Affairs of State

by Dominique Manotti

  Noria goes up to the cashier, a plump, faded blonde, hesitates briefly, takes the plunge and shows her police ID:

  ‘Noria Ghozali, police officer.’ She smiles to soften the official nature of her visit. ‘I don’t want to disturb you or take up your time. I just want to show you a photo.’

  A kind reception, she’s young, this rookie cop. Noria takes out the photo. The woman looks ghastly, the Polaroid doesn’t help. Her eyes are closed, she looks in a bad way, but her face is intact, therefore recognisable, and the bullet wound is outside the frame. The cashier calls the staff over, the customers all crowd round, there’s a bit of a crush. The answer is unanimous: no, we don’t know her.

  Noria makes her way up the street going from shop to shop. She has to push through the crowds of customers weighed down with plastic bags, some with buggies. Not many cars around. There’s a queue outside the pork butcher’s for homemade farmhouse sausages. There’s a rotisserie outside the poulterer’s, and chickens turn slowly on the spit, huge, sizzling, the fat drops onto the potatoes roasting in the drip pan. The warm air’s filled with the smell. Noria slows down. This isn’t a Sunday stroll, get a grip. Everywhere, the same reception, welcoming, helpful, a tendency to chat, and the same response: never set eyes on her. The florist, the wine merchant, hardware store, bakeries.

  There are still the cafés, four in this little stretch of the street. In the last one, on the corner, with its terrace in the sun, Noria stops for a snack: a hard-boiled egg and a coffee. The customers are all drinking beer, coffee and calvados or white wine.

  ‘Well, have you found your little lady?’ asks a fat man in his sixties who’s passed her twice in the street, which somehow makes him feel entitled to be familiar.

  She smiles.

  ‘Not yet, but I’m getting there.’

  ‘She looks a bit rough in your photo, as if she’s on drugs. Why are you looking for her?’

  ‘She’s disappeared …’

  Noria’s tired. Her right ankle’s hurting a little, from having walked too much. Her expression is drawn. The owner comes over:

  ‘Aperitif time and it’s on me. A glass of white wine, that’ll perk you up. You look as if you could do with cheering up.’

  Noria hesitates, a fraction of a second: oh to prolong this moment of everyday friendliness, this new-found warm feeling. But it’s just not possible. The mere smell of the wine makes her stomach heave. Too bad. She smiles and says: ‘No, thank you,’ waves a general goodbye and heads off in the direction of avenue Laumière, more shops, more cafés.

  Noria feels a sort of conviction. With persistence and method, and that’s something she knows all about, she’ll find the girl. Today, tomorrow, sooner or later.

  Monday 2 December

  The weather’s grey again, you have to grit your teeth and keep going. On the way to the police headquarters, a detour via the Brasserie des Sports, a stone’s throw from the Buttes Chaumont park, a smart area composed of offices and apartment blocks. The Brasserie des Sports is one of those places where the whole neighbourhood drops in at some point or another during the day. To buy cigarettes, have a drink, bet on the horses or purchase a lottery ticket, grab a bite to eat or have lunch with colleagues. It is one of those hubs of neighbourhood life that Noria has pinpointed.

  She enters. At this hour, the restaurant is still plunged in semi-darkness. A waiter is laying the tables and there are a few customers leaning on the bar. Noria walks over and orders a hot chocolate and a buttered baguette. The owner is a petite blonde with a frizzy perm, an austere fifty-something, standing behind her till, absorbed in organising the day’s work. Noria watches her for a moment then, when the woman looks up, she steps forward, her police ID and the photo of the dead woman in her hand. The owner glances at it:

  ‘Of course I know her, she’s one of our regulars. She usually looks better than that. What do you want with her?’

  Noria, in a daze, hears herself say:

  ‘She was murdered three days ago.’

  Immediately, the news carries the length of the bar. Hubbub. Customers and waiters crowd round. ‘She used to come here often … with a girlfriend, always the same … Or a male friend who she played snooker with … do you want to see the snooker table? … Of course we know her … Murdered … Unbelievable …’

  I must work fast and methodically, not get out of my depth, Noria keeps telling herself. Method, method. I can’t handle this on my own. Flashback: the police headquarters, the posters, the burden, the loneliness, the chief with his ‘be an angel’, while she stood there silent and humiliated. Difficult. Flashback, Bonfils: ‘My first corpse … you won’t learn much from watching me,’ a man who was more approachable.

  ‘I have to call my superiors at the station.’

  A quarter of an hour later, Bonfils is there, still laid-back, but now with an air of mild astonishment.

  ‘It’s a stroke of luck, pure luck,’ says Noria, clutching her card wallet deep in her pocket.

  ‘Of course.’ A pause. ‘I’ve just spoken to the superintendent. We have the go-ahead to start taking statements here, he’ll inform the Crime Squad. He’s quite chuffed to have something to crow about. To work, young lady.’

  First of all, the owner. A practical person, she’s rummaging through the credit card slips.

