Rough Trade Read Online Free Page A

into the room, in slippers, with the red puffy face of an inveterate alcoholic. He was as happy as Larry to take up with the service again, he said. He’d prepared some café au lait and croissants. Then, without any breathing space, the first pastis. Attali tried vainly to be an honourable drinker, but right after the coffee the pastis was a bit startling. And already smells of sautéed mutton and haricot beans were coming from the kitchen.
    He photographed people coming out of the long passageway which formed the shop interior. A waste of time photographing those standing in front, out in the street, where there was a permanent huddle.
    The old man rambled on about the decadence of the neighbourhood . It was better before; now there were wogs everywhere, you couldn’t understand what anybody was saying any more. The camera worked on steadily.

10 a.m. Rue Saint-Denis
     
    If they had the chance to keep on the case, they would have to prove how efficient they were. A small Thai prostitute doesn’t fall out of the sky naked and strangled into a workroom in the Sentier. The forensic surgeon’s report said that the body had been moved after death. So, where had it come from?
    A prostitute. Santoni knew the area well. He went into a porn shop which sold videos and various other accessories. A bespectacled pimply youth behind the counter didn’t even look up from his paper. Some customers – all male – were wandering between the shelves – sidelong glances, flushed cheeks, hands in pockets, not really relaxed. Santoni brandished his warrant card, said ‘Police’ in a loud voice and walked towards the pimply youth, who jumped and looked at him stupefied. When he reached the counter, he turned round: all the customers had vanished.
    ‘See. It’s easy to ruin your turnover.’
    ‘Why’re you doing this, monsieur ?’
    ‘To set your brain ticking, scumbag. A Thai kid, twelve years old, a prostitute, was killed on Friday or Saturday, in this area.’ He placed a photo of the dead girl on the counter. ‘Thomas and I want to know who she is, and who did it. It’s in your interest to find out: if not, we’ll be obliged to search your premises. And you’re going to see me here more often than you’d wish. Raids, arrests, interrogations . The big stuff. Not good for your customers. Get it?’
    ‘I’ve never heard any mention of this girl, inspecteur .’
    ‘That’s not good enough. Understand? You’d better stir yourself. Keep the photo – that would help. You can meet me at lunchtime – Chez Mado.’
    Santoni walked out without looking back. A bit further up the street, at the entrance to a narrow, dirty, very dark corridor, was a superb black woman: aged about twenty, in an extremely clinging short red skirt and tube top of the same colour – too short – you could see her navel. With the ghost of a smile, Santoni ran his hand up under her skirt, slipped it into her pants and gently pinched her fanny, as it’s said grandfathers used to pinch their grandchildren’s cheeks once upon a time.
    ‘Hi, Snow White, where’s your girlfriend?’
    ‘Upstairs. Don’t go up. She’s busy.’
    ‘Out of my way.’
    He pushed her roughly aside and ran up the steep stairs, walked along the corridor, took a key from his pocket and without pausing opened the last door on the left. Small bed-sit, window on to the street, proper shower room to the left, big bed to the right, mirrors everywhere, on the ceiling and walls. A table at the foot of the bed on which a blonde lay outstretched, legs dangling. The client got to his feet, terrified.
    ‘Police.’ Santoni brandished his card. ‘Get dressed and hop it.’ The blonde sat up. A genuine blonde, a bit skinny, enormous breasts, pink rings round the nipples. ‘You can get dressed too. I’m taking you in.’
    The client had already gone. He must have been doing up his flies as he ran down the corridor.
    ‘Wait. I might as well make the most of it. Play with me between