzy, his profile turned to the left, his eyes lowered, vaguely absent, submissive, offering himself.
Bonfils.
A total shock. She hesitates and is unable to tear her eyes away. She lets herself go, with pleasure. The sharply contrasting black and white photo is magnificent. His chest and stomach muscles are rippling, well-defined, alive. She wants to trace the contours with her finger, stroke the smooth skin. Attractive, the groin, just hinted at. A hot flush, the shock. She presses her palms on the glass, over his nipples, leaving two moist patches. The three women waiting for the bus watch her in amazement. Noria smiles at them and goes on her way. She pictures Bonfils,
cigarette dangling from his lips, ‘You won’t learn much from watching me.’
That depends
.

Bonfils and the Crime Squad meet at the Brasserie des Deux Palais before going up to the office of Magistrate Luccioni who is in charge of the investigation into Fatima Rashed’s murder. ‘Not exactly a pushover,’ says the group leader. Then, corridors, staircases, followed by a door into a cramped, ill-lit office. They are greeted by a tall, very slim, almost skinny, woman with a striking, angular face; big, very pale greenish-blue eyes, a prominent nose, high cheekbones, dark hair cut just below the ear. She’s wearing a silk shirt and a flowing grey mid-calf-length skirt, slit down one side, which makes her look even taller. She conspicuously glances at her watch.

‘I was waiting for you, gentlemen.’ She indicates three chairs. ‘Take a seat.’

She skilfully cultivates a frosty image and smells of mint
, thinks Bonfils, suddenly interested.

The Fatima Rashed dossier lies open on her desk. The group leader goes over the young woman’s civil status: born in Algiers in 1958, obtains a three-month tourist visa for France in 1978, and arrives alone. And stays. Meanwhile the magistrate ticks off the details in the dossier. Situation regularised in 1980, granted French citizenship in 1983.

The magistrate looks up:

‘The authorities don’t always move so fast. I assume her case was fast-tracked …’

‘That is possible.’

‘Just in case, try and find out by whom. Go on.’

‘Fatima Rashed was single and lived at 37–39 avenue Mathurin-Moreau, in the 19th
arrondissement
. Murdered in her garage on 29 November, between 14.00 and 17.00 hours, by a single shot to the throat. The bullet exited through the back of her neck, making death instantaneous. The bullet has been found and is currently being examined by the forensic team.’

‘I see that it was a 357 magnum cartridge. Isn’t that a calibre used by the French police?’

‘It is. But it’s a fairly common calibre.’ A pause. ‘The murder took place during a struggle, apparently. The victim had wounds to her fingers and the palms of her hands, a large bruise on her right arm and had probably bitten her attacker.’ The magistrate makes notes in the margins. ‘The body was then dumped in the Zénith open-air parking lot at La Villette. Yesterday we found and questioned the young woman who was Rashed’s flatmate, Marie-Christine Malinvaud at the Vice Squad headquarters on the quai des Orfèvres. She states they were both employed as part of Mado’s call-girl ring.’

‘Which would explain the payslips from Cominter?’

‘Exactly. We’ve checked her bank account and she made regular deposits corresponding to the amounts on the payslips.’

‘Can we locate this company?’

‘I doubt it. Its registered address is in the Bahamas.’ A pause. ‘Neither Malinvaud nor Rashed have a record with the Vice …’

‘Knowing the Vice, that’s no surprise.’

A frosty silence.

‘Shall I go on?’ She motions him to continue. ‘Still according to her flatmate, Rashed was apparently involved in blackmailing operations with a journalist called Chardon. Chardon was sentenced to two years in 1980 for living off immoral earnings, and he does indeed seem to have been mixed up in
various attempts to blackmail well-known personalities and politicians, and our colleagues in Intelligence have told us that they sometimes use him as a paid informer.’

‘That last point isn’t mentioned in the dossier.’

‘As a precaution, your honour.’

‘Who are you suspicious of, inspector? Of me? Of magistrates in general? I shall make a point of noting in the dossier that Chardon is in the pay of the Intelligence Service.’

The group leader sighs and continues:

‘We visited Chardon’s residence this morning. It seems he left on the day of the murder and hasn’t returned since. Furthermore, we showed photos of him to the witnesses, and he was definitely the person who had lunch with Rashed on the day of the murder. We are questioning neighbours, we’re looking for his family, possibly also for a car … We’ve made no progress. As far as we’re concerned, Chardon is the main witness, if not the prime suspect. And we plan to carry out a search of his home and make inquiries at the various newspapers he’s written for.’

‘Fine, I’ll grant you a search warrant. Tell me, I see from the case file that, according to Malinvaud’s statement, a very young girl was attacked at Mado’s, and that this could have something to do with the murder. Do you have any suggestions as to how to tackle this aspect of the case?’

‘No, your honour, not for the time being.’

‘To sum up. Rashed and Chardon, pursue the leads you’ve already mentioned. As regards Cominter, I’ll talk to the Fraud Squad. By the way, I contacted Madeleine Prévost, known as Mado, and asked to interview her as a witness in the Fatima Rashed murder case.’ She allows a silence to hover. ‘Do you have a file on her?’

The group leader finally ventures a reply:

‘We all know Mado, your honour. Several superintendents, including some of the best-known of them, are regulars of hers. She’s in the pay of the Vice and the Intelligence Service, subsidised by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. She’s protected by the entire political elite, both left and right. Mado has been a republican institution for the past fifteen years. She’ll be awarded the Legion of Honour ahead of me.’

‘I see. She told me she had nothing to do with this business, nothing to say in general, and in particular, nothing to say to magistrates under any circumstances. Do those on the payroll of the Intelligence Service normally behave like this towards magistrates?’

‘In a manner of speaking … That’s what’s going to complicate this case.’

‘A prostitute and a pimp protected by the police; a suspect who’s in the pay of the Intelligence Service; a murder committed with a weapon that might be a service weapon … don’t you find, inspector, that this case is likely to turn into a can of worms?’

The group leader (
bitch, you think I don’t know it
) sits stony-faced saying nothing. Bonfils is enjoying the situation. The magistrate concludes:

‘I’ll deal with Madeleine Prévost.’

Then she turns to Bonfils and smiles at him, a magnificent smile. Her face is transformed, the harsh features soften, her full lips are fleshy and beautiful. A sensual woman beneath the ice. Bonfils gets a hard-on.

‘I asked you to come because I wanted to thank you personally for your contribution to the investigation. Outstanding, your identification of the victim.’

Outstanding
, yes, but not thanks to me. And I’m not going to tell her. He returns her smile
.

‘Thank you.’

The cops cross the boulevard and go for a drink at the Brasserie des Deux Palais, talking of this and that, but carefully avoiding the subject of the case conference that has just taken place. The group leader is keeping his remarks for his squad. Bonfils already feels as if he’s elsewhere, back in the 19th
arrondissement
, which doesn’t exactly fill him with joy. A few minutes later, on the other side of the road, the magistrate leaves the courts and heads towards the Latin Quarter.