‘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.
‘If she goes for Mado, she won’t survive,’ says the group leader.
Bonfils pays for his drink, says goodbye and leaves. Walking quickly, he catches up with the magistrate on pont Saint-Michel. She walks very erect, taking large strides. Her severely-tailored black ankle-length overcoat flaps rhythmically against her boots. Around her neck, a thick white woollen scarf hides the lower part of her face. She’s bareheaded, completely withdrawn from everything going on around her: passers-by, cars, traffic jams. Bonfils adjusts his pace to match hers, mesmerised by the swaying of her hips, as regular and precise as a metronome. She continues up boulevard Saint-Michel, on the right-hand side, which is less crowded. Bonfils allows himself to be swept along, half for the fun of it and half spurred on by desire. She keeps close to the forbidding grey walls of the Lycée Saint-Louis — the colour suits her — still at a rapid pace. The boulevard climbs uphill. Bonfils imagines the moistness of her neck underneath the scarf as he fantasises about breaking through the frosty gaze, running his hands through her damp hair and sparking that radiant smile. She turns right, alongside the Jardin du Luxembourg, empty at this hour, in the teeth of the icy wind. Bonfils allows her to put a distance between them. She crosses rue d’Assas and goes into the lobby of a very modern apartment block, built entirely of glass. Standing across the street, he sees her profile as she takes her mail from her letter box, then she turns her back to him, calls the lift, waits and disappears. He goes into the building. She’s gone up to the eighth floor. He inhales a vague fragrance of lime and fresh mint, which evaporates. That was it.
Wednesday 4 December
The Crime Squad is outside Chardon’s house at eight a.m., the concierge as wary as ever. No, she hasn’t seen him. She opens the door. The house, immaculately neat and tidy, feels as though no one is living there. The cops hesitate briefly in the hall, then one group attacks the ground floor, garage, junk room and darkroom, while the other begins with the bedroom on the second floor, escorted by the concierge.
It has a blue fitted carpet, and a double bed with a blue and white Sicilian bedspread. The cops pull the covers off the bed, shake the sheets and pillows and turn the mattress over. There’s no indication that it has been opened up or tampered with. The concierge bustles about tidying up after them.