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 wasmaking 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 upto. 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 Cecchiexchange 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
‘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 wasmaking 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 upto. 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 Cecchiexchange 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
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