Rough Trade

by Dominique Manotti

  ‘The right kind of people go there. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Perfectly. And thanks.’

  4 p.m. The Grands Boulevards

  Virginie Lamouroux felt strained and tired. She’d worked all morning and still hadn’t eaten. But she wasn’t hungry. She’d had no drugs of any sort, ever since she’d got tangled up in these police restrictions. It would have been too dangerous. But she needed them, she just had to admit. She walked back up as far as the Grands Boulevards, went into a cinema at random, and sat in the fourth row. She was alone in front of the screen. She stretched out in the seat: she needed to relax, regain her sense of calm. Could she still get out of this tight spot or was it already the right moment to disappear? There was someone in the fifth row, two seats to her right. A sidelong glance. It was the cop who’d raped her. She was sure of it. How was that possible? No one can have followed me here, she thought. Her heart thumped, her hands were trembling. The man didn’t budge and said nothing. He was simply there, a monstrous presence that filled the whole auditorium behind her. She swayed as she stood up and rushed to the toilets. When she came out, several minutes later, she looked around. He wasn’t there any more. At least, she couldn’t see him any more. She sat down again in the back row. And now, she thought, I need to think about running away. How many days do I still have?

  4 p.m. Passage du Désir

  Attali was on the phone, speaking English with a heavy but passable French accent. Daquin picked up the receiver.

  ‘Mr Baker, please. Inspector Attali. French police … Good morning, sir, Inspector Attali of the Drugs Squad in Paris. I hope I’m not disturbing you. You’re obviously in no way obliged to give me an answer. We have arrested a young woman in the act of selling small quantities of drugs. She’s a Virginie Lamouroux. We’ve checked her whereabouts in the last fortnight. She’s told us that she was in New York from Saturday the first until Wednesday 5 March, on a tourist trip, and met you there. Can you confirm this?’

  A marked silence. ‘Yes, that is so.’

  Once he’d hung up, Attali asked: ‘Is he in the running too?’

  Daquin shrugged his shoulders.

  *

  It was only towards eight in the evening that Lavorel returned to passage du Désir, tense and excited.

  ‘Anna Berk was accused in March 1958 of murdering her boss, a Yugoslav by the name of Yavitch, and charged.’ He consulted his notes. ‘The investigating judge, a man by the name of Parent, now retired to Meung-sur-Loire, dismissed the case for lack of evidence, after hearing the testimony of her clients, Scalfari and Rigault, two stallholders on boulevard de la Villette, and an Iranian student, Osman Kashguri.’

  Daquin shivered, The Persian poetry, ‘January 1958. An unforgettable meeting. O.’ Could it be the same person?

  ‘The police inspector who led the inquiry was called Pierre Meillant.’

  Pierre Meillant. Daquin closed his eyes and rocked in his chair. Pierre Meillant, superintendent of the 10th arrondissement. They were together at the Police Academy in 1971 and Meillant had taken an immediate dislike to him. A labourer’s son, and a former member of the Resistance, entered the police as a patrolman in 1945, and climbed the ladder through internal promotions and competition. First inspector, then superintendent when he was approaching his fifties; an exceptional career, clawing his way up.

  He couldn’t bear Daquin’s sense of ease as a young man of means, his brilliant academic career, superintendent at twenty-six. And his taste for boys, one freedom too many and a permanent provocation. Daquin had needed a great deal of sang-froid to avoid a fight. That and his admiration he had for Meillant – he was a very good cop. The real boss in his station and his district, where he’d worked for more than twenty years. A man of power: a concept of the police which gave him one more good reason to detest Daquin, who liked the recreational side to his job. Daquin opened his eyes and took a deep breath. Lavorel was still there, motionless, with a suggestion of a smile.

  ‘And, obviously, the next question is: is there still a connection between Meillant and Anna Beric?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  10 p.m. Villa des Artistes

  A long heavy day. Daquin’s worn out. So’s Soleiman apparently. He’s lingering in the bath, listening to the radio. He looks at his feet resting on the rim of the tub and remembers his first meeting with Daquin, in this house. Half dead with fear. His upper lip still stinging from the razor. And Daquin, surprising. In bed, he hadn’t said a word. Authoritarian and attentive. Not hurried. A sensualist. At this precise moment Soleiman feels an unusual sense of well being.

