Rough Trade (12 page)

Sobesky looked serious for a moment. Then: ‘I’ve no reason not to give you an answer. Yes, I’ve known Meillant for a long time. Since the spring of 1943 to be precise. I was a child. A Jew. He wasn’t much older than me. He saved my life. We’ve stayed great friends. Now I want you to explain to me what I’m really doing here.’

Attali took over: ‘Quite simply, Monsieur Sobesky, we’re
informing
you officially that Virginie Lamouroux has not disappeared, that we’re therefore filing your statement, and we thank you for being so co-operative in answering our questions.’

Sobesky got up, shook hands with the two inspectors, glanced at Daquin who was once more immersed in his files and went out.

Daquin rose to make a coffee.

‘Where are we now,
patron
?’

‘I’m not too sure, to tell you the truth. One thing’s certain. VL knows Baker. So ask her how it is that Sobesky isn’t up to date on the fact.’

*

Before leaving, Daquin took a large brown envelope from a drawer in his desk. Inside were two big black and white photos, doubtless taken at a cocktail party. On one of them was a woman outlined in crayon and a post-it from Lavorel: ‘This is Anna Beric’ She was still very beautiful. Tall, dark. A brief reminder of the red dress in the wardrobe. And two smaller photos of Meillant coming out of the police station.

Meillant and Anna Beric had not just crossed paths once. He’d also taken the trouble to find her a job. It was hardly likely that he’d completely lost sight of her. She was too beautiful, too
fascinating
. And they both worked in the Sentier. 

Attali was waiting for Virginie Lamouroux. She walked into the big waiting room, and went up to him, with a small nod and a smile.

‘So where’s this register I have to sign?’

Attali pushed it over to her. She signed.

‘Mademoiselle. May I say you look ravishing this morning.’

‘Thank you,
monsieur
l’inspecteur
. Your compliment goes straight to my heart.’

‘I’ve just one question to ask you.’ He stood up, took her arm, in a move that was to be half gallant, and half to stop her running away. ‘How is it Sobesky hasn’t a clue you know Baker well enough to pay him a visit in New York?’

Virginie looked a bit perturbed by the question, but not enough to affect the good mood she had arrived in. She smiled at Attali.

‘Because Sobesky’s the sort of person who thinks he’s cunning, when in fact he’s a vain, naïve cunt. I’m pissed off with him, and his little schemes, and the way he puts his hand on my bottom. Pissed off with him and his son. Sod them. D’you understand,
monsieur
l’inspecteur
?’

Attali was taken aback.

‘I understand very well.’

She left with her dancing step.

Romero, hiding by the police station exit, followed her from a distance. She went in through the entrance of a building in rue des Vinaigriers. Romero could have sworn she gave him a little farewell wave. He hurried after her through the entrance. Several staircases, three courtyards in a row, two other exits out into a passageway that led to the street … It took only a few minutes to ascertain that Virginie Lamouroux had abruptly and of her own free will left
without
saying goodbye.

After a very peaceful beginning to the morning, a fuck with Soleiman and breakfast in bed (blinis, crème fraîche, taramasalata and coffee), Daquin drove towards Fontainebleau. It was a fairly nice day, and quite pleasant to get away for a time from all that Bernachon-Simon filth. How much did Simon actually make? Fifty memberships at 2,500 francs, 125,000 francs a month, tax-free, shit! And that, in addition to his official income. Obviously you had to deduct what he had to pay out to his protectors – about whom they knew nothing as yet. Daquin was not driving fast, which gave him time to think about a whole load of things. And to pay some attention to an alarm signal – completely instinctive – which told him that, when you’re driving at 110 kilometres an hour, it wasn’t normal to have that Citroën CX behind you the whole time. He checked … filled the tank. The Citroën continued on its way. But two kilometres further on, it was behind him again. Daquin took the turn to Barbizon, stopped on the verge, spread out a map, which he pretended to consult, The Citroën overtook him. He set off again. He was now certain. But why have a superintendent followed – this is what was strange. And who would do it? Traffickers? Or other police services? People in cahoots with the Marseilles traffickers, for example. How should he react? Until he knew more, prudence was advisable. I’ll wait and see what
happens
, he told himself. I’ll still go on to Barbizon.

The auberge was beautiful. The façade was very old and behind it stood low buildings of a more recent date, but discreet, with a garden full of flowers and colour. It was, no doubt about it, a
marvellous
spot for an amorous assignation. Daquin could readily imagine Anna Beric in this setting. Meillant, less so. But perhaps, after all, he didn’t know him that well. He went into the bar. The décor was three-quarters English. No customers, the barman was alone: it was still rather early in the morning.

