Rough Trade

5

8 a.m Passage du Désir

All the photos taken in the last two days were spread out on the table. Daquin, Attali and Romero were carefully arranging them in two series: the sandwich bar and the accessory shop, in chronological order.

Enter a fair-haired young man, on the dumpy side, white shirt, dark suit, tie, brief-case and tortoiseshell rimmed spectacles. He introduced himself as Lavorel, of the Finance Squad.

‘We were expecting you. My chief told us yesterday that you’d be coming. Coffee?’

‘Yes, please.’

He looked surprised.

Daquin went over to the machine, made coffee for everyone. Then he began to re-examine the photos. The classification was finished.

‘First shop: only Turks or similar. Second shop: much more mixed clientele. We speculate that the first shop is used as a rallying point for the supply network, and for the moment we won’t discuss that. It’s too serious and we haven’t enough information. The second could be used for putting the drugs into circulation, which, per se, involves more French than Turks, and third-or fourth-rank roles. We’re going to take soundings there. You two, you go and hang about in the area. Choose someone who comes out of the shop who might look like a dealer. Stop and search him — some distance away, and be as discreet as you can. If it’s a dealer, bring him here. If you don’t find any drugs, make your excuses. And, most important, don’t make any mistakes. Good luck.’

*

Daquin and Lavorel were left on their own.

‘You’ve read my report on Bostic?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you familiar with the Sentier’s professional underworld?’

‘No way. For the last three years I’ve been in Finance, working on the misdemeanours of members of the Stock Exchange. My presence here, so I understand, is the result of some compromise among the high-ups. Some are absolutely for a clean-up in the Sentier, so as not to leave the territory completely free for the people demanding the legalization of illegal immigrants. Others think it’s bullshit, and we should let it stay as a sector that’s working well and can’t do so without illegal labour. So they agreed on designating someone, but they took on some naïve young guy who knows nothing, and who’ll get himself tied up in knots, very likely. So, here I am.’

‘And what’s your opinion of the whole business?’

‘That’s what I’m here to find out. That’s what I see my role of cop as, and I can tell you I’ll bust a gut to get something out of this dungheap.’

‘You’ve a curious way of expressing yourself for a suit-and-tie man.’

‘I haven’t always been one.’

‘Ah, right. And what did you do before you were in Finance?’

‘I was a hooligan.’

A moment’s silence.

‘I mean, what did you do in the police before you were in finance.’

‘It was my first posting.’

‘Would it be very indiscreet to ask why you’re in Finance?’

‘No, it’s not indiscreet. I’ve always hated people you call suit-and-tie men. And I’ve no wish to go yob-bashing in high-rises.’

‘Well, as you’ll see in the Sentier, neither the workers nor bosses are exactly suit-and-tie men.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘We’ve organized a small office for you, next to this one. I’d like you to keep me posted on your work every day. And pop in to say hallo. Let me know who owns those two shops at 5 rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin.’

9 a.m. Rue des Petites-Ecuries

Early that morning Santoni parked a 4L van, converted into a surveillance vehicle, with two-way mirror side windows, just in front of the window of the Aratoff Ballets Company in rue des Petites-Ecuries, and set himself up more or less comfortably inside, with cigarettes and cans of beer close to hand. At nine o’clock precisely, a large woman opened up the agency office, went in and sat down behind a counter, at the back on the left. Santoni was unable to see what she was doing. Towards ten, a man and another woman were in the building. They hadn’t gone through the street entrance. At twelve-thirty, the fat woman came out, locked the door behind her. There was no longer anyone in the offices. There hadn’t been a single customer all morning.

Santoni unfolded himself carefully. He was stiff all over. And followed the woman. Not far — to a café-brasserie fifty metres away. She sat at a very small table on the terrace. Santoni went in and found a seat right next to her. She ordered steak and French fries and a glass of red wine. Santoni gave her the once-over. A big fat lump, well and truly past her fiftieth birthday, with short, permed, mousy hair, large breasts which sagged on to a big belly, swollen legs, feet bulging over the tops of her shoes. A small white blouse and navy-blue pleated skirt. And between her breasts a cross and a medallion of the Virgin of Lourdes jangled on a gold chain. She could have passed for a schoolgirl from Sainte-Marie de Neuilly who’d grown poor and ugly. At about one-thirty, the lump rose. A little saunter as far as Montholon Square. Santoni found it was a good idea.

