At work I mostly hung out with cops. A lot of them are just like they are in the movies: always really angry because they can never get on top of anything, ever. Guys with deplorable domestic hygiene whose female companions have departed a long time ago and whose evenings, if they’re not spent wiping their own arses, end in lousy screws with sad, lonely women. I’ve always kept these types at a distance by insisting on being known as widow Patience Portefeux, as the law entitles me to do. True, it takes people by surprise, but it does command a certain respect.

Because I’m not some sad, lonely woman. I’m a widow.

I owed my working conditions to a divorced cop by the name of Philippe, who lived with his son. I met him next door to the Nanterre Drug Squad Bureau one day when I’d been called in to help. It was at a supermarket check-out, to be precise, where he was buying hot dogs in plastic packages. I’m not at all the sort of woman who flirts, but it made me laugh, seeing those sausages stuck into their little pre-cut rolls. I couldn’t resist making a comment, along the lines of Excuse me, but I’ve always wondered who could possibly buy those things? “A single cop,” was his answer, smiling, and we had a laugh . . . Then we slept together.

He wasn’t the reason my services were constantly in demand, but I did owe it to him that I was paid by the hour and was trusted to work from home.

He was only ever good to me, and I behaved very badly towards him. Though it has to be said, his unfailing honesty ended up being one hell of a pain.

2

Say, what have you seen?

Intercept No. 1387: Haribo warns Cortex that he has to call Juju because he’s not answering. Intercept No. 1488: Cortex asks Juju to bring the stuff up. Intercept No. 1519: Juju has no more of the chocolate but he’s got some of the green. Intercept No. 1520: Juju needs Cortex to bring him two lots of twelve and a salad. Intercept No. 1637: Haribo’s ordering 1,000 euros of yellow and is sending a boy in half an hour. Intercept No. 1692: Haribo is at Place Gambetta, the boy isn’t there. Intercept No. 1732: Gnocchi asks him for ten records. Cortex tells him he’ll meet him in half an hour at the Balboa hookah bar . . .