under the scrawny bushes.
The two plainclothes cops approach. Noria Ghozali, small and muffled inside a cheap black anorak, stands slightly back, behind Inspector Bonfils, a young trainee she’s working with for the first time. Instinctively, she’s on her guard: a man, her superior, she’s wary.
Bonfils leans over. The body is almost entirely covered by a cream-coloured raincoat. He touches the protruding wrist and hand. Cold, very cold. Gingerly he lifts the raincoat. A woman’s body lying on her stomach, black trousers and sweater, her face turned to one side, almost intact, her eyes closed, the back of her neck split open. All that’s left is a dark brown depression of soft matter, with splinters of greyish bone and matted hair. And under her chin, in her throat, the clean, clear impact of abullet. Nothing spectacular, thinks Bonfils, surprisingly unaffected. A used thing lying there as if it had been thrown out a long time ago. He straightens up and turns to the uniformed cops:
‘Death from a gunshot wound. Call the station and the prosecutor.’
Then he takes out his notebook and continues:
‘Now, Mr Saint-André, tell me how you came across the body?’
‘I live on the other side of the ring road.’
‘Where, to be precise?’
‘36 rue Hoche, in Pantin.’
‘Go on.’
‘Every morning, I take my dog for a walk around the parking lot, or along the canal, before leaving for work. I also work on Saturdays, you know.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘Maintenance, at the Galeries Lafayette.’ A pause. ‘Anyway, this morning, it was the parking lot. My dog found the body at around a quarter to eight, or thereabouts.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was running ahead of me and he stopped by the bushes and started growling and tugging at something, the shoe, I think. I thought he’d found a dead animal and went over to fetch him back, and that was it. Then I ran to avenue Jean-Jaurès, called the police from a phone box, and I waited for you at the parking lot entrance.’
‘Did your dog move the body?’
‘No, he didn’t have time. I’m very fond of my dog, so I’m careful about what he eats. No rotting carcases.’
‘Do you only come here in the morning?’
‘Yes. At night, I just take him round the block, I’m tired, you understand …’
‘Did you meet anyone when you were out walking this morning?’
‘No, not today or any other morning. That’s why I come here, because I can let my dog off the lead without bothering anyone. Anywhere else and people always yell at you.’
‘What about yesterday morning?’
‘I went along the canal. Every other day, for a bit of variety.’
After repeating his contact details, Saint-André leaves with his dog.
Ghozali and Bonfils pace up and down side by side to keep warm. He’s broad-shouldered and much taller than her. Wearing a flying jacket that fits snugly over the hips, he looks elegant, laid-back. He takes out a pack of filter-tipped Gauloises from his pocket and offers her a cigarette.
‘No thanks, I don’t smoke.’
‘You’re very quiet.’
‘I’m watching you work.’
He exhales the smoke, savouring the first puff. The note of aggression in her voice doesn’t escape him. He shoots her a sidelong glance. Strange little woman, hair drawn back into a severe bun, a round, slightly flat face, not exactly attractive. But there’s a sort of fierceness locked in behind that concrete wall. He continues:
‘You know, this is my first posting, my first day on duty, and my first corpse. You won’t learn much from watching me.’ He pauses for thought. ‘I think I was expecting something more shocking.’
‘Are you disappointed?’
He smiles.
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
The Crime Squad arrives. Suits and ties, overcoats, elegant leather shoes. Polite, distant, busy and competent. At once the machine goes into motion. Bonfils makes his report, Ghozali, standing back slightly, listens. The parking lot is surrounded,
The two plainclothes cops approach. Noria Ghozali, small and muffled inside a cheap black anorak, stands slightly back, behind Inspector Bonfils, a young trainee she’s working with for the first time. Instinctively, she’s on her guard: a man, her superior, she’s wary.
Bonfils leans over. The body is almost entirely covered by a cream-coloured raincoat. He touches the protruding wrist and hand. Cold, very cold. Gingerly he lifts the raincoat. A woman’s body lying on her stomach, black trousers and sweater, her face turned to one side, almost intact, her eyes closed, the back of her neck split open. All that’s left is a dark brown depression of soft matter, with splinters of greyish bone and matted hair. And under her chin, in her throat, the clean, clear impact of abullet. Nothing spectacular, thinks Bonfils, surprisingly unaffected. A used thing lying there as if it had been thrown out a long time ago. He straightens up and turns to the uniformed cops:
‘Death from a gunshot wound. Call the station and the prosecutor.’
Then he takes out his notebook and continues:
‘Now, Mr Saint-André, tell me how you came across the body?’
‘I live on the other side of the ring road.’
‘Where, to be precise?’
‘36 rue Hoche, in Pantin.’
‘Go on.’
‘Every morning, I take my dog for a walk around the parking lot, or along the canal, before leaving for work. I also work on Saturdays, you know.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘Maintenance, at the Galeries Lafayette.’ A pause. ‘Anyway, this morning, it was the parking lot. My dog found the body at around a quarter to eight, or thereabouts.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was running ahead of me and he stopped by the bushes and started growling and tugging at something, the shoe, I think. I thought he’d found a dead animal and went over to fetch him back, and that was it. Then I ran to avenue Jean-Jaurès, called the police from a phone box, and I waited for you at the parking lot entrance.’
‘Did your dog move the body?’
‘No, he didn’t have time. I’m very fond of my dog, so I’m careful about what he eats. No rotting carcases.’
‘Do you only come here in the morning?’
‘Yes. At night, I just take him round the block, I’m tired, you understand …’
‘Did you meet anyone when you were out walking this morning?’
‘No, not today or any other morning. That’s why I come here, because I can let my dog off the lead without bothering anyone. Anywhere else and people always yell at you.’
‘What about yesterday morning?’
‘I went along the canal. Every other day, for a bit of variety.’
After repeating his contact details, Saint-André leaves with his dog.
Ghozali and Bonfils pace up and down side by side to keep warm. He’s broad-shouldered and much taller than her. Wearing a flying jacket that fits snugly over the hips, he looks elegant, laid-back. He takes out a pack of filter-tipped Gauloises from his pocket and offers her a cigarette.
‘No thanks, I don’t smoke.’
‘You’re very quiet.’
‘I’m watching you work.’
He exhales the smoke, savouring the first puff. The note of aggression in her voice doesn’t escape him. He shoots her a sidelong glance. Strange little woman, hair drawn back into a severe bun, a round, slightly flat face, not exactly attractive. But there’s a sort of fierceness locked in behind that concrete wall. He continues:
‘You know, this is my first posting, my first day on duty, and my first corpse. You won’t learn much from watching me.’ He pauses for thought. ‘I think I was expecting something more shocking.’
‘Are you disappointed?’
He smiles.
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
The Crime Squad arrives. Suits and ties, overcoats, elegant leather shoes. Polite, distant, busy and competent. At once the machine goes into motion. Bonfils makes his report, Ghozali, standing back slightly, listens. The parking lot is surrounded,
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