12.25 p.m. Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin

Attali and Romero strolled past the accessory shop. From time to time, they paused at a café opposite. They also went up to say hallo to the old boy and promised to keep him posted on how the investigation was developing. They were just wondering how they would recognize a dealer. No kidding … they’d already taken two hours and not reached any conclusion. It was already past midday. They would have to think about having some lunch. At that very moment there came into view a superb young woman, in her mid-twenties, no more, very slim, her mid-length hair blowing in the wind, almost dancing as she walked. Looks like a model, Romero said to himself. He knew little about that sort of thing, however. She was calmly walking down rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin, confident she was the centre of attention, and neither caring, nor hesitating, nor slowing down, she walked straight into the accessory shop. Romero and Attali exchanged a single glance. They might not know how to recognize a dealer, but they knew how to appreciate a pretty girl. In any case, she’d be more fun to play with than some dead-beat junkie in his thirties. When she re-emerged ten minutes later they followed her at a distance, one on each pavement, most discreetly. She went back up the Faubourg, taking the direction she’d come, and, unhurriedly, turned left into passage Brady. It was a fine day. She was wearing a sporty beige raincoat over a skirt and sweater which were also beige. A large dark brown Vuitton bag swung on her shoulder. When they reached passage Brady, the two cops prudently kept their distance. She took rue d’Enghien.

The street was deserted at that hour and Romero judged they were far enough away from the shop to try something. He glanced round to check they were alone, went up to the young woman, passed his left hand under her elbow and with his right presented his warrant card. He pushed her under a porchway. Attali followed them.

‘Police. We’re running an investigation into drug peddling and you’ve been seen in the company of known peddlers. I’m obliged to search you, to check whether or not you have drugs in your possession.’

The young woman protested vehemently and fought vigorously. She kicked them in the shins to try to get away. Romero leant all his weight on her, and pushed her into the dirty dark entrance to a stairwell which gave on to the porch. Attali signalled to him that he was controlling access points.

While he held her face against the wall and her wrists behind her back, Romero undertook the search. First, the bag. The girl continued fighting energetically. Romero upturned the contents of the bag on the ground, a jumble of handkerchiefs, lipsticks, face powder, loose change … Signalled to Attali, who quickly checked the contents of her wallet, purse and powder compact. Nothing. He put everything back in the bag, and took up a position at the entrance to the stairwell. A glance towards Romero, whom he sensed was about to make a monumental blunder, but said nothing.

Romero trapped the girl’s wrists with one hand, and with the other he undertook a body search, all the time holding her squeezed against the wall with his shoulder and body weight. Nothing in the raincoat pockets. Nothing in the shoes. His hand felt up her legs, nothing in her tights. A lump under the elastic in her panties, between her buttocks. He tore at her knickers, and, lo and behold, there was a sachet of white powder, about twenty grams’ worth by the look of it. Excitement? Pleasure of the hunt? Contact with the girl? He got the distinct impression she was fighting less. Consenting? The stairwell was in darkness. And Attali could only find one thing to say: ‘Hurry, hurry …’ Romero leaned against her with all his weight, undid his flies with one hand and pulled up her skirt. Groans of pleasure. Attali was torn between envy and anxiety. The girl drew away.

‘Right. Keep the sachet, but let me go. Otherwise I’ll bring a charge of rape. You know I can prove it.’

Attali: ‘Let’s nick her, quickly. Don’t hang about.’

‘You’ll regret this, you pig.’

With her hands handcuffed behind her back, and an inspector on either side, they quickly walked her back to passage du Désir. Romero and Attali exchanged not a single word.

1.25 p.m. Passage du Désir

Romero pushed the girl into Daquin’s office, removed the handcuffs and made her sit down, while Attali placed the sachet of powder on the desk. Romero gave a quick report of what had happened, omitting all the ‘details’. While he sat quite still, listening, Daquin looked at the violet bruising on the girl’s wrists and scratches on her face.

She pulled herself up on her chair and said to Daquin: ‘Your shitty cop raped me, on the pretext of searching me. He had me pinned against the wall, half broke my wrists and raped me. I want a medical examination.’

Daquin retorted in glacial tones: ‘You wish to lodge a complaint, mademoiselle?’ A few seconds’ pause. ‘Frankly, I’m not sure it’s the best solution. When you play dangerous games the way you do, you can’t honestly expect to be mingling with the upper crust the whole time. If you lodge a complaint against my inspector, which you’re entitled to do, I’ll immediately charge you with drug dealing. My inspector will be transferred, but you’ll be banged up for at least four years.’ He stared at her for a moment. ‘And I’m even convinced that if Romero gave you a hundred francs, which isn’t your usual rate, but in view of the circumstances, you’d agree to make him a special price.’ The girl went scarlet, but said nothing. ‘Romero, put a hundred francs in Mademoiselle’s mack pocket. Now let’s get down to serious matters. Attali, write it down. Your name, age?’

