Romero is at the wheel, as always. Daquin doesn’t like driving. Leaning against the door, he maintains an aggressive silence.‘What’s up, chief? Things not looking good?’ ‘I don’t know. We’ll see.’ After a lengthy silence: ‘I hate La Défense. It depresses me.’ They turn onto the ring road. ‘Look. The tower blocks have their backs to us in an untidy sprawl. The whole district is designed to look at Paris, and be seen by Paris. It’s a theatre, not a city, and we have to enter from the wings.’‘I’m here, I won’t abandon you in the concrete jungle.’Romero misses the car park entrance and is off on another lap of the ring road.‘Great, take me on a tour of the area. We’re in no hurry. It won’t do any harm to keep Madame Renouard waiting.’Sitting at her desk, her chair facing the bay window, Annick gazes at the blue sky, the glittering Arche, Paris in the distance. She chain smokes. What the hell does this cop want? Angst. A familiar chill, she finds it hard to breathe or move.
