Free Rough Trade by Dominique Manotti

did not ask was: why had the Americans systematically moved in on Marseilles? And what or who precisely was concealed under the vague term ‘Americans’?

8 a.m.
     
    When Attali and Romero arrived, Daquin was already making the coffee. They exchanged information as they sat round the table. Anna Beric, important for sure, Lavorel was on to that. Thomas and Santoni were continuing to look for a lead connected with the Aratoff Ballets, and their telephone was being tapped. VL had been staying in New York. That had to be investigated. Sobesky? Should they question him? Daquin adamant: not immediately. Find out the lie of the land first. That would be Attali’s job for the day.
    ‘And Romero, I’ve something else for you. Here are four names of Turks, with their photos. Recognize them? These are photos you took. My snout’s identified them. These Turks arrived recently, around July 1979. They had their papers sorted with no problems. Why? Go and see the National Immigration Office, see if they can throw some light on these files, find some irregularity or other. But be wary, on two counts: one, don’t mention it to any of your colleagues , not even Thomas and Santoni. They work in this neighbourhood all the time, my snout lives here and I want to protect him as much as I can, and that includes from my colleagues. Two, I don’t want anyone at the Immigration Office to know what you’re working on. When it comes to drugs, you must be more than careful . Use the rogatory letters * for the Thai girl’s murder and make up some story or other.

9 a.m. 10th Arrondissement Police Station
     
    Attali and Virginie Lamouroux at a desk in a crowded, cluttered room.
    ‘What were you doing in New York from Saturday to Wednesday last?’
    ‘How d’you know I was there?’ She was shaken.
    ‘Answer my question.’
    ‘It was just a tourist trip.’
    ‘A bit brief.’
    ‘Well, that’s what it was. I had some emotional problems with my boyfriend, and I felt I needed a change of air.’
    ‘Sobesky’s son?’
    ‘You know that as well? Yes. Sobesky’s son.’
    ‘And the father?’
    ‘I work for him. That’s all.’
    ‘Be a bit more specific’
    ‘Well, he employs me on a regular basis, as a model.’
    ‘Why, in your opinion, did he tell the police you’d disappeared last Tuesday?’
    ‘I didn’t know he had. Could be I’d left his son and missed an appointment with him at work, and hadn’t let him know. Perhaps he thought I’d had an accident.’
    ‘Why didn’t you tell him?’
    ‘I’m getting pissed off with these questions …’
    Attali didn’t give her time to finish her sentence: in one move, he rose, leant over the top of the desk and gave her a resounding smack. Modelling himself on Daquin, but he didn’t quite have the self-assurance. In headquarters all conversation stopped dead. Everyone was looking at them. Virginie Lamouroux squirmed in her chair. She dearly didn’t know what attitude to adopt.
    ‘I didn’t tell him because I didn’t want to tell him … because, since I’ve been living with his son, I wasn’t supposed to go on sleeping with the clients, and I wanted to … for the money, and for the fun. So there.’
    She’d half shouted her reply, like an insult, but she had replied. Attali thought he’d made the point. He insisted, stressing his professional approach.
    ‘Tell me how and where I can get in touch with people in New York who could confirm that you were there from 1 to 5 March.’
    Virginie Lamouroux took out her diary. Gave him five names.
    ‘I’ll be checking these. Till Wednesday at 9 a.m. here.’

11 a.m. Rue des Petites-Ecuries
     
    Thomas rang the second floor of the building. A frail old woman came and opened the door.
    ‘Madame, I’m a new neighbour of yours. I’m renting a flat on the fourth floor, I came to say hallo and ask a favour.’
    ‘Come in, monsieur .’ A sharp look. ‘And sit down a minute.’ She walked with difficulty, supporting herself on the