‘Virginie Lamouroux, twenty-five.’

‘Where d’you live?’

‘With a girlfriend.’

‘Would you mind speeding things up for everybody? When I ask a question, I want a precise answer, is that clear? Where do you live?

‘With a girlfriend, Mademoiselle Sergent, at 10 rue de Belzunce.’

‘Occupation?’

‘Model.’

‘Be specific’

‘I model for ready-to-wear. I work for a number of different employers — it varies from day to day.’

‘Names? Dates?’

‘In the last six months I’ve worked for all the big names in ready-to-wear, from NafNaf or René Dhéry to Julie La Tour or Jules amp; Julie.’

‘And what does your job entail?’

‘Mainly modelling clothes, by request, for an eventual wholesale purchaser. It’s more important than the collections.’

‘And the buyer keeps the model for the evening?’

‘That’s none of your bus — ’

She didn’t have time to finish her sentence before Daquin slapped her, without even standing to do it.

Shocked, she said: ‘It can happen that way.’

‘In which case, how much d’you make?’

‘Why? Why are you so interested? It’s not relevant.’

The second slap was harder. Daquin had taken the trouble to stand up this time. Virginie Lamouroux sniffed.

‘Don’t think about it, just give me an answer. How much d’you make on a date like that?’

‘It doesn’t happen like that. There aren’t any rates. It’s the kind of world where you sleep around. After the show, well, you’re free. You spend the evening together. Can’t you find yourself a girlfriend? … Well, that’s it. Those who want to, pay. Others pretend they thought we did it for fun. Girls who don’t sleep around don’t get the jobs, that’s all there is to it.’

Daquin sat down again.

‘OK. Let’s move on to drugs. Romero, take a look at Mademoiselle Lamouroux’s arms and ankles. I don’t suppose you had time to do it just now. Any needle marks?’

‘No, commissaire.’

‘So, mademoiselle, what form are you taking them in?’

‘Who told you I was taking drugs?’

Daquin stood up to his full, massive height. He was seriously angry. He came round the desk, caught her by the hair and forced her to look up at him.

‘Just look at me, and stop behaving like a child. At twenty-five, you’re a dealer and a tart and you take drugs. Which ones and how?’

‘Heroin. I smoke it,’ she said regretfully.

‘Go on.’

‘Powder. In a special silver cupel, you heat it with a candle. It goes like caramel and gives off smoke. You lean over it, with a scarf over your head, and inhale it very slowly and deeply. It makes you feel fabulous and it’s not dangerous, it’s not like using a needle. I’ve never injected myself. I’m frightened of injections.’

‘It’s a rather unusual way of taking it. Who taught you?’

She hesitated. Daquin moved closer to her.

‘It comes from Iran, it was some Iranians, at parties. I don’t know their names.’

‘Parties?’

‘Yes. In ready-to-wear, you meet lots of people. And very different sorts. At parties given by one lot or another.’

‘And taking heroin happens quite frequently on such occasions?’

‘Not frequently perhaps, but not infrequently either. Heroin and a load of other things.’ She sat up in her chair. ‘Don’t tell me, commissaire, that you didn’t know.’

‘Who gave you the address in rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin?’

‘The addresses of the suppliers get passed around and change a lot. That address was given me a fortnight ago. It’s the first time I’ve been there.’

‘Who gave it to you? You haven’t answered my question.’

‘I don’t remember any more.’

Daquin made a show of putting on his signet ring and raised his hand.

‘Perhaps it was Lestiboudois, a businessman I went out with that evening. I haven’t seen him since.’

Daquin paced up and down his office, saying nothing. Then: ‘I’m going to release you. For the moment. You’re going to sign a short statement. I ask you not to leave Paris, and to let me know if you change your address. And to report in at the 10th arrondissement police station every two days at 9 a.m. from Monday next.’

‘And if I don’t sign?’

‘I’ll lock you up for being caught in the act.’

A moment’s reflection.

‘I’ll sign.’

‘Romero. Take Mademoiselle Lamouroux back downstairs.’

The Super waited for him to come back, saying nothing, rocking in his chair.

*

‘So, Romero, clear something up for me. Did you rape her before or after you found the drugs?’

‘After, commissaire.’

‘Are you aware that I’ve just got you off being transferred to some dead-end place in the sticks, or are you proud of yourself?’

