Rough Trade (13 page)

‘Chief, it’s a brilliant scam. Moreira declares twenty-two workers he doesn’t actually employ: that’s the Turks. And he has twenty-two workers he doesn’t declare, and doesn’t pay either: that’s the Moroccans.’

Attali was euphoric, like some schoolboy who might have said it as a good joke, and for him that was a surprise.

‘How d’you mean? He doesn’t pay them?’

‘No, I’m sure he doesn’t. He gives them lodgings, you should see what they’re like, he feeds them, but he doesn’t pay them. They all come from the same village. Moreira must be in cahoots with a big Moroccan landlord who’s probably organized their trip here, making them pay dearly … The families have all stayed behind in their village. Like that, if a worker gets it into his head to protest, what would happen to his family back home would soon make him change his mind. His business has the appearance of being in order, nobody bothers them, not the tax people nor the factory inspectorate. The Turks in the network appear as innocent workers, and the boss makes an enormous profit out of the real workers, for he’s only paying their national insurance, not wages. Which makes a change from the Sentier, where bosses pay them wages but no national insurance.’

‘There’s a lot of conjecture in all this. And we don’t have time to dig deeper.’

‘But that’s not all. In the workshops I found acetic anhydride stacked up among other chemicals. The business’s activities are ideal for buying chemical products the Turks need for refining heroin, without attracting attention, and they probably use the same methods to bring it back home as they do to bring the drug here.’

‘Now, that’s more solid. We’ll tap Moreira’s phone calls, business and home. You’ll follow them with the others. There’s something brand new as regards VL. She’s dabbling in a complicated game of prostitution in which she’s fooling the middlemen. And, what’s more, Moreira and Lestiboudois feature in the list of clients. There’s every possibility we’ve chanced on a network of dealers for our drug. Or some other one. But, this time, we’ve enough facts to make her spill the beans. Attali, find her as quick as you can, arrest her and bring her here for questioning.’

*

Night has fallen. In passage du Désir there’s absolute calm. Time for reflection. I’m still in a complete fog, but at least I’ve several leads. Moreira and the setting up of the network? VL, Lestiboudois, the Club Simon and dealing? But, as far as I can see, nothing links it to the Mafia or the Turkish extreme right. Except, perhaps, one thing: the presence of the Bank of Cyprus and the East. Keep the report modest.

First, we have Attali and Romero’s concrete results: a few words on Moreira and Martens to add weight to a request for tapping their line, and soonest possible. Nothing on the methods used, obviously.

Then Bernachon-Aratoff, that’s already done. Everything on the Simon scam. The list of clients – for which we’re most grateful. Reactions in high places won’t be long in coming. The two cases must remain our group’s responsibility, the fact that Virginie Lamouroux is involved, just like Moreira, shows they’re linked to drug trafficking. Nothing on the Citroën and the possible tailing. Let’s wait As for Anna Beric and Meillant, I’m keeping that to myself.

Finished. It’s after 11 p.m. I’m tired. I’ll file the report on my way home.

A real feeling of regret at not being able to meet Soleiman. A memory of his sleeping form under the orange duvet. His tanned skin and his darker, almost black, penis. Not worth going home for dinner. Some sauerkraut in a brasserie on the way will do.

‘We’ll begin rather at random with some of the businessmen, and some politicians.’

Thomas and Santoni listened and scribbled notes, relieved that Daquin was taking matters in hand.

‘We’ve nothing against a man who frequents whores, of whatever persuasion. So,
a
priori
, we must go softly-softly. But our aim is to throw light on the murder of a Thai child, committed on 29 February last by a certain Icarus. So they must give us their
pseudonym
, tell us what they were doing on the evening of the 29th, what they could see, if they went into the Club Simon that
evening
… if they wouldn’t mind. And as we’re obstinate creatures, we’d also like to know if they know Virginie Lamouroux, in what circumstances they’ve kept her company, if they’ve used her to procure girls or drugs … We’re going to contact them by phone. Obviously, they’re not obliged to agree to meet us. But we can say to them that we’re making inquiries about the murder and rape of a child, and if it comes to having to obtain rogatory letters in order to get them to talk to us as witnesses, we’ll be considerably less discreet. Here are the lists of names to phone. Is everything dear? Get to work.’

*

Once he was on his own, Daquin began with Lestiboudois. Not at home. He was playing golf at the International Club du Lys at Chantilly. Telephone call to the clubhouse.

‘M. Lestiboudois has just arrived.’

