Rough Trade (9 page)

Everyone has gone. Soleiman’s alone in his small windowless office that reeks of stale tobacco. Dog-tired, anxious, lonely. Yet another night. Having to go out, walk, find a bed.

Or sleep here perhaps, on a table in the committee room? He sits down. There’s the phone, with a direct line to Daquin’s office. He won’t be there at this hour. It rings once.

‘Daquin speaking.’

A moment’s silence.

‘Can I spend tonight at your place?’

*

Next morning Soleiman opens his eyes. Daquin’s already dressed, ready to leave. He kisses him on the neck.

‘I’ll leave you the key on the bedside table. It’s simpler. Do you eat pork?’ 

Is there legitimate commercial trading with Turkey or Bulgaria which could be used as a channel for drug trafficking? Daquin had a whole morning’s work with pleasant, competent customs officers, who were somewhat disconcerted by his questions. And nothing of interest.

No leads found. It would be taken up again when there was more concrete information.

Santoni listened to the Bernachons’ recordings, in the company of two inspectors: bargain interpreters.

In English, M. Bernachon was preparing a trip to Thailand in a fortnight’s time. He was making appointments with the people he spoke to.

‘I don’t think I’ll need photos this time … I’ve still got some stock … I’d like to bring back two parcels.’ A pause. ‘Male … Yes, I know. I haven’t done it yet. But I have an order. I want two. Is that possible? … Oh, no. Not at that price. We’ll have to talk about it again when I’m out there with you. And of course I must see them.’

In German, Mme Bernachon answered someone calling from Munich.

‘Yes, I know the ballet’s incomplete. We’re missing a dancer. I already discussed it with your manager last Tuesday. I’m not
shirking
my responsibilities, I’m refusing to accept sole responsibility for the entire loss. You know perfectly well, I’m just an
intermediary
. I think I’m right in this matter. In fact, you can’t fault me. Yes,
monsieur,
you can’t fault me.’

Daquin pushed open the glass door. Attali was sitting at the small desk writing up a report from notes taken on a very small block of squared paper. Romero was working at the conference table. Both looked up at him and waited. On his own desk was a message from the lab: ‘Re the two photos. There’s absolutely no doubt it’s the same man.’ So Ali Agça had been in Paris, and perhaps still was.

‘Coffee?’ Without waiting for a reply, Daquin started the
machine
. ‘So, VL?’

‘She was very surprised and noticeably put out that we knew she’d been to New York. I asked her for the names of people who could verify her visit there, and she gave me some.’ Attali pushed his note block over to Daquin. ‘But I’ve something that’s more interesting, perhaps. First of all, Sobesky works with Anna Beric. And he has an associate, in New York to be precise. A man called Baker. VL didn’t mention him, but one never knows.’

‘So, in fact, we’ve something we need to think hard about.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Track down Baker’s full name and address. We’ll phone him and see if that yields anything. And what about you Romero?’

Romero gave Daquin the list of Turks who’d entered France using the Morora company as sponsors.

‘You’ve made a copy for me, obviously? This looks like an
excellent
lead. Carry on with it. By the way, Drugs are doing a stakeout of the two shops in rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin. I’m also going to ask them to do one of Sobesky and tap his phone. Once it’s set up, one of you’ll have to go through the recordings on a daily basis. And arrange for him to come here for Thursday so that we can see what he looks like. Use his notification of a missing person at the 10th arrondissement police station as an excuse.’

*

Thomas telephoned his colleagues in Munich.

‘We’re sorting out a procurement case here in Paris. Can you give us a bit of help? Who does this Munich phone number belong to?’

Munich rang back a few minutes later: one of the smartest nightclubs in town. Dance shows. And rooms on the first floor. All perfectly legal and controlled. An Eroscenter above the nightclub in fact.

‘Are there Thai dancers?’

‘Yes, some of them are. It’s quite exotic’

‘Minors?’

‘Certainly not. I repeat – it’s all legal.’ A pause for a moment.

‘The right kind of people go there. Know what I mean?’

‘Perfectly. And thanks.’

