City of Sins. Daniel Blake

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      ‘Listen, Franco. Two things you should know. First, my job is more important to me than any personal ties. The law comes first. Has to. Second, this is New Orleans. It’s a corrupt place, everyone knows that. It’s a great place, don’t get me wrong, but here even plumb lines fall crooked. But there’s a flip side to that. Just because you accept someone’s hospitality doesn’t mean you’re blind to his faults. So if Varden’s guilty, let’s put him inside. Simple as that.’

      If the foyer of police headquarters had been typically public sector utilitarian, that of Varden Industries wouldn’t have disgraced a five-star hotel. Patrese sat in a sofa that was almost ludicrously deep and comfortable, and wondered idly how much all the art on the walls had cost.

      Selma flicked through a corporate brochure. Men hard of hat and determined of face laying pipelines, rig workers cheerily adjusting drill bits, painters touching up a classroom in Baghdad, white men bringing light, might and the American way to the natives’ darkness. Numbers picked out from the text in bold: employees worldwide, countries of operation, charitable donations.

      Selma put her tongue against the back of her teeth, hissed, and batted the back of her hand against the brochure. ‘They should stock these things in Barnes & Noble. Fiction section.’

      ‘What did Thorndike mean?’

      ‘About what?’

      ‘About you being very keen on no one being above the law.’

      ‘I worked Internal Affairs before I moved to Homicide. Busted a lot of cops who were on the take. Thorndike tried to protect some of them, said they were good cops. I said no cop who was on the take was a good cop. Don’t matter what else they do or don’t do. A cop can’t be honest, he can’t be a cop. End of.’

      ‘And Thorndike resents you for this?’

      ‘Probably.’

      ‘You don’t sound like you care very much.’

      ‘I don’t. I don’t give a shit, and I don’t take any shit. I’m not in the shit business.’

      A young woman approached, heels clacking as she walked across the marble floor. One of Cindy’s colleagues, Patrese thought; perhaps even her replacement already. Varden wouldn’t have got to where he was by wasting time on sentiment.

      The young woman took them up in the express elevator without speaking.

      Varden Tower was the tallest building in New Orleans. Unsurprisingly, Varden’s office was on the top floor; more precisely, it was the top floor. A decent-sized antechamber for his support staff, and for him, something the size of a ballroom, with views across the city to three sides: the Mississippi one way, Lake Pontchartrain the other, and a patchwork of roofs and roads in between.

      Varden came round from the far side of his desk. Patrese was struck by how unimposing he was; lost in the vastness of his office rather than having the charisma to fill it. You wouldn’t have given him a second glance in the street; a man in his sixties, average height, well turned out without being especially so, and with a look of perpetually mild surprise, as though he found the world and its people harder to read than a balance sheet.

      ‘Agent Patrese. Detective Fawcett. Good of you to come.’ If Varden had been wearing a hat, Patrese thought, he’d have tipped it.

      ‘I’m the lead on this case, sir,’ Selma said. Polite but firm.

      ‘Are you?’ Equally courteous, but without the slightest hint of apology. Elderly white men clearly didn’t say sorry to young black women in Louisiana, Patrese thought, even in this day and age.

      There were low chairs round a coffee table next to one of the windows. As Patrese sat down, he glanced out at the Mississippi, stretching lazy wide as barges and ferries churned it gray and brown.

      ‘Do I need a lawyer?’ Varden said.

      ‘We’re just here to ask you some questions about Cindy, sir,’ replied Selma.

      ‘Do you always bring the Bureau with you on homicide cases?’

      ‘We do when the victim worked closely with a man like yourself.’

      Varden’s eyes flashed. ‘What does that mean, young lady?’

      ‘It means you’re an important citizen, sir, and we want to assure you that the New Orleans law enforcement community is doing everything it can – doing everything we can – to bring Miss Rojciewicz’ killer to justice.’

      Spoken like a true pro, Patrese thought.

      ‘In that case, Detective, fire away.’

      ‘How long had Miss Rojciewicz worked for you?’

      ‘Four years, just about.’

      ‘And how would you describe her as an employee?’

      ‘First class. As are all my staff. I don’t employ anybody who’s anything other. Not for very long, at any rate.’

      ‘Her father is a friend of yours, is that right?’

      ‘That’s right. I’ve – I’d – known Cindy for a long while, so I knew she’d be up to the responsibilities I entrusted her with.’

      ‘And what were those responsibilities?’

      ‘She ran my life.’

      ‘What do you mean by that?’

      ‘I mean exactly what I said. My meetings, organized. Any documents I needed, ready. Transport, in place. Bills, paid.’

      ‘Bills? Work bills, or home bills?’

      ‘Both.’

      ‘She looked after your personal arrangements as well as your professional ones?’

      ‘To me, there’s no difference. My life is my work; my work is my life. Let me tell you something, Detective. Cindy’s job, it’s not one most people could do. You know why? Because she sacrificed her life to the dictates of mine. I went somewhere, she came too. I needed something at three in the morning, she got it for me. I changed my plans at a moment’s notice, she had to do so as well.’

      ‘Did she ever complain?’

      ‘Never. Why should she? How many people of her age have stayed the places she has, met the people she has?’

      ‘You say you involved her in every part of your life. Was the reverse true?’

      ‘How do you mean?’

      ‘How much did you know about her life?’

      ‘As much as anyone knows about their staff. Things you find out over time.’

      ‘Did she ever talk to you about her social life?’

      ‘Sometimes. Especially if my demands had dragged her away from a party.’

      ‘Love life?’

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