Rough Trade (17 page)

Romero was lying on his bed. He was leafing through a strip
cartoon
book without reading it, to pass the time, waiting for a
reasonable
moment to phone his distant cousin at the Turkish embassy. A glass of whisky to give himself courage and then, time to make a move! The phone was ringing.

‘Hallo.’

He recognized the voice.

‘
Bonjour
, Yildiz.’ Romero spoke into the phone.

‘Oh, I’m so glad to hear you, Romeo. I thought you’d never call me.’

Her voice was serious, and the accent could pass for charming, but the lady had the nasty habit of calling him ‘Romeo’.

‘Are you alone in your office?’

‘At this moment I am.’ With a laugh. ‘Why? Want to join me here?’

‘Don’t laugh at me, Yildiz. Do you know Turgut Sener?’

‘Yes, very well. He’s the Social Affairs attaché at the embassy. And we work in the same place, in the annex at boulevard Malesherbes. Would you like me to introduce you?’

‘No, not really, I’ve come across him in the course of my work.’ A moment’s silence. ‘It might be embarrassing if he knew I’ve been asking questions about him.’ Romero felt bogged down. ‘Yildiz, would you like it if we had dinner together? It would be much easier to talk about all this in a normal voice.’

‘Yes. I’d be delighted.’

‘What about this evening, at eight-thirty at the Hippopotamus in boulevard des Italiens?’

‘I’ll be there, Romeo.’

Romero hung up, very ill at ease.

Attali, who’d only ever known Algiers when he was a little kid, then Marseilles and Paris, didn’t feel at home in the unhurried half silence of the real provinces. Monsieur Lamouroux was a chemist in rue Jeanne d’Arc, Orleans’ main street. He’d perhaps go and see him in a while. But for now he had an appointment with Madame Lamouroux, waiting for him at home in boulevard de Verdun, a short step from the station. A broad tree-lined boulevard, almost deserted at this end of a rainy morning. A large, affluent-looking, turn of the century house, surrounded by a small garden. No
buzzer
, a real bell instead. A charming woman opened the door and waited for him at the top of the steps. In her fifties, smiling, permed grey hair, little dark brown suit, pink blouse. Attali would have liked to protect her from her wayward daughter. She took him into the
salon,
obviously anxious behind her smile. She’d had no news for several days, but this wasn’t out of the ordinary, so why the police?

‘As I said on the phone, we’re looking for your daughter as a witness in an important and dangerous case. She’s no longer living at her usual address in Paris and hasn’t shown any sign of life to anyone since Friday. It’s possible that she would have tried to
disappear
when she understood the kind of business she’s become involved in. It would be better for her if we’re the ones who find her first.’

‘And what sort of case is it?’ A very small voice.

‘Drugs and procuring. Minors are involved.’

‘Virginie! She’s such a serious, gentle girl. Our only daughter. She writes to us every week. And comes to see us once, even twice a month.’

‘When was the last time she came?’

‘On 6 March. She came for dinner and left the following morning.’

‘Did she mention a trip abroad she’d just made?’

‘No. Not at all. She told us about her studies. Everything was going very smoothly. She seemed certain of finishing soon.’

Her room had flowery wallpaper with bunches of roses, pink
curtains
at the window, a pink flounced bedspread, a single bed, fluffy animals. A small veneered desk and shelves full of books:
Stories
and
Legends
, a collection of Classics on one side; Balzac in the Pléiade edition, Stendhal, Flaubert, on the other. Attali gazed,
transfixed
. He remembered what Sobesky had said: so it was no pure and simple lie. VL was simultaneously a well-mannered student from the provinces in this pink bedroom and a drug-ridden procuress in the Club Simon. He had a flash of intuition: if she had a secret, it was here he was going to find it, in this young girl’s bedroom, to which she’d come on 6 March, when she returned from New York.

‘Madame, would you give me permission to have a bit of a look through your daughter’s room?’

‘Certainly,
inspecteur
. But don’t make it untidy. I shall leave you. I’m going to prepare lunch. Will you stay and have some with me,
inspecteur
?’

