Rough Trade (10 page)

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.

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 the 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.’

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.

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.’

‘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.’