Dominique Manotti: Rough Trade

She was an important person in local life. Everyone knew she talked to the police, but she stayed within the rules, within the accepted boundaries. She was recognized by everyone as an indispensable means of communication.

After a number of to-ings and fro-ings, Mado came back and signalled to the waiter: two coffees and two cognacs for these gentlemen.

‘Nothing on the girl herself. But there are people in the neighbourhood who work with Thailand and who can’t be totally legit. An agency which puts on shows, so-called. The Aratoff Ballets, in rue des Petites-Ecuries. As far as the shows are concerned, their main business seems to be organising a tour of the brothels in Bangkok through specialist travel agents.’

‘Sort of unfair trading through relocation of employment? Thanks for the lead, Mado.’

‘See you again some time, Big Boy.’

4 p.m. Rue du Fauhourg-Saint-Martin

Romero arrived to change shifts. Attali was swaying slightly as he greeted him. Confab while the old boy, being discreet, went out to the kitchen. Decision taken to photograph anyone coming out of both shops: they would go over it with the Super tomorrow.

As he left, Attali passed under the porch and into the yard of the building. There were numerous tailoring workrooms on every floor, a hell of a racket. A bit of a chat with the concierge, a woman in her fifties, smiling, because she was so happy to be having a natter with a Frenchman, she missed it, you know. There were certainly two shops, with two names and two tenants, but they had a single letterbox and either one or the other picked up the mail. But you know I’d be amazed if their business was of any importance.

Attali went back into the street with a more assured step. He still felt very drunk. It was impossible to go home in this state. His mother would kick up such a fuss about it. He decided to take the photos to the lab, then go and see an old detective film in the Latin Quarter: it was a question of sleeping it off in peace.

8 a.m. Passage du Désir

Nerves on edge. It was always the same once an investigation got under way. Afterwards you managed the mountain of pressures and risks as best you could. On his desk Daquin found the packet of photos Attali had brought. Good work.

Thomas and Santoni arrived … introductions … handshakes … Daquin knew they were close colleagues of Meillant. Thomas and Meillant knew each other in the Resistance, and had joined the police together as patrolmen in 1945. But Thomas hadn’t wanted to, or couldn’t become a Super. He was, and would remain, a divisional inspector and he sensed a bitterness invading his whole personality. Santoni, whose career had taken a more classic course, had less ambition, was happy to play the role of faithful right-hand man. They both looked the same: in their fifties, paunch, moustache. Both looked typical cops: a combination of ease and pride. Daquin glanced into the small mirror over the sink. He had to keep the distinction between himself and them.

Now, the Yugoslav’s ours. They exchanged information, established tactics for questioning. Simple. He has to crack. Go to it.

*

The Yugoslav was waiting in Thomas and Santoni’s office handcuffed to the radiator pipe. He was sitting on the floor. Thomas got him up with a kick and manhandled him into a chair, his hands behind his back and attached to the chair’s struts. He took off his belt and tied a leg to the chair-leg, then did the same for the other one with his colleague’s belt. Daquin silently noted that both belts had been adapted with holes for this kind of operation. Obviously, it wasn’t the two men’s first attempt at this. They dragged their chairs up to sit very close to the Yugoslav. Daquin remained withdrawn, at arm’s length — or leg’s length away, behind a desk. Santoni signalled to him to open the top drawer. He did so and saw that, carefully tucked into their envelope, were the two plastic bags that had contained the heroin.

‘Good. Now you’re sitting comfortably, we can begin our chat. I just want to say, right away, so we don’t waste time, that we don’t believe a word of the statement you made yesterday. If you don’t cough up all you know — and quick — you’ll find yourself with charges of murder and sexual assault on a minor. If there comes a point when the cavalry’s out of sight, your chances of coming out of this are slight. Understand?’

He nodded ‘yes’ with his head.

‘When did you find the body on your premises yesterday?’

‘About four.’

No time to finish, he got kicked twice in the shins and cried out. A punch in the face from the right. ‘Don’t cry. You’ll ruin our reputation.’ A blow from the left. ‘Say “Yes, monsieur l’inspecteur ”, when my colleague speaks to you.’ The Yugoslav was completely disorientated. When Crime had questioned him the day before it had been a whole lot less emotional and he’d not expected this sort of welcoming committee. He tried to twist his head round to see who the third man was in the background, but there wasn’t time. Thomas caught him by the hair and pulled his head upright, while Santoni kicked him in the shins again.

‘Look at us, you asshole. It’s not polite not to look at people when they’re talking to you. Now you’ll give me a correct answer to my question: when did you find the body in your workroom?’

‘Seven in the morning.’

A glance passed between the three cops: rapid, professional — this was not a hard case. It was decidedly better.

‘So why didn’t you phone the station right away? What were you doing between 7 a.m. and 4 p.m.?’

‘I was selling the machines.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they’d be seized.’

‘And why would they be seized?’

‘Because I employ illegal immigrants and I thought the police would find out.’

Inspector Thomas stroked his chin, over and over again.

‘It’s good you respect the intellectual capacity of the police, it’s rare nowadays.’

The Yugoslav looked as though he were about to cry.

The (still invisible) Super’s voice: ‘And you cleaned your kitchen.’

Said in a very calm, anodyne tone, and at the same time as he drew from his jacket pocket a large signet ring, which he calmly put on his right hand. The Yugoslav said nothing. Santoni hit him again.

‘Answer me. You cleaned your kitchen. Yes or crap?’

‘No. I did not clean my kitchen.’

His field of vision was interrupted by the Super with a mighty backhander. The chair fell over backwards, the Yugoslav with it. He hit the desk as he fell and his right eyebrow streamed blood.

‘Just listen to me, asshole. The police lab told us the kitchen was cleaned from top to bottom on Monday and it was you who were in the workroom. We’ve got witnesses.’

The Yugoslav was openly weeping now, still upturned on the floor, with the Super standing over him. Blood was pouring into his hair.

‘Yes. Perhaps I did clean my kitchen. I don’t remember very well.’

‘Make an effort to remember. Why did you clean your kitchen?’

As he asked, the Super caught the Yugoslav by the shirt collar, and rather brutally brought the chair upright, and with his other hand shoved the two bags in their plastic envelope under his nose.

The Yugoslav groaned in terror. It was over, he wasn’t really a hard case, all that was left to do was to record his confession.

It hadn’t been his idea. It was one of his Turkish workers. He’d brought in the two packets yesterday morning at about six. They’d both gone into the workroom, without noticing anything out of the ordinary. The Turk must have opened the two packets in the kitchen and made up the small 50 gram doses, weighing out each one, and then sewn them into the pockets of the twenty pairs of red gypsy pants which were on top of the pile. And then they would have mixed the pants into a delivery that was to be made. It was when he went to load the rest of the heap of gypsy pants, that he’d discovered the body.