Thomas continued his search of the cellar. On the stacks on the right as you entered was a box of files. He opened it. There were various papers. He rapidly skimmed through a handwritten letter, in which the correspondent congratulated Bernachon on the quality of the photos he’d obtained for him and offered him 60,000 francs for a young boy, aged twelve maximum. He then went on to give a self-indulgent list of the physical characteristics he was looking for, and the uses he intended to put the boy to. There were other letters in the same vein. So the more official papers were in the offices, while in the cellar, away from prying eyes, was current business, deemed more compromising. And there, in the midst of the letters and receipts, he came across a passport. With a photo. It was the passport of the dead girl.
Age: 20. Forensics had said twelve maximum.
‘Take these three bastards down to the local nick. Bang them up separately so there’s absolutely no communication between them from this moment on. Load up the copies of their literature, and all their papers. Put someone on guard here till it can be sealed off. I’ll see you later. I’m walking back. I need some air.’
Out in the street again, Daquin walked briskly. Tight, aching temples. All he wanted to do was lie beside Soleiman and not think about anything any more.
1 p.m. Nanterre – La Défense
After spending the end of the morning in the Social Security Contribution Collection Agency and the Tax office, Attali met up with Romero for a hot dog and a glass of beer. The Morora Company seemed dean: twenty-two workers all declared, and the names corresponding to the Turks found at the National Immigration Office. Wages declared in toto and taxes paid. Nothing to say.
‘Just one small point, the workers I saw this morning aren’t Turks, they’re Moroccans. No doubt about that. I spent the whole morning in the area, it’s what I’ve seen with my own eyes and witnesses agree. Moroccans.’ A few minutes’ reflection. ‘We could go to the Factory Inspectorate and ask them.’
‘You don’t know what they’re like. As a general rule, the Factory Inspectorate wouldn’t even shake a cop’s hand. The sad truth is they don’t like us.’
‘What? There are people like that?’
‘There are.’
2 p.m. Passage du Désir
‘Go for the two women, we’ll see the man afterwards. Try to be quick. I’ve got a migraine.’
Irina Aratoff didn’t yield a centimetre of ground in her interview with Thomas. Head erect and shoulders back: the bearing of a ballerina. Seated in the corner of the office, Daquin observed, rubbing his chin.
‘I’m telling you. I don’t know anything at all about this girl’s death.’
‘We’ll see. You can explain first what it is exactly that you do in your husband’s business. He acts as an intermediary with the brothels in Munich and Zurich. What about you?’
‘The nightclubs we work with aren’t brothels. They put on very high quality dance shows. It’s me who chooses the music, writes the choreography and rehearses the girls while they’re in Paris. The German clientele much appreciate my ballets.’ And from then on it was impossible to staunch the profusion of details. ‘I’ve references. I’ve worked in Carolyn Carlson’s dance troupe.’
Slightly overwhelmed, Inspector Thomas asked her to spell the name and jotted it down. Daquin discreetly left the office.
On the floor below, Lilette Balland was fighting for breath. Santoni had asked her if Bernachon fucked the girls.
‘How could you suggest such a thing? M. Bernachon is a man of impeccable behaviour. He loves his wife. There’s never a gesture or remark out of place in his behaviour towards me.’ An incredulous glance from Santoni in Daquin’s direction. ‘The girls are very carefully supervised, you know. Mme Aratoff even goes to the airport to collect them. Afterwards they live in the two maid’s rooms, while they’re in Paris. They eat and work and dance with Mme Aratoff, in the apartment … They never entertain anyone and never go out.’
‘A veritable girls’ convent. So, from what you’ve just told me, it can only be your dear boss who could have had the opportunity to strangle the girl.’
*
Accompanied by Thomas, Daquin had just sat down in front of Bernachon, who was perfectly aware of the gravity of the situation. Daquin gave him a smile.
‘We’ve called the Vice Squad. They’re coming to take care of you. Aggravated procurement. Abduction and rape of minors. All that sort of thing isn’t in our line. On the other hand, we’re indicting you for murder of and sexual violence on a minor. Didn’t I tell you? She was raped during or just after her murder?’
‘I didn’t kill her.’
‘Quite possibly. But, to tell you the truth, I couldn’t give a damn. Her passport was on your premises. Her friends whom we’ll be questioning in Munich will confirm that she lived with you. And your secretary, a gem of devotion, has explained to us that these young Thai girls see no one in Paris other than yourself and your wife. Your wife, now she’s an artist! She claims to know nothing, not even the meaning of the word prostitution. Furthermore, the girl was raped by a man: we’ve found his sperm. It’s much more plausible that you rather than your wife is guilty.’
‘I didn’t kill her.’
‘You can explain that to the Court of Assizes.’
Daquin stood up. Bernachon said nothing. Thomas intervened.
‘Monsieur Bernachon. You’d better start thinking right away. There’s only one way you can avoid an indictment for murder and that’s to tell us who it was with the victim on the evening of the twenty-ninth.’
