Rough Trade

17

7a.m. Villa des Artistes

Breakfast over, Daquin stretched out on the sofa with his feet up and the sound of Europe 1 in the background. Two hours’ thinking time in front of him. Soleiman was still moving about in the house before leaving but Daquin no longer saw nor heard him.

Kashguri. An interview … Too soon for formal questioning. Was it a fight already? No, just a matter of getting acquainted. I’ve too little information yet to challenge him.

I’ve got five people: Sobesky, VL, Kashguri, Anna Beric and Baker. They’re all in the race. I don’t know in what order. And I don’t even know what their relationships are to each other. Sobesky knows VL, Anna Beric and Baker. But what about Kashguri? Anna Beric knows Sobesky and Kashguri. But what about Baker? VL knows Sobesky, Baker, Kashguri (very probably), but what about Anna Beric? Is there a link between Kashguri and Baker?

Daquin moved slightly. He realized that Soleiman had left, he drank a cup of coffee and returned to his thoughts.

Of all the people involved, Kashguri is the most difficult to figure out. He holds an important post at the Bank of Cyprus and the East which finances Kutluer’s enterprises and therefore the network, more or less directly. But it’s impossible to know if he’s personally implicated. And the subject’s too dangerous for me to approach it just now. I’m sure he’s a member of the Club Simon. Just a few points on which I can hope to go further: does he know VL, and was it through him that she learnt to smoke heroin? Did he have sex with young Thai girls and what was he doing on the evening of 29 February? Lastly, what was his relationship with Anna Beric twenty years ago and does he still see her nowadays? I’ll keep this last question safely in reserve. I don’t know how to handle it.

And what about Meillant? No reason to leave him out. I can’t see him as a gang leader, but why not? He’s very involved with Sobesky and Anna Beric.

I might as well admit it, I’m completely in the dark. Who does what in this business? One thing’s certain, we’ve entered a new phase, and this is how I see it: the network bosses, whoever they are, know we’re getting close to them. Most likely they’ve found out through VL, while Baker and Sobesky are in it too, one way or another. We put the shops in Faubourg-Saint-Martin under surveillance. VL disappears, they’ve been trying to set a trap for me since Friday. And on Tuesday Celik was shot. The reason’s obvious: they want to scare the Turks and stop them from talking to us. The way I see it, Celik was a snout. But who for? And who knows? That doesn’t seem to be public knowledge. Must see Meillant. And in the end this murder’s good news in its way. It means they’re not after Sol. Not yet.

Another piece of good news, the delivery of the Romanian raincoats. If I set my mind to it I see that they’re coming through Bulgaria, by means of Euroriencar, the Bank of Cyprus and the East. And finally there’s Baker and the CIA. More or less all the strands that Lespinois mentioned to us. And when they get here there’s Sobesky, one of my prime suspects. That’s a lot for a harmless delivery of raincoats. I’ve every right to think it’s not harmless and that it’s either a delivery of drugs or else they’re setting up an infrastructure that can be used regularly afterwards. My job is to stop everything involved with this delivery and take a gamble that the henchmen will deliver the leaders into my hands. All I’ve got to do now is convince the chief.

Nine o’clock signal on Europe 1. Time to get dressed and go.

9.30a.m. Passage du Désir

Just time to telephone Istanbul before Kashguri arrives. Kutluer’s well known at the French consulate. He’s a rich businessman and everyone’s aware of his links with the Turkish mafia, which doesn’t prevent him from being received into the highest society, including, it must be said, the consulate.

He spoke to the wife of the director of the French Institute for Anatolian studies.

‘Madame, I’m really sorry to bother you. I’m Superintendent Daquin of the Paris Drugs Squad, I’m telephoning you on the advice of Monsieur Dumas, an attaché at the French consulate.’

‘What can I do for you?’

It was a very young voice, full of smiles, with a faint Slav accent. Daquin imagined her a chubby blonde.

‘Monsieur Dumas tells me you know John Erwin very well.’

‘That depends on what you call well. I go to dinner parties at his house quite often, along with fifty or so other people.’

‘That’s precisely what I’m interested in. Would you be able to supply me with a list of his guests?’

‘I’d do it for you gladly, but I don’t know the names of all the people.’

‘Couldn’t you possibly ask him for his lists? Pretend you’re preparing a reception for the French Institute?’

She hesitated for a moment.

‘Yes, I could. Certainly.’

‘I’m only interested in the last year.’

‘Very well, I’ll try.’

As he hung up Daquin dreamt about making love to a little curvaceous blonde, all smiles. That would make a change for him.

*

Kashguri arrived dead on 10 o’clock. Tall, same height as Daquin, slim, black hair, black eyes, light complexion, smooth face with very regular features. A very good-looking man, of his type. Not my type, more Lenglet’s. A classic suit, cut in the English style, blue-grey. A tie in darker grey, a very pale blue shirt. He sat down in the armchair Daquin had put ready for him. Placed his arms on the armrests. Hands clasped in front of him, well-manicured hands, long-fingered and muscular, giving an impression of brittle strength.

‘Thank you for coming, Monsieur Kashguri. I wanted to meet you to talk about a murder committed at the Club Simon on 29 February. You’re a member, we’re seeing all the members.’

Kashguri slowly opened and closed his hands, looking at Daquin. He leant forward slightly.

‘Superintendent, I’ve no intention of playing cat and mouse with you.’ Not the slightest trace of an accent. Perfect French. ‘I play an important part in Franco-Iranian relationships, which at the present time are particularly complex, as you know …’

‘Which doesn’t place you above the laws of our country.’ Daquin was keeping a low profile.

