Rough Trade (11 page)

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.

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.

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 …

‘How did Simon’s system of hiring out studios work?’

‘I didn’t have anything to do with it. But I know he had
membership
of some kind. They had a key to the entrance door and the studios.’

‘Did they come at any time?’

‘No. I think they always rang first to make an appointment. On the phone they’d say: “It’s about the members’ evenings”, so I wouldn’t ask anything and passed them directly to Raphael.’

‘Raphael. Is that Simon’s first name?’

‘Yes.’

‘In the evening, what time did you leave the office?’

‘I waited for Raphael, we’d leave together, practically every
evening
. About six or seven, depending on the workload.’

‘You didn’t wait for the members?’

‘No, I’ve never seen even one of them.’

‘And on Friday the 29th in the evening … tell me what you did.’

The typewriter click-clacked away in bursts interspersed by long periods of silence.

‘We waited for Bernachon.’

‘Did he come often?’

‘Not very, but, well … let’s say, fairly regularly. I must have seen him four or five times.’

‘Then?’

‘He arrived with the girl at about eight. She didn’t look as though she were twelve.’

‘Go on.’

‘He went away and the girl stayed. Raphael went down to the basement with her. He came up again after, I don’t know, perhaps ten minutes, and we left for the cinema.’

‘Can you be more precise about the time he stayed downstairs?’

‘I did my hair, put my lipstick on, looked in the mirror, and he was back again. I wasn’t conscious of waiting.’

‘I see how you spend your time. It’s not important. How did Bernachon come to pick up the girl?’

‘That I don’t know. The next day was a Saturday, and I never go into the office on Saturdays.’

‘And did Simon go?’

‘Yes.’

‘At what time?’

‘At eight’

‘Did Bernachon only come on Fridays?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘So in the mornings, what would happen?’

‘I don’t know. I never went to the office before nine. At that time of day, I’ve never seen any Thai girl.’

‘And Simon? Did he go to the office earlier?’

‘Yes, often. He had a lot of work to do before clients arrived.’

‘So I imagine … And you didn’t ever ask him any questions about his activities?’

‘No. At the beginning I didn’t know anything. And then he
explained
to me that he rented out the studios and that I should pass on certain calls to him direct. That’s all. It’s just that I’m not a busybody who asks all sorts of questions.’

Daquin finished typing his report.

‘Reread it quietly. And if it concurs with what you’ve just told me, sign it. If there’s something not right, tell me at once and we’ll correct it.’

She read it concentrating hard for a while.

‘It’s OK. I’ll sign it.’

‘And now, young lady, let me say something to you: get out of here at the double, look for a new job, a new boyfriend and forget Simon. He’s not worth it.’

*

With Bernachon’s statement, and Christine’s, Simon soon cracked. And from what he said, it was a funny business. He’d begun by fitting out a studio as a bedroom and hiring it occasionally to film X-rated videos. But very soon he’d had requests, coming first from his business clientele as a venue for their private orgies that the participants wanted to film. He soon saw there was a very profitable business here. As he was a very resourceful, imaginative man, he had not only fitted up the four studios along the same lines, but he’d also set up a club of a very special kind. Fifty members at 2,500 francs a month. Each member, when he joined for the first time, drew out a pseudonym at random from an urn, which had contained fifty of them, and received a key to the entrance door and studios. Simon explained to them how the cameras worked. It was extremely simple: it was automatic. Then, each member of the club telephoned using his pseudonym – they had complete
anonymity
. He kept a studio for a chosen weekday evening, or a half day at the weekend. He could come with the friends he wanted on condition that he said nothing about how the studios operated, the discretion of each individual guaranteeing everyone’s else’s
security
. He could also order girls, or boys, but there, Simon was only an intermediary and did not touch any additional money, the services being paid for directly to the prostitutes, except in the case of Thai girls, where it was paid to Bernachon.

‘Let’s go back to the Thais. How’s that arranged?’

Bernachon would bring one (or several) girls, Simon
accompanied
her to the studio, she would undress and wait for the client. Simon locked her clothes in the camera-room. The clients, when they left, would lock the studio behind them and the girl would spend the night there. The following morning at eight, Bernachon would come to collect the girl, to whom Simon had returned her clothes. On that particular morning, when Simon arrived, he had found neither the girl nor her clothes and the studio was apparently in order. He thought the client had let the girl run away. And he’d compensated Bernachon for the loss.

‘How much?’

‘Twenty thousand francs.’ Which had seemed reasonable to him. Not for an instant had he thought of a murder: all the members were gentlemen from ‘very good backgrounds’. Simon didn’t accept any Tom, Dick or Harry, they had to be recommended.

‘And so, on Friday evening, you didn’t know who was with the Thai?’

‘No.’ Simon knew simply that that evening, in that particular studio, was a member called Icarus. But who Icarus was he couldn’t say.

