Affairs of State (9 page)

‘Mado phoned me an hour ago. Katryn’s been murdered …’

Fernandez sits there, dumbstruck by the news. ‘It happened on Friday afternoon, no doubt shortly after you saw her leave with Chardon.’

‘Did he kill her?’

‘Possibly, I have no idea. In any case, the police are looking for him. Pity, a beautiful and able woman.’ Fernandez nods. ‘I need you to find out all you can about this Chardon. There’s no way he could have obtained that press information by chance, he’s got contacts and I’d like to know who they are. He’s at the centre of the whole thing, this guy.’

Renewed silence. Bornand sighs.

‘And then, this evening, I’m on duty at the Élysée, and that means you are too. Let’s plan our evening. You select a few love letters from among the President’s correspondence, then phone up and invite them to dinner. Not with the good Lord, but with his saints. As long as it’s the Élysée, it’ll work.’

‘How do you want me to choose them, they don’t send photos.’

‘No, but we don’t give a shit. When we want beautiful girls, we go to Mado’s, or to Lentin, the film producer’s parties. Model figures guaranteed, and all that goes with it. What I fancy this evening is a surprise, something else, and even, believe it or not, anything. A fat one, for instance, with a double stomach and big, firm breasts, so I can give her a pearl necklace.’

Fernandez sighs.

‘I can find you that, but not in the President’s postbag.’

The Crime Squad inspectors meet Bonfils and Ghozali outside 37–39 avenue Mathurin-Moreau. Handshakes and a few condescending words of congratulation to the two rookies from the 19th
arrondissement
.

It is a large, modern apartment block, with several flights of stairs. At the centre of this social microcosm is the concierge. She immediately recognises Fatima Rashed in the photo the cops show her, and confirms that she does indeed live there, sharing a flat with Marie-Christine Malinvaud on the ninth floor, staircase D, left-hand door. Two ordinary girls. ‘Lived,’ say the cops, ‘she’s been murdered.’ Shock. No, she hasn’t seen the two girls for a day or two, she couldn’t be too sure.

‘Could you show us up to their apartment?’

‘Of course. I have a key. Just let me lock up my lodge.’

The apartment is empty. The Crime Squad begin a rapid search. Bonfils and Noria stand next to each other on the sidelines.

Inside it is vast, light, quiet. A spacious living room with a
terrace running its whole length, a dining area on one side, a lounge area and TV on the other, a few books. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large kitchen. The furniture is comfortable, not particularly tasteful, parquet floors, beige walls. ‘A furnished let,’ says the concierge.

Women’s clothes in the wardrobes, toiletries in the bathrooms, two dirty coffee cups in the sink, a basket of fruit – apples, oranges, bananas, not rotten, the fridge half full, alcohol and soft drinks, supermarket dairy products. A hasty departure perhaps, but no signs of a struggle or violence. In the living room, a large, antique writing desk, full of personal papers. One of the inspectors rapidly leafs through them. Tax returns, bank statements, payslips, rent receipts etc.

‘They’re both employed by a company called Cominter whose registered office is in Nassau.’

‘There’s also a garage,’ says the concierge. ‘They’ve each got a car. The same make, as a matter of fact. A red Mini for Fatima, a black one for Marie-Christine.’

‘Let’s go and take a look. We’ll come back up afterwards.’

In the underground garage, there’s a timer switch affording only a dim light. The concierge points to the double lock-up. The door is simply pushed to. An inspector opens it. Empty. And there, splattered on the right-hand wall at head height, is a dark stain, a long trail down to the ground ending in a dark brown puddle of dried blood. Silence. Noria closes her eyes, overcome. This was where Fatima was shot, her neck split open, the blood on the wall, the body sliding, crumpling, drained. All that remains of the murder are the grisly bloodstains. Bonfils touches her arm. She jumps. Everyone around her has sprung into action.

Two Crime Squad inspectors call the forensic team and
seal off the garage. The others go back up to the apartment to search through the papers, find her flatmate, visit the bank …

Marie-Christine Malinvaud has family in the country, with whom she’s still in touch. They phone each other. She’s planning to spend Christmas with them in a few days’ time. In Pithiviers, the concierge tells them.

Malinvaud, in Pithiviers. Directory inquiries.

An inspector telephones. And finds Marie-Christine.

She’s there a few hours later, at Crime Squad HQ, a tall girl with fair hair tied back at the nape with a bow and dull hazel eyes. Wearing baggy trousers, a shapeless anorak and clumpy shoes, she sits wan-faced as she is interviewed by Patriat, the chief of the Crime Squad team investigating the killing of Fatima Rashed. In his grey suit and grey and blue patterned tie, he remains resolutely distant as he conducts the enquiry.

Born in 1963 in Pithiviers. Father a notary’s clerk, mother a housewife. No brothers or sisters.

‘Yes, we were both part of Mado’s call-girl ring, rue de Marignan. Do you know it?’ No reply. Half smile. ‘You’d be the only ones in the police not to.’

‘Let’s keep to the point, Mademoiselle Malinvaud. As you know, Fatima Rashed was murdered, and for the moment you’re our chief witness. A role you ought to take seriously. Let us resume. How long have you been working for Mado?’

‘A year.’

‘How did you get into contact with her?’

She shakes her head, her eyes vacant.

