Affairs of State

Monday 9 December

The New York-Paris night flight. Bornand lands at Roissy without having slept, feeling pretty groggy. He buys the newspapers and repairs to the airport bar, amid the hubbub of comings and goings. A strong double espresso and two pills, just to wake him up.

Paris Turf, first of all, to read the commentary on Crystal Palace’s triumph yesterday at Longchamp, in the group 3 race. A clear win, by two lengths. The makings of a champion. He closes his eyes, the Aigles track at dawn, smells the horses’ powerful odour after exertion, hears them snorting. A mirage …

And the national press. The headlines are devoted to Saturday’s bomb attacks. It didn’t take the Iranians long to react. Idiotic editorials claiming it to be the work of a deranged loner! The mind boggles. He turns to the financial section. In one column, he finds the article he’s expecting:

Rumours of bankruptcy in Beirut.

The International Bank of Lebanon is the biggest private bank in the Middle East. With a presence in the region’s many arms markets, it is also the biggest investment bank for oil magnates to deposit their private fortunes, and therefore has close ties with the leading banks in the London, New York and Geneva financial markets.

Until now, it had managed to avoid the devastating effects of the Lebanon war, by striking a balance within its board of directors between the different Lebanese communities and between the Syrians and the Gulf states. That was its real success story.

It seems that this era is over. In the past few days, several of the bank’s major customers, whose investments are highly volatile, have begun to close their accounts. If this trend continues, it is likely to force the bank to sell off some of its property assets, in a highly unfavourable market.

To make matters worse, one of the bank’s main partners, the Franco-Lebanese Walid Karim, vanished three days ago, taking with him certain confidential documents relating to the current crisis … The fate of the IBL should become clear by the end of the week.

Bornand folds the papers, stretches his legs, pulls back his shoulders and his arms. Karim. A chapter of my life unravelling. Sinister. His choice, not mine. Business will resume with Iran, this time with the Americans. They need the IBL as much as I need them. The hostages … It’s not for want of trying. And floating guiltily around in his mind is the thought that the longer the embargo lasts, the better it is for business. He contemplates the crowds milling around him.

When he arrives in his office, Bornand finds a number of messages, one of which says: ‘Call Flandin back urgently.’ He wrinkles his nose. The boss of the SEA, a hysterical panic-monger. What can he want to talk to me about that’s so urgent? A bad omen.

On the phone, Flandin sounds at the end of his tether, his voice cracking uncontrollably.

‘Have you read the Tribune de Lille?’

‘No. I’m not interested in that kind of local paper.’

‘Then you’re wrong. I shall therefore have the pleasure of reading you an article from the front page of today’s Tribune. Are you listening?’

Bornand pours himself a whisky, sits down and sighs:

‘I’m listening.’

‘It’s entitled: Mystery plane crash.’

‘In true provincial press style,’ thinks Bornand.

Flandin continues: ‘This is the article:

On 29 November 1985, Turkey signalled the disappearance of a Boeing 747 cargo plane in its airspace, in the vicinity of Lake Van. So far, no airline company has reported the disappearance of one of its planes, nobody seems bothered about the death of the crew of possibly three, four, five or more people about whom we know nothing, not even their nationality. The owner(s) of the cargo have not come forward either to demand an investigation or to request compensation. And as the explosion took place at the start of winter, over a semi-desert in a perilous mountainous region, no doubt it will take a long time before a team of investigators from the Turkish civil aviation authority completes a report on this incident.

It was tempting to try and find out more about this mysterious plane. When the Ankara air-traffic controllers took charge on 29 November, the flight plan showed that it had taken off from Malta at 09.30, destination Tehran, with a cargo of rice.

Admittedly, operations at Valetta are still disrupted, flights have only just resumed after the tragic ending of the hijacking of the Egypt Air Boeing which left dozens dead,7 but the information supplied by the control tower at Valetta is categorical: no Boeing 747 cargo had taken off at 09.30. However, at that same time, a Boeing 747 cargo from Brussels-Zavantem had flown over Malta and came under the authority of the Valetta air-traffic controllers, who gave it a new flight number and directed it towards Iran. Brussels-Zavantem Airport confirms that the Boeing 747 cargo took off at 06.58, destination Malta-Valetta. According to the customs declarations, it was carrying electronic equipment belonging to the SAPA. Hence of course the interest in finding out more about this equipment. The SAPA is a very recently formed company whose registered office is in the Bahamas. It purchased the cargo of electronic equipment on 28 November, i.e. the day before the Boeing crashed, from the SEA, a French company based in the Paris region and specialising in electronic equipment and arms. The SAPA itself is merely a dummy company for the SEA, to ensure that the name of the SEA does not appear officially in the transaction, so that it is harder to establish the true nature of this ‘electronic equipment’. Earlier this year, the SEA successfully bought up a number of Magic 550 missiles that had been decommissioned by the French army. The reason officially given is to recycle the onboard electronic equipment. Could it be that those same missiles were now en route to Iran? Watch this space.’