  ‘Hurry up, Sol. The pasta won’t wait’

  It’s spaghetti carbonara. Doesn’t take long to make. Delicious. He hasn’t wanted to cook for a long while.

  Daquin has prepared a duplicate list of the twenty-two names Romero gave him and left them on the low table, along with a whole pack of photos taken by Attali and Romero.

  ‘I’m leaving you all that. It’s for you. The list has been made up using the four names you gave me to start with. They all obtained their papers under the same terms at the National Immigration Office, and they’re all supposed to be working in the same business, which is probably a cover. Identify them, try to establish what links there can be between them that we know already, and find them. Sol, I’ve total confidence in you. We ourselves are working on the international links and French collusion. I’m giving you the whole of the Turkish side of this case in Paris. D’you think you can do this in a fortnight?’

  A groan.

  ‘And what does that mean?’

  ‘It means “OK”.’

  10 WEDNESDAY 12 MARCH

  7 a.m. Nanterre

  Romero yawned. Not yet fully awake. It was a crappy suburb, amidst small villas built at the end of the nineteenth century, modern tower blocks and industrial warehouses. In this area it was mostly industrial warehouses and cul-de-sacs, with lots of potholes. But it was full of life at this time of day. Quite a few workmen and van drivers coming in to have a coffee or a glass of red wine before setting out. The café was just opposite Morora’s premises. It would be hard to find a better observation point.

  ‘A coffee, with cream, and a croissant please.’

  ‘No croissants.’

  ‘Bread and butter then?’

  ‘Right, a coffee, with cream, and a slice of bread and butter.’

  Buzz of conversation. Romero took his coffee, sat at a table near the window, took out Le Parisien from his pocket and a pencil to do the crossword. Renault vans began coming out of Morora’s. He jotted down their departure times in the margin of his paper. In the van’s driver’s seat, as in the passenger seat, were immigrants. Romero could bet on it they weren’t Turkish. North African, possibly, but not Turkish.

  At around eight, the gate appeared to close finally. The café had emptied. Still feeling sleepy, Romero stood up and dragged himself to the counter. The owner was the thin alcoholic type, in his forties and already burnt out.

  ‘Patron, get me a white wine. I need a bit of consoling. My mate’s not turned up. Will you have one? Keep me company?’

  The owner filled two glasses.

  ‘I’m a driver/delivery-man,’ Romero went on. ‘Just lost my job.’ The owner remained silent. ‘D’you think it’s worth my trying across the street? I’ve seen a load of vans come out this morning.’

  The owner glanced vaguely across the street.

  ‘At Morora’s? No way. They only employ North Africans, and then, they don’t make deliveries.’

  Romero pushed his glass in his direction.

  ‘Let’s fill up again. It says “Rat Extermination” on the vans. What’s that involve, job-wise?’

  ‘They dean the waste chutes, sewers, abandoned cellars, all the places where there’s trouble with mice and rats. It’s a filthy job by all accounts. As it’s very dirty, they can’t find enough French people to do it, so they have to import North Africans. There’re only two foremen who’re Fre
nch.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think that lot are very nice customers. They don’t drink and they’re always spoiling for a fight.’

  Romero pushed his glass towards the owner again, who poured out the third round.

  ‘No. I wouldn’t say that. They slave their guts out, that lot, very quiet too. They never go out you know. Live on the premises. But Moreira, who owns the joint, has done a deal with me and I provide them with dinner every night. Which is good for my business, because without them this place’d be pretty dead in the evenings.’

  ‘So it must be a really long day then, from six in the morning till late at night?’

  ‘It’s all finished by eight. And in the afternoon I have a siesta.’

  ‘And these blokes pay up all right?’

