Rough Trade

25

8 a.m. Passage du Désir

Daquin was making coffee.

‘Well, Romero, where have you got to?’

‘Nothing very positive. The embassy’s blocking everything to do with our investigation, and they’re not bothering to be discreet about it. Because of that the Crime Squad drops it and pretends to believe in the attack by the Armenians. My contact at the embassy will bring me nothing.’ He paused. Bright image of Yildiz’ breasts, pale ringed nipples and endless freckles. ‘I think she’s been playing a double game from the start. She gave me a few clues while the ambassador was hoping we were going to get rid of Sener quietly for him. Now the scandal threatens to be too big and so it’s blackout.’

‘And you didn’t take any risks with her?’

‘No, none.’ A moment’s hesitation. ‘Still, that depends on what you call risk. I’ve asked her to marry me.’ Daquin waited for the follow-up. ‘And if she accepts, I’ll go through with it.’

‘When it’s all over, will you explain it to me?’

‘When it’s all over, I’ll introduce her to you. To come back to what I’m doing, I think the only way to go further is with Paulette or Martens.’

‘Paulette has committed suicide. She hanged herself at her home yesterday afternoon. Thomas wasn’t there and didn’t come back all night. He found her this morning when he returned.’

Once again Romero had to take in bad news. Why was this story so moving? Daquin went on: ‘There remains Martens. You can go and interrogate him if you’re sure he’s not in the network. Otherwise it’s too dangerous.’

‘In my opinion he’s not. Moreira doesn’t know him directly, his clients are very varied. He has his own business. Sener was the only member of the network whom he knew.’

‘Well, let’s play it like that. Your two acolytes in Drugs, Marinoni and Rimbot, will do the interview, which the three of you will prepare together. Try to sort it by the end of the day.’

9.30 a.m. Rue Raynouard

Daquin took Lavorel with him for a second search at Anna Beric’s place. They entered the apartment, Daquin went straight to the bedroom and opened one of the cupboards. The wickerwork trunk was still there, in the same place. Relief or disappointment?

‘Take a good look at that trunk, Lavorel. It’s the only thing I came here to see. Have you taken it in? The wickerwork, the corners, the clasp, the dimensions?’

*

Return in silence to passage du Désir. Daquin and Lavorel went straight down to the basement where a few objects involved in current investigations were kept.

‘There’s the trunk in which VL’s body was found.’

‘It’s the same as the one we’ve just seen at Anna Beric’s place. No possible doubt about it.’

‘When I saw it yesterday I thought it was Anna’s. It’s not hers, but it’s identical with it. We’re going to have a great many subjects of conversation with that lady.’

10 a.m. Rue des Jeûneurs

Attali went to Julie La Tour’s, the manufacturer where Virginie Lamouroux had been working on the morning of Friday 14 March and approached the boss.

‘I’m extremely sorry to disturb you again but yesterday we found the body of Virginie Lamouroux. She was killed on 14 March in the afternoon. As far as we know you were the last people to see her alive. So all the details are important, you understand?’

‘Certainly. How was she killed?’

‘She was whipped to death.’

‘No!!! Some sadist?’

‘No doubt.’

The manager called out to everyone: ‘We’re closing for half an hour, everyone in my office!’

The accountant, the secretary, two salesgirls, the cutter, the retoucher, the accessorist and the manager were all there.

Attali repeated the information for everybody. A weighty silence. Then the manager made an announcement: ‘I’ll try to describe that Friday morning. If anyone remembers the slightest detail, then tell us. Virginie arrived at 10 o’clock. She was always on time. She went up to the showroom with the retoucher. The models were already up there. I went up in my turn, I told her in which order to present the models and then I came down again.’

Attali to the retoucher: ‘Did she say anything to you?’

‘I think we exchanged a few words about the models, the ones she liked, the ones she didn’t like. That was all.’

‘At 10.30 the clients arrived, they were Japanese.’

‘Did Virginie know them?’

‘No, apparently not. The presentation began. Virginie was good, as usual. She wasn’t a very great mannequin, but in private presentations like this one she was excellent, for she was very … how shall I put it? … she made people want to touch things and take them away.’

Attali remembered Romero raping her at the foot of a staircase, while he … ‘I understand very well what you mean.’