Daquin stood up.

‘Take Simon’s statement. We must have the list of pseudonyms, the list of members and the list of the “service providers” whom he usually dealt with. Also his bank accounts and all his club accounts. If not we don’t accept a single word of his devious tale and we indict him for murder. After all, he had all the time to do it. I’m leaving you – I’ve things to do upstairs.’

*

Sobesky was more than an hour late but didn’t seem to notice. He went up to Attali sitting behind the big desk. He was small,
thickset
, with muscles and a belly. Square mouth, light blue eyes,
brush-cut
hair and a necklet of grey beard. Open, warm. Attali and Romero stood up to greet him, introduced themselves and sat down. Daquin, behind the small desk, was deep in a pile of files.

Attali began: ‘We asked you here for four,’ he made a point of looking at his watch, ‘to ask you some questions about your
notification
of the disappearance of Mademoiselle Lamouroux that you made on Tuesday 4 March at the 10th arrondissement police
station
. Can you tell us what motivated this move?’

‘Virginie’s been my star model for the last three years.’ Sobesky, embarrassed, hesitated a little. ‘She’s also been my son’s girlfriend for the last six months. She lived with him. On Friday 29 February, we had a family dinner, with some friends. After the meal, my son and Virginie had quite a violent row, so Virginie left on her own, I don’t know why, Xavier didn’t want to tell me. The following
morning
, I went to spend the weekend with friends at Deauville. On Monday morning I had a fashion show with a big client. It was Virginie who should have been doing it. Come 11 o’clock, no one. It was the first time in three years she’d let me down. My wife stood in for her at a moment’s notice. She used to do that once … a long time ago. The client left, the deal fell through, what’s more I phoned my son at the hospital where he was on duty – he’s a medical student – and he told me he hadn’t seen Virginie since Friday evening. So, frankly, I was worried. On Monday I phoned all the friends we knew, no one had any news. So on Tuesday
morning
I decided to go to the police station.’

‘Did you know that Virginie Lamouroux was back in Paris? Since 5 March to be precise?’

‘I heard it from one of my friends who’s a manufacturer.’

‘She hasn’t contacted you again since her return?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t find that curious?’

‘Of course I do, but what do you want me to say?’

‘Did you know that Virginie Lamouroux went to New York from the first to the fifth of March, where she met your colleague Mr Baker?’

‘No. I knew nothing about it.’ Sobesky looked genuinely astonished.

‘Why? In your opinion?’

‘How d’you expect me to know?’

‘Has she known Mr Baker for a long time?’

‘It wasn’t apparent to me that she knew him.’

‘How long has Mr Baker been a colleague of yours?’

‘What’ve these questions got to do with my visit to the police station?’

Romero took up the relay: ‘Since she came back from New York, we’ve arrested Virginie Lamouroux. She was in possession of a certain quantity of heroin.’

‘Virginie?’ His voice broke on the high notes.

‘You didn’t know that she was trafficking in drugs?’

‘No, absolutely not. I really like Virginie. She works as a model only now and then, like a lot of others, to finance her studies. She wants to become a museum curator.’

Attali and Romero tried, for an instant, to imagine VL as a
museum
curator. It was difficult to take on board.

‘She’s certainly had her share of affairs, that’s normal for a girl nowadays. But to go from there to thinking that she’s selling drugs …’

‘That’s why we’re trying to clarify her relationship with Mr Baker.’

‘Well, I’ve been working with Baker for a year and a half. We met at the ready-to-wear Salon. He suggested a licenced contract for the States. Obviously, I accepted. And it’s working well. I’ve never seen Baker and Virginie together.’

Without moving from his desk, Daquin asked: ‘Do you work with Anna Beric?’

Sobesky turned to him, frowning.

‘Of course. What are you implying, asking that?’

‘Mme Beric disappeared at the same time as Virginie Lamouroux, but she still hasn’t reappeared.’

‘What connection d’you think there is between these two women?’

‘I don’t know. It’s you I’m asking. Is there a professional connection?’

‘No. They each carry on in their own very different sectors. In my opinion, they don’t even know each other. Anna’s a very old friend. She started in the rag trade at the same time as me, as a dressmaker supervising alterations, nearly twenty years ago. Then, still with my setup, she did everything: she was a mannequin, a saleswoman, representative, secretary. I taught her everything. And she left to start her own business about twelve years after that. Since then I’ve gone on working with her. And don’t tell me that she’s into drugs too, because I’d laugh in your face.’

‘How did she come to begin with you?’

‘It was Superintendent Meillant who brought her to me. He was an inspector at the time. She was in a mess, and she needed help. And she came out of it remarkably well.’

‘You know Superintendent Meillant?’

‘Don’t tell me he’s disappeared too?’ Smile.

‘No. Not as far as I know.’ Daquin returned his smile. ‘It’s simply curiosity on my part.’