  ‘That’s the good thing about it.’ An evil smile. ‘It’s Moreira who pays, in a lump sum, every week. A bit like a canteen, you see. I’m not saying it doesn’t mean I can’t make a bit on the side.’

  Fourth round.

  ‘Are they Algerians?’

  ‘No. Moroccans. And all from the same village what’s more. They all arrived together.’

  ‘So, nothing for me there then. Can you think of any leads?’

  ‘Try the industrial baker’s. Go out of the cul-de-sac, turn left, and it’s the third on the right. I know they’ve got a big delivery service there.’

  Romero thanked him, paid and left. With four dry white wines before nine in the morning, he could anticipate some heartburn.

  9 a.m. 10th Arrondissement Police Station

  Attali was waiting in a porch opposite the 10th arrondissement police station. He saw Virginie Lamouroux go in and come out again a few minutes later. He went up to her, took her familiarly by the elbow and said: ‘Why didn’t you mention Baker to me?’

  She jumped, paled, brusquely withdrew her arm and hurried on. Attali let her go.

  9 a.m. Rue des Petits Hôtels

  The fat woman looked at her watch as she opened the agency office, not noticing the police vehicle parked twenty metres away. Daquin, Thomas and Santoni crossed the street, entered hot on her heels and took out their warrant cards and letters rogatory.

  ‘Police. We’ve come to carry out a search.’ They grabbed the fat woman. ‘Are you on your own?’

  ‘Yes, messieurs. The director and his wife aren’t here.’

  ‘At this time of day they’re usually here. Call them on the phone. They can’t take long, they live just upstairs.’

  Overawed, the fat woman went to telephone without a word.

  Less than five minutes later, the couple who directed the company came into the office. The three cops were sitting around the low table and looked hard at the new arrivals, without getting up. He was sly – that was the word that came into Daquin’s mind. Small, rat-faced, very pale, with a pointed nose, grey eyes and thin hair. like a sort of albino rat. As for her, Russian, big, solidly built, blonde with a thick plait round her head, a strawberries and cream complexion, blue eyes.

  They introduced themselves. M. Bernachon, manager of the company, and Mme Irina Aratoff, his wife, choreographer (it was she after whom the ballets were named) and Mme Lilette Balland, secretary. Could they know what this was about?

  ‘But of course, monsieur,’ Daquin said, still sitting down. ‘We’re making enquiries about the murder of a young Thai girl. You might know her perhaps?’

  Daquin drew a photo of the dead girl from his jacket.

  Irina Aratoff, breasts thrust forward and with a slight accent, said very quickly: ‘No. We don’t know her at all.’

  ‘We thought she could be one of your young dancers, the one who disappeared between Paris and Munich. So we’re going to search your offices.’

  The three cops rose. Thomas moved towards the secretary’s office, Santoni and Daquin towards those at the back. They began a systematic, meticulous search. In the secretary’s office: diaries, appointments, lists of telephone numbers. Files filed away, letters to and from airline companies, a voluminous correspondence with the nightclubs of Zurich and Munich about dancers, shows, contracts.

  ‘Don’t your dancers ever go back to Thailand?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but it’s not our job any more to take care of that part of the journey. Once in Germany or Switzerland, it’s down to the other impresarii.’

  Mme Aratoff pronounced impresarii, exaggerating the ‘i’s. Daquin laughed.

  In Irina Aratoff’s office: scripts, music, costume designs, orders for accessories. She was the artist of the troupe. Bernachon had reserved Thailand for himself: lists of addresses, files on every trip. The list of dancers, with a photocopy of the passport or visa for each one. And the choreography of each show. Everything seemed in order. According to their passports, the girls were all more than eighteen.

  The most recent correspondence with Munich related to the fact that only five dancers had arrived at their destination, instead of the six expected. The settlement of the account with the Aratoff Ballets was therefore reduced by one sixth. Copy of the letter protesting sent by the said ballet company, who had expenses, and proposed that their loss be split equally.

  ‘In the file for the last trip, there are only five names. Why?’

  ‘We sent the records of the sixth to Munich, as proof of our good faith.’

