Rough Trade

19

8 a.m. Avenue Jean-Jaurès

Romero was fast asleep. The telephone rang. He picked it up, grumbling. In a bad temper. Exhausting day yesterday, and he hadn’t slept all night, because of Daquin’s allusion to bent police officers. What had he meant? Impossible to say. He’d fallen into a deep sleep about 6 in the morning, barely two hours ago … What a job.

The voice belonged to Yildiz …

‘Did I wake you up, Romeo?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right, I’ll be quick. Today Turgut Sener is going to collect the diplomatic bag at Roissy, as he does every month. He’ll be leaving from boulevard Malesherbes about 10, in an embassy van.’

‘When are we going to have dinner together, Yildiz? I miss you.’

She laughed.

‘Ring me back when you’re in a better mood.’

Romero got up. A nearly cold shower, a litre of coffee. The untidiness of his apartment disgusted him. A little pile of white dust under the chair where he’d left his clothes the day before. Dirty crockery all over the place. Must get organized.

A clean sweatshirt, the last but one, jeans, trainers, a leather jacket. Must join his colleagues in the Drugs Squad.

9.30 a.m. Shadowing

The two inspectors, Romero and Marinoni, were waiting in an unmarked Renault 5 fifty metres away from the annex to the Turkish Embassy in boulevard Haussmann. Marinoni was very cheerful and told one funny story after another. Romero relaxed a little.

A small white van drove out from the embassy buildings. It was easy to follow, the traffic was flowing freely and they knew where it was going.

10.30 a.m.

The van turned into the Customs transit car-park at Roissy airport. Romero let it go ahead for a few moments and then followed it into the supervised area, showing his police card. Sener remained nearly an hour in the Customs office, then he returned, along with a packer and a large sealed crate, on a trolley. It was manoeuvred into the van, which then left, followed by the two inspectors in their Renault 5. They returned to Paris without incident.

12.15 p.m.

The van drove into the embassy garage in avenue de Lamballe.

Another wait. Marinoni went to have a drink in a café twenty metres away. Romero made notes about the various moves that had taken place in the morning, adding the exact times, then he started on the crosswords.

12.45 p.m.

Sener reappeared at the wheel of a dark blue 205 with a Paris registration. He drove towards the city centre. At that time of day it was still not difficult to follow a vehicle. Sener parked on a pedestrian crossing in rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis, got out of the 205 and took from the back seat a plastic bag from FNAC which seemed to contain a rectangular box. Romero remained at the wheel and Marinoni followed Sener on foot.

1 p.m.

Marinoni came back.

‘Sener’s sitting at a table in the Brasserie Flo in cour des Petites-Ecuries, along with a woman of about fifty. They seem to know each other well. They’ve ordered lunch, they’ll be there for some time. Let’s go and have a bite to eat too, I’m really starving.’

It took twenty minutes to swallow some hot food in a brasserie in rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis, while keeping an eye on the entrance to cour des Petites-Ecuries. Then they walked slowly towards the Brasserie Flo, talking as they did so.

2.45 p.m.

Sener came out with the woman whom Marinoni had seen earlier. Fairly average, about fifty, tall and slightly plump, chestnut hair, permed and tinted, discreet make-up, classic suit. No time wasted on her appearance, but well groomed. Now she was carrying the FNAC bag. They separated in rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis. He embraced her, kissing her lightly on the lips, then, in stylish fashion, kissed her hand, with meaningful implications.

‘I assume that Sener’s the old girl’s lover.’

‘Looks like it.’

She turned right, followed by Marinoni. Sener went back to his car, with Romero after him, absent-mindedly stuffed the parking ticket in his raincoat pocket and drove off. Romero followed without difficulty.

3.25 p.m.

Sener reached rue de la Procession, parked on a pedestrian crossing again and disappeared into the Immigration Office. Romero parked in his turn, just anywhere, and walked towards the 205. From the inside pocket of his jacket he took out a little file that he had modified for his personal use a few years ago when he was an adolescent in Marseilles. He glanced at the second hand on his watch, bent over the boot of the 205 with a very preoccupied air and tinkered with the lock, which gave way. He checked: forty-five seconds. Good. Despite lack of practice it could be done in less than a minute. He had one regret, however: his range was still very limited. French cars, Volkswagens … He would have liked to try American or Japanese cars. He’d never had the opportunity. The boot was empty. Romero closed it again and went back to sit in his car once more. Another hour-long wait. He was really fed up.

4.35 p.m.

Sener came out of the Immigration Office with Martens. I could have taken a bet on it.

And they went off on foot. Romero followed them at a distance. They turned right, then left, stopped at Martens’ Renault 5, got in, drove off and left Romero behind.

7.30 p.m. Passage du Désir

When Romero came into the general office Santoni was beginning to describe his trip to Munich. He had found only ten or so young Thai girls who had been through Paris.

‘In Switzerland and Germany there’s a whole network of specialized cabarets and the girls don’t usually stay longer than six months in the same town. They have no money, never go out into the street, always travel from one town to another with a minder who holds their identity papers. After three or four years, when they’re “old”, they join the “normal” prostitution network or else they’re given an air ticket to fly back home. The police and the owners of the nightclubs pretend to believe they’re twenty years old, as stated on their passports, but the clients don’t get it wrong, and it’s really paedophiles who frequent those clubs. It saves them the expense of travelling to Thailand … The clubs are never empty. Enough said. Of the ten or so children who went through Paris seven had “worked” for the Club Simon and they identified five of the members. The retired Superintendent was the most assiduous. No comment. An entrepreneur, Lamergie, who’s already admitted having made use of them. Two deputies. And Kashguri. But he never had sex with them. He watched while other men did. Obviously I took statements in the official way. But in a few months’ time it will certainly be difficult to find those girls. There. It’s all in my report and the statements are attached.’

‘Good work, thank you. Here, as far as the mannequins are concerned, we’re marking time. Thomas will tell you about it. Have your weekend off, you’ll need at least two days to get over all that Swiss-German cleanliness.’

*

Daquin remained alone with Romero.

‘I’ve already had a call from Marinoni. The woman he followed from the Brasserie Flo went up into the Berican workroom in passage de l’Industrie.’

Romero was very surprised.

‘Could she be Paulette? Moreira’s friend?’

‘It’s possible. Marinoni’s still over there. And what about you?’

‘Sener went to see Martens at the Immigration Office and I lost track of them when they left in Martens’ car, after 4 o’clock. Before that I took a look, unofficially of course, into the boot of Sener’s car. It was empty. Has Marinoni spoken to you about the FNAC plastic bag?’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t go in to question the staff at the Brasserie Flo. I was waiting for the green light from you. If those two are good clients the owners could possibly warn them.’

‘You did right. Forget Flo. We’ve better things to do. Romero, tomorrow it’ll be the Berican workroom.’

*

In front of Daquin was a telex sent to him during the afternoon by the head of the Drugs Squad. The reply from the wife of the director of the French Institute for Anatolian Studies. Fifty or so names. Personal remarks against some of them. Grumpy. Dirty. Good-looking. The director’s wife had enjoyed herself. Only one name meant anything to Daquin: Kutluer. Already middle-aged. Pity.

And then, right at the end:

‘At the last Erwin dinner I had long discussions with a woman whosename isn’t on the list, because she was only passing through, Erwin toldme. Anna Eerie. She’s beautiful, intelligent and cultured. And I don’tknow her address.’

Madame, one day I’ll go to Istanbul to thank you.