A long silence.

‘What do you think about that, Bornand?’

‘It’s very badly written.’

Flandin roars:

‘You guaranteed me absolute confidentiality. You’ve totally fucked up!’ his words are coming out in a jumbled rush. ‘I want to protect my company, that’s the only thing I care about. I’m not going to sacrifice it to bail you out. I’m meeting the journalist from the Tribune this afternoon. He’s going to be so interested in what I’m going to tell him that he won’t bother about the SEA any more. All the bribes paid to the ministerial staff and to the Defence Ministry, the five million francs for them to turn a blind eye to the sale of the Magic 550s. I’ve got names. I don’t know what they did with the money afterwards … I’m going to tell that journalist that the SAPA is you, and only you, something he doesn’t seem to be aware of, and that this operation was to net you thirty million francs …’

Bornand fidgets. He can’t allow this maniac to cramp his style. I was right.

‘Calm down, Flandin. I assure you the SEA has very little to fear. At worst, a bit of fuss in the press, but the Ministry won’t prosecute, as you well know. You’re meeting your journalist this afternoon, OK. Only let’s have lunch together beforehand to talk things over. And let’s try and avoid the worst. We’ve all got something to lose in this affair. One o’clock at Laurent’s, in one of the private dining rooms on the first floor?’

A long silence.

‘I’ll be there.’

The crisis defused, Bornand hangs up. That’s the danger of working with beginners, they lack nerve. Contact Beauchamp, that’s why I brought him in. He calls the SEA security department. Beauchamp hasn’t come in this morning, nor has he called in to leave a message. Bornand phones him at home and gets the answering machine. He hasn’t put in an appearance at his regular bar, a favourite haunt of African mercenaries, for the past three days. Worrying.

Bornand stands up and gazes out over the rooftops. Silence, which infuses him slowly and turns into a sense of solitude tinged with anxiety. Must find out what’s going on with the Djimils. Four days ago, I had everything sorted, the affair was buried. Who’s stirring things up again? The Intelligence Service, of course. It’s the only possible explanation. They’ve declared outright war on me. I’ll make them sorry. But first of all, I’ve got to deal with Flandin, even if it takes a bit of improvisation. He looks at his watch. Nine a.m. And Martenot’s wife’s funeral is at twelve. Not a second to lose.

When Fernandez comes into the office he finds Bornand, reclining in his armchair, his face pale and his eyes closed, looking as if he’s asleep. Fernandez falters. Bornand sits up, looks at him and smiles:

‘It’s nothing, tiredness, jet lag. You’re having lunch with me today, young fellow. We’re going to meet Flandin. I’ve booked a private dining room at Laurent’s.’

Fernandez is staggered. In four years, this is the first time that Bornand has taken him to what appears to be a business lunch, and this blurring of roles is baffling.

The two hearses arrive in convoy at the main entrance to Père-Lachaise cemetery. They take the left-hand avenue flanked by tombstones leading up to the funeral parlour. A procession forms and follows behind. Noria Ghozali walks beside Bonfils. All around, there’s little emotion, the gathering appears to be made up of officials, magistrates, lawyers, police officers, and a few strangers. Impressive ‘institutional’ wreaths. Handshakes between cops and magistrates. Walking alone at the head of the procession is a man in his forties, athletic, dark, hair on the long side, good-looking. Towards the back, Noria spots Simone, the clerk, head bowed and tears in her eyes. She slips in beside her, takes her arm. There’s a moment of uncertainty, then the clerk recognises her and leans on her for support.

‘Alone, completely alone,’ she murmurs.

The magistrate? Her? Both of them?

‘Who’s the man at the front?’ asks Noria quietly.

The clerk looks up for a second, and bows her head again.

‘Nicolas Martenot. They were married. They divorced about ten years ago. Now, he’s one of the top corporate lawyers in Paris. A shark and a regular on the night-club circuit. She ended up hating him.’