  Now to the apartment. Five rooms, very comfortable, big TV, video-recorder, numerous household gadgets. Fairly bad taste: the large bookless bookcase filled with objets d’art, and cocktail bar concealed behind a row of false books. But nothing, nothing.

  ‘You’ve two maid’s rooms, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, if you’d like to follow me …’

  Everyone went up to the sixth floor. Two tiny rooms. Three bunk beds in each. It was here that the dancers stayed during their time in Paris.

  ‘We shall be taking fingerprints,’ Daquin said.

  But the meticulous cleanliness of the place left small chance of finding anything at all.

  ‘Would you like to show us the cellar now?’

  Everyone went down to the cellars. The group stopped outside the door numbered 29. Bernachon opened it. Bottles of wine, a few old bits of furniture, two paintings in a bad state, suitcases. Thomas busied himself with the contents of the suitcases. Ski clothes in one, the other empty. Then he turned to Bernachon.

  ‘We’ve finished here.’

  And he waited. Bernachon closed the cellar door and walked towards the exit.

  ‘Hey. What about the other cellar?’

  ‘What other cellar?’

  ‘The one sublet to you by your neighbour, no. 39. Open it, please.’

  The artists looked shocked.

  ‘We haven’t got the key to this cellar, we don’t use it.’

  ‘Perhaps the concierge has one?’

  ‘You can ask. We know nothing about it.’

  The concierge did not have the cellar keys. She seized the opportunity to ask what was going on. Absolutely nothing, Santoni told her, who was going to look out a crowbar from the police vehicle parked outside the door. He returned with a uniformed policeman who’d suggested he do the work, for the sake of something to do.

  Cellar no. 39. Three locks. Easy. A heavy push on each lock was enough, the door gave way. The cellar was full of books. The ones which weren’t on the bookshelves, Daquin thought. He picked up one and leafed through. It was a catalogue of Thai children. Each double page was devoted to a different child. On the one Daquin was looking at – on the left was a full-page photo, a boy of between ten and twelve, naked, slim, with golden skin and black hair, heavy fringe, kneeling, his hands tied behind his back, in the act of sucking off a corpulent blond male with a tache, a guy of about thirty, sitting in front of him, with another blond guy of the same build crouched behind the child buggering him and laughing. The whole against the background of a luxurious swimming pool. Both men were suntanned, you could see the white outline of their swimming trunks and the beginnings of a roll of fat around their midriffs. On t
he page opposite, two photos of the same boy, both naked again. On one, he was facing his ‘objective’, a bit lopsided, teasing. On the other, blindfolded, attached to the trunk of a palm tree, in the process of being whipped across the buttocks and back by one of the two blond guys, while the other one was getting a handsome hard-on. At the bottom of the page, a name, an address in Bangkok. A phone number and a price.

  Daquin closed the brochure and passed it to the inspectors. His face was dosed: these images were, for him, those of real suffering. He had to continue the inventory. There was a whole range of different publications, all based on the same photos. In some series, the addresses and price had disappeared. No longer were these catalogues for the preparation of a trip, but collections of pornographic photos, plain and simple. There were publications where boys and girls were mixed, others which featured only girls, or only boys. In all there were about 1,000 books, all intended for a specialist clientele of fickle sado-masochistic paedophiles. There was a public for that.

  In the corridor there was consternation among the artists. The secretary half whispered: ‘Any parent has only to keep an eye on their children.’ Daquin hit her hard across the face, forehand and backhand, no holds barred. She fell on her bottom and let out a piercing shriek. The concierge hurtled down the cellar stairs to offer assistance to the unfortunate lady.

  ‘You,’ Daquin shouted at her, ‘you get back up those stairs at top speed and shut yourself up in your goddamn cubbyhole and don’t come out again, or I’ll involve you in complicity to murder and rape minors!’

  A dignified half-turn and disappearance by the concierge. The secretary shut up immediately. Daquin turned to Thomas and Santoni.

  ‘I know it doesn’t serve any useful purpose, but it makes me feel better.’