Rough Trade

6

8 a.m. 10 rue de Belzunce

Romero shook Attali who was dozing on the bottom steps of the staircase.

‘VL’s coming down. Our move. You take the girlfriend. I’ll take VL.’

Attali slowly mounted the stairs. He passed Virginie Lamouroux on the first floor, gave her a silent nod and continued his ascent. She was surprised, stopped to say something, looked at her watch and continued walking downstairs. She came out of the building, and there, on the pavement just in front of the entrance, was met by Romero.

‘Good morning, mademoiselle. Would you open your bag.’ He pointed to the light travel bag she was wearing over her shoulder. ‘I have to check you don’t have drugs on you.’

VL was completely thrown. Does he have the right? she thought. What am I doing?

Romero had already put out his hand and in one brief movement had whipped the bag off her. No resistance. He began a systematic, not very discreet search. Passers-by gawped at the scene. The contents were standard for those of an elegant young woman taking a weekend break. He gave the bag back to her.

‘Thank you, mademoiselle. See you soon.’

He went back into the building. VL stood rigid for a moment, then continued walking. Before she reached the street corner, she looked back. No one there. Turned. Waited. Still no one. Crossed the road, took a street on her left. No one. So she walked at a good pace towards the taxi rank in the square, on the corner of rue Lafayette and the church square of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul. Romero was already there, hiding. He saw her turn round one last time and jump into a taxi which took off and passed right in front of him. He noted the registration number, then went back up towards 10 rue de Belzunce.

Attali was by the front door.

‘She arrived at her friend’s last Friday. Before that, she’d been living with someone called Xavier Sobesky at 20 rue de Paradis. And she left to go on an unexpected trip on Saturday, 1 March, very early in the morning. Never said where she was going.’

*

While Romero was busy tracing Virginie Lamouroux’s taxi, and locating her for the weekend, Attali was trying to discover where she’d been for the last five days. If she took the train or a car, it’s impossible, he thought. If she took a plane, I’ve got a chance … if she left under her own name … if she didn’t leave on a double booking at the last minute … Begin with Orly. If I find something, I’ll get home to Antony quicker. He checked the list of companies. Several hours of work: nothing. It was three in the afternoon. A shitty job. He tried Roissy. And after only a short time, there it was: Saturday, 7.43 a.m., Continental Airlines, destination New York, Virginie Lamouroux. Return journey: Wednesday, 8.17 p.m.

2 p.m. Passage du Désir

So Anna Beric was much more than a small manufacturer. The Social Security swindle she’d set up in the Sentier had been going on for years. Daquin closed Lavorel’s report. Slumped in his armchair, with his feet on the table he sipped his coffee.

And in one of her workrooms there’d been a corpse and drugs. What should I do next? I can take the twenty or so names of manufacturers Bostic gave me and have them watched. I can put on file all the Turks who pass through the sandwich shop and have them followed. I can draw up a list of Anna Beric’s workrooms and search them. Put all the manufacturers VL has talked about under surveillance. Dozens of cops, hundreds of hours of grind for pathetic results. The best that would come of it would be that we pick up a few small time dealers, almost by chance. The factory owners Bostic mentioned probably know nothing about the men hanging around in their shop, waiting for a delivery of red gypsy pants. The Turks may give up going to the sandwich shop from one day to the next and disappear into thin air. And VL could have spun me any old tale. I have to look at the problem totally differently. I must suppose there are links between the Turkish extreme right and drugs, and they’re strong enough for the drug channels to be modelled on the political ones. The political channels are a known fact, so who can talk to me about them? He picked up the phone.

‘Hallo. Lenglet? Daquin here. How you doing? I need you. Can you help me meet someone discreet who’s really knowledgeable about the Turkish extreme right? Easy? Monday, one o’clock at Pierre’s, place Gaillon. I’ve written it down.’