Bernachon, it seemed, could not manage to make up his mind. Daquin gathered together the file spread over the desk. Thomas went on: ‘If you sold her to someone, you’ll not make your case any worse by saying so, and that’ll give you a chance of avoiding the indictment for murder.’ Daquin walked towards the door. ‘Say something. Say what you have to say before the Superintendent leaves this room.’
‘Monsieur Simon.’
Daquin half-turned.
‘Go on.’
‘From time to time, I entrust my young dancers to trustworthy clients. For the evening.’
Daquin sat down, reopened the file.
‘On the evening of the twenty-ninth, I took her to Monsieur Simon’s – he directs a company called Simon Video on Boulevard de Strasbourg.’
‘What does he do in this company? Does he show skinflicks?’
‘I don’t know, I’ve never asked him. I accompanied the girl to his place on Friday evening at eight. I went back to pick her up as agreed, on Saturday at eight in the morning.’
‘And?’
‘She wasn’t there. Simon told me he didn’t know where she was. We both thought she’d run away. Simon compensated me for the loss.’
‘How much?’
‘Twenty thousand francs – in cash.’
‘Why did you keep the passport at your place?’
‘At her age and without papers, in Paris, I thought I’d stand a chance of getting her back. And the Germans wouldn’t have accepted her without her papers being in order. It costs a lot to get those papers in order.’
Daquin’s head was now gripped in a vice. He calculated he had scarcely an hour of clear-headedness left before it would vanish.
‘Can you take care of organizing a raid on Simon Video for tomorrow morning? We’ll meet at eight here. I’m going home.’
9 p.m. Villa des Artistes
Soleiman has just squatted beside Daquin who’s stretched out on the sofa in the half-dark, eyes closed, face livid.
‘What’s happened to you?’
‘Migraine.’ Daquin doesn’t open his eyes, speaks very softly, hesitantly. ‘It’ll be over in a few hours.’
‘Would you like me to go and get you some medicine?’
‘No. Nothing. I never take any medication.’
‘Would you like me to go away?’
‘No. Please don’t go. Make yourself some dinner, don’t bother about me. I’ll go up to bed when this
is finished – at about one in the morning.’
Behind his dosed eyelids, in blood red darkness, and beating to the rhythm of his pulse are those images of guys with ’taches and the children in Bernachon’s catalogues.
Very late in the night, Daquin slips exhausted into bed, kisses Soleiman’s shoulder and instantly falls asleep, his lips on his skin.
11 THURSDAY 13 MARCH
9 a.m. Boulevard de Strasbourg
Daquin was first to go into Simon Video. The receptionist walked towards him: a tall brunette, curves in all the right places, a fairly conventional beauty, and all smiles. It didn’t last long. Daquin had decided they’d act tough, at least to start with, in that they were also going in ‘blind’.
Inspectors Thomas and Santoni came in behind him and drew their guns. The secretary, dumbfounded, turned to stone.
‘Police. Call your boss.’
Two very correct executives in dark suit and tie, sitting in a corner chatting, immediately shut up. A heavy silence followed as the inspectors still had their revolvers in their hands. The receptionist returned behind her desk and picked up the intercom.
‘Monsieur Simon. You’re wanted in reception – it’s the police.’
Daquin moved quickly towards the office door marked ‘Director’ and threw it open.
‘Come out of there.’
One gesture from the two inspectors and the executives took the opportunity to scarper.
Simon came out, dynamic, in his thirties, very self-assured. Yellow jacket over a black silk shirt, black trousers. Daquin thought Lavorel would love to be here. Simon defended himself for all he was worth.
‘What on earth’s this interruption about, and those revolvers? … this is a respectable business … you’re frightening off my clients … my reputation …’
Bluff? Anger? Daquin took on a very official tone.
‘We have letters rogatory to investigate a murder which occurred on the night of 29 February to 1 March, and we are acting within our bounds. We have good reason to think this murder was committed here. And we are taking precautions.’
Daquin signalled to Thomas, who pushed his revolver into Simon’s back. The latter quietened down immediately.
‘Sit down. Simon Video, what is it exactly?’
‘We make video films for businesses, but mostly we train executives in public speaking and in front of the camera.’
‘You make porn films?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘D’you know this girl?’ Photo of the dead Thai girl.
‘No.’ Simon crossed his hands.
‘Be that as it may, Bernachon claims that he brought her here on Friday 29 February in the evening. And she was murdered during the night …’
Simon spread his hands, shrugged his shoulders.
‘I don’t know Bernachon.’
‘Would you take us round your premises?’
Thomas pushed him with the end of his revolver. A tour of the offices was rapidly made – there were only three: Simon’s, another for the secretarial staff. Where was the secretary? The receptionist said: ‘It’s me who does the secretarial work. I use this office when there aren’t any customers to deal with.’ Third office, practically empty.
‘We allow it to be used by clients who’re borrowing our equipment for the day and who come with their own staff.’
‘And you, don’t you have a cameraman or animator in your business?’
‘No. I do everything myself. And when there’s too much work I call in outside contributors, paid per performance.’
And now the studios. Daquin turned to the receptionist.
‘Lock the front door and follow us.’
