Affairs of State

Friday 6 December

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.

… Every time I come in or go out, I hear her double-turn each of the three locks, one after the other, the metal shutters clang down over the windows, noises I find heart-rending, day after day … and the minute I’m out, all I can think of is getting back as quickly as possible, behind the bars …

… Jeanne is preserving her energy, she never leaves the apartment any more (‘I don’t want to die away from home’), eats very little, scarcely breathes, all her energy goes into her determination to live, with a sort of fury, like a daily rebuke … She’s there, all the time, she invades me, she suffocates me, she says: you’re abandoning me … Impossible to focus my mind …

… Legs heavy, heart pounding, tiny veins on her thighs have burst creating red and blue filaments. An imaginary landscape …

… Mother and daughter facing each other. Absolute solitude, shared loathing. Jeanne is only interested in the weather. Clouds, sun, rain, the darkness — which fell very early today, the only dimension of history that is still accessible to her. I can’t bring myself to talk to her any more … Thoughts pass, like fleeting images, instantly forgotten … Her or me? …

… I look at my hands, the joints inescapably becoming deformed, like hers … I’m losing my grip, I feel as if nothing imprints itself on my memory any more, time is monotonous, ravaged. What cases did I read yesterday? Who did I meet? I have to piece together my memories from scattered clues. And frequently, I fail … Over the Rashed case, this afternoon, moments of confusion, as if my muddled thoughts were only holding together thanks to a huge effort of concentration. If I give way a little, everything disintegrates …

Noria gets her breath back. She hears the distorted echo of her own nightmares. But I got out, I saved my life. She stretches, massages her face and goes over to the window. The city, as always. And sits down to finish reading.

The last entry is very different:

At work, Simone put a phone call through to me: the Dupuis and Martenot law firm. Why did I take the call? I knew exactly what was going to happen. Lack of resolve, of self-confidence, as before. Nicolas greets me very politely, asks after my health, then my mother’s. Ten years since we last saw each other. Then he informs me that Mado is one of his clients. I already know this. That she won’t respond to my summons. As I’ve seen. And kindly warns me that incriminating Mado will upset a lot of people in high places. I hate him with every fibre of my being.

Noria closes the diary. The magistrate hated right to the death. Bonfils, not a word about him in all these pages. He’s somewhere else, a blip. And a mystery man, this Nicolas who played a part in the magistrate’s suicide. He’s protecting Mado who Katryn worked for, and Katryn was trying to blackmail one of Mado’s clients. This guy is somehow linked to the murder. What do I do with this information?

Three o’clock in the morning, much too early to wait for sunrise. To bed now, and we’ll see what tomorrow brings.