Rough Trade

18

8. a.m. Passage du Désir

Everyone in the office was studying something. Daquin was reading the papers. Libération led on the boycott of the ministerial regularization of Turks without papers.

There was some admiration for Soleiman.

Romero was drafting a report on the shadowing of Sener.

The telephone rang.

‘Théo?’

‘Yes, chief.’

‘Rouen have just called us. They’ve got a nameless corpse on their hands which might belong to you. Can you send someone to take a look?’

‘Why did they think of us?’

‘He looks like a half-breed and his clothes come from Istanbul. Contact Inspector Petitjean at the Central Police Station in Rouen.’

Daquin hung up.

‘Romero, that’s for you. Take the file of photos with you. It could be useful.’

9.30 a.m. Brasserie Lipp

The swing doors to the Brasserie Lipp were propped open and a deliveryman in blue overalls was bringing out crates of empty bottles and taking in full ones. Attali sat down on the terrace and glanced at the interior, endless mirrors, light-coloured ceramics and dark wood. A woman arranging a huge bunch of orange lilies. No customers. There was one waiter, all in black and wearing a vast white apron that reached down to his feet. He came up to Attali. Sounds of crockery and voices in the kitchens. Attali showed his identity card. The waiter went to find the person in charge, a respectable man wearing a grey suit, white shirt, dark tie.

‘I need to ask you a few questions about two customers, just routine.’

The two men sat down on the terrace, where the doors were still open.

‘Do you know Monsieur Bertrand and Monsieur Kashguri?’

‘Yes, they’re regulars.’

‘Were they here on Friday 29 February in the evening?’

The man went to fetch two thick registers from behind the till, beside the orange flowers. The first one listed the names of the waiters, by teams, along with their hours of duty. Each man had added his signature beside his name.

‘29 February. I was here that evening. I might as well tell you at once that I don’t have any very clear recollections.’

The second register contained the reservations.

‘29 February, Monsieur Bertrand had reserved a table for two at 9 o’clock.’

‘Why are all those reservations crossed out?’

‘We cross them out as and when the clients arrive.’

‘So if Monsieur Bertrand hadn’t come, his name wouldn’t be crossed out?’

‘Unless he’d cancelled by telephone. If a client cancels, we also cross out the name, since we don’t have to keep the table any longer.’

‘And do clients take the trouble to telephone if they want to cancel?’

‘Yes, our habitués here are careful not to let us down without warning,’

‘If Monsieur Bertrand had cancelled, would that have gone through you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you don’t remember if he did?’

‘No. It’s three weeks ago now. Monsieur Bertrand comes several times a week. We have a hundred or so reservations a day. Three or four of them are cancelled. So …’

‘Could you ask the waiters who were on duty that evening to contact me on this number if anyone remembers anything?’

‘Certainly, Inspector.’

Attali left. He already knew there would be no follow-up.

10 a.m. Passage du Désir

The interrogation of the mannequins began again. It was becoming routine. Thomas was working together with the same inspector from the Vice Squad. Daquin remained to one side, observing without saying anything. Maud Mathieu. The interrogation was dull but confirmed the statements made by Lamergie.

Daquin was bored. The presence of VL at the Club Simon on the evening of the 29th could be considered as established. Apart from that nobody knew anything about her. Everyone was marking time. I’ll stay for the last interview of the morning. Then I’ll go on to something else.

Enter Dorothée Marty, a tall, slim, dark girl. Hair cut square, dark and full, a huge fringe covering her entire forehead. Framed by this black helmet her face looked childlike and small. She’s graceful, thought Daquin, who had remained slightly absentminded. The interrogation began. Like the others. Daquin had to make an effort to concentrate. Then suddenly, at the question ‘Do you know Kashguri, have you had him as a client?’ her whole body became rigid. Her attitude and her expression froze.

‘Yes.’

‘Who found him for you?’

‘Virginie Lamouroux, like the others.’

‘Do you know if she was a personal friend of his?’