He looked at his watch. It was 3 p.m. Nothing to do till 8 that evening when he would have dinner with friends in square de l’Alboni.

But square de l’Alboni was right near rue Raynouard. He checked the map. A five-minute walk away. And it so happened he hadn’t found anyone to watch Anna Beric’s flat. The temptation was too strong to resist, and he’d never really tried to resist this kind of impulse. He dialled Anna Beric’s number. There was an answerphone: Anna Beric isn’t here at the moment. Leave a message after the bleep. He took a bunch of keys and picklocks from a desk drawer, pocketed them and was on his way: Metro as far as Passy.

He phoned again: still no one at Anna Beric’s. He loitered around the block for a while. Very plush, very peaceful, a Saturday afternoon. He entered the building and went directly to the caretaker’s lodge. Madame Beric please. Fifth left. The concierge didn’t even look away from the TV to glance at him. Really easy. He walked up the stairs, slowly, to observe the rhythm of life in the building. Little movement, and people taking the elevator. He reached the fifth floor. In the apartment on the right, he heard a broadcast of a Five Nations Rugby Tournament match on TV. It was 4 p.m., so he had little chance of being disturbed by the neighbours on the landing. He took out his bunch of keys. In three minutes the door yielded. No one had taken the stairs; the elevator had gone up once to the sixth floor.

He went in, carefully closing the door behind him. His heart was thumping, all his senses on tenterhooks. Silence. Half shadow. First he made a rapid tour of the apartment, walking soundlessly. A big living-cum-dining-room with a study facing the front. A windowless bathroom, a bedroom and a kitchen on the street side. A back entrance in the kitchen, locked, but the key was above it. He must open it to give himself a safety exit if someone arrived. Visualize routes to this exit from all sorts of places in the building. And now to work.

Standing stock-still in the middle of the room, he tried to guess the personality of the woman who lived here and make the most of the moment: a rare and curious danger and pleasure, about which no one would ever know. He opened all the drawers and cupboards. There were quite a few. The clothes were carefully put away, there was a lot of silk, classic designs, frocks: certainly well dressed. One garment fascinated him: a crimson red sheath dress with a low square neck, of an extraordinary simplicity and power. A dress, he had the feeling, he knew. Must be a brunette to wear something like that. Hardly any slacks. Lingerie in abundance. Lots of silk here too. He gently ran his hand through the pile of slips. It was a slightly quaint thing to do. A strong subtle perfume he couldn’t quite identify on all the lingerie. At the bottom of a cupboard, piles of shoe-boxes. About thirty. Some were empty. At the bottom of another cupboard, a closely woven wicker trunk, with leather corners and a brass clasp. Daquin passed his hand over the wickerwork. Lifted the lid: the trunk was empty. Perhaps it was used as a laundry basket. On the bed, very pretty sheets from Deschamps. Definitely a brunette, tall and slim. No doubt she was impeccably made up, took great care of her hair, for there was an armada of beauty products. And she had gone, he sensed it: some empty coat-hangers, no toothbrush in evidence in the bathroom …

Daquin passed into the living-room. The canvas blinds were lowered, but the shutters not closed. He guessed a stone balcony ran along the room and, beyond, a splendid view over the whole of the south of Paris. He stood rooted there, breathing in small intakes of breath, cautiously. There was a discrepancy he couldn’t fathom between the apartment’s location, her refined clothes and the way this living-room was furnished: it was tasteless and uninteresting. A large table in a light-coloured wood with chairs around, a fabric sofa, two assorted armchairs, a wooden coffee table, like the other — cheap furniture, no refinement. She didn’t live in this room and entertained no one here.