‘Did they see much of each other?’

‘No, never.’ They walk in silence. The clerk continues, a slight hesitation in her voice: ‘An out-and-out bastard.’

‘He was involved in having her taken off the case …’ Noria’s words hang in the air, intimating a question.

‘I’m sure he was.’ Then, with a start: ‘What makes you say that?’

Noria dodges the question.

‘And the magistrate thought that Mado had something to do with Fatima Rashed’s murder?’

‘Listen, to be honest, I have absolutely no idea about that. My feeling is that she was going after Mado because of the challenge. Why do you ask me that?’

The procession has reached the open grave. A deep vault, two coffins already at the bottom of the cavity. This is the end of a family history. Simone wipes her eyes. Noria takes advantage of the moment to step back and join Bonfils. An impasse. Not surprisingly.

Martenot throws in the first handfuls of earth, and the flowers, then receives people’s condolences, without putting on a big act of mourning. Nor does anyone else as a matter of fact. Noria closes her eyes and has a flashback of the blood-soaked body in the bathtub. When she opens them again, the clerk has disappeared.

People gather in small knots at the exit, waiting for their chauffeur-driven cars, exchanging a few words, taking out their engagement diaries. Noria and Bonfils stand to one side. Noria watches Martenot as he goes from group to group, smiling, urbane. He greets a couple, the man in his sixties, tall, very slim, with a long, mobile face and a white moustache, she younger, barely forty, a decorative blonde, sophisticated chignon and make-up, in a rather theatrical black overcoat. On seeing Martenot coming towards them, she starts as if to turn away, possibly to avoid him; the man suddenly freezes, grabs her arm and pins her brutally to his side. The woman sways. Noria feels his fingers digging into her flesh through the fabric. The couple exchange a few sentences with Martenot who moves on to another group. A few metres away, a man is in conversation with the clerk who points at Noria and Bonfils. He makes his way towards them.

‘Inspector Dumont, Police Intelligence, Paris Section. Superintendent Macquart is expecting you in his office at headquarters at two p.m. this afternoon. He’ll inform your superiors.’

Bonfils’ jaw drops in surprise. Noria drags him away.

‘Let’s go and have lunch, we’ve just got time. I need to talk to you.’

A luxury private dining room lavishly decorated in shades of sea-green with two vast windows overlooking the gardens of the Champs-Élysées and a circular table laid for three. Bornand, extremely elegant in a pale grey, immaculately fitting worsted suit and a dark grey silk and wool tie, is pacing up and down, waiting for his guest, his face expressionless. Fernandez, stands stiffly in a corner, on the alert, trying to keep a low profile.

Flandin arrives accompanied by Beauchamp. Bornand shivers. Impossible to get hold of, Beauchamp? He tricked me. Chardon … Lebanese heroin … Beauchamp too. The dossier, it’s him. Both of them working for Intelligence? It’s possible. The Djimils, a red herring? So what about Moricet? Danger. Too late to back out, take things as they come.

Bornand warmly shakes his guests’ hands and introduces Fernandez, joking: ‘My head of staff, if I had a staff’, has another place laid, and asks the maître d’hôtel to serve the aperitif. A glance around the room. Two bodyguards for guests — this was how politics and business was conducted in Paris, in the winter of 1985 …

‘What will you have to drink, my friend?’

‘Whisky. A light Scotch, neat.’

‘Same for me.’

Once the drinks have been poured, Bornand goes over to the window and gazes out over the Champs Elysées in the greyness and the cold, then returns to his guests. He signals to Fernandez that he should take care of Beauchamp then joins Flandin, steering him over to one of the windows.

‘Sad, Paris at this time of year.’ Flandin, his face drawn, lets him speak, without reacting. ‘I’m just back from the USA, with some interesting opportunities.’ Still no response. Bornand puts his glass down next to a huge bouquet of flowers on a pedestal table between the two windows, and takes a long envelope from his inside pocket. Specific proposals, in writing and with figures. He proffers the envelope to Flandin. ‘I’m simply asking you to read these documents after lunch, before going to see your journalist.’

Flandin, a little taken aback, wavers for a moment, then puts his glass down on the table and takes the envelope, turns it over and over, then folds it and puts it in his pocket. Bornand has already picked up Flandin’s glass, while Flandin picks up the one left on the pedestal table. Then they both make their way over to the centre of the room where Fernandez is engaging Beauchamp in conversation as best he can:

‘We’ve met before …’

Beauchamp snaps:

‘I’d be very surprised. We don’t move in the same circles.’