‘No, I never discussed that with her.’

Thomas went on to something else. Dorothée Marty relaxed and her attitude became normal again. The interrogation continued. Incredible that neither Thomas nor the Vice Squad inspector had noticed anything. Not good cops. Or else they didn’t care.

End of the interrogation. Dorothée Marty stood up, signed her statement and prepared to leave. Daquin stood up also. The two inspectors saw him open the door for the young woman and take hold of her elbow.

‘Does your superintendent try to pick up girls?’ the Vice Squad inspector asked Thomas. The latter shrugged his shoulders, indicating that he didn’t know and didn’t understand.

‘Mademoiselle, may I invite you to lunch? It’s the right time now and I’d like to talk to you a little in a completely informal way, obviously.’ Dorothée Marty looked surprised and hesitant. ‘Say yes. You’ve not much to lose, you have a Superintendent’s word for it.’

‘You know, I don’t usually eat lunch.’

‘I’ll take you to an Italian place that you’ll like. If you want, you need only have a cup of coffee.’

11.30 a.m. Rouen

Cold, tiled floor, smells. The body on a trolley. The face was uncovered. White complexion, swellings more or less everywhere. Unreal. Not a dead man, more like a mask.

‘Those are burns caused by the lime,’ explained Petitjean. ‘But we’ve had his face made up, identification will be easier that way.’

Romero put his briefcase down on a table, took out the set of photographs, leafed through them, picked out one of them and showed it to Petitjean.

‘OK. It’s him.’

‘Let’s get out of here.’

They walked up and down in front of the morgue. Romero had brought some little cigars, Italian ones from Tuscany, which he always took when he went to a morgue: they smelt worse than the corpses. He offered one to Petitjean, who refused it.

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

‘Not at all. Well?’

‘He’s a little Turkish dealer whom we’ve been on to for a couple of weeks, a certain Celebi.’

12.30 p.m. Da Mimo

Neapolitan atmosphere. Daquin was obviously an habitué. A small table at the end, with a red and white checked tablecloth. Daquin installed the young woman with her back to the room. For her he chose hors d’œuvres variés on a bed of vegetables dressed with oil and vinegar and for himself a pizza alla rughetta. Followed by grilled fish, chilled Orvieto as usual and for Madame, a mineral water.

He had to take advantage of the fact that the girl was destabilized, he mustn’t let her recover her self-control.

‘Tell me about your relationship with Kashguri.’

She retreated into her shell again. Tried to hide her feelings with a smile.

‘I’ve nothing more to say.’

‘That’s not true. Whenever that name is mentioned your whole body goes on the defensive. Did it turn out badly?’

‘Maybe. So what?’

‘Tell me about it. We aren’t on police premises here. You want to talk about it and there’s no better listener than me.’

Dorothée hid her face in her hands to escape Daquin’s gaze.

‘How do you know that?’

‘I listen to you, I look at you, I pay attention to you, that’s all.’

‘He got me raped under appalling conditions.’

Her voice was low, all on one note, her hands still over her face. Daquin allowed silence to set in. For her the worst was over, she certainly had the right to fix her own speed. Dorothée retreated into her memories. She then fixed her eyes on her plate. Her voice didn’t change.

‘He offered me a lot of money to spend an evening at his apartment, with some friends, he said. I’d had him as a client two or three times at the Club Simon, he used to come with friends and he’d watch us make love. That was all. I thought it would be the same sort of thing at his place. I accepted.’

Silence again, a very long silence.

‘I arrived at his place. He seemed to be alone and thanked me for coming. We sat in the drawing-room and smoked a little heroin. I began to feel drowsy. He led me into a bedroom, somewhere in the apartment. There was hardly any furniture, just a big brass bed.’ For the first time Dorothée looked up at Daquin. ‘You know, old-fashioned, with high rails at the top and bottom.’

‘Yes, there was one in my grandmother’s house.’