Virginie Lamouroux felt strained and tired. She’d worked all
morning
and still hadn’t eaten. But she wasn’t hungry. She’d had no drugs of any sort, ever since she’d got tangled up in these police restrictions. It would have been too dangerous. But she needed them, she just had to admit. She walked back up as far as the Grands Boulevards, went into a cinema at random, and sat in the fourth row. She was alone in front of the screen. She stretched out in the seat: she needed to relax, regain her sense of calm. Could she still get out of this tight spot or was it already the right moment to disappear? There was someone in the fifth row, two seats to her right. A sidelong glance. It was the cop who’d raped her. She was sure of it. How was that possible? No one can have followed me here, she thought. Her heart thumped, her hands were trembling. The man didn’t budge and said nothing. He was simply there, a monstrous presence that filled the whole auditorium behind her. She swayed as she stood up and rushed to the toilets. When she came out, several minutes later, she looked around. He wasn’t there any more. At least, she couldn’t see him any more. She sat down again in the back row. And now, she thought, I need to think about running away. How many days do I still have?

Attali was on the phone, speaking English with a heavy but
passable
French accent. Daquin picked up the receiver.

‘Mr Baker, please. Inspector Attali. French police … Good
morning
, sir, Inspector Attali of the Drugs Squad in Paris. I hope I’m not disturbing you. You’re obviously in no way obliged to give me an answer. We have arrested a young woman in the act of selling small quantities of drugs. She’s a Virginie Lamouroux. We’ve checked her whereabouts in the last fortnight. She’s told us that she was in New York from Saturday the first until Wednesday 5 March, on a tourist trip, and met you there. Can you confirm this?’

A marked silence. ‘Yes, that is so.’

Once he’d hung up, Attali asked: ‘Is he in the running too?’

Daquin shrugged his shoulders.

*

It was only towards eight in the evening that Lavorel returned to passage du Désir, tense and excited.

‘Anna Berk was accused in March 1958 of murdering her boss, a Yugoslav by the name of Yavitch, and charged.’ He consulted his notes. ‘The investigating judge, a man by the name of Parent, now retired to Meung-sur-Loire, dismissed the case for lack of evidence, after hearing the testimony of her clients, Scalfari and Rigault, two stallholders on boulevard de la Villette, and an Iranian student, Osman Kashguri.’

Daquin shivered, The Persian poetry, ‘January 1958. An
unforgettable
meeting. O.’ Could it be the same person?

‘The police inspector who led the inquiry was called Pierre Meillant.’

Pierre Meillant. Daquin closed his eyes and rocked in his chair. Pierre Meillant, superintendent of the 10th arrondissement. They were together at the Police Academy in 1971 and Meillant had taken an immediate dislike to him. A labourer’s son, and a former member of the Resistance, entered the police as a patrolman in 1945, and climbed the ladder through internal promotions and competition. First inspector, then superintendent when he was
approaching
his fifties; an exceptional career, clawing his way up.

He couldn’t bear Daquin’s sense of ease as a young man of means, his brilliant academic career, superintendent at twenty-six. And his taste for boys, one freedom too many and a permanent provocation. Daquin had needed a great deal of sang-froid to avoid a fight. That and his admiration he had for Meillant – he was a very good cop. The real boss in his station and his district, where he’d worked for more than twenty years. A man of power: a
concept
of the police which gave him one more good reason to detest Daquin, who liked the recreational side to his job. Daquin opened his eyes and took a deep breath. Lavorel was still there, motionless, with a suggestion of a smile.

‘And, obviously, the next question is: is there still a connection between Meillant and Anna Beric?’

‘Obviously.’

A long heavy day. Daquin’s worn out. So’s Soleiman apparently. He’s lingering in the bath, listening to the radio. He looks at his feet resting on the rim of the tub and remembers his first meeting with Daquin, in this house. Half dead with fear. His upper lip still stinging from the razor. And Daquin, surprising. In bed, he hadn’t said a word. Authoritarian and attentive. Not hurried. A sensualist. At this precise moment Soleiman feels an unusual sense of well being.

