Dominique Manotti: Rough Trade

‘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.’

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 guess 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 …