They went down a spiral staircase into a sort of square windowless lobby. On each side of the square was a cabin with a window in which you could see a video camera, attached to a stand. Control screen, projectors, numerous plugs and switches, small pieces of equipment etc. At the back of each cabin was a door. Daquin opened one: it led to a small studio, lined throughout, walls and ceiling, with white material, broad black beading framed each section of the wall, like a cinema screen, thick white carpet, two projectors fixed on the walls, And in the centre, a table and some chairs. The four studios were equipped in the same way.
‘Is this all?’ Daquin asked.
‘That’s all.’ Simon was on the defensive.
Thomas knew a bit about videos. He went into a cabin, ferreted about, looked into the camera’s viewfinder.
‘How d’you switch it on?’
‘From the table in the studio.’
Daquin switched it on. The picture was out of focus. The purr of an electric motor in the camera, and it automatically focused on the table. Thomas carefully inspected the camera. It seemed there were two possible positions to focus on, both pre-set, but the camera itself was fixed. He asked Daquin to turn the current off and on again. This time there was no noise from the motor and the focus remained on the table. Good. So where was the second focal point, and where did you release it from?
Thomas went back into the studio, and walked up to the back wall, tapped it. Pushed at the beading on the left, which moved, for there was a complete panel which slid to one side. The studio tripled its size. There was a big white bed in the centre of the new space, a fridge, an armchair. On the ceiling over the bed and on the three walls were large mirrors. A switch by the bedhead released the camera, automatically focusing it on the bed. The four studios were all built to the same plan. Daquin turned to Simon.
‘It’s a very clever system. Explain to me what it’s used for.’
Simon was suddenly less at ease. The brilliant communicator had faded away.
‘During the day, we work in the first part of the studio.’
‘I doubt that. Then?’
‘In the evening, I hire out the studios to people who want to keep a souvenir of their fucking parties. It’s not against the law. We’ve the right to have it off whatever way we want. There are people in your neck of the woods who share that view. And who won’t necessarily appreciate your pantomime performance.’
‘We’ll be the judge of that later. Don’t forget that in one of these studios a young Thai girl of twelve was murdered. Our laboratories are going to go over them with a fine-tooth comb and even if you’ve done all your housework, I can guarantee that we’re going to find traces of what went on and the murder. And that, you see, hasn’t yet been gone through.’
Daquin sensed a shiver passing through Simon and his receptionist. ‘Hurry up and take them away for questioning, they’re ready for it.’ They went back upstairs. The receptionist unlocked the entrance door. Daquin signalled to a cop who was waiting outside.
‘From now on, I only want our lot going into this basement. Santoni, stay here and collect whatever you think merits it from the offices. Thomas, with me, to the Squad.’
In the police vehicle which took them back to the Local Squad headquarters, Daquin felt the tension between the girl and the young man. It was almost tangible.
11 a.m. Passage du Désir
Daquin handed over Simon to Thomas.
‘Question him hard, but no knocking about. You understand, he’s undoubtedly got protectors. I’ll take the girl.’
‘Your first name?’
‘Christine.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-two.’
‘You’re Simon’s mistress?’
‘Yes.’ Said in a weak, uncertain voice. Obvious unease.
‘You’re going to listen very carefully to what I say. You can interrupt me when you don’t understand, but not to give me answers, not now. Then I shall leave you alone to reflect for a quarter of an hour. I’ll begin. You’re a mediocre girl, fairly pretty, fairly intelligent, no real education, and your family probably don’t have the means to keep you at home doing nothing. You look for work and it’s very hard to find. You have a bit of a hassle, and you sleep around. And then you come across Simon. He has the gift of the gab,
he’s affluent. He gives you work and is a passable lover. You trust him. You soon learn about his wheeling and dealing in sex parties, but in spite of or because of that, you’ve the impression that he’s capable of doing better and making a load of money. You perhaps are dreaming of marriage. As you’re hooked on novelettes, you imagine you’re in love with him, and at this moment you’re thinking yourself some sort of film heroine, and that you can save him from the clutches of the police, and then marry and have lots of children. Except that things aren’t like that at all … First, it’s not sex parties we’re talking about, but the murder of a child. I’ve brought along photos of the corpse. I’m going to leave them with you. I’ll also leave you a report of the autopsy. You possibly won’t understand everything. But you’ll be able to check the age of the girl, and you’ll see that she was sodomized after she died. In a case of this type, all Simon’s good mates, his well-placed acquaintances, in short, everyone who profited from his little schemes, are going to drop him. They’ll want to hush up those just-about-legal rumpy-pumpy parties, but no way will they be compromised in stories of prostitution and child murder. You follow me?’
She nodded.
‘And you, who’ve no doubt had nothing to do with this, you, with your mind full of romantic notions, are going to get dragged into this business and find yourself doing time for complicity to murder. When you come out, you’ll never even find Simon. And on top of all that, you won’t find yourself another job either. And always for the same reason. People don’t like hearing of sexual involvement with children, even Thai children. You get the picture?’
She nodded again.
‘I’m going to have a coffee. You have exactly fifteen minutes not to ruin the rest of your life.’
*
When Daquin returned, Christine was as white as a sheet. He settled in a corner behind his typewriter and asked her surname, first name, address, status …
Rough Trade Page 9
