9a.m. Boulevard de Strasbourg
Daquin was first to go into Simon Video. The receptionist walked towards him: a tall brunette, curves in all the right places, a fairly conventional beauty, and all smiles. It didn’t last long. Daquin had decided they’d act tough, at least to start with, in that they were also going in ‘blind’.
Inspectors Thomas and Santoni came in behind him and drew their guns. The secretary, dumbfounded, turned to stone.
‘Police. Call your boss.’
Two very correct executives in dark suit and tie, sitting in a corner chatting, immediately shut up. A heavy silence followed as the inspectors still had their revolvers in their hands. The receptionist returned behind her desk and picked up the intercom.
‘Monsieur Simon. You’re wanted in reception — it’s the police.’
Daquin moved quickly towards the office door marked ‘Director’ and threw it open.
‘Come out of there.’
One gesture from the two inspectors and the executives took the opportunity to scarper.
Simon came out, dynamic, in his thirties, very self-assured. Yellow jacket over a black silk shirt, black trousers. Daquin thought Lavorel would love to be here. Simon defended himself for all he was worth.
‘What on earth’s this interruption about, and those revolvers? … this is a respectable business … you’re frightening off my clients … my reputation …’
Bluff? Anger? Daquin took on a very official tone.
‘We have letters rogatory to investigate a murder which occurred on the night of 29 February to 1 March, and we are acting within our bounds. We have good reason to think this murder was committed here. And we are taking precautions.’
Daquin signalled to Thomas, who pushed his revolver into Simon’s back. The latter quietened down immediately.
‘Sit down. Simon Video, what is it exactly?’
‘We make video films for businesses, but mostly we train executives in public speaking and in front of the camera.’
‘You make porn films?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘D’you know this girl?’ Photo of the dead Thai girl.
‘No.’ Simon crossed his hands.
‘Be that as it may, Bernachon claims that he brought her here on Friday 29 February in the evening. And she was murdered during the night …’
Simon spread his hands, shrugged his shoulders.
‘I don’t know Bernachon.’
‘Would you take us round your premises?’
Thomas pushed him with the end of his revolver. A tour of the offices was rapidly made — there were only three: Simon’s, another for the secretarial staff. Where was the secretary? The receptionist said: ‘It’s me who does the secretarial work. I use this office when there aren’t any customers to deal with.’ Third office, practically empty.
‘We allow it to be used by clients who’re borrowing our equipment for the day and who come with their own staff.’
‘And you, don’t you have a cameraman or animator in your business?’
‘No. I do everything myself. And when there’s too much work I call in outside contributors, paid per performance.’
And now the studios. Daquin turned to the receptionist.
‘Lock the front door and follow us.’
They went down a spiral staircase into a sort of square windowless lobby. On each side of the square was a cabin with a window in which you could see a video camera, attached to a stand. Control screen, projectors, numerous plugs and switches, small pieces of equipment etc. At the back of each cabin was a door. Daquin opened one: it led to a small studio, lined throughout, walls and ceiling, with white material, broad black beading framed each section of the wall, like a cinema screen, thick white carpet, two projectors fixed on the walls, And in the centre, a table and some chairs. The four studios were equipped in the same way.
‘Is this all?’ Daquin asked.
‘That’s all.’ Simon was on the defensive.
Thomas knew a bit about videos. He went into a cabin, ferreted about, looked into the camera’s viewfinder.
‘How d’you switch it on?’
‘From the table in the studio.’
Daquin switched it on. The picture was out of focus. The purr of an electric motor in the camera, and it automatically focused on the table. Thomas carefully inspected the camera. It seemed there were two possible positions to focus on, both pre-set, but the camera itself was fixed. He asked Daquin to turn the current off and on again. This time there was no noise from the motor and the focus remained on the table. Good. So where was the second focal point, and where did you release it from?
Thomas went back into the studio, and walked up to the back wall, tapped it. Pushed at the beading on the left, which moved, for there was a complete panel which slid to one side. The studio tripled its size. There was a big white bed in the centre of the new space, a fridge, an armchair. On the ceiling over the bed and on the three walls were large mirrors. A switch by the bedhead released the camera, automatically focusing it on the bed. The four studios were all built to the same plan. Daquin turned to Simon.
‘It’s a very clever system. Explain to me what it’s used for.’
Simon was suddenly less at ease. The brilliant communicator had faded away.
‘During the day, we work in the first part of the studio.’
‘I doubt that. Then?’
‘In the evening, I hire out the studios to people who want to keep a souvenir of their fucking parties. It’s not against the law. We’ve the right to have it off whatever way we want. There are people in your neck of the woods who share that view. And who won’t necessarily appreciate your pantomime performance.’
‘We’ll be the judge of that later. Don’t forget that in one of these studios a young Thai girl of twelve was murdered. Our laboratories are going to go over them with a fine-tooth comb and even if you’ve done all your housework, I can guarantee that we’re going to find traces of what went on and the murder. And that, you see, hasn’t yet been gone through.’
Daquin sensed a shiver passing through Simon and his receptionist. ‘Hurry up and take them away for questioning, they’re ready for it.’ They went back upstairs. The receptionist unlocked the entrance door. Daquin signalled to a cop who was waiting outside.
‘From now on, I only want our lot going into this basement. Santoni, stay here and collect whatever you think merits it from the offices. Thomas, with me, to the Squad.’
In the police vehicle which took them back to the Local Squad headquarters, Daquin felt the tension between the girl and the young man. It was almost tangible.
11 a.m. Passage du Désir
Daquin handed over Simon to Thomas.
‘Question him hard, but no knocking about. You understand, he’s undoubtedly got protectors. I’ll take the girl.’
‘Your first name?’
‘Christine.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-two.’
‘You’re Simon’s mistress?’
‘Yes.’ Said in a weak, uncertain voice. Obvious unease.
‘You’re going to listen very carefully to what I say. You can interrupt me when you don’t understand, but not to give me answers, not now. Then I shall leave you alone to reflect for a quarter of an hour. I’ll begin. You’re a mediocre girl, fairly pretty, fairly intelligent, no real education, and your family probably don’t have the means to keep you at home doing nothing. You look for work and it’s very hard to find. You have a bit of a hassle, and you sleep around. And then you come across Simon. He has the gift of the gab, he’s affluent. He gives you work and is a passable lover. You trust him. You soon learn about his wheeling and dealing in sex parties, but in spite of or because of that, you’ve the impression that he’s capable of doing better and making a load of money. You perhaps are dreaming of marriage. As you’re hooked on novelettes, you imagine you’re in love with him, and at this moment you’re thinking yourself some sort of film heroine, and that you can save him from the clutches of the police, and then marry and have lots of children. Except that things aren’t like that at all … First, it’s not sex parties we’re talking about, but the murder of a child. I’ve brought along photos of the corpse. I’m going to leave them with you. I’ll also leave you a report of the autopsy. You possibly won’t understand everything. But you’ll be able to check the age of the girl, and you’ll see that she was sodomized after she died. In a case of this type, all Simon’s good mates, his well-placed acquaintances, in short, everyone who profited from his little schemes, are going to drop him. They’ll want to hush up those just-about-legal rumpy-pumpy parties, but no way will they be compromised in stories of prostitution and child murder. You follow me?’