Rough Trade

by Dominique Manotti

  ‘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 & 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 af
firmative. ‘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.’

  6 SATURDAY 8 MARCH

  8 a.m. 10 rue de Belzunce

  Romero shook Attali who was dozing on the bottom steps of the staircase.

  ‘VL’s coming down. Our move. You take the girlfriend. I’ll take VL.’

  Attali slowly mounted the stairs. He passed Virginie Lamouroux on the first floor, gave her a silent nod and continued his ascent. She was surprised, stopped to say something, looked at her watch and continued walking downstairs. She came out of the building, and there, on the pavement just in front of the entrance, was met by Romero.

  ‘Good morning, mademoiselle. Would you open your bag.’ He pointed to the light travel bag she was wearing over her shoulder. ‘I have to check you don’t have drugs on you.’

  VL was completely thrown. Does he have the right? she thought. What am I doing?

  Romero had already put out his hand and in one brief movement had whipped the bag off her. No resistance. He began a systematic, not very discreet search. Passers-by gawped at the scene. The contents were standard for those of an elegant young woman taking a weekend break. He gave the bag back to her.

  ‘Thank you, mademoiselle. See you soon.’

  He went back into the building. VL stood rigid for a moment, then continued walking. Before she reached the street corner, she looked back. No one there. Turned. Waited. Still no one. Crossed the road, took a street on her left. No one. So she walked at a good pace towards the taxi rank in the square, on the corner of rue Lafayette and the church square of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul. Romero was already there, hiding. He saw her turn round one last time and jump into a taxi which took off and passed right in front of him. He noted the registration number, then went back up towards 10 rue de Belzunce.

  Attali was by the front door.

  ‘She arrived at her friend’s last Friday. Before that, she’d been living with someone called Xavier Sobesky at 20 rue de Paradis. And she left to go on an unexpected trip on Saturday, 1 March, very early in the morning. Never said where she was going.’

  *

  While Romero was busy tracing Virginie Lamouroux’s taxi, and locating her for the weekend, Attali was trying to discover where she’d been for the last five days. If she took the train or a car, it’s impossible, he thought. If she took a plane, I’ve got a chance … if she left under her own name … if she didn’t leave on a double booking at the last minute … Begin with Orly. If I find something, I’ll get home to Antony quicker. He checked the list of companies. Several hours of work: nothing. It was three in the afternoon. A shitty job. He tried Roissy. And after only a short time, there it was: Saturday, 7.43 a.m., Continental Airlines, destination New York, Virginie Lamouroux. Return journey: Wednesday, 8.17 p.m.

  2 p.m. Passage du Désir

  So Anna Beric was much more than a small manufacturer. The Social Security swindle she’d set up in the Sentier had been going on for years. Daquin closed Lavorel’s report. Slumped in his armchair, with his feet on the table he sipped his coffee.

  And in one of her workrooms there’d been a corpse and drugs. What should I do next? I can take the twenty or so names of manufacturers Bostic gave me and have them watched. I can put on file all the Turks who pass through the sandwich shop and have them followed. I can draw up a list of Anna Beric’s workrooms and search them. Put all the manufacturers VL has talked about under surveillance. Dozens of cops, hundreds of hours of grind for pathetic results. The best that would come of it would be that we pick up a few small time dealers, almost by chance. The factory owners Bostic mentioned probably know nothing about the men hanging around in their shop, waiting for a delivery of red gypsy pants. The Turks may give up going to the sandwich shop from one day to the next and disappear into thin air. And VL could have spun me any old tale. I have to look at the problem totally differently. I must suppose there are links between the Turkish extreme right and drugs, and they’re strong enough for the drug channels to be modelled on the political ones. The political channels are a known fact, so who can talk to me about them? He picked up the phone.

  ‘Hallo. Lenglet? Daquin here. How you doing? I need you. Can you help me meet someone discreet who’s really knowledgeable about the Turkish extreme right? Easy? Monday, one o’clock at Pierre’s, place Gaillon. I’ve written it down.’

  He looked at his watch. It was 3 p.m. Nothing to do till 8 that evening when he would have dinner with friends in square de l’Alboni.

  But square de l’Alboni was right near rue Raynouard. He checked the map. A five-minute walk away. And it so happened he hadn’t found anyone to watch Anna Beric’s flat. The temptation was too strong to resist, and he’d never really tried to resist this kind of impulse. He dialled Anna Beric’s number. There was an answerphone: Anna Beric isn’t here at the moment. Leave a message after the bleep. He took a bunch of keys and picklocks from a desk drawer, pocketed them and was on his way: Metro as far as Passy.

  He phoned again: still no one at Anna Beric’s. He loitered around the block for a while. Very plush, very peaceful, a Saturday afternoon. He entered the building and went directly to the caretaker’s lodge. Madame Beric please. Fifth left. The concierge didn’t even look away from the TV to glance at him. Really easy. He walked up the stairs, slowly, to observe the rhythm of life in the building. Little movement, and people taking the elevator. He reached the fifth floor. In the apartment on the right, he heard a broadcast of a Five Nations Rugby Tournament match on TV. It was 4 p.m., so he had little chance of being disturbed by the neighbours on the landing. He took out his bunch of keys. In three minutes the door yielded. No one had taken the stairs; the elevator had gone up once to the sixth floor.

  He went in, carefully closing the door behind him. His heart was thumping, all his senses on tenterhooks. Silence. Half shadow. First he made a rapid tour of the apartment, walking soundlessly. A big living-cum-dining-room with a study facing the front. A windowless bathroom, a bedroom and a kitchen on the street side. A back entrance in the kitchen, locked, but the key was above it. He must open it to give himself a safety exit if someone arrived. Visualize routes to this exit from all sorts of places in the building. And now to work.

  Standing stock-still in the middle of the room, he tried to gu
ess the personality of the woman who lived here and make the most of the moment: a rare and curious danger and pleasure, about which no one would ever know. He opened all the drawers and cupboards. There were quite a few. The clothes were carefully put away, there was a lot of silk, classic designs, frocks: certainly well dressed. One garment fascinated him: a crimson red sheath dress with a low square neck, of an extraordinary simplicity and power. A dress, he had the feeling, he knew. Must be a brunette to wear something like that. Hardly any slacks. Lingerie in abundance. Lots of silk here too. He gently ran his hand through the pile of slips. It was a slightly quaint thing to do. A strong subtle perfume he couldn’t quite identify on all the lingerie. At the bottom of a cupboard, piles of shoe-boxes. About thirty. Some were empty. At the bottom of another cupboard, a closely woven wicker trunk, with leather corners and a brass clasp. Daquin passed his hand over the wickerwork. Lifted the lid: the trunk was empty. Perhaps it was used as a laundry basket. On the bed, very pretty sheets from Deschamps. Definitely a brunette, tall and slim. No doubt she was impeccably made up, took great care of her hair, for there was an armada of beauty products. And she had gone, he sensed it: some empty coat-hangers, no toothbrush in evidence in the bathroom …

  Daquin passed into the living-room. The canvas blinds were lowered, but the shutters not closed. He guessed a stone balcony ran along the room and, beyond, a splendid view over the whole of the south of Paris. He stood rooted there, breathing in small intakes of breath, cautiously. There was a discrepancy he couldn’t fathom between the apartment’s location, her refined clothes and the way this living-room was furnished: it was tasteless and uninteresting. A large table in a light-coloured wood with chairs around, a fabric sofa, two assorted armchairs, a wooden coffee table, like the other – cheap furniture, no refinement. She didn’t live in this room and entertained no one here.