finishes a cigarette whose stub has begun to burn his fingers and gazes perplexedly over all this activity.
“Well?” Camille says. “I’m guessing the magistrate didn’t hang around?”
Armand thinks about saying something, but he’s philosophical; he’s learned the virtue of patience.
“It’s not like he came out to the crime scene on the Périphérique either,” Camille goes on. “Pity, because it’s not every day you get to see a criminal apprehended by an articulated lorry. Still …”
Camille deliberately checks his watch. Armand, unflappable, stares at his shoelaces. Louis seems to be mesmerised by the outline of an excavator.
“Still, at three in the morning, he’s probably getting some kip. I mean, coming out with that level of bullshit all day long must take it out of a man.”
Armand drops the microscopic remnant of the cigarette butt and sighs.
“What? What did I say?” Camille says.
“Nothing,” Armand says, “nothing. So are we going to do some fucking work or what?”
He’s right. Camille and Louis elbow their way through to Trarieux’s apartment, which is also crawling with techs from
l’identité judiciaire
, and since the place isn’t exactly roomy, everyone tries to rub along.
Verhœven takes a general overview. It’s a smallish apartment, rooms tidy, crockery tidied away, tools set out like a hardwareshop window and an impressive stockpile of beer. Enough to get all of Nicaragua pissed. Apart from that, no papers, no books, not even a notepad: an illiterate’s apartment.
There is one curious thing about the scene: a teenager’s bedroom.
“The son, Pascal,” Louis says, checking his notes.
Unlike the rest of the apartment, this room obviously hasn’t been cleaned in ages; it smells of must and damp mouldering laundry. There’s an Xbox 360 with a wireless controller caked with dust. Only the huge screen of the state-of-the-art computer looks as though it’s been recently cleaned, probably a quick wipe with the back of a sleeve. A crime scene examiner is already checking the contents of the hard drive before it’s taken away for a thorough analysis.
“Games, games, more games,” the tech reports, “internet connection …”
Camille goes on listening as he checks out the contents of a wardrobe being photographed by another officer.
“Porn sites …” adds the guy checking out the computer. “Video games and porn. My kid’s just the same.”
“Thirty-six.”
Everyone turns to look at Louis.
“Trarieux’s son is thirty-six,” Louis says.
“O.K.,” the C.S.E. says. “Well, that obviously puts things in a different light …”
In the wardrobe, Camille itemises Trarieux’s arsenal. The building site security manager plainly took his job very seriously: baseball bat, cosh, knuckledusters – he went on his rounds fully equipped. Surprising not to find a pit bull.
“The pit bull here is Trarieux,” Camille says to Louis, whohad made the observation. Then, to the officer checking the computer: “Anything else?”
“Couple of e-mails. Not many. Then again, given the guy’s spelling …”
“Your kid’s just the same?”
This time the officer looks irked. It’s different when he says it.
Camille peers at the monitor. The guy’s got a point. From what he can see the messages are inoffensive, the spelling almost phonetic.
Camille snaps on the latex gloves proffered by Louis and picks up a photograph someone has found in a chest of drawers. A snapshot clearly taken a couple of months ago since it shows the son with his father on the building site; you can see the site and the bulldozer through the window. Not exactly a handsome lad, tall and lanky with the face of a spoiled brat, a long nose. He thinks of the images of the girl in the cage. Distraught but still pretty. Not exactly a matching pair.
“Looks thick as pigshit,” Camille mutters.
15
She’s remembered something, something she heard somewhere. Whenever you see a rat,
“Well?” Camille says. “I’m guessing the magistrate didn’t hang around?”
Armand thinks about saying something, but he’s philosophical; he’s learned the virtue of patience.
“It’s not like he came out to the crime scene on the Périphérique either,” Camille goes on. “Pity, because it’s not every day you get to see a criminal apprehended by an articulated lorry. Still …”
Camille deliberately checks his watch. Armand, unflappable, stares at his shoelaces. Louis seems to be mesmerised by the outline of an excavator.
“Still, at three in the morning, he’s probably getting some kip. I mean, coming out with that level of bullshit all day long must take it out of a man.”
Armand drops the microscopic remnant of the cigarette butt and sighs.
“What? What did I say?” Camille says.
“Nothing,” Armand says, “nothing. So are we going to do some fucking work or what?”
He’s right. Camille and Louis elbow their way through to Trarieux’s apartment, which is also crawling with techs from
l’identité judiciaire
, and since the place isn’t exactly roomy, everyone tries to rub along.
Verhœven takes a general overview. It’s a smallish apartment, rooms tidy, crockery tidied away, tools set out like a hardwareshop window and an impressive stockpile of beer. Enough to get all of Nicaragua pissed. Apart from that, no papers, no books, not even a notepad: an illiterate’s apartment.
There is one curious thing about the scene: a teenager’s bedroom.
“The son, Pascal,” Louis says, checking his notes.
Unlike the rest of the apartment, this room obviously hasn’t been cleaned in ages; it smells of must and damp mouldering laundry. There’s an Xbox 360 with a wireless controller caked with dust. Only the huge screen of the state-of-the-art computer looks as though it’s been recently cleaned, probably a quick wipe with the back of a sleeve. A crime scene examiner is already checking the contents of the hard drive before it’s taken away for a thorough analysis.
“Games, games, more games,” the tech reports, “internet connection …”
Camille goes on listening as he checks out the contents of a wardrobe being photographed by another officer.
“Porn sites …” adds the guy checking out the computer. “Video games and porn. My kid’s just the same.”
“Thirty-six.”
Everyone turns to look at Louis.
“Trarieux’s son is thirty-six,” Louis says.
“O.K.,” the C.S.E. says. “Well, that obviously puts things in a different light …”
In the wardrobe, Camille itemises Trarieux’s arsenal. The building site security manager plainly took his job very seriously: baseball bat, cosh, knuckledusters – he went on his rounds fully equipped. Surprising not to find a pit bull.
“The pit bull here is Trarieux,” Camille says to Louis, whohad made the observation. Then, to the officer checking the computer: “Anything else?”
“Couple of e-mails. Not many. Then again, given the guy’s spelling …”
“Your kid’s just the same?”
This time the officer looks irked. It’s different when he says it.
Camille peers at the monitor. The guy’s got a point. From what he can see the messages are inoffensive, the spelling almost phonetic.
Camille snaps on the latex gloves proffered by Louis and picks up a photograph someone has found in a chest of drawers. A snapshot clearly taken a couple of months ago since it shows the son with his father on the building site; you can see the site and the bulldozer through the window. Not exactly a handsome lad, tall and lanky with the face of a spoiled brat, a long nose. He thinks of the images of the girl in the cage. Distraught but still pretty. Not exactly a matching pair.
“Looks thick as pigshit,” Camille mutters.
15
She’s remembered something, something she heard somewhere. Whenever you see a rat,
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