‘Put him on to me. Superintendent Daquin here.’ All it needed was a mention of the Club Simon to obtain an appointment. At 1 p.m. in the Lys club house.

‘I shall be coming with one of my inspectors.’

‘I’ll wait for you in the hall. Obviously, I shall make you stay for lunch. I’ll book a table right away.’

*

And now, Kashguri. Why resist his curiosity to get to know him? Kashguri was in the directory, and answered the phone after the first ring.

‘Monsieur Kashguri? Superintendent Daquin of the Drugs Squad here. I hope I’m not disturbing you?’

‘I’m working. What d’you want from me?’

‘We’ve just arrested M. Simon for aggravated procurement. You appear on the list of his regular clients.’

‘It’s not illegal.’

‘I know that as well as you do. But I’d like to ask you a few questions on the running of this private club.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘I shall ask for letters rogatory from the judge and obtain them and demand your presence in, shall we say, a more official manner.’

‘Very well, I’m looking at my appointments diary. I can come to see you on Wednesday next at 10. I’d prefer it if I came to you. Where should I go?’

‘I’d rather see you at an earlier date.’

‘That won’t be possible. And, even if you go through the judge, it won’t be any quicker.’

Daquin allowed some time to elapse.

‘Wednesday at 10, at the 10th arrondissement Local Squad police station, passage du Désir, Paris 10th, Commissaire Daquin’s office.’

He hung up, and sat motionless for a while, staring fixedly at the phone. It wasn’t going to be easy.

A whole morning waiting in a police Renault 5 in front of Martens’ place: an old building, with little renovation done, just above Belleville Park. Undoubtedly, one of the prettiest views in Paris. Radio, crossword, a whole morning was a bloody long time. Martens came out of his place, on foot, sober and classically elegant in suit and tie. A few dozen metres on he went into a restaurant on the corner of rue Piat and rue des Envierges. Greeted like an old customer. Table reserved by the window. He ordered a bottle of champagne. A ravishing young woman arrived, with raven hair and very dark eyes. A warm vivacious face. She took off her long grey coat and underneath was an extremely clinging, extremely orange dress. Romero whistled in admiration. Lunch was washed down with a fair amount of booze, and apparently very happy. Outside it was chilly and miserable, nothing to eat. Romero asked himself, was this really the job I should have taken up?

They went back. Arm in arm to Martens’. This guy was a bastard – a lucky bastard. Romero took advantage of the slack period to have a sandwich.

With Santoni, unmarked car, destination Chantilly. Daquin didn’t take long to spot the car following them. It wasn’t a Citroën this time but a Peugeot 405. The tailing was well done, more discreet than the day before. The traffic was thicker though.

Daquin stopped outside a tobacconist’s, noted the 405’s number when it passed by him. Then he continued to the Club du Lys, without bothering about it any more. Santoni hadn’t noticed anything.

They arrived at the Club du Lys. Daquin hated golf clubs. His childhood came back to him sickeningly. All those weekends when he’d been left on his own in luxurious, pseudo-English venues. Stop, now. Think of something else. One migraine a week was enough.

Lestiboudois spotted them and walked towards them. A small, good-natured man with white hair, amiable and rotund, in a beige wool and doeskin jacket over a dark brown sports shirt and
matching
velour trousers. He guided them towards the dining-room. A reserved table, a little apart, near a big bay window. White
table-cloths
, muted service. Aperitifs? Daquin ordered a margarita, Santoni a whisky, like Lestiboudois.

Daquin sat down, his back to the bay window, so that he wouldn’t have to look at the artificially green golf links and the meticulously shaped yellow bunkers. He remembered a Sunday when he was a child, at the golf club bar in St Cloud, his father in an immense leather armchair, drinking whisky and going over the match he’d just played, blow by blow, with a human warmth he reserved exclusively for this sport.

He’d scored eight above par, as a Sunday amateur, who normally reached a score of between fifteen and eighteen. The match of his life. And all this while his mother was dying from the effects of a clever cocktail of medicines. When they returned home she was dead. And little Théo always thought his father knew. That’s why he’d played so well that day. And I was used as his alibi, Daquin thought.

Lestiboudois placed his hand on Daquin’s forearm.

‘Everything OK?’

‘Everything’s fine, Monsieur Lestiboudois. To be perfectly frank with you, I have a bit of trouble imagining you romping in front of the cameras at the Club Simon.’

‘You’re quite right. I’ve never lain on one of those beds.’

The maître d’hôtel arrived. ‘Mixed grills. With a chilled Saumur.’

