Dominique Manotti: Rough Trade

12.25 p.m. Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin

Attali and Romero strolled past the accessory shop. From time to time, they paused at a café opposite. They also went up to say hallo to the old boy and promised to keep him posted on how the investigation was developing. They were just wondering how they would recognize a dealer. No kidding … they’d already taken two hours and not reached any conclusion. It was already past midday. They would have to think about having some lunch. At that very moment there came into view a superb young woman, in her mid-twenties, no more, very slim, her mid-length hair blowing in the wind, almost dancing as she walked. Looks like a model, Romero said to himself. He knew little about that sort of thing, however. She was calmly walking down rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin, confident she was the centre of attention, and neither caring, nor hesitating, nor slowing down, she walked straight into the accessory shop. Romero and Attali exchanged a single glance. They might not know how to recognize a dealer, but they knew how to appreciate a pretty girl. In any case, she’d be more fun to play with than some dead-beat junkie in his thirties. When she re-emerged ten minutes later they followed her at a distance, one on each pavement, most discreetly. She went back up the Faubourg, taking the direction she’d come, and, unhurriedly, turned left into passage Brady. It was a fine day. She was wearing a sporty beige raincoat over a skirt and sweater which were also beige. A large dark brown Vuitton bag swung on her shoulder. When they reached passage Brady, the two cops prudently kept their distance. She took rue d’Enghien.

The street was deserted at that hour and Romero judged they were far enough away from the shop to try something. He glanced round to check they were alone, went up to the young woman, passed his left hand under her elbow and with his right presented his warrant card. He pushed her under a porchway. Attali followed them.

‘Police. We’re running an investigation into drug peddling and you’ve been seen in the company of known peddlers. I’m obliged to search you, to check whether or not you have drugs in your possession.’

The young woman protested vehemently and fought vigorously. She kicked them in the shins to try to get away. Romero leant all his weight on her, and pushed her into the dirty dark entrance to a stairwell which gave on to the porch. Attali signalled to him that he was controlling access points.

While he held her face against the wall and her wrists behind her back, Romero undertook the search. First, the bag. The girl continued fighting energetically. Romero upturned the contents of the bag on the ground, a jumble of handkerchiefs, lipsticks, face powder, loose change … Signalled to Attali, who quickly checked the contents of her wallet, purse and powder compact. Nothing. He put everything back in the bag, and took up a position at the entrance to the stairwell. A glance towards Romero, whom he sensed was about to make a monumental blunder, but said nothing.

Romero trapped the girl’s wrists with one hand, and with the other he undertook a body search, all the time holding her squeezed against the wall with his shoulder and body weight. Nothing in the raincoat pockets. Nothing in the shoes. His hand felt up her legs, nothing in her tights. A lump under the elastic in her panties, between her buttocks. He tore at her knickers, and, lo and behold, there was a sachet of white powder, about twenty grams’ worth by the look of it. Excitement? Pleasure of the hunt? Contact with the girl? He got the distinct impression she was fighting less. Consenting? The stairwell was in darkness. And Attali could only find one thing to say: ‘Hurry, hurry …’ Romero leaned against her with all his weight, undid his flies with one hand and pulled up her skirt. Groans of pleasure. Attali was torn between envy and anxiety. The girl drew away.

‘Right. Keep the sachet, but let me go. Otherwise I’ll bring a charge of rape. You know I can prove it.’

Attali: ‘Let’s nick her, quickly. Don’t hang about.’

‘You’ll regret this, you pig.’

With her hands handcuffed behind her back, and an inspector on either side, they quickly walked her back to passage du Désir. Romero and Attali exchanged not a single word.

1.25 p.m. Passage du Désir

Romero pushed the girl into Daquin’s office, removed the handcuffs and made her sit down, while Attali placed the sachet of powder on the desk. Romero gave a quick report of what had happened, omitting all the ‘details’. While he sat quite still, listening, Daquin looked at the violet bruising on the girl’s wrists and scratches on her face.

She pulled herself up on her chair and said to Daquin: ‘Your shitty cop raped me, on the pretext of searching me. He had me pinned against the wall, half broke my wrists and raped me. I want a medical examination.’

Daquin retorted in glacial tones: ‘You wish to lodge a complaint, mademoiselle?’ A few seconds’ pause. ‘Frankly, I’m not sure it’s the best solution. When you play dangerous games the way you do, you can’t honestly expect to be mingling with the upper crust the whole time. If you lodge a complaint against my inspector, which you’re entitled to do, I’ll immediately charge you with drug dealing. My inspector will be transferred, but you’ll be banged up for at least four years.’ He stared at her for a moment. ‘And I’m even convinced that if Romero gave you a hundred francs, which isn’t your usual rate, but in view of the circumstances, you’d agree to make him a special price.’ The girl went scarlet, but said nothing. ‘Romero, put a hundred francs in Mademoiselle’s mack pocket. Now let’s get down to serious matters. Attali, write it down. Your name, age?’

‘Virginie Lamouroux, twenty-five.’

‘Where d’you live?’

‘With a girlfriend.’

‘Would you mind speeding things up for everybody? When I ask a question, I want a precise answer, is that clear? Where do you live?

‘With a girlfriend, Mademoiselle Sergent, at 10 rue de Belzunce.’

‘Occupation?’

‘Model.’

‘Be specific’

‘I model for ready-to-wear. I work for a number of different employers — it varies from day to day.’

‘Names? Dates?’

‘In the last six months I’ve worked for all the big names in ready-to-wear, from NafNaf or René Dhéry to Julie La Tour or Jules amp; Julie.’

‘And what does your job entail?’

‘Mainly modelling clothes, by request, for an eventual wholesale purchaser. It’s more important than the collections.’

‘And the buyer keeps the model for the evening?’

‘That’s none of your bus — ’

She didn’t have time to finish her sentence before Daquin slapped her, without even standing to do it.

Shocked, she said: ‘It can happen that way.’

‘In which case, how much d’you make?’

‘Why? Why are you so interested? It’s not relevant.’

The second slap was harder. Daquin had taken the trouble to stand up this time. Virginie Lamouroux sniffed.

‘Don’t think about it, just give me an answer. How much d’you make on a date like that?’

‘It doesn’t happen like that. There aren’t any rates. It’s the kind of world where you sleep around. After the show, well, you’re free. You spend the evening together. Can’t you find yourself a girlfriend? … Well, that’s it. Those who want to, pay. Others pretend they thought we did it for fun. Girls who don’t sleep around don’t get the jobs, that’s all there is to it.’

Daquin sat down again.

‘OK. Let’s move on to drugs. Romero, take a look at Mademoiselle Lamouroux’s arms and ankles. I don’t suppose you had time to do it just now. Any needle marks?’