Fernandez, very ill at ease, feels a crazy urge to beat the shit out of Bornand who raises his glass with a smile.

‘Come, whatever happens, let’s drink to the success of our venture, it’s not too late.’

Shortly after, Flandin follows suit, takes one, then another slug of whisky, and suddenly stiffens, his mouth open. Noiselessly, his face drawn and mottled, he slowly slumps to the floor and lies in a contorted heap. Bornand watches him collapse from high above, from a long way away, almost surprised. Flashback: another body, long ago, killed in a courtyard, and he himself kicking the body relentlessly. No comparison, this death is sanitised. He leans over to retrieve the envelope he’s just given Flandin. Then it’s all stations go. Fernandez rushes over to perform cardiac massage. Beauchamp calls the waiters. The ambulance, the cops, the room fills with people. The words ‘heart attack’ are on everyone’s lips.

Bornand, stock still, contemplates the scene. I’m spared the gourmet lunch.

Bonfils and Noria Ghozali enter Macquart’s office. It is very ordinary looking, unlike the man sitting at his desk ready to ambush them. Leaning slightly forward, his forearms resting on the desk, his broad, stubby hands folded, he scrutinises them, without making a movement. He has a round, fleshy face, very thin lips, and a fixed, expressionless stare. He’s a little on the corpulent side without being fat, and wears his hair plastered back along with a salt-and-pepper moustache trimmed very short. He’s wearing a navy blue three-piece suit with very thin white stripes, a white shirt and a tie. The archetypal civil servant, with a slightly 1950s touch. Noria instinctively thinks: a real killer. Instinctively she says to herself: a cop who commands respect. Instinctively thinks: my lucky day.

He motions them to sit down, allowing a silence to hover as he gazes at them, then eventually says:

‘Why is it that two junior cops from the 19th arrondissement are so interested in Maître Martenot?’

Straight to the point, and fast. The clerk must be working for Intelligence. Impressive. Noria and Bonfils have prepared their answer, Noria insists on taking the lead.

‘I was the only one to take an interest in Maître Martenot.’

Macquart looks from Noria to Bonfils and back at Noria who takes the yellow notebook from the inside pocket of her anorak, opens it at the last page. She leans over and places it on Macquart’s desk.

‘The magistrate’s personal diary.’

He reads the open page, flicks through the rest, stony-faced, closes it and puts it away in a drawer.

‘Where did you find that?’

‘In the magistrate’s apartment, on the day we found her body.’

‘And you kept it to yourself. Need I say more?’ Two smart, ambitious young cops, completely out of control. They could cause havoc in sensitive cases. Do I break them or bring them on board? ‘And while you’re at it, tell me how you came to be in the magistrate’s apartment too.’

‘We were involved in the identification of Fatima Rashed …’

‘I am aware of your connection with that case.’

‘… At that point, we thought there could have been a second man in the restaurant with Chardon and Fatima Rashed. That same man could have picked Chardon up in Fatima Rashed’s car, just after her murder, and that was the last time Chardon was seen, alive or dead.’

This girl, with her impenetrable dark eyes and taut body, possessed of a raw strength.

‘Go on.’

‘We wrote a report and we took it to the magistrate at the law courts.’

‘She wasn’t there.’

‘The clerk gave us her address.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Bonfils breaks his silence and says with a dazzling smile:

‘I found the magistrate a fascinating woman. One evening, I followed her home.’ He takes the additional report out of his pocket and places it in front of Macquart. ‘After her death, the investigation was put on hold and nobody’s asked us for anything further.’

‘So I’m the first person to see this report?’

‘That’s correct.’

He takes his time reading it. Good work. Excellent work. My mind’s made up. I bring them on board.

‘Would you be interested in a transfer to Intelligence?’

‘Yes,’ says Noria.

‘No,’ says Bonfils.

Macquart smiles, for the first time.

‘Just as I thought.’ Then, turning to Noria: ‘Why is the superintendent of the 19th so happy to see the back of you?’

Noria, her hands clasped on her knee, tense, her knuckles white, reflects for a second.

‘I think he’s afraid of me.’

Macquart rises, shows them to the door of his office and says, with a hand on Bonfils’ shoulder:

‘For your own good, if you don’t want to pay for her mistakes, forget the whole thing, Bonfils, including your latest report.’