‘Hurry up, Sol. The pasta won’t wait’

It’s spaghetti carbonara. Doesn’t take long to make. Delicious. He hasn’t wanted to cook for a long while.

Daquin has prepared a duplicate list of the twenty-two names Romero gave him and left them on the low table, along with a whole pack of photos taken by Attali and Romero.

‘I’m leaving you all that. It’s for you. The list has been made up using the four names you gave me to start with. They all obtained their papers under the same terms at the National Immigration Office, and they’re all supposed to be working in the same
business
, which is probably a cover. Identify them, try to establish what links there can be between them that we know already, and find them. Sol, I’ve total confidence in you. We ourselves are working on the international links and French collusion. I’m giving you the whole of the Turkish side of this case in Paris. D’you think you can do this in a fortnight?’

A groan.

‘And what does that mean?’

‘It means “OK”.’

Romero yawned. Not yet fully awake. It was a crappy suburb, amidst small villas built at the end of the nineteenth century,
modern
tower blocks and industrial warehouses. In this area it was mostly industrial warehouses and cul-de-sacs, with lots of potholes. But it was full of life at this time of day. Quite a few workmen and van drivers coming in to have a coffee or a glass of red wine before setting out. The café was just opposite Morora’s premises. It would be hard to find a better observation point.

‘A coffee, with cream, and a croissant please.’

‘No croissants.’

‘Bread and butter then?’

‘Right, a coffee, with cream, and a slice of bread and butter.’

Buzz of conversation. Romero took his coffee, sat at a table near the window, took out
Le
Parisien
from his pocket and a pencil to do the crossword. Renault vans began coming out of Morora’s. He jotted down their departure times in the margin of his paper. In the van’s driver’s seat, as in the passenger seat, were immigrants. Romero could bet on it they weren’t Turkish. North African,
possibly
, but not Turkish.

At around eight, the gate appeared to close finally. The café had emptied. Still feeling sleepy, Romero stood up and dragged himself to the counter. The owner was the thin alcoholic type, in his forties and already burnt out.

‘
Patron
, get me a white wine. I need a bit of consoling. My mate’s not turned up. Will you have one? Keep me company?’

The owner filled two glasses.

‘I’m a driver/delivery-man,’ Romero went on. ‘Just lost my job.’ The owner remained silent. ‘D’you think it’s worth my trying across the street? I’ve seen a load of vans come out this morning.’

The owner glanced vaguely across the street.

‘At Morora’s? No way. They only employ North Africans, and then, they don’t make deliveries.’

Romero pushed his glass in his direction.

‘Let’s fill up again. It says “Rat Extermination” on the vans. What’s that involve, job-wise?’

‘They dean the waste chutes, sewers, abandoned cellars, all the places where there’s trouble with mice and rats. It’s a filthy job by all accounts. As it’s very dirty, they can’t find enough French people to do it, so they have to import North Africans. There’re only two foremen who’re French.’

‘I shouldn’t think that lot are very nice customers. They don’t drink and they’re always spoiling for a fight.’

Romero pushed his glass towards the owner again, who poured out the third round.

‘No. I wouldn’t say that. They slave their guts out, that lot, very quiet too. They never go out you know. Live on the premises. But Moreira, who owns the joint, has done a deal with me and I provide them with dinner every night. Which is good for my
business
, because without them this place’d be pretty dead in the evenings.’

‘So it must be a really long day then, from six in the morning till late at night?’

‘It’s all finished by eight. And in the afternoon I have a siesta.’

‘And these blokes pay up all right?’

‘That’s the good thing about it.’ An evil smile. ‘It’s Moreira who pays, in a lump sum, every week. A bit like a canteen, you see. I’m not saying it doesn’t mean I can’t make a bit on the side.’

Fourth round.

‘Are they Algerians?’

‘No. Moroccans. And all from the same village what’s more. They all arrived together.’

‘So, nothing for me there then. Can you think of any leads?’

‘Try the industrial baker’s. Go out of the cul-de-sac, turn left, and it’s the third on the right. I know they’ve got a big delivery service there.’

Romero thanked him, paid and left. With four dry white wines before nine in the morning, he could anticipate some heartburn.