Overawed, the fat woman went to telephone without a word.
Less than five minutes later, the couple who directed the company came into the office. The three cops were sitting around the low table and looked hard at the new arrivals, without getting up. He was sly — that was the word that came into Daquin’s mind. Small, rat-faced, very pale, with a pointed nose, grey eyes and thin hair. like a sort of albino rat. As for her, Russian, big, solidly built, blonde with a thick plait round her head, a strawberries and cream complexion, blue eyes.
They introduced themselves. M. Bernachon, manager of the company, and Mme Irina Aratoff, his wife, choreographer (it was she after whom the ballets were named) and Mme Lilette Balland, secretary. Could they know what this was about?
‘But of course, monsieur,’ Daquin said, still sitting down. ‘We’re making enquiries about the murder of a young Thai girl. You might know her perhaps?’
Daquin drew a photo of the dead girl from his jacket.
Irina Aratoff, breasts thrust forward and with a slight accent, said very quickly: ‘No. We don’t know her at all.’
‘We thought she could be one of your young dancers, the one who disappeared between Paris and Munich. So we’re going to search your offices.’
The three cops rose. Thomas moved towards the secretary’s office, Santoni and Daquin towards those at the back. They began a systematic, meticulous search. In the secretary’s office: diaries, appointments, lists of telephone numbers. Files filed away, letters to and from airline companies, a voluminous correspondence with the nightclubs of Zurich and Munich about dancers, shows, contracts.
‘Don’t your dancers ever go back to Thailand?’
‘Yes, of course, but it’s not our job any more to take care of that part of the journey. Once in Germany or Switzerland, it’s down to the other impresarii.’
Mme Aratoff pronounced impresarii, exaggerating the ‘i’s. Daquin laughed.
In Irina Aratoff’s office: scripts, music, costume designs, orders for accessories. She was the artist of the troupe. Bernachon had reserved Thailand for himself: lists of addresses, files on every trip. The list of dancers, with a photocopy of the passport or visa for each one. And the choreography of each show. Everything seemed in order. According to their passports, the girls were all more than eighteen.
The most recent correspondence with Munich related to the fact that only five dancers had arrived at their destination, instead of the six expected. The settlement of the account with the Aratoff Ballets was therefore reduced by one sixth. Copy of the letter protesting sent by the said ballet company, who had expenses, and proposed that their loss be split equally.
‘In the file for the last trip, there are only five names. Why?’
‘We sent the records of the sixth to Munich, as proof of our good faith.’
Now to the apartment. Five rooms, very comfortable, big TV, video-recorder, numerous household gadgets. Fairly bad taste: the large bookless bookcase filled with objets d’art, and cocktail bar concealed behind a row of false books. But nothing, nothing.
‘You’ve two maid’s rooms, I believe.’
‘Yes, if you’d like to follow me …’
Everyone went up to the sixth floor. Two tiny rooms. Three bunk beds in each. It was here that the dancers stayed during their time in Paris.
‘We shall be taking fingerprints,’ Daquin said.
But the meticulous cleanliness of the place left small chance of finding anything at all.
‘Would you like to show us the cellar now?’
Everyone went down to the cellars. The group stopped outside the door numbered 29. Bernachon opened it. Bottles of wine, a few old bits of furniture, two paintings in a bad state, suitcases. Thomas busied himself with the contents of the suitcases. Ski clothes in one, the other empty. Then he turned to Bernachon.
‘We’ve finished here.’
And he waited. Bernachon closed the cellar door and walked towards the exit.
‘Hey. What about the other cellar?’
‘What other cellar?’
‘The one sublet to you by your neighbour, no. 39. Open it, please.’
The artists looked shocked.
‘We haven’t got the key to this cellar, we don’t use it.’
‘Perhaps the concierge has one?’
‘You can ask. We know nothing about it.’
The concierge did not have the cellar keys. She seized the opportunity to ask what was going on. Absolutely nothing, Santoni told her, who was going to look out a crowbar from the police vehicle parked outside the door. He returned with a uniformed policeman who’d suggested he do the work, for the sake of something to do.
Cellar no. 39. Three locks. Easy. A heavy push on each lock was enough, the door gave way. The cellar was full of books. The ones which weren’t on the bookshelves, Daquin thought. He picked up one and leafed through. It was a catalogue of Thai children. Each double page was devoted to a different child. On the one Daquin was looking at — on the left was a full-page photo, a boy of between ten and twelve, naked, slim, with golden skin and black hair, heavy fringe, kneeling, his hands tied behind his back, in the act of sucking off a corpulent blond male with a tache, a guy of about thirty, sitting in front of him, with another blond guy of the same build crouched behind the child buggering him and laughing. The whole against the background of a luxurious swimming pool. Both men were suntanned, you could see the white outline of their swimming trunks and the beginnings of a roll of fat around their midriffs. On the page opposite, two photos of the same boy, both naked again. On one, he was facing his ‘objective’, a bit lopsided, teasing. On the other, blindfolded, attached to the trunk of a palm tree, in the process of being whipped across the buttocks and back by one of the two blond guys, while the other one was getting a handsome hard-on. At the bottom of the page, a name, an address in Bangkok. A phone number and a price.
Daquin closed the brochure and passed it to the inspectors. His face was dosed: these images were, for him, those of real suffering. He had to continue the inventory. There was a whole range of different publications, all based on the same photos. In some series, the addresses and price had disappeared. No longer were these catalogues for the preparation of a trip, but collections of pornographic photos, plain and simple. There were publications where boys and girls were mixed, others which featured only girls, or only boys. In all there were about 1,000 books, all intended for a specialist clientele of fickle sado-masochistic paedophiles. There was a public for that.
In the corridor there was consternation among the artists. The secretary half whispered: ‘Any parent has only to keep an eye on their children.’ Daquin hit her hard across the face, forehand and backhand, no holds barred. She fell on her bottom and let out a piercing shriek. The concierge hurtled down the cellar stairs to offer assistance to the unfortunate lady.
‘You,’ Daquin shouted at her, ‘you get back up those stairs at top speed and shut yourself up in your goddamn cubbyhole and don’t come out again, or I’ll involve you in complicity to murder and rape minors!’
A dignified half-turn and disappearance by the concierge. The secretary shut up immediately. Daquin turned to Thomas and Santoni.
‘I know it doesn’t serve any useful purpose, but it makes me feel better.’
Thomas continued his search of the cellar. On the stacks on the right as you entered was a box of files. He opened it. There were various papers. He rapidly skimmed through a handwritten letter, in which the correspondent congratulated Bernachon on the quality of the photos he’d obtained for him and offered him 60,000 francs for a young boy, aged twelve maximum. He then went on to give a self-indulgent list of the physical characteristics he was looking for, and the uses he intended to put the boy to. There were other letters in the same vein. So the more official papers were in the offices, while in the cellar, away from prying eyes, was current business, deemed more compromising. And there, in the midst of the letters and receipts, he came across a passport. With a photo. It was the passport of the dead girl.