‘I already have.’

‘And you, Ghozali, eight o’clock tomorrow morning in my office.’

As soon as Noria and Bonfils have left his office, Macquart calls in one of his inspectors.

‘Laurencin, drop what you’re working on. I have an emergency. I’m giving you this packet of photos, which you are going to show a few people. If the result confirms my suspicions, you can cancel all leave.’

Noria and Bonfils leave the office together and set off down the street with a sigh of relief. They walk quickly away, side by side, their heads down. Noria’s expression is inscrutable. But when he brushes against her, Bonfils feels the explosive tension in her muscles. They go into the Soleil d’Or, which is almost empty at this hour, and sit at the back of the café. A hot chocolate for Noria, a beer for Bonfils. He looks up at her.

‘Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for? The political police, champions of dirty tricks.’

She replies aggressively:

‘I’m not like you. I don’t have any choice, and I’m in a hurry.’

Then a smile. In a single movement, she undoes her chignon and loosens her hair. The shining, black, undulating mass spreads over her shoulders, sculpts her round cheeks, offsets her features. She stands up, presses her hands down on the table and leans towards him. She places her mouth on his upper lip and licks it with the moist tip of her tongue, the trace of white foam leaving a slight tickling sensation, her breath coming in warm, short bursts. A brief silence, then Bonfils, incredulous, says:

‘Now what happens?’

‘Forget the whole thing, Bonfils, forget the whole thing.’

And she ditches him there, at the table, with the beer and the chocolate, rushing out as fast as her legs will carry her.

‘Bestégui? … Good to hear you, I was just about to call you. Where are you? At home?’

‘…’

‘Yes, that’s correct, Flandin has just died of a heart attack … While we were having lunch together …’

‘…’

‘Rumour! What nonsense. The burial certificate has already been issued. It was the article in the Tribune de Lille that killed him. Have you read it?’

‘…’

‘I know it’s the dossier you had in your hands.’ Bornand’s voice is strained, aggressive, veering towards the shrill rather more than he would wish. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Do you know a certain Chardon?’

‘…’

‘And do you know who you are employing? A pimp, blackmailer and drug trafficker. Not exactly a brilliant move.’

‘…’

‘Of course I have proof. A prostitute was murdered ten days ago and Chardon is mixed up in it somehow. The Crime Squad is investigating him and they’ve uncovered the full extent of his activities. You can easily check, I’m sure you’ve got your contacts at Crime Squad HQ. They also have proof that Chardon works for your paper. It’s not certain they’ll use it, but you never know …’

‘…’

‘The best bit is still to come, André. Chardon is in the pay of the Intelligence Service.’

‘…’

Bornand sniggers:

‘His nose in your shit. The real question is: who dug up the Chardon dossier, which was well and truly buried three days ago? And the answer can only be: the Intelligence Service.’

‘…’

‘No, I’m not out of my mind. Chardon is involved in a heroin trafficking ring with a certain Beauchamp, head of security at the SEA. You know what I’m talking about, because you’ve had the dossier in your hands. He’s the source of the information. When the prostitute was murdered — I have no idea why, by the way — Chardon got scared. Intelligence covered up for him, either by hiding or by murdering him …’

‘…’

Bornand, exasperated, bangs his fist down on the desk:

‘Oh yes, of course it’s possible. Don’t act more naive than you are. Two months ago, your paper ran a press campaign on the Irish of Vincennes … I’m not blaming you, but remember, your informer, your only informer, was dealt with by military security. And now Intelligence have Chardon. These people hate us, André. The official police departments are poisoned by our political enemies. And besides, their sights are set directly on me, because through me, they’re targeting the Élysée unit, the bête noire of all the official police departments, because it’s the living proof of their ineffectiveness … What we are witnessing, André, is a police coup, and I’m weighing my words carefully, here. I don’t intend to let them get away with it. I need you, you can’t abandon me.’

When Bestégui hangs up, he is deeply disturbed. Paranoid, Bornand? Not totally, it would seem. So many facts stack up … His tone is violent, the threats barely disguised. But how to get away from him? Sooner or later, it’ll be payback time and the other version will surface. Ultimately, we’re in the same boat.

This must all be wrapped up by tomorrow evening. There’s just enough time to get down to work.