Dorothée looked down at her plate again. ‘There were two men in the room, his menservants. They caught hold of me, one held me, the other literally tore my clothes off. I began to scream and struggle. That made them laugh. Kashguri sat in an armchair and smiled. I was terrified, I thought they were going to kill me and that nobody would ever find me again. When I was completely naked they tied me to the bed with cords, I was stretched out on my back, with my arms and legs apart and they began to beat me with riding whips. I screamed as loudly as I could.’

A long silence. The memory of her suffering.

‘When I stopped crying out they untied me. I couldn’t move. I was bleeding all over, and they raped me, one after the other, and then both of them at once. I lost consciousness. I think Kashguri was masturbating during this time.’ Silence again. ‘Then one of the men looked after me, putting something on the wounds that smelt very strong. And then they wrapped me up in a kind of towelling sheet and carried me to a car, then they took me to my own apartment. They left me there in the middle of the night with a pile of money. I didn’t make a complaint. I looked after myself. I’m not working any more, I don’t go out any more, I’m living on Kashguri’s money.’ A pause. In the end she looked up from her plate. She smiled, a young smile. ‘It’s true, you’re really a good listener.’

Daquin wanted to stroke her face gently, but thought it was surely the last thing to do. I’ll get Kashguri. One way or another. I’ll have him in my power.

2.30 p.m. Passage du Désir

A message from Romero on the desk: The corpse is that of Cekbi, the little Turkish dealer, the accomplice of the Yugoslav workroom boss.I’ll be back at 8 o’clock this evening.

Celebi had been liquidated: the news produced a reaction. Daquin prepared a note for Attali and Lavorel: Be in the office at 8 o’clock this evening. Then he went home. Gave himself coffee and cognac. Lay down on the sofa, dosed his eyes, his mind wandering half-way between light sleep and conscious intellectual activity.

3p.m. The National Assembly annexe

Bertrand had agreed to give Attali an appointment. ‘Half an hour, not more, I’ve a lot of work on hand. And I’d be glad if you’d be discreet and not tell the usher or my secretary that you’re a police officer.’

The building was modern: marble, steel, wood, thick carpets. Genuine luxury. At least one can see what happens to the money paid out in taxes. And it wasn’t going into police stations.

Attali entered the office. Bertrand stood up, shook hands and indicated an armchair. He was fairly tall, heavily built, with red hair and white skin, well over forty. Attali immediately found him antipathetic.

‘Well?’

‘Monsieur, we’re checking the movements of Monsieur Kashguri during the evening of 29 February. He’s told us that he spent the evening with you.’

‘What is Monsieur Kashguri accused of?’

‘He’s not been accused of anything. We’re checking the movements of many people, it’s to do with an investigation following a murder committed during the evening of 29 February.’

Bertrand stared at Attali, chewing his lower lip. A long silence. A feeling of unease. He opened his desk diary.

‘On 29 February, from 4 o’dock onwards, I chaired a meeting of the parliamentary support group for Franco-Iranian relationships, to which Monsieur Kashguri had been invited as an expert. The meeting ended at about 8 o’clock or 8.30, and then we went to have, dinner together at the Brasserie Lipp, as we do fairly often. My secretary had booked the table.’

‘Fine, thank you, Monsieur Bertrand.’

‘Inspector, the situation between the United States and Iran is very tense at the moment. France has considerable interests in Iran. It plays a leading role in efforts to make Europe adopt an attitude of mediation and dialogue. In order to avoid an irreparable break. Monsieur Kashguri is a valuable ally for French diplomacy. I won’t say anything more on the subject. Obviously that doesn’t mean that he’s above the laws of this country. But it dearly means that we’re asking you to proceed with the greatest caution.’

In the elevator Attali spoke loudly and dearly: I’m full of hate. And in the end it made him laugh.

3.30 p.m. On the Route Nationale between Paris and Rouen

The road ran alongside the Seine, at least thirty metres above it. Beneath was a vast platform where trucks came to discharge their loads of chalk into the hangars. Below was a lime factory with silos going down to the river. Barges tied up there, below the silos, as they took on their cargoes. Petitjean let Romero look at the layout of the place.