‘A coffee, please.’ He took out his warrant card. ‘Don’t worry. Nothing serious, just a routine inquiry about two people we’ve
reason
to believe are customers here.’

He showed the photos. The barman’s face lit up with a big smile.

‘Of course, it’s Mme Beric. A delightful, beautiful woman, very polite, and not like some of those old cows, know what I mean?’

‘I know what you mean very well. Does she come here often?’

‘Yes, she’s a regular. I couldn’t say exactly how often she comes, but we see her at least once a month.’

‘And him?’

‘I don’t know what his name is. He’s always with her. Most times, they arrive separately and meet up in the bar, at about eight in the evening, then they have dinner and spend the night here. Next day they each go their separate ways. But it’s always she who pays. Funny, isn’t it? He doesn’t look like a gigolo exactly.’

‘No, not exactly. When was the last time you saw them? Roughly?’

‘Three weeks ago? Tell me, I hope there’s nothing serious
bugging
her?’

‘For our part, no. She’s only on the fringe of a very complicated case, and I need to hear from her as a witness. Thank you very much for your co-operation.’

And Daquin paid for his coffee, despite the barman’s protests.

An idle stroll down Barbizon’s main street: artists’ studios and galleries showing piles of lousy paintings, and here, there was no trouble in tracking down the Citroën, parked in a small adjacent street. He memorized the registration number, lunched peacefully on the terrace of a little café and read the papers. Then an
uneventful
trip back to passage du Désir.

He had to check the Citroën CX’s number. None was registered with this number, which belonged to a small Renault: a teacher, MAIF:
*
no report of it being stolen. So, false plates. Then he had to call Soleiman. He phoned from another office, you never knew.

‘Sol. I’ve been followed, and I’m not sure by whom. I have to take precautions right away. Don’t come to see me and don’t try to meet me, either at my place or the office. I’ll get in touch as soon as the situation becomes clearer. Be very careful Sol. Don’t go out alone. These are probably drug traffickers and they’ve a pretty crude approach to things.’

Now he had to see Lavorel.

*

‘What are you up to?’

‘I’ve almost pieced the network of Anna Beric’s manufacturers together. When you bring her in to me, if you bring her in, I’ll be able to launch the biggest operation in tax recovery the Sentier’s ever known. I can’t guarantee any link with drugs, but dirty money and white powder often go hand in hand.’

‘Meillant’s still Anna Beric’s boyfriend. And they both conceal their relationship very carefully.’ Lavorel was looking at Daquin and waiting for what came next. ‘You’re going to ask for a meeting with Meillant. And question him about the Sentier. He’s been in this neighbourhood for twenty years, and knows everything. Nothing could be more natural than you asking his opinion.’ Daquin thought for a moment. ‘You can even mention Anna Beric. After all, we’d be pathetic cops if we hadn’t traced things back to her.’

‘What is it you want to know,
patron
?’

‘I’d like to know what Meillant was up to today. Behaving like a Samurai, or taking early retirement?’

*

Thomas and Santoni hovered between triumphalism and
despondency
. Simon had given them everything: the lists, his accounts. Fifty members. About twenty highly-placed executives in very large businesses, six deputies, two senators, three well-known lawyers, two TV journalists and a superintendent from the Vice Squad who’d retired six months ago. And the hassle had only just started.

They also had the pseudonyms of the members who’d rented studios on Friday 29 February. Icarus, then, for the young Thai girl. Achilles, Prometheus and Theseus for the three other studios. Daquin felt like laughing. This is what the Ancient Greeks were used for these days. Prometheus so you can have a bang and smoke a joint.

And on the list of regular ‘service providers’ was Virginie Lamouroux.

Silence.

‘A cover for dealing?’

Thomas shrugged his shoulders. Daquin was thinking aloud.

‘We’ll get Vice officially involved right away and leave them to sort it out with their old superintendent and Simon’s theoretical, but probable protection. We’re only interested in the murder
ourselves
. And in Virginie Lamouroux. And this time we’re going to lock her up and examine what she has to say to us a bit more closely. As for the rest, the most logical course is to take the list of fifty members – after all, it’s not enormous – question everybody, check their pseudonyms, alibis, habits as regards drugs and girls and what they know about Virginie Lamouroux. But with the
clientele
we’re inheriting, three-quarters are going to refuse to
acknowledge
belonging to this network. If we shake them up, at the least we’ll have the European Commission for Human Rights up our asses and if we insist even further, the United Nations. Not even mentioning our direct superiors. Leave these papers with me, I’m going to read them, write a report and see my chief.’