Laurencin walks into the Brasserie des Sports at around five p.m. The customers are crowding around the bar, but only a few tables are occupied in the hushed atmosphere of the main restaurant. A few elderly ladies sit drinking tea. He introduces himself to the owner, who greets him warmly, offers him a pastis and asks how the investigation is going.

‘It’s going, it’s going …’ he replies vaguely. ‘I’ve got a few photos I’d like to show one of your waiters, I won’t keep him long …’

He sits at a round table on the terrace, glass in hand. Roger comes over to join him. Laurencin places a set of around thirty black and white photos of men’s faces in front him.

‘Take your time.’

Roger leans forward, concentrating hard (‘I’m not sure I’d recognise him, you know’), examines all the photos, goes back to one he’s already looked at several times, and ends up choosing two possibilities. One is the photo of Fernandez, the Intelligence cop seconded to Bornand’s personal service. Macquart will be happy. There goes his leave.

Around the middle of the afternoon, Fernandez steps out of Laurent’s into the Champs-Élysée gardens, the cold air whipping his face. It is already beginning to grow dark and the lights are coming on. He starts walking straight ahead in the direction of the Étoile, into the bright flickering lights, into the crowds. He still hasn’t digested the shock. Knocked for six, his mind in a state of total confusion, with three little words going round and round obsessively: a fuck-up, a fuck-up. He walks faster, enjoying being jostled by the stream of pedestrians come to see the illuminations or to do their Christmas shopping. He slowly gathers his wits. By the time he reaches the Étoile, he starts thinking more coherently. Bornand didn’t trust Flandin. He contacted Beauchamp, and between them they killed Flandin. His astonishment when it happened: a piece of acting. How they did it, I have no idea, but they killed him, and Bornand used me as a witness, to make the heart attack credible. It’s the only reason he invited me to lunch. A deep breath. That much at least is for certain. And if Bornand has sunk to that level, he’s finished.

He strides along and starts making his way around the vast place de l’Étoile, crossing avenues Wagram and Mac-Mahon at the traffic lights. If Bornand’s finished, that means I am too. All the dirty tricks will come to light when the boss has gone. Four years, an age. And always under pressure. Not sure I can remember everything.

He walks up avenue Foch in the direction of porte Dauphine, with no specific destination in mind. Go back to Intelligence …. Out of the question … They hate Bornand. Or Cecchi … Maybe go and pick up a high-class whore on the avenue … Mado’s, can’t even consider it for quite a while … and he stops in front of the building where Cecchi lives. He sits on a bench. Another certainty: It’s Cecchi who got the Tribune de Lille to publish the article in order to put pressure on Bornand, who doesn’t realise it yet. Cecchi’s going to use me as go-between, he’s got me, and it’s hell. Caught between the two of them, I’ll never survive … I’m up shit creek … but if Bornand’s finished, that only leaves Cecchi … Fernandez sits bolt upright, realising that he’s freezing. He knocks back some amphetamines and stands up. He sets off at a slow jog to warm himself up.

Laurencin brings back the photos and some good news: there’s a strong chance that Fernandez was at the Brasserie des Sports on the day Katryn was murdered. Macquart savours the news slowly, in silence, his eyes half closed. The man who killed Katryn and probably Chardon too. One final push and the net will close in around Bornand. He sits up.

‘Well, Laurencin. Since this morning, there’s been an article in the Tribune de Lille, and a meal at Laurent’s. I’m convinced that Bornand’s involved in arms trafficking in one way or another. On that score, we’ve got nothing on him, and other departments specialising in that area are well ahead of us, especially the National Security Service. But we can take back the initiative in other areas. Bornand is probably implicated, directly or indirectly in two murders. We’re going to play Fernandez as our master trump. I’m going to call him into this office as soon as possible. That doesn’t preclude us from pursuing other leads. If there’s been friction between Bornand and Chardon, knowing Chardon, it must be because there’s some vice or drugs business involved. Just to be sure, I called one of my friends in the Drugs Squad, Superintendent Daquin. He confirmed that Bornand’s a user, but Cecchi’s his regular dealer and there are no problems. No joy there. There’s still Bornand’s mistress. We have nothing on her in our files, which is a regrettable shortcoming, and I’m counting on you to remedy it. We only know one thing about Françoise Michel: she’s deeply attached to her mother who lives in Annecy. She phones her every week and goes to see her several times a year. You’ll go there tomorrow morning. Savoie’s a lovely region. Dig around and bring back what you can. Preferably on the girl, but also on the mother, it might come in useful.’