Rough Trade (20 page)

Two hours given over to questioning, one after the other, two young mannequins who had worked with Virginie Lamouroux. Thomas led the interrogation, assisted by an inspector from the Vice Squad. Daquin sat behind them in an armchair, observing without intervening. They didn’t learn much. Virginie Lamouroux used to work through an answering machine. Attali had already found it, installed in the apartment owned by Sobesky’s son. She took a very reasonable commission. The girls liked her, there were never any dirty tricks or arguments. As for the drugs business, that was more difficult. The girls had to be hustled along a bit, but they had no experience of police tactics and were soon caught out. It was the clients who took drugs. The fashion at the moment was for LSD. Did they smoke too? Yes, perhaps, in a very small way, and they preferred heroin. Did everything go via Virginie Lamouroux? No, not necessarily. And what about Kashguri? They had both had him as a client, the appointments were made through Virginie, like the others. He was a rather unusual client. He would come with friends and sit apart through the whole performance, smoking, watching, drinking, but he never even took his clothes off.

*

Santoni had had good hunting. The six deputies and two senators who had belonged to the Club Simon were all members of the parliamentary group for Franco-Iranian Friendship, which
comprised
about thirty people. He had a complete list of the names. The chairman was Gérard Bertrand. He could be found at the Assembly or at home, 57 avenue Bosquet. Daquin showed his appreciation.

‘And I’ve found a good photo of Bertrand at a press agency. Shall I add it to the file I’m taking to Munich tomorrow?’

‘It’s an idea, but keep it out of the reports.’

*

Romero reported late in the afternoon. No developments anywhere. Except with Moreira. He’d telephoned to a certain Paulette asking her to supply false papers. His men had been so scared since the visit by the fraudulent works inspector that they would have to be replaced. Since this was happening rather sooner than expected the usual supplier had run out. Could she manage to arrange it? She would try.

Paulette’s telephone number was that of a Sentier workroom in the passage de l’Industrie. 

Everyone in the office was studying something. Daquin was
reading
the papers.
Libération
led on the boycott of the ministerial
regularization
of Turks without papers.

There was some admiration for Soleiman.

Romero was drafting a report on the shadowing of Sener.

The telephone rang.

‘Théo?’

‘Yes, chief.’

‘Rouen have just called us. They’ve got a nameless corpse on their hands which might belong to you. Can you send someone to take a look?’

‘Why did they think of us?’

‘He looks like a half-breed and his clothes come from Istanbul. Contact Inspector Petitjean at the Central Police Station in Rouen.’

Daquin hung up.

‘Romero, that’s for you. Take the file of photos with you. It could be useful.’

The swing doors to the Brasserie Lipp were propped open and a deliveryman in blue overalls was bringing out crates of empty
bottles
and taking in full ones. Attali sat down on the terrace and glanced at the interior, endless mirrors, light-coloured ceramics and dark wood. A woman arranging a huge bunch of orange lilies. No customers. There was one waiter, all in black and wearing a vast white apron that reached down to his feet. He came up to Attali. Sounds of crockery and voices in the kitchens. Attali showed his identity card. The waiter went to find the person in charge, a respectable man wearing a grey suit, white shirt, dark tie.

‘I need to ask you a few questions about two customers, just routine.’

The two men sat down on the terrace, where the doors were still open.

‘Do you know Monsieur Bertrand and Monsieur Kashguri?’

‘Yes, they’re regulars.’

‘Were they here on Friday 29 February in the evening?’

The man went to fetch two thick registers from behind the till, beside the orange flowers. The first one listed the names of the waiters, by teams, along with their hours of duty. Each man had added his signature beside his name.

‘29 February. I was here that evening. I might as well tell you at once that I don’t have any very clear recollections.’

The second register contained the reservations.

‘29 February, Monsieur Bertrand had reserved a table for two at 9 o’clock.’

‘Why are all those reservations crossed out?’

‘We cross them out as and when the clients arrive.’

‘So if Monsieur Bertrand hadn’t come, his name wouldn’t be crossed out?’

‘Unless he’d cancelled by telephone. If a client cancels, we also cross out the name, since we don’t have to keep the table any longer.’

‘And do clients take the trouble to telephone if they want to cancel?’

‘Yes, our
habitués
here are careful not to let us down without warning,’

‘If Monsieur Bertrand had cancelled, would that have gone through you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you don’t remember if he did?’

‘No. It’s three weeks ago now. Monsieur Bertrand comes several times a week. We have a hundred or so reservations a day. Three or four of them are cancelled. So …’

‘Could you ask the waiters who were on duty that evening to contact me on this number if anyone remembers anything?’

‘Certainly, Inspector.’

Attali left. He already knew there would be no follow-up.

The interrogation of the mannequins began again. It was
becoming
routine. Thomas was working together with the same
inspector
from the Vice Squad. Daquin remained to one side, observing without saying anything. Maud Mathieu. The interrogation was dull but confirmed the statements made by Lamergie.

Daquin was bored. The presence of VL at the Club Simon on the evening of the 29th could be considered as established. Apart from that nobody knew anything about her. Everyone was marking time. I’ll stay for the last interview of the morning. Then I’ll go on to something else.

Enter Dorothée Marty, a tall, slim, dark girl. Hair cut square, dark and full, a huge fringe covering her entire forehead. Framed by this black helmet her face looked childlike and small. She’s graceful, thought Daquin, who had remained slightly
absentminded
. The interrogation began. Like the others. Daquin had to make an effort to concentrate. Then suddenly, at the question ‘Do you know Kashguri, have you had him as a client?’ her whole body became rigid. Her attitude and her expression froze.

‘Yes.’

‘Who found him for you?’

‘Virginie Lamouroux, like the others.’

