The Third Woman. Mark Burnell
about Jacob?’
‘I told you. He never turned up. He died later. At their apartment.’
‘With Miriam.’
‘Yes.’
‘You think there’s a connection?’
‘I don’t want to. But it’s hard not to. When did you last see him?’
‘Thursday. Sylvie and I went over to their place and we went to the street market on boulevard de Belleville. Lately, it’s something we’ve been doing almost every week. The market is on Thursday and Friday mornings. After it, we have lunch. Usually at old Goldenberg’s place – you know it? He and Jacob were friends.’
She shook her head.
‘On rue de Tourtille. Great service, shit food. Jacob and Miriam have been going there since it opened, back in the Seventies. Jacob always used to say he only started enjoying it about five years ago when his taste buds went. He used to lean across the table when Goldenberg was hovering and he’d say to me, “Claude, there are two things that give me pleasure when I’m here. Not tasting the food and watching your face. Every mouthful is a masterpiece.” That was his big joke. Goldenberg has a sign in the front window: every mouthful is a masterpiece.’
Stephanie tried to muster a smile. ‘Did you always go over to see him? Or did he come here?’
‘Usually, we went there. When he sold the business he began to slow down. Recently, he’d become … fragile.’
‘At his age, he was entitled to.’
‘I agree with you. But he wouldn’t have.’
‘You didn’t notice anything on Thursday? He didn’t seem upset or preoccupied?’
‘Nothing like that, no.’
‘What about the last few weeks?’
‘No.’
‘Does it surprise you that he would have arranged a meeting with me at La Béatrice?’
‘Frankly, yes. He was fond of you. They both were. I would have expected him to invite you to their home. That was their way.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘How could he be connected to what happened in Sentier?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I can’t tell yet. I guess I’ll take a look at his place. After that … who knows?’
‘How will you get in?’
‘I’ll find a way.’
Adler stood up and shuffled past her into the hall. She heard the scrape of a drawer. When he returned he was holding a set of keys.
‘The one with the plastic clip is the top lock, the other one does the main lock. The number for the building is 1845.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It was Miriam’s idea. In case they needed help.’
Stephanie took the keys and put them into the pocket of her denim jacket.
Adler said, ‘Is there something I can do, Petra? I’d like to help.’
‘Then forget this conversation. In fact, forget I was even here.’
I’m sitting at a small circular table beside the window. Outside, the traffic thickens along rue de Rivoli. The street shimmers in the wintry light of early morning. Silver rain streaks the glass. I order some breakfast from the waiter and then spread the newspapers across the table; Le Monde, Libération, International Herald Tribune. The bomb dominates the front pages of the two French papers and shares the lead in the Tribune.
According to the French reports, there are twelve dead and forty-five injured. The Tribune has thirteen dead and forty-nine injured. A spokesman for the Préfet de Police concludes: ‘It’s a tragedy. And a grotesque act of cowardice.’
Much of the coverage is analysis. Since Sentier has a strong Jewish presence, the focus inevitably falls upon anti-Semitic extremists. With all the awkward questions that poses for a country like France. Or even a city like Paris. Libération reports that the Gendarmerie Nationale have two suspects, both men, both seen entering La Béatrice two or three minutes before the explosion. The shorter of the pair is about one-metre-sixty and is twenty to twenty-five years old. He was wearing a Nike tracksuit – dark blue with white flashes. The older one is probably in his mid-thirties, around one-metre-eighty, and was wearing denim jeans, black running shoes and a khaki jacket with a zip. They are Algerians but might be travelling on Moroccan passports. No names are suggested.
I read the descriptions several times. The detail is convincing but false. No such men entered La Béatrice while I was there, which was over a period of about twenty minutes. And if they’d gone in after I’d left, they’d almost certainly be dead.
The name of al-Qaeda is tossed over the coverage as casually as confetti at a wedding. The French papers, in particular, concern themselves with the possibility of an anti-Muslim backlash. Nothing I read is new.
The café is quiet. A crumpled, middle-aged man beneath the menu blackboard nurses a glass of red wine. I can’t decide whether it’s the last of the night or the first of the morning. Three tables away from me, a plump dark-haired woman is smoking a filterless cigarette. Smudged eye-liner draws attention to bloodshot pupils.
The waiter brings me bread, butter and hot chocolate. He stoops to lay them on the table, a lock of greasy grey hair falling from his forehead. He sees the newspapers, shakes his head and clucks his disapproval.
There’s no mention of me anywhere. No female suspect. No chase through the ruins. No gun-shot. I’ve been air-brushed from the picture.
Number 16, place Vendôme. Just inside the entrance, on the wall to the left, was a mirror with the names of the resident institutions picked out in gold letters; R.T. Vanderbilt Company Inc., Lazard Construction, Laboratoires Garnier. Under Escalier B, Stephanie found the name, once familiar, now largely ignored: Banque Damiani, Genève. This was only her second visit in seven years.
Escalier B was at the back of the paved courtyard, past the offices of Comme des Garçons, through a set of black double-doors. Inside, Stephanie took the stairs.
The reception room had been redecorated; a large Chinese carpet laid over a polished parquet floor, heavy curtains of plum brocade, a pair of Louis XIV armchairs either side of a table. There was a collection of oil portraits set in large oval gilt frames, each hung within a wall panel. Stephanie knew that the faces belonged to the original Damiani brothers and their sons.
The receptionist was about the same age as her. But standing in front of her desk, Stephanie felt like a gauche teenager. She wore a beautifully cut suit; navy-blue, simple, elegant. She was sitting in a throne chair, her spine nowhere near the back of it. On her wrist was a gold Piaget watch.
She greeted Stephanie with a warm smile. Elsewhere, that might have been a surprise considering Stephanie’s appearance – perhaps you are looking for some other place? – but not here. The few who made it to the receptionist’s desk at Banque Damiani usually did so intentionally. Regardless of appearance.
‘I have a box.’
‘Of course. One moment, please.’
The receptionist directed her towards the Louis XIV armchairs, then disappeared through the door to the right, the panels inlaid with antique mirror glass. Alone, Stephanie hoped she’d remember the process accurately; two number sequences and a one-time password to allow her access to the strongroom. She would be accompanied by a senior member of the bank and one security guard. In a private cubicle, her box would be brought to her. Once the door was closed, she would open the box using a six-digit