‘So, mademoiselle, what form are you taking them in?’
‘Who told you I was taking drugs?’
Daquin stood up to his full, massive height. He was seriously angry. He came round the desk, caught her by the hair and forced her to look up at him.
‘Just look at me, and stop behaving like a child. At twenty-five, you’re a dealer and a tart and you take drugs. Which ones and how?’
‘Heroin. I smoke it,’ she said regretfully.
‘Go on.’
‘Powder. In a special silver cupel, you heat it with a candle. It goes like caramel and gives off smoke. You lean over it, with a scarf over your head, and inhale it very slowly and deeply. It makes you feel fabulous and it’s not dangerous, it’s not like using a needle. I’ve never injected myself. I’m frightened of injections.’
‘It’s a rather unusual way of taking it. Who taught you?’
She hesitated. Daquin moved closer to her.
‘It comes from Iran, it was some Iranians, at parties. I don’t know their names.’
‘Parties?’
‘Yes. In ready-to-wear, you meet lots of people. And very different sorts. At parties given by one lot or another.’
‘And taking heroin happens quite frequently on such occasions?’
‘Not frequently perhaps, but not infrequently either. Heroin and a load of other things.’ She sat up in her chair. ‘Don’t tell me, commissaire, that you didn’t know.’
‘Who gave you the address in rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin?’
‘The addresses of the suppliers get passed around and change a lot. That address was given me a fortnight ago. It’s the first time I’ve been there.’
‘Who gave it to you? You haven’t answered my question.’
‘I don’t remember any more.’
Daquin made a show of putting on his signet ring and raised his hand.
‘Perhaps it was Lestiboudois, a businessman I went out with that evening. I haven’t seen him since.’
Daquin paced up and down his office, saying nothing. Then: ‘I’m going to release you. For the moment. You’re going to sign a short statement. I ask you not to leave Paris, and to let me know if you change your address. And to report in at the 10th arrondissement police station every two days at 9 a.m. from Monday next.’
‘And if I don’t sign?’
‘I’ll lock you up for being caught in the act.’
A moment’s reflection.
‘I’ll sign.’
‘Romero. Take Mademoiselle Lamouroux back downstairs.’
The Super waited for him to come back, saying nothing, rocking in his chair.
*
‘So, Romero, clear something up for me. Did you rape her before or after you found the drugs?’
‘After, commissaire.’
‘Are you aware that I’ve just got you off being transferred to some dead-end place in the sticks, or are you proud of yourself?’
‘I’m not proud of myself, commissaire.’
‘Right. Let’s recap, Romero. You prepare a report for me on Virginie Lamouroux’s arrest for tomorrow morning, omitting anything that could harm our team’s reputation. I’ll make a note on her cross-examination myself. You both keep the investigation into this girl. In my opinion she’s rotten to the core and she hasn’t given us anything she knows. Even if she doesn’t know all that much probably. You can begin by locating her, which may not be all that easy, and lay on the pressure for me, since we haven’t anything better we can do. Either she’ll crack, or people in the network will take the initiative. We’ll observe and gather information. So, get down to it. Try to be as efficient as you can and show a bit more restraint.’
2 p.m. Rue des Petites-Ecuries
Santoni returned to the van where Thomas was waiting for him. Thomas had paid a visit that morning to the syndicate which co-owned the property. There he’d found a detailed plan of the building and the names of all the occupants, along with some comments. Thomas had taken notes. Santoni cast an eye over them.
‘Monsieur and Madame Bernachon, alias Aratoff. Probably the ones I saw this morning. They live just above the agency. You take over here, you’ll see. It’s a bore. I’m going to take a walk inside the building.’
A very common type of building, in this area. A concierge’s lodge, but no concierge at that hour. No elevator. Santoni took the stairs. Two apartments per floor. A red carpet up to the fifth. On the sixth, maids’ rooms. WC on the landing. No one in the corridor. With plan in hand, Santoni tracked down the two rooms which belonged to the Bernachons. Strong, though not complicated, locks. Apparently no one in at the moment. He went downstairs to cast an eye over the cellars. Found the entrance easily. Two floors of vaults. Superb. It was badly lit and a bit grubby. Some cellars still had very ancient doors with openwork, others had reinforced ones. He checked the plan to see where Bernachon’s cellar was. A new, solid, wooden door, same locks as on the maids’ rooms. He went down to the lower basement level, and, since he was in no hurry, walked along the corridor and among all those disparate rooms, found one identical to the Bernachons’. New wooden door, same locks. Was there a meaning in this? He made a note of the cellar’s number.
3 p.m. Rue Saint-Maur
Lavorel wanted quick results. A need to prove something? To whom?
A short conversation with Bostic yielded the names and addresses of two Yugoslav workers who’d worked with him for many years. The only two who had papers among the twenty he employed.
A building on rue Saint-Maur, full of Yugoslavs. A fairly grotty staircase. A small, very clean apartment on the second floor. A middle-aged woman in a headscarf.
‘Madame Jentic?’ She nodded. ‘Is Monsieur Jentic in?’
She gestured with her hand: he wasn’t in. She didn’t speak a word of French, or feigned not to. Lavorel asked the neighbours, with no success. The baker, on the ground floor, finally agreed to act as interpreter.
‘Police. I want to ask you a few questions, but you’ve nothing to fear, nor has your husband.’ She only half believed him. ‘Has your husband any payslips?’ She signalled the affirmative. ‘Can I see them?’
She held out a large packet in a strong envelope. Payslips for every month, for years, all of which seemed perfectly in order: name of the business, stamp, calculation of deductions, taxable total, everything was there. His wages were decidedly above the minimum. It was just that the name of the company changed every three months and was invariably followed by a note which read: ‘Currently being registered with the Trade Register.’
Lavorel took notes. And three payslips on the sly, while Madame Jentic was looking the other way. He thanked her. ‘Remember, you’re not to worry, everything’s completely in order.’ He then left to check with the Trade Register. A new company registered every three months. Manager: Anna Beric.
Sandwich. Beer. Metro to the Social Security Office. None of these companies ever paid out a sou in national insurance. Neither on the part of the employers nor the wage-earners. Normally a company’s allowed three months’ delay in paying national insurance contributions. If, at the end of three months, it no longer exists … If Jentic’s payslips are anything to go by … all this had been going on for a number of years. Friday afternoon, not worth continuing the tour of civil service offices — I wouldn’t find anyone in.
4 p.m. 10th Arrondissement Police Station
Attali went to see the duty officer.
‘From Monday morning next, a young woman should be coming here to register her whereabouts every two days. Virginie Lamouroux. A suspect in a heroin-dealing case.’
‘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.’