*

Peace and quiet, armchair, coffee, feet on desk: Daquin read the list of members attentively. The names were typed one below the other. Opposite each, the date they joined, the dates they settled their monthly instalments, by cheque or cash. Everyone was up to date. In the margin, Thomas and Santoni had noted a few bits of information in pencil: deputy … superintendent Vice Squad since 1979 … journalist on
Le
Monde
and, among the rest, were three names which meant something. Osman Kashguri, banker; Franco Moreira, businessman; Themistocles Lestiboudois, businessman.

So, Kashguri had cropped up yet again. An old customer of Anna Beric, who’d given her an alibi for the murder of her pimp. An Iranian. ‘Iranians taught me to smoke heroin,’ VL had said. The Turkish drugs came from Iran. It was time to phone Lenglet, get some leads on this Kashguri.

It was rush hour at Morora’s warehouses, the time when almost all the vans came back to base.

‘Factory inspection.’ Attali briefly flashed his tricolour card at a foreman snowed-under with work. ‘Is the boss around?’

‘No. M. Moreira isn’t here. He’s not often here on a Friday evening.’

‘Could you come around with me? I’m inspecting your
company
’s business. Monsieur …?’

‘Janvier. But you must realize I, I’m just a nobody here, just a wage-earner.’

‘I quite understand, Monsieur Janvier. I’m asking you your name so I can enter it on the report. First of all I’d like to see the workmen.’

The men were parking the vans and taking out the equipment. Once the rumour had got round that the stranger there was the factory inspector, there was deathly silence. No one moved. The immigrants didn’t know what a factory inspector was, but they perceived him as dangerous. Janvier introduced the workmen by name, one after the other. Attali made a note of all their identities and asked their country of origin. All originated in the same village, in the Moroccan Rif. He also asked for their work permits. There was a moment’s hesitation.

‘You’ll have to ask the boss about that. We’re not kept in the know about that.’

‘They don’t have their work permits on them?’

‘No.’

‘And their residence permits? While we’re here …’

‘No, nor those.’

A heavy atmosphere. Attali, looking grave, made a note of the absence of papers, and to ask the employer, then undertook a visit of the site.

‘Where’s the policy and procedures manual displayed?’

There was frank surprise on Janvier’s face. ‘Do we need one?’

Attali noted on the report: no policy and procedures manual. In the first half of the warehouse the vans were neatly parked and tools and machinery carefully stowed away. Against the walls were three benches for makeshift repairs. Attali went through the
doorway
set in the back wall to the second half of the warehouse. Beaten earth floor, walls of galvanized iron. On the left side, bunk beds, six rows of four. Five naked bulbs swung at the end of very long flexes, giving a gloomy light. In the corner was a row of
cupboards
, and along the back wall, five washbasins, two chemical WCs with no partitions, a fridge, two Butagaz burners, a big table, and some large cans which served as stools. It was simultaneously sordid and immaculately clean and tidy.

In the right-hand part of the warehouse, with no kind of
partition
, chemicals used in the business were stocked. Barrels, carboys, boxes, carefully stacked away and labelled. Attali conscientiously wrote down all the names of the products in his notebooks. A row of carboys a little apart from the rest had no labels. He went up to them.

‘What’s this?’

‘No idea. We never use them.’

Janvier hadn’t hesitated, so it seemed. Attali opened a carboy, which released a violent smell he knew by heart: acetic anhydride. He’d never hoped for such a find.

‘And has this been here a long time?’

‘Couldn’t tell you. I have a feeling it hasn’t.’

Attali went back through the first part of the warehouse. The Moroccans were gathered round a bench, with the other foreman. Visibly filled with misery and shame, they already saw themselves banged up.

Attali made his farewells to the foremen, informed them that he would call the boss on Monday and left in a dignified manner. Behind him he could hear the confused burble of people suddenly talking again. He sat at the steering wheel of his unmarked car which he’d parked in front of the café opposite. He sounded the horn to alert Romero, leaning on the counter, who said goodbye to the
patron
and jumped into the car beside his colleague.

‘So, you managed to persuade him we were journalists?’

‘Yes, but it was a long, difficult job. He’d never seen a journalist in his life.’

‘Just as well.’