  ‘She had lunch here not long ago. Not Saturday or Sunday, on weekends there are fewer people and I’d remember. So Friday? That must be it.’ Aloud: ‘Who served her? Was it you, Roger? Which table, do you remember? Number 16 … There you are. Fatima Rashed …’

  A shock. That name … Impossible to shake off the feeling that she and I could be distant cousins. Every fibre in me is resisting that kinship. Not with a victim, not with an abandoned corpse. A glance at Bonfils. If he dares say a thing, it’s war.

  ‘… Do you want her credit card number?’

  Bonfils takes out his notebook and starts to write down the name and number, without saying a word and calls the station again, to have them find her address. Meanwhile, Ghozali sits on the terrace. Friday, the day of the murder. No panic. A steaming hot chocolate, little sips. A completely new feeling, a sort of joy in being alive. Beside her, men are arguing heatedly in a language she doesn’t recognise, as they fill in their betting slips.

  Bonfils is back. The owner allocates them a round table, not far from the till but slightly set apart so they can question the waiters one by one along with any customers who have something to tell them. Bonfils settles down to take notes and allows Noria, who’s taken aback at first, to conduct the interviews. They finish with the barman quickly, his customers are waiting, and besides, she never used to sit at the bar, maybe a tomato juice from time to time, while waiting for a table, not even sure he’d recognise her. But the restaurant waiters are voluble.

  ‘A very beautiful girl, classy, tall, never wore make-up, casual clothes, easy-going.’

  ‘She came regularly, at least twice a week, maybe a bit more often, in the morning at around eleven, to have breakfast – café au lait and scrambled eggs – or lunch between one and two. She’d have the day’s special and a coffee. Never a dessert, never any alcohol, never any trouble.’

  A waiter hangs a large slate at the entrance to the restaurant. Today’s special is Auvergne sausage and mashed potato with Tomme cheese. The regulars arrive. The owner waylays them at the bar and tells them the news, nods towards the cops’ table. The restaurant fills up. The atmosphere is friendly, the din grows louder, the waiters move from table to table, weaving around the plants. Noria continues to question Roger:

  ‘Did she come alone, or with someone?’

  ‘Sometimes alone, and sometimes with someone. Always the same two people. A tall girl who looked like a blonde version of her. Or a man, average-looking, hard to describe, not very tall, not very good-looking, thirty-something, maybe a bit older.’

  ‘Have this man or this girl been back since last Friday?’

  ‘No. We haven’t seen them.’
<
br />   ‘Friday, what time did she come?’

  He casts his mind back.

  ‘It’s hard to say exactly. I think it was just before the lunchtime rush. Probably earlier than usual. Around twelve, twelve thirty maybe …’

  ‘Was she on her own?’

  ‘No, with the guy. And after lunch, they played snooker, in the basement. They often played. One day, I watched the game, we weren’t very busy and I’d finished serving. She played better than him. Much better focus. In my opinion, she was quite an authoritarian woman. I reckon she wore the trousers as they say. But we never saw her arguing with her two friends.’

  The restaurant is now packed, the noise level very high. For the cops, it’s lunch break. They listen to two elderly pensioners on the next table complaining.

  ‘Nowadays, you try talking to the young about Maxence Van Der Meersch, they haven’t a clue who he was. They’ve barely heard of L’Empreinte de Dieu, still less that it won the Goncourt book prize, and even then …’

  Noria risks a baffled glance at Bonfils, who smiles at her.

  Local office workers are noisily discussing the French hostages being held in Lebanon.

  ‘They’ve been locked up over there for nearly eight months now. Can you imagine being a prisoner of those raving loonies for that length of time?’

  ‘Didn’t you see it all on TV yesterday? The government say they’re optimistic, very optimistic …’

  ‘You’re kidding … They don’t even know where they are, or who’s holding them.’

  ‘I’d send in the paras …’

  The waiters are rushed off their feet. Precise movements, threading in and out, never empty-handed, and always ready to exchange a few words with one of their customers.

  A few regulars pause at the cops’ table before leaving. They have nothing to contribute. They often saw Fatima Rashed, but as a matter of fact didn’t even know that her name was Fatima. Actually, their paths crossed, that was all. They weren’t even able to say what she might have been talking about with her friends.

  ‘When she was on her own, she’d read Libération,’ says an elderly man in a severe suit disapprovingly.

  ‘So do I,’ says Bonfils. ‘It’s not a good enough reason to go and get murdered.’

  The old man remains doubtful.

  Two o’clock, and calm is restored. One by one the tables empty. The waiters move less speedily. The owner serves the cops grilled sirloin and chips, apologising that there’s no more sausage and mash. An elderly woman comes in to drink a cup of tea. Roger, the waiter who served Fatima Rashed and her friend on the day she was murdered, returns to sit at their table.

  ‘I talked to the boss and she said I should tell you about this. Last Friday, I had the feeling that someone was following Fatima Rashed. I’m not certain, but it came back to me.’