He went into the study. Very welcoming. There, too, a french window, the balcony, Paris beyond. The three walls furnished with shelves in light wood, running from top to bottom, full of books. In the middle of the room, a huge English desk, with a green leather top, behind it a matching leather armchair, and in front of the window a small two-seater sofa in fawn leather. It must be really pleasant working here. He went to the bookcase: nineteenth-century novels, Russian, English, American. Classical Greek tragedies, Arabian and Persian poets in bilingual editions. All in meticulous rows. On the desk, Doris Lessing’s Children of Violence. Daquin whistled between his teeth. Took out a book, then another, opened them, leafed through, put them back. Hardly any dust. It was no dead library. Persian poets? Rare, even so. There were about thirty titles. He opened them one after another. And there on the flyleaf of a bilingual anthology of Court poetry, he read a date: 27 January 1958, and a dedication: ‘An unforgettable meeting’. It was signed ‘O’. He experienced a curious feeling. A sort of jealousy. He slipped the book into the inside pocket of his jacket. To bring him luck?

The last two shelves, as he did his complete tour of the room, were empty. Also empty, or almost, were the drawers of the desk. If there had been bookkeeping records here, there were no more. Lavorel would have to find something else. The apartment was arranged in a mad sort of way, and nowhere were there any photos. No mementoes of the past. No old letters, old keys, nothing whatever. The lady must have had a difficult relationship with her past.

Daquin walked around the apartment for a while longer. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. In fact he couldn’t bring himself to leave: night fell in the absent woman’s apartment, and it was fascinating. Ashtrays everywhere, even on the edge of the bath: she was a heavy smoker. All were impeccably dean. Two large porcelain ashtrays with ads on them: Hostellerie du Bas-Bréau, at Barbizon.

In the kitchen, not much in the cupboards, nothing that suggested gourmet cooking. One thing however made him smile: she used the same coffee as he did. He must remember. He’d offer her a cup when he had her in front of him in his office. It was almost 7 o’clock, he must go. He wasn’t tense enough any more, not on tenterhooks. It was becoming dangerous. He must close the door in the kitchen, listen carefully to all the noises from outside before going out, simply pull the door to behind him, go down the stairs, wait for the concierge to be distracted, that would never be for very long, and calmly walk out into the street. Then, once outside, a short walk in the fresh evening air as far as the Seine, and a stroll up to square de l’Alboni. What an exhilarating day.

7 SUNDAY 9 MARCH

10 a.m. Deauville

A spacious apartment on the seafront. Two policemen rang the bell. No answer. They rang again … A man in his fifties came and opened the door in his dressing-gown. Obviously disturbed. And very surprised to find the policemen.

‘Good morning, monsieur. The Paris Drugs Squad have asked us to check whether Mademoiselle Lamouroux is really here.’

The man turned to Virginie, who was wrapped in a bath towel and standing petrified in the middle of the sitting-room.

‘Someone’s asking for you, delightful girl.’ Said with irony and a touch of malice.

Virginie came to the door.

‘Mademoiselle, you should have notified the Drugs Squad of your change of address. Don’t forget to report tomorrow at the 10th arrondissement police station, by nine a.m. at the latest. Thank you, monsieur. Excuse us for disturbing you. Have a nice Sunday.’

12 a.m. Villa des Artistes

Daquin went home to change, after a pleasant evening at the house of his friend, who was a TV producer, and a rather good night with a little blonde actress — the real works — who absolutely had to know how a superintendent — a real commissaire — made love. She was so tanked up that he wasn’t certain she would remember who he was now.

Message on the answerphone. Soleiman’s voice: ‘I’ve been trying to get you. Call me.’ No date, no time.

Daquin dialled the only number he had, the Committee one. Soleiman picked up the phone on the second ring. There was the hum of conversation — probably Turkish — in the background.

‘I’ve phoned several times. You weren’t at home all night.’

Daquin burst out laughing.

‘Eh! You jealous?’ A vexed silence. ‘Ten, this evening, at my place. OK?’

‘Fine.’

*

Daquin’s asleep on the sofa in the living-room when Sol arrives. He opens one eye, grumbling. Sol signals he’s going up to the bathroom. When he comes back down, wearing a brand-new white dressing-gown, that fits, and which was left for him on the edge of the bath, Daquin’s awake and drinking coffee. He puts the full cafetière on the low table in front of him.