‘It’s such a classic story, that now I can’t understand how it could have happened to me. After I left school, I came to Paris to do drama. Actually, I just wanted to get out of Pithiviers.
I enrolled at the Einaudi school and worked part-time in a supermarket to pay for my lessons. I think at that point I still believed in it. People regularly came to watch us work. I started hanging around with Lentin, the film producer, and his crowd. Actors, film technicians, famous people. He promised me small parts in his films as soon as an opportunity came up, and entrusted me to a friend of his, a so-called stills photographer, apparently wanting to put together a portfolio. At that point, I stopped working in the supermarket. He took nude photos of me, I slept with him, and with his friends, telling myself this would help launch my career. He didn’t force me, let me make that clear. And then I started with strangers to whom he’d shown the photos and who paid me a lot. I stopped going to drama school, I had no talent to be honest, and I found myself on Mado’s books.’

‘When did you meet Fatima Rashed?’

‘When I arrived at Mado’s. She was my mentor, so to speak. And she took her job very seriously. It was she who found us a flat to rent. She supervised my wardrobe, got me to read the novels everyone was talking about, dragged me to various exhibitions, kept an eye on who I was meeting. I think Mado gave her a commission on my clients.’

‘And you found it hard to put up with her keeping an eye on you?’

‘Not especially. As a matter of fact, I spent several years not thinking for one moment about what I was doing. And besides, Katryn …’

‘Katryn?’

‘… It’s Fatima’s
nom de guerre
. And
nom de guerre
it was. I’d say she was a … fascinating woman. She hated men with a single-minded vengeance. The only thing she enjoyed in life was
making them pay, and pay as high a price as possible. The idea that a man could touch her without paying would have made her sick, or made her scream. She attempted to pass that hatred on to me, day after day. I don’t have that kind of strength, but it was reassuring to see. A sort of call girls’ Robin Hood, if you see what I mean?’

‘No comment. Why did you run off to Pithiviers the day she was murdered?’

‘Katryn was mixed up in a very dangerous game. She was collaborating with a journalist called Chardon. The pair of them entrapped clients and blackmailed them. They weren’t Mado’s clients, because she’s well organised and protected and Katryn would have been busted straight away. But there was a violent incident at Mado’s recently, a very young girl who was beaten up by Lentin and his buddies. They’d crossed the yellow line, and I know Katryn intended to make money out of it. The other day, she had a lunch date with Chardon to discuss it.’

‘Do you know this Chardon?’

‘I’ve met him several times, that’s all, and his story doesn’t stack up.’

‘Where can we find him?’

‘He lives near us, at 38 rue Philippe-Hecht.’

‘So, Friday, she was seeing Chardon. And then?’

‘We were supposed to be working together in the evening and had arranged to meet back at the apartment at seven. She didn’t show up. I went down to the garage to get my car, and I found the wall covered in blood, still fresh, and no Mini. I panicked. I know that Mado’s protectors are capable of killing …’ She lowers her voice … ‘I know that they’ve already killed … I felt I was in danger because I knew what Katryn was up
to. I jumped into my car and drove straight to my parents’, without going back up to the apartment.’

‘You realise of course that you could have killed Fatima Rashed yourself and that you have a motive for doing so: she was creaming off money from you, in short, and she was spying on you for Mado.’

‘Yes, I understand that you see it that way, but I didn’t kill her. And I don’t think I’m capable of killing anyone.’ After a silence: ‘I’m afraid, I’m a coward, I’m tired, and I want to change my life. Go back to Pithiviers, marry a pharmacist, have children and play bridge.’

‘And why not? You won’t be the first prostitute to end up a bourgeois wife.’

Then the group leader turned to his inspectors:

‘The priority is to find this Chardon at all costs.’

It’s aperitif time in Mado’s office. Wearing a simple, well-tailored grey suit, she mixes cocktails with neat, precise movements. She proffers Bornand a stiff whisky sour. He thanks her, and starts taking little sips. Here, he’s on well-charted territory, no surprises, no hysterical outbursts, a moment of repose. For Cecchi, her pimp, a tall, well-built man with greased grey hair, the starchy demeanour of a provincial lawyer, but with a heavy, brutal jaw, it’s a tequila with a slice of lemon. And for herself, a very light vodka orange.

Cecchi opens the conversation:

‘Katryn has been murdered.’

‘Mado told me over the telephone.’ A long silence. He turns to her. ‘Katryn was mixed up with a certain Chardon. I don’t know whether you were aware of it?’ Mado and Cecchi
exchange a glance. ‘A gutter press gossip columnist who was prosecuted for living off immoral earnings. That’s not good for the reputation of your establishment.’

‘I know him,’ snaps Cecchi. ‘He’s always kept well away from Mado’s girls, I’ve made sure of that. How do you know he was mixed up with Katryn?’

‘Chardon has a dossier on clandestine arms sales to Iran. No need for me to elaborate further. And he’s trying to sell it to the press.’

‘Storm warning?’

‘Let’s say a gale.’ Bornand addresses Mado again. ‘Last Friday I sent Fernandez to tail Chardon. And he found him having lunch with Katryn in a brasserie near Buttes Chaumont. I have to say I thought she might be his source. I had her working with the Iranians a lot.’

‘And was she?’

‘No. I’ve since obtained the dossier. Too well documented. It couldn’t have come from Katryn.’

Mado gives Cecchi a questioning look, then says:

‘The Crime Squad have heard of this Chardon character. They’re looking for him. Apparently he’s the last person to have seen Katryn alive.’

‘Will you be getting regular updates on the progress of their investigation?’

‘I’ve made arrangements to be kept informed.’

‘If you find out anything at all about him, I’m interested. There’s no way he could have come across that dossier by chance. I’m looking for any leads that could put me on the trail of the person who gave it to him.’

‘Fair’s fair, François,’ replies Cecchi. ‘We don’t want Mado’s name to appear in the proceedings.’

‘I’ll take care of that. The prosecutor is a reasonable man and a friend.’