  Noria glances at Bonfils, who takes out his notebook without saying a word.

  ‘Tell us anyway, we’re interested.’

  ‘The girl and her boyfriend came in and I sat them at table 16.’ He points it out in a corner of the restaurant. ‘Just behind them, this lone guy I’ve never seen before walked in. He was wearing a beautiful leather jacket. You know, one of those hip-length jackets, belted at the waist, very fine leather, beautiful. I had the impression it was fur-lined, but I couldn’t swear it. I said to myself that a jacket like that would cost me practically a month’s salary.’ He pauses. ‘Without tips, of course. I pointed to the free table next to number 16. There were still quite a few empty tables, which is what makes me think it must have been around midday, you see?’ Noria nods to show she follows. ‘He said no, and went and sat on the other side of the greenery, as if he didn’t want the girl and her friend to see him. Anyway, then I got on with my job – as you’ve seen, there’s no time to hang around. At one point, Fatima and her friend go downstairs to play snooker. They stick around downstairs for forty-five minutes or an hour, as usual.’ Bonfils scribbles, makes a quick calculation and whispers to Noria: ‘That possibly corroborates the time of the murder.’ The waiter goes on: ‘I finish clearing the tables, and I go behind the bar for a drink before going home. At the end of the bar, I notice my man with his leather jacket. Fatima and her friend come upstairs at that point and leave. The guy pays for his coffee and sets off in the same direction as them. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence.’

  ‘Can you tell us what this guy looked like?’

  ‘Vaguely. Tall, very dark, that French North African type, you know?’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Around thirty, perhaps a bit older.’

  ‘Would you recognise him?’

  ‘Him, I’m not sure, but the jacket, yes.’

  The owner signals to them. ‘A telephone call for you.’ Bonfils goes to take the call. It’s the station. The Crime Squad is on the way to 37–39 avenue Mathurin-Moreau, please meet them in the lobby. She grabs his arm.

  ‘I’ve been through my bills. It looks as though Fatima’s friends paid cash. I can’t find any cheques or credit card receipts that match.’

  Bornand, ensconced in the executive chair behind his desk, legs outstretched, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes closed, is letting his thoughts wander. Françoise has gone to stay with a friend – for a break, she said. Without seeing him again. Just a note via Antoine. This woman, who unquestionably belongs to him and always has done, has suddenly escaped his control. She’s becoming a vague, disturbing silhouette that disintegrates if he stretches out his hand. A total stranger. And now she’s deserting him, leaving him on his own. He feels as if he’s suffocating. A whisky.

  Enter Fernandez, rested after sleeping round the clock under sedation, at Mado’s place. Bornand sits up.

  ‘Listen to this, Fernandez my friend. The unit has informed me of several interesting conversations, and I have some news for you. Chardon’s dossier arrived on the desk of the editors of Combat Présent, the far-right weekly, this morning. It was a secretary at the Bavard Impénitent who thought Bestégui was dragging his feet and decided to take things in hand. If I’m not mistaken, isn’t Tardivel, whom we have such a pretty photo of, on the editorial staff at Combat Présent?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘What do you say to giving him a timely little warning?’

  ‘It’d be a great pleasure, chief.’

  ‘Green light.’ A half smile. ‘And don’t forget to tell me about it.’

  ‘I bumped into Beauchamp on the way in …’

  ‘He was leaving here.’

  ‘You were meeting that right-wing extremist? …’

  Fernandez’s comment cuts him to the quick. In the past, at the time of the Liberation, the world had been simple: there was the Resistance on one side, collaborators on the other, and he’d been on the wrong side. You had to pretend, beg for resistance certificates, buy them if need be, but, above all else, you had to obtain one. The ultimate humiliation. Once and for all, politics has definitely become a network of personal friendships; the politically correct attitude that the left is left-wing and the right is right-wing – that’s pure naivety, and, with age, he is finding it harder and harder to act as if he believes in any of it.

  Bornand’s face is ashen, his nostrils pinched, as he brings the palm of his hand down hard on the desk.

  ‘You think you’re on the left, do you? Look at you. The only things that are on the left are your wristwatch and your gold signet ring. And me? What does the left mean to me, can you tell me? Me, I’m in power, that’s all.’

  Infuriated, Fernandez bites his tongue.

  ‘As you say, chief. I simply took the liberty of pointing out to you that receiving a veteran of the Organisation de l’Armée Secrète,6 as close as you can get to a militarised National Front party, here in your office is unwise. If word gets about, it is bound to be misconstrued.’

  Bornand rises, turns his back on Fernandez, opens the window, leans out and draws the cold, damp air deep into his lungs. He gazes out over the outline of the rooftops, grey
on grey. Beauchamp is a friend, I’ve known him for years, we worked together with the Americans. I’m the one who got him a job in the SEA’s security department, as soon as I began working with Flandin, and now he’s very useful to me. Fair enough, but Fernandez is right, I shouldn’t meet him here. Now calm down. He turns around and says in a neutral voice:

  ‘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.’