Paris, November 28, 2012

Commissaire Anne Capestan was doing battle with the latest in a long line of shoddy printers allocated to her team by the ever munificent police quartermaster. The machine maintained that it was running low on ink, even though Capestan had only just replaced the cartridge. After pressing every single button twice, the commissaire admitted defeat. She did not have anything particularly important to print. Not least because she did not have anything particularly important to work on. Or any work at all, in fact.

After a glittering start to her career that saw an Olympic medal for shooting and more badges of honour than any young officer before her, Capestan had joined the Brigade des Mineurs, without knowing that the posting would test her emotions to their very limit. During her time there, on a case that was horrific even by the Mineurs' grim standards, she had shot down a suspect. There were no two ways about it. She was the star pupil who had gone off the rails; "a loaded Kalashnikov with an innocent smile," as her colleague Eva Rosière had delicately put it. After narrowly escaping the sack, Capestan now found herself at the head of a team of down-and-out officers, an idea dreamed up by Buron, the big boss of 36, quai des Orfèvres, to clean up the Police Judiciaire by chucking all the undesirables onto the same scrapheap.

A month ago they had successfully solved their first case, something that – far from earning her awkward squad the respect of their peers – had only served to intensify their disdain. Grasses. Traitors. That was their reputation after hanging a fellow officer out to dry. Not an easy label to remove, and it weighed heavily on Capestan's mind. On her pride, too.

As for Commandant Lebreton, he had adjusted to the situation with his customary calm. He was no stranger to the scorn of his colleagues. A glorious spell at R.A.I.D. had been cut short when he came out as gay, and was speedily transferred to working in internal complaints with the I.G.S. – a role where you might as well wear a sign reading "Judas" instead of a uniform. In such a place, crippled with grief following the death of his husband, he had found it harder to stomach the bigotry. One accusation against his superior later and he was fast-tracked to Buron's custom-made dustbin. Right now, he was tipped back in his chair, feet crossed on his desk, leafing through a Sunday supplement from Le Monde, taking a break from the futile task of investigating the boxes of cold cases blocking their corridor. A loud voice from the next-door room made him lower his magazine, listen for a second, raise an eyebrow, and continue with his article.

The commotion involved the umpteenth difference of opinion between the volcanic Eva Rosière and the unsinkable Merlot. They argued constantly, not always about the same thing at the same time, but that never seemed to concern them in the slightest. This time they could be heard having a heated discussion over a game of snooker, the most recent contribution from Capitaine Rosière, the novelist-turned-screenwriter-turned- millionaire. Her spell at number 36 had come to an end when the top brass finally tired of her grindingly unsubtle parodies of them in her television series, "Laura Flames". Ever since tipping up at their makeshift commissariat on rue des Innocents, she had taken charge of the refurbishments, exercising decreasing levels of restraint. The day before, when Rosière had floated the idea of buying a football table to keep Dax and Lewitz amused, Capestan had asked whether she was planning on charging a membership fee for the commissariat or if it would be pay-as-you-play. Merlot, eavesdropping next to them, had appeared to scrutinise the question without grasping the sarcasm. Rosière, a careful strategist despite her boorish air, had backed down. No doubt a temporary retreat, Capestan had thought to herself.

The commissaire moved away from the printer into what had become the billiards room following the arrival of a full-sized table a few weeks ago, complete with fringed rectangular lampshade, four leather armchairs, a cue rack and a magnificent oak-topped bar with a set of matching stools.

"It's official, Anne, no-one else will want to join our squad now," Eva had said with finality. "May as well furnish it properly – makes the space less dreary." Dreariness was now the last thing Capestan associated with the commissariat; space was the second last.

Merlot, measuring in at a full cubic metre, stood rooted to the spot, a look of alpha pride written across his face. The former Brigade Mondaine capitaine, a well- connected but booze-addled freemason, was standing firm during Rosière's thunderous diatribe, snooker cue in one hand, red ball in the other. His jacket was flecked all over with blue chalk marks.

"... it's all the same ... Take rhino horns. One day, some limp-pricked so-and-so runs into a rhino and says, 'Whoa there, I'd like me a horn like that, please. I'll just grind it up, guzzle it down, and away we go!' And, ever since, the not-so-cocksure of the world have been wiping out the entire species just to get a bit of life back in their loins."

At her feet, Pilote, Rosière's dog, listened reverently. He turned to Merlot, awaiting his response.

"Exactly, dear girl. Vitality! I quite agree ... Vitality is the root of such giant scientific strides!" the capitaine said, nodding impressively and almost blinding Lieutenant Évrard with the tip of his cue.

The lieutenant, dismissed from the gambling task force after developing a certain weakness for blackjack, was perched on the side of the table, drumming her fingers on the polished wood as she waited patiently for the conversation to end. She had her back turned, more or less on purpose, to Lieutenant Torrez, who had stowed himself away in an armchair in the corner of the room, his billiard cue leaning against the armrest. Capestan strolled over to him.

"Who's winning?"

"The argument or the snooker?"

"The snooker."

"Me, in that case."

"Who are you playing with?"

"Me," Torrez said, frowning.

Yet again, no-one wanted to be on Torrez's team, preferring instead to play three on one. This was an improvement on the month before, when he couldn't enter the room without its occupants running for the hills. His shady reputation as a bringer of very bad luck was definitely subsiding, albeit slowly. Baby steps. Everyone, including Torrez (especially Torrez), was continuing to exercise a healthy degree of caution. Only Capestan went near him in a carefree manner, refusing to be affected by this superstitious nonsense.

The buzz of a sunbathing cicada rang out of the commissaire's pocket. Her mobile. Buron's name flashed on the screen. A whole month had passed since the directeur of the Police Judiciaire last called, and that was only to notify her that his promise of a brand-new, fully functioning car had been honoured. Brigadier Lewitz, a lunatic behind the wheel, had needed just one day to write it off. After that, Buron had advised the squad to keep a low profile while their colleagues and the media cooled down, despite the commissaire's protests that their profile had never been high in the first place. But even she had to admit that the team could do with a cooling-off period.

If Buron was getting in touch today, perhaps that meant good news.

Capestan picked up.

"Good...