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him to become an estate agent.
    “I understand,” Louis said.
    “But we’re all subject to the laws of reality,” Cottet added, as though this shaft of wit showed that he was sophisticated. “And the gentleman in question …”
    “Was willing to pay cash?” suggested Louis.
    “Cash, yes, and …”
    “And prepared to pay over the odds?” Camille added.
    “Three times the market.”
    “What was he like, this man?”
    “I didn’t really notice,” said Cottet. “Most of our dealings were by phone.”
    “What about his voice?”
    “Well spoken.”
    “So …?”
    “He asked if he could visit the property. He wanted to takephotos. We arranged a viewing. I met him on-site. That was the point at which I should have been suspicious …”
    “Of what?” asked Louis.
    “The photographer … He didn’t seem – how can I put it – very professional. He showed up with some sort of Polaroid. He lined up the photos he took neatly on the floor like he was terrified of getting them mixed up. He checked a piece of paper before every shot, as though he were following instructions he didn’t understand. Even at the time I thought, that guy’s no more a photographer than I am …”
    “An estate agent?” ventured Camille.
    “If you like,” Cottet shot him a black look.
    “Can you describe him for us?” Louis tried to distract him.
    “Vaguely. I didn’t stay on-site long. There was nothing for me to do and I wasn’t about to waste two hours in an empty unit watching some guy take photos … I opened up, watched him work for a bit, then left. He left the key in the mailbox on his way out, it was a spare so we didn’t need it immediately.”
    “What was he like?”
    “Average …”
    “By which you mean?” Louis persisted.
    “Average.” Cottet was becoming heated. “What do you want me to say? Average height, average age – he was average!”
    There followed a silence during which the three men seemed to ponder the nondescript nature of the modern world.
    “But the fact that this photographer was so unprofessional seemed to you to be another guarantee, didn’t it?” said Camille.
    “Yes, I admit that’s true,” said Cottet. “Everything was paid in cash, there was no contract and I assumed that the film … I mean, that with that kind of movie we weren’t likely to have any problems with the tenant.”
    Camille was the first to get to his feet. Cottet walked them back to the lift.
    “You’ll have to make a formal statement, obviously,” Louis explained, as though talking to a child. “And you may be subpoenaed to appear in court, so …”
    “So don’t touch anything,” Camille interrupted. “Don’t fiddle your books, don’t go near anything. As far as the taxman is concerned, you’re on your own. We have two girls hacked to pieces, so right now – even as far as you’re concerned – that’s all that matters.”
    Cottet stared at them, his eyes vacant, as though trying to gauge the consequences – no doubt he suspected they would be catastrophic – and suddenly his gaudy tie looked as out of place as a cravat on a death-row prisoner.
    “Do you have photographs, blueprints?” asked Camille.
    “We put together a top-of-the-range presentation brochure …” Cottet began pulling his most dazzling huckster’s smile before realising how inappropriate his smugness sounded, and immediately filing it away for later use.
    “Have everything sent over to me straight away,” Camille said, proffering a business card.
    Cottet took it gingerly, as though it might burn his fingers.
    As they headed back down, Louis commented on the receptionist’s “attributes”. Camille said that he hadn’t noticed.

7
    Even with two teams working,
identité judiciaire
had to spend every waking hour on site. The inexorable ballet of squad cars, motorbikes and vans meant that by late morning a crowd of rubberneckers had gathered. It made you wonder what could have prompted people to come all the way out