‘Do you know if she was a personal friend of his?’

‘No, I never discussed that with her.’

Thomas went on to something else. Dorothée Marty relaxed and her attitude became normal again. The interrogation continued. Incredible that neither Thomas nor the Vice Squad inspector had noticed anything. Not good cops. Or else they didn’t care.

End of the interrogation. Dorothée Marty stood up, signed her statement and prepared to leave. Daquin stood up also. The two inspectors saw him open the door for the young woman and take hold of her elbow.

‘Does your superintendent try to pick up girls?’ the Vice Squad inspector asked Thomas. The latter shrugged his shoulders,
indicating
that he didn’t know and didn’t understand.

‘Mademoiselle, may I invite you to lunch? It’s the right time now and I’d like to talk to you a little in a completely informal way, obviously.’ Dorothée Marty looked surprised and hesitant. ‘Say yes. You’ve not much to lose, you have a Superintendent’s word for it.’

‘You know, I don’t usually eat lunch.’

‘I’ll take you to an Italian place that you’ll like. If you want, you need only have a cup of coffee.’

Cold, tiled floor, smells. The body on a trolley. The face was
uncovered
. White complexion, swellings more or less everywhere. Unreal. Not a dead man, more like a mask.

‘Those are burns caused by the lime,’ explained Petitjean. ‘But we’ve had his face made up, identification will be easier that way.’

Romero put his briefcase down on a table, took out the set of photographs, leafed through them, picked out one of them and showed it to Petitjean.

‘OK. It’s him.’

‘Let’s get out of here.’

They walked up and down in front of the morgue. Romero had brought some little cigars, Italian ones from Tuscany, which he always took when he went to a morgue: they smelt worse than the corpses. He offered one to Petitjean, who refused it.

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

‘Not at all. Well?’

‘He’s a little Turkish dealer whom we’ve been on to for a couple of weeks, a certain Celebi.’

Neapolitan atmosphere. Daquin was obviously an
habitu
é
. A small table at the end, with a red and white checked tablecloth. Daquin installed the young woman with her back to the room. For her he chose
hors
d
’œuvres
variés
on a bed of vegetables dressed with oil and vinegar and for himself a pizza alla rughetta. Followed by grilled fish, chilled Orvieto as usual and for Madame, a mineral water.

He had to take advantage of the fact that the girl was
destabilized
, he mustn’t let her recover her self-control.

‘Tell me about your relationship with Kashguri.’

She retreated into her shell again. Tried to hide her feelings with a smile.

‘I’ve nothing more to say.’

‘That’s not true. Whenever that name is mentioned your whole body goes on the defensive. Did it turn out badly?’

‘Maybe. So what?’

‘Tell me about it. We aren’t on police premises here. You want to talk about it and there’s no better listener than me.’

Dorothée hid her face in her hands to escape Daquin’s gaze.

‘How do you know that?’

‘I listen to you, I look at you, I pay attention to you, that’s all.’

‘He got me raped under appalling conditions.’

Her voice was low, all on one note, her hands still over her face. Daquin allowed silence to set in. For her the worst was over, she certainly had the right to fix her own speed. Dorothée retreated into her memories. She then fixed her eyes on her plate. Her voice didn’t change.

‘He offered me a lot of money to spend an evening at his
apartment
, with some friends, he said. I’d had him as a client two or three times at the Club Simon, he used to come with friends and he’d watch us make love. That was all. I thought it would be the same sort of thing at his place. I accepted.’

Silence again, a very long silence.

‘I arrived at his place. He seemed to be alone and thanked me for coming. We sat in the drawing-room and smoked a little heroin. I began to feel drowsy. He led me into a bedroom, somewhere in the apartment. There was hardly any furniture, just a big brass bed.’ For the first time Dorothée looked up at Daquin. ‘You know, old-fashioned, with high rails at the top and bottom.’

‘Yes, there was one in my grandmother’s house.’

Dorothée looked down at her plate again. ‘There were two men in the room, his menservants. They caught hold of me, one held me, the other literally tore my clothes off. I began to scream and struggle. That made them laugh. Kashguri sat in an armchair and smiled. I was terrified, I thought they were going to kill me and that nobody would ever find me again. When I was completely naked they tied me to the bed with cords, I was stretched out on my back, with my arms and legs apart and they began to beat me with riding whips. I screamed as loudly as I could.’

A long silence. The memory of her suffering.

‘When I stopped crying out they untied me. I couldn’t move. I was bleeding all over, and they raped me, one after the other, and then both of them at once. I lost consciousness. I think Kashguri was masturbating during this time.’ Silence again. ‘Then one of the men looked after me, putting something on the wounds that smelt very strong. And then they wrapped me up in a kind of towelling sheet and carried me to a car, then they took me to my own apartment. They left me there in the middle of the night with a pile of money. I didn’t make a complaint. I looked after myself. I’m not working any more, I don’t go out any more, I’m living on Kashguri’s money.’ A pause. In the end she looked up from her plate. She smiled, a young smile. ‘It’s true, you’re really a good listener.’

Daquin wanted to stroke her face gently, but thought it was surely the last thing to do. I’ll get Kashguri. One way or another. I’ll have him in my power.

A message from Romero on the desk:
The
corpse
is
that
of
Cekbi
,
the
little
Turkish
dealer
,
the
accomplice
of
the
Yugoslav
workroom
boss.
I
’
ll
be
back
at
8
o
’
clock
this
evening
.

Celebi had been liquidated: the news produced a reaction. Daquin prepared a note for Attali and Lavorel:
Be
in
the
office
at
8
 
o
’
clock
this
evening
. Then he went home. Gave himself coffee and cognac. Lay down on the sofa, dosed his eyes, his mind wandering half-way between light sleep and conscious intellectual activity.