‘Explain to me then, why pay out all this money every month?’

‘I run the export department in a big French firm which sells cosmetics and beauty products.’

‘We know.’

‘As such, I have to entertain foreign customers who come from the whole world over to sign very big contracts with us. Paris has a certain reputation. When they get here, they want …’ hesitations, shame? ‘Let’s be clear, they want ass. Places like the Folies Bergère, the Crazy Horse, don’t match up to our customers’
expectations
any more. They may be OK for a Chrysler dealer from Iowa or Danish peasants, but not for the type of person we’re dealing with. The specialized networks of call-girls for businessmen, who provide very pretty girls, multilingual, able to accompany other
clients
to dinners or the theatre and sleep with them afterwards, they’re quite good. We use some of them. But the Club Simon, believe me, is an inspired idea. We found some superb models there, models our clients have sometimes already seen as photos in magazines, who can give the illusion of being a bit amateur. And then, this kind of secret, members only, pseudonyms, a key, it’s exciting. And the video … they leave with it and they’re enchanted. A really personalized souvenir – and not corny – of Gay Paree. Some, who’ve come several times before, arrive with their own video tape recording, with a list of credits already prepared. I think the Club Simon has helped us clinch several enormous
international
contracts. A good investment.’

‘Was it your company who paid?’

‘Of course. Included in general expenses. I accompany our
clients
, check that everything’s going well, and then leave.’

‘What pseudonym do you use?’

‘Homer. I believe more or less all the pseudonyms are taken from Ancient Greece.’

‘Good. Now, let’s go on to the girls you’ve used. In fact, were there only girls?’

‘No. Not always.’ Lestiboudois was pink with confusion.

‘Let’s dwell on the girls. Who acted as the go-between?’

‘Simon gave us the name and address of a Virginie Lamouroux. I’d phone her several days in advance. I’d say to her more or less what we needed, and she’d look after everything. That
arrangement
’s always been perfect. And a lot cheaper than the classic
call-girl
networks.’

‘How were payments made?’

‘In our case, we came to an agreement that the girls shouldn’t ask for anything direct from the clients. They’d send their invoices straight to our company the following day. I’d check everything. If there were any disputes, I’d settle it with Virginie. A marvellous girl,
commissaire
. So, these are rather specialized activities for her so she can finance her studies, you know.’

‘Yes, I do know. She wants to be a museum curator. So, how d’you contact her?’

‘By phone. I would leave a message on an answering machine. She’d always call me back during the day. As for paying, she’d send me her invoice and I’d send the payment to her postal address.’

‘And would that also come under general business expenses in your company?’

‘Of course.’

‘A few supplementary questions: who put you in touch with the Club Simon?’

‘M. Hershel, an industrialist, a whizz-kid in microcomputing. A sector which is also very open to international competition.’

‘Have you sometime used the services of young Thai girls?’

‘I don’t think so. Our requirement is to make it a “Parisian” experience.’

‘Did you rent a studio on the evening of Friday 29 February?’

‘No,
commissaire
. We always rent on weekdays. Our clients return home at weekends.’

‘To their family –?’

‘Precisely, to their family.’

‘Were drugs being used at these get-togethers?’

‘Not that I know of.’ Lestiboudois had turned pink again. ‘But it’s not impossible. I wasn’t there.’

‘Come on. You don’t have to pussyfoot. This is a private conversation.’

‘Some clients have hinted about it to me. They simply told me that the girls procured all the substances they could possibly want. All you had to do was ask. I pretended not to understand.’

‘And on the invoices?’

‘It never appeared.’

‘Not as such, but in another form perhaps?’

‘Well, yes. Some invoices were larger than others, and I once asked Virginie Lamouroux why. She gave me a list of products that our clients had been provided with that evening. After that I never asked any more questions.’

‘And what were those products?’

‘Pot and LSD, on that day. Listen,
commissaire
, I’m aware that all this isn’t exactly legal or very moral. But we’re fighting a real
economic
war. We can’t allow our business ventures to fade away in the face of foreign competition. It’d be like weakening France herself.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Monsieur Lestiboudois. If I wanted, I might take the same tack in your shoes.’

‘An ice-cream? A coffee?

‘Thank you for everything, Monsieur Lestiboudois.’

*

Back to the office. Santoni driving. Daquin in the passenger seat. Silence.

‘Lavorel will get a real kick out of that when I tell him.’ And a few kilometres further on. ‘People who play golf are capable of anything.’

Santoni looked puzzled.