‘According to the forensic surgeon, the man was probably killed on the platform by a bullet through the heart, fired at point-blank range. After 5 o’clock the trucks stop driving round and the place is deserted. The killer went through the factory fence here.’ He pointed to a place where the wire had been pushed down. ‘And he went on to the lime silos that way, dragging the corpse along.’ He indicated the marks on the clayey soil. ‘Then he slid the body into silo no. 3 and went off. If the body had remained in the lime for more than forty-eight hours inside the silos or in a barge it would have been impossible to identify it. But a barge came to take on a load beneath Silo no. 3 at 5 o’clock in the morning on 19 March. The bargee, who was going backwards and forwards several times a day at that time, took on the load by himself and didn’t notice anything. We checked this out, it’s quite possible that the body slipped through the loading shaft. Then the bargee left for the Rouen cement works, thirty kilometres from here, where unloading began at 8 o’clock. By 9 o’clock we had the corpse. No papers on it. Nothing in the pockets. The labels on his jacket, his trousers and shirt had been torn off. He was wearing socks. Identification seemed to be very difficult. Fortunately, when I came to make enquiries here I found a shoe that must have fallen off the body when it was being dragged away from the platform beneath the overhanging slope. The shoes were certainly expensive, since the name of the shop was marked inside the leather, with the address: Istikal Caddesi, Istanbul. After that I worked my way up through the system until I came to you. Twenty-four hours, no longer. I don’t think we’ve done too badly over this, considering we’re just little country cops.’ Romero smiled at the notion that he’d become a Parisian.

8 p.m. Passage du Désir

Attali and Lavorel were playing draughts. Daquin was making himself coffee in silence.

Romero arrived. Very dirty, thought Daquin. His hair, his face, his hands and his clothes were covered in fine white dust. His shoes were completely white. He was so excited and pleased that he didn’t seem to notice. The game of draughts stopped.

‘We’ll start with Attali,’ said Daquin.

Attali explained the system for reserving and cancelling restaurant tables. So an alibi was possible but couldn’t be guaranteed. Bertrand’s little speech about the political importance of Kashguri.

‘And then the sense of unease took over and the feeling that Bertrand knew more than I did about the progress of the investigation.’

‘Was Bertrand pleased to fly to the aid of his friend?’

‘He’d have given his shirt not to have to do it.’

‘So, Kashguri’s trying to drag Bertrand into it. What’s he getting in exchange? We’ll find out Lavorel?’

‘Nothing new, but one thing’s been confirmed: the Frenchman who lent his name for the purchase of the two shops is on the Euroriencar payroll.’

Daquin seemed satisfied.

‘And you, Romero, give us some details about your scoop.’

The identification of the body and the way in which it had been dumped in the lime. Killed point-blank range by a bullet through the heart, fired from the front. Transported after the murder. For the time being, that was all.

Daquin sank back into his armchair. He was tense.

‘I want to draw your attention to two points about this murder. One: this assassination resembles the liquidation of Celik. I don’t know if I’d told you already but Celik was one of the guys who acted as a snout for Meillant, and very few people knew it. Two: very few people were aware that we’d traced Celebi and were holding a witness who would testify against him. We’re on to a big drugs case, which involves a lot of money. And a lot of money means murders, we’ve already got three, four or five, depending on how you look at them. And corruption. Corruption of politicians, perhaps, but it could happen to police officers too. Remember that.’

Point taken, deathly silence.

‘Romero, tomorrow you’ll start trailing your attaché from the embassy again, plus the telephone tapping and Paulette. Attali, go back to the VL case. At the end of the month there’s going to be a delivery of raincoats from Romania to Sobesky’s place. I’d like us to be as far ahead as possible by then.’

Silence again. Daquin stood up, put on his jacket, said good evening and left.