‘I’m not proud of myself, commissaire.’

‘Right. Let’s recap, Romero. You prepare a report for me on Virginie Lamouroux’s arrest for tomorrow morning, omitting anything that could harm our team’s reputation. I’ll make a note on her cross-examination myself. You both keep the investigation into this girl. In my opinion she’s rotten to the core and she hasn’t given us anything she knows. Even if she doesn’t know all that much probably. You can begin by locating her, which may not be all that easy, and lay on the pressure for me, since we haven’t anything better we can do. Either she’ll crack, or people in the network will take the initiative. We’ll observe and gather information. So, get down to it. Try to be as efficient as you can and show a bit more restraint.’

2 p.m. Rue des Petites-Ecuries

Santoni returned to the van where Thomas was waiting for him. Thomas had paid a visit that morning to the syndicate which co-owned the property. There he’d found a detailed plan of the building and the names of all the occupants, along with some comments. Thomas had taken notes. Santoni cast an eye over them.

‘Monsieur and Madame Bernachon, alias Aratoff. Probably the ones I saw this morning. They live just above the agency. You take over here, you’ll see. It’s a bore. I’m going to take a walk inside the building.’

A very common type of building, in this area. A concierge’s lodge, but no concierge at that hour. No elevator. Santoni took the stairs. Two apartments per floor. A red carpet up to the fifth. On the sixth, maids’ rooms. WC on the landing. No one in the corridor. With plan in hand, Santoni tracked down the two rooms which belonged to the Bernachons. Strong, though not complicated, locks. Apparently no one in at the moment. He went downstairs to cast an eye over the cellars. Found the entrance easily. Two floors of vaults. Superb. It was badly lit and a bit grubby. Some cellars still had very ancient doors with openwork, others had reinforced ones. He checked the plan to see where Bernachon’s cellar was. A new, solid, wooden door, same locks as on the maids’ rooms. He went down to the lower basement level, and, since he was in no hurry, walked along the corridor and among all those disparate rooms, found one identical to the Bernachons’. New wooden door, same locks. Was there a meaning in this? He made a note of the cellar’s number.

3 p.m. Rue Saint-Maur

Lavorel wanted quick results. A need to prove something? To whom?

A short conversation with Bostic yielded the names and addresses of two Yugoslav workers who’d worked with him for many years. The only two who had papers among the twenty he employed.

A building on rue Saint-Maur, full of Yugoslavs. A fairly grotty staircase. A small, very clean apartment on the second floor. A middle-aged woman in a headscarf.

‘Madame Jentic?’ She nodded. ‘Is Monsieur Jentic in?’

She gestured with her hand: he wasn’t in. She didn’t speak a word of French, or feigned not to. Lavorel asked the neighbours, with no success. The baker, on the ground floor, finally agreed to act as interpreter.

‘Police. I want to ask you a few questions, but you’ve nothing to fear, nor has your husband.’ She only half believed him. ‘Has your husband any payslips?’ She signalled the affirmative. ‘Can I see them?’

She held out a large packet in a strong envelope. Payslips for every month, for years, all of which seemed perfectly in order: name of the business, stamp, calculation of deductions, taxable total, everything was there. His wages were decidedly above the minimum. It was just that the name of the company changed every three months and was invariably followed by a note which read: ‘Currently being registered with the Trade Register.’

Lavorel took notes. And three payslips on the sly, while Madame Jentic was looking the other way. He thanked her. ‘Remember, you’re not to worry, everything’s completely in order.’ He then left to check with the Trade Register. A new company registered every three months. Manager: Anna Beric.

Sandwich. Beer. Metro to the Social Security Office. None of these companies ever paid out a sou in national insurance. Neither on the part of the employers nor the wage-earners. Normally a company’s allowed three months’ delay in paying national insurance contributions. If, at the end of three months, it no longer exists … If Jentic’s payslips are anything to go by … all this had been going on for a number of years. Friday afternoon, not worth continuing the tour of civil service offices — I wouldn’t find anyone in.

4 p.m. 10th Arrondissement Police Station

Attali went to see the duty officer.

‘From Monday morning next, a young woman should be coming here to register her whereabouts every two days. Virginie Lamouroux. A suspect in a heroin-dealing case.’

‘Virginie Lamouroux? Hold on a minute. I have something on that name.’ He delved into a large notebook. ‘I knew it. Wednesday, 5 March, a Robert Sobesky, ready-to-wear manufacturer, living at 20 rue de Paradis, came in to notify us of the disappearance of Virginie Lamouroux, model, also residing at 20 rue de Paradis.’