‘I’ve made some lasagne for you. It’s in the oven. I’ve already eaten.’

Soleiman goes to get his meal, and some cutlery, then sits beside Daquin on the sofa.

‘What’s happened to you? Have you been fighting with thugs?’

Daquin’s upper lip is swollen and he has a bruise on his left cheek from a blow.

‘Yes and no. I was playing rugby this afternoon. We were the weaker side and we suffered throughout the match. So you could say the other side were a bunch of thugs …’

‘I’ve got some important things to show you.’

‘Go on.’

From his dressing-gown pocket Soleiman takes out the four photos that Daquin gave him. On the back of each are names, initials, dates. The four men arrived in France almost at the same time — during the summer of 1979. All their papers are in order, residence permits, work permits. Three of them were members of the office of the Association of Lighting Technicians, when it was set up in September. Then, in January, when the workshops were opened, they left the association office to look after their management. But they can still be seen quite often where the association hangs out. There wasn’t any falling out, more a specialization of duties.

‘That confirms what we thought about the links between the extreme right and drugs. And that gives us a lead to follow up. How and why have these four got their papers?’ Daquin leans back deeply into the sofa and draws Soleiman against himself. ‘Move a bit closer. I’m very tired. I feel like being affectionate. Tell me, where are you living now, and what on?’

Soleiman suddenly stiffens and stands up.

‘Why d’you ask me that. To fill up your police reports?’

Smile. ‘Come here. Good God. There’s no police report on you here in France. Sol, there never will be. I’d never write a word. You’re mine, but mine alone. I asked you this question, simply because it interests me. And since you’re mine, I’ve a certain amount of responsibility towards you.’

‘You haven’t made a report on me?’

‘No.’

Soleiman sits down again.

‘Not even one with a false name?’

Smile. ‘No.’

‘When this business is over, no one will know that I’ve given you information, and I shall be truly free again?’

‘Of course. It’s what I told you right from day one, isn’t it?’

And even if it were true …? You couldn’t trust cops, they’re capable of anything, but, Soleiman thought, I really want to believe that.

Daquin’s holding his neck and caressing him slowly.

Soleiman feels his whole body invaded by a sort of heat, drowsiness, relief. It reminds him exactly of the sensation he got from morphine — it was the day after … The Istanbul press had published his photo on the front page: sought for a double murder. The fear and anguish were such that he’d only survived with morphine which his doctor friend had given him, until he managed to get out of Turkey with papers stolen from a French tourist. The same relief, that feeling of letting go. He feels it going to his head.

‘Now, will you tell me how you’re living nowadays?’

‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

‘Well, I’m going to tell you what my guess is. You don’t have a sou, because you haven’t the time to work to earn it. Your friends on the Committee have never thought of making you an advance.’ He pauses. Daquin goes on looking Soleiman straight in the eye. ‘Or, they may have suggested it to you, and you’ve refused it out of pride, so as not to appear beholden to them. You sleep under bridges and you’re half dead with hunger.’

‘Are you trying to humiliate me?’

‘No. Of course not.’

Daquin slips his hand under the dressing-gown and slowly caresses the hollow of his thigh, then the buttocks, repeating the same movements, almost mechanically.

‘Relax a bit and let yourself go, my boy. I’m only trying to help …’ He carries on talking, very quietly.

Soleiman has his eyes closed. He mustn’t move, mustn’t feel desire. I’m here, he thinks, because I’m powerless to do otherwise. But that isn’t true, not completely, not any longer. Soleiman feels the heat, but has stopped listening, stopped understanding. Relaxing relief. He feels tears rising behind his closed eyelids. Tears … When was the last time … Never, not even when he was a child, in Anatolia. Daquin increases the pressure. Exquisite abandon.