A smile from Kashguri. ‘Clearly, but it gives me a lot of work, and so I’ve no time to waste. Yes, I’m very partial to hired women, which is legal in France. But I’m not prepared to tell you in what circumstances I enjoy that pleasure.’

‘And that’s not what I intend to talk to you about. My first question: do you confirm you were a member of the Club Simon?’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘What alias did you use?’

‘I shan’t tell you that. You’re encroaching on my private life.’

‘A murder was committed …’

‘That’s not a reason.’

‘… on 29 February in the evening.’

‘On the other hand I’m quite willing to tell you what I was doing on the evening of 29 February.’ He leafed through his diary and showed the page to Daquin. ‘At four o’clock I attended a meeting of the Franco-Iranian parliamentary group. After which I had dinner with the chairman of the group, Deputy Bertrand.’

Daquin looked at the page: 4 p.m. FI group. And 8 p.m.: Bertrand.

‘Do you remember where you went to have dinner? And at about what time?’

‘Yes, we went to the Brasserie Lipp, where we usually go.’

‘I’ll have it checked.’

‘Be discreet.’

‘Of course. I also wanted to tell you that in France the use of certain substances is illegal.’

Kashguri showed great self-control, smiled and still kept his hands folded.

‘On that point you could certainly catch me out fairly easily. It’s a habit I acquired in my own country where such things are widely tolerated. But you know as well as I do that a charge of that sort would cause you many problems, involving many people over what is really a minor offence.’

He’s pleased with himself, thought Daquin, he’s convinced he’s won a point. It was the right moment to try something on.

‘Do you know Virginie Lamouroux?’

‘No, I don’t know that person.’

Kashguri had not reacted. Daquin showed him the photograph of Virginie that Madame Lamouroux had given to Attali.

‘You’ve never met her?’

‘No, never.’

‘Yet Virginie Lamouroux has told us that she learnt to smoke heroin in your company.’

At those words Daquin was sure he noticed a reaction. Kashguri sat bolt upright in his chair.

‘Listen,’ he said in a very dry voice, ‘I’m not intimately acquainted with all the people in whose company I spend somewhat hectic evenings. I don’t know this lady and I don’t wish to discuss my favourite pastime any further.’

‘Very well, Monsieur Kashguri. Thank you for attending this interview.’

Kashguri was surprised that Daquin had brought it to an end so quickly.

They both stood up. Daquin accompanied him back to the door and returned to his desk.

He wants to send me towards Bertrand. Very well. Attali will go. I must find out why he wants us to go in that direction. I think he knows VL. But I have to prove it. If I manage that, he’s in it up to his neck. But in what? Drug trafficking? The murder of the Thai girl? Both? Is it him VL’s blackmailing?

Noon. Chez Mado

Daquin was meeting Meillant for lunch. He went to pick him up at the police station in the 10th arrondissement. The two men shook hands. They’d hardly seen each other since the Police Academy. That was nearly ten years ago already. Meillant hadn’t changed. Short, thickset rather than fat. Three-piece suit, white shirt, dark tie. Grey hair, carefully combed back. Was he wearing Brylcreem? He looked fearfully old-fashioned. Whatever can Anna Beric see in him? Daquin still felt the animosity that had kept them apart at the Academy.

‘I’m taking you out to lunch. I’ve booked a table at Chez Mado. Do you know it?’

‘No.’

‘It’s a local curiosity, just two steps away.’

They reached Chez Mado, didn’t linger at the bar and went through the red curtains. Mado came over rapidly to meet them, embraced Meillant and shook hands with Daquin, looking him over for a moment with the eye of a connoisseur, and seated them at a table in a quiet area right at the back of the room.

‘It’s cassoulet day today.’

‘Perfect, two cassoulets, Cahors wine, and bring us the best hors-d’oeuvres you’ve got to make us wait patiently.’

As he spoke Meillant tapped the owner’s impressive pair of buttocks, she thanked him with a smile and swayed off towards the kitchen.

Meillant described Mado’s career to Daquin in minute detail.

‘You see all that hardware that Mado carries around?’ he said finally. ‘Well, it’s all real gold and precious stones. Even her spectacles aren’t made of rubbish: they’re diamonds and platinum. She doesn’t trust banks and prefers to carry her fortune about on her person. And she keeps all her jewellery on when she’s having sex, apart from her spectacles.’

Meillant really made a meal of it.

‘You know that it was here that Thomas found the trail leading to the Ballets Aratoff?’

No, Daquin didn’t know that. It was Meillant who had sent me Thomas and Santoni in order to keep himself informed about an investigation that was taking place on his patch. How could I have been so naive as not to realize that earlier? Continue acting as if all was in order. Fortunately the cassoulet was superb.

‘Meillant, did you know Osman Celik?’

‘Yes, I knew him well.’

‘I thought you did. Can you tell me a bit more about him?’

‘I helped him to get his papers in order, about two years ago that was, and to open his workroom. We kept in touch ever since.’

‘You knew of course that he was assassinated yesterday?’

‘Yes, I’ve read the report from the Crime Squad.’

‘Have you got a theory?’

‘Settlement of political accounts. Osman Celik was a man of the left. He’d already had problems with the Grey Wolves in Istanbul.’

‘He wasn’t involved with drugs at any level?’

‘No, really not. Not his scene at all. The usual little carry-ons in the Sentier, yes. But people don’t kill each other over those, not so far, in my district.’

On his way back Daquin mused a little. So, Celik had been a snout for Meillant. Should he tell Sol or not? And who knew about it?

3p.m. Passage du Désir

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.