‘By 11.30 or thereabouts she had presented everything. The Japanese asked to see several models a second time. Towards noon she began to be slightly impatient She told me she had a lunch appointment at half-past twelve. And she always hated being late.’

‘“For lunch”, are you sure?’

‘Yes, that’s what I remember. At about the same time the Japanese had seen enough. Virginie changed at high speed and went down to the shop. I stayed upstairs with the Japanese.’

The secretary continued the story: ‘She came downstairs saying “I’m going to be late”. I suggested calling a taxi for her. She replied “It’ll be quicker for me to walk”. I looked at my watch. It was 12.20, more or less.’

The cutter added: ‘I saw her going out through the door. She was walking quickly in the Opéra direction.’

11 a.m. Le Capucin café, La Chapelle Metro

Daquin went towards a small table at the back of the café. A big guy stood up to greet him. The thirty-year-old man looked like a fighter, he was squarely built, sturdy with close-cropped hair. They had met on rugby pitches. Beside him on the banquette was a whole collection of photographic equipment.

‘Another cup of coffee, please,’ he asked the owner.

‘Well, what’s it about this time, mystery man?’

‘I’m going to take you onto the balcony of an empty flat in a block near here. I’ll manage to get you in somehow, and you’ll manage not to be seen. From there you have the unrestricted view of a bed on the floor below, where there should be a leg-show between 12 and 1 o’clock. You will take a few photographs for me, suggestive ones, as the phrase goes …’

‘That you’ll use to blackmail the protagonists.’

‘No way. At the most I’ll use them to apply pressure in the cause of truth and justice.’

‘And in exchange?’

‘I’ll see you’re informed when we arrest the biggest network of drug traffickers ever dismantled to date. It’ll be exclusive to you.’

‘Have you got confidence in yourself?’

‘As far as I can have in this kind of business. That’s to say not much.’

‘I’m on. Let’s go. Pay for my coffee, commissaire.’

1 p.m. Passage du Désir

Daquin listened, Attali talked: ‘VL had a lunch date on Friday 14 March at 12.30. I don’t know where, I don’t know who with. But it was in an area a quarter of an hour’s walk away from rue des Jeûneurs, going towards the Opéra. I’ve got one possibility: I’ll get a map of the district, I’ll mark off the area I can reach in twenty minutes or so walking time from the Julie La Tour boutique, and I’ll go into all the restaurants in that area with photos of VL and Kashguri. It’s dangerous. Because, even if VL had lunched somewhere in the district, there’s not much chance that anyone would remember her. But I can’t think of anything else.’

‘Agreed. In particular you must target the chic expensive restaurants. And you must find some backup. But for that …’

*

A jubilant Romero came back.

‘Martens is devastated by Sener’s murder. He hadn’t heard about it. Marinoni had told him that his name and address had been found in Sener’s diary and that they’d spent the last weekend together. He confirmed it. He knows the two Turkish intellectuals. About three months ago he went to the races at Enghien with Sener. They met the two in question at the racecourse, spent the afternoon with them and since they were dead drunk by the end of it they drove them back to Enghien, to the door of a luxury villa in a location which Martens has described in fairly precise detail. It’s the only trail left to us for my contact at the embassy, as I’d foreseen, brought me nothing. Shall we continue further in that direction?’

‘Certainly.’

*

Telephone. The duty man at the entrance.

‘A Monsieur Alain to see you, commissaire.’

‘Yes, I’m expecting him, send him up.’

Alain entered in a rush and threw a large brown envelope onto the desk.

‘You’ll have a good laugh. Good luck, and don’t forget the reward, as you promised.’

He left immediately.

Daquin opened the envelope. Three large photos. Not works of art, but clear enough. In the first one Meillant, standing, seen in profile, perfectly recognizable, was taking part in fellatio with a big peroxide blonde who was kneeling in front of him, her face buried between his legs. Next photo: the big blonde, with her hair in her eyes and her breasts thrust forward, was sitting astride Meillant who was lying on his back. The identification in this one was less obvious. In the last photo the woman was kneeling while Meillant was fucking her from behind. She was clutching the foot of the bed and her features were very distinct, she was facing the camera. All that within an hour, the guy was in good form. I couldn’t have imagined anything better.

The image of Soleiman flashed before his eyes, his shattered body beneath the duvet. A stab of desire. I’m going home.