He began with the desk. Bank statements. Orléans branch. Her income from modelling apparently, between 6,000 and 7,000 francs a month, in several payments. ‘She poses for fashion shots, she pays for all her studies, you know. She never asks us for a sou.’ Nothing else. The expenses of a young girl in Paris. A few fairly old letters. Attali made a note of the correspondents’ names. A small address book: all in Orléans and surrounding districts. Attali took it even so. Leave nothing to chance. School photos, holiday snaps of course, her first date perhaps. Nothing which seemed to have any bearing on her life in Paris.

He returned to the desk drawers, nothing was stuck underneath. The fluffy animals he examined one by one, felt them, found
nothing
. He lifted the mattress, gently tapped the walls, feeling faintly ridiculous, opened the windows, shook the curtains, opened books, searched the bedside table – it was empty.

Discouraged, he sat on the bed. Lay down, as if taking a nap, did some hard thinking. Imagined VL, sleeping here. Stretching out her arm, switching on the bedside light. It had a deep pink shade, a very beautiful light. He looked at the pedestal of the lamp: a cylinder of translucent glass filled with different coloured marbles. He turned off the light, unscrewed the fitting on which the bulb was mounted, tipped up the glass marbles on to the bed. And there, hidden amongst all the marbles, were cut diamonds. About twenty of them. He couldn’t possibly have got it wrong. With his heart beating, he sat for a moment thinking. Then he left the room, leaned over the banister of the stairs, listened to the sounds of cooking and crockery coming from the ground floor, and called Madame Lamouroux.

She came upstairs quickly, looking anxious. He placed a hand on her shoulder and asked her to come in. She took a diamond in her hand, looked at it, gave it back.

‘Is this my daughter’s?’

‘Yes, and, what’s more, I found them inside the bedside lamp.’ She was completely thrown.

‘Madame Lamouroux, I don’t understand any more than you do what these diamonds are doing here. If I go through the normal legal procedure to have them valued, not only is that going to take time, but everybody’s going to know about them. That would do your daughter no good when she returns.’

‘I really don’t want my husband to know anything about this.’

‘Bring the diamonds, and come with me to Paris. We’re going to question a number of people. As soon as we know what these stones have to say, you can come back here with them, and I’ll continue my investigation. It’s quicker and more discreet. Don’t you agree?’

‘How many days will it take?’

‘I really don’t know. Say two at the most.’

‘Leave me a bit of time to get ready. We’ll go in my car after lunch …’

The instructions were clear. Today, tomorrow or later, a stranger would introduce himself into Commissaire Daquin’s house, stay for ten minutes or so and leave. He would be left to do what he wanted and would then be followed. Absolute discretion was
required
. It was, in principle, an easy job, at the beginning at least. The estate had only one entrance, through the porch of the
building
on avenue Jean-Moulin. Daquin’s house was being watched from the stairs of the building by Inspector Conrad, two other inspectors were waiting for his signal in the avenue to start the tail.

The estate was very quiet, seemed deserted. A smallish man, very broad shouldered, black hair cut short, went through the porch, down the pathway between the houses, stopped in front of Daquin’s door. It was obvious he had the keys. Conrad sauntered out into avenue Jean-Moulin, that being the agreed signal which would put Inspectors Allard and Zanetta on alert, a few dozen metres away, and came back into the estate. Hardly was he under the porch when he heard a woman screaming. It seemed to come from Daquin’s house. His initial reaction was to pull out his
revolver
. But that was absolutely not on. The instructions were clear: whatever happened, the ‘target’ must not suspect he’s being
followed
by cops. He began to run, heard windows opening behind him in the building which overlooked the estate. The door of the house was half open now. Without slowing down Conrad pushed it. Carried in by his thrust, he knocked against a body, slipped and went head first. And was given a thwack by a perfectly tailored cuff at the base of his skull, without him ever even seeing his aggressor. He crumpled, lights flashing before his eyes.

When he was at last able to stand on his feet again, he was alone beside a woman’s body stretched out full-length, face down. A
puddle
of blood, as deep as a pool, was slowly and steadily spreading around her. A pile of clean laundry had fallen to the ground. A white towelling dressing-gown was slowly soaking up the blood. Conrad ran out. There was no one on the estate, and in the avenue, Allard and Zanetta were still waiting for his signal.

On Daquin’s desk was Steiger’s telex: B. officially dropped out in 1975. Before 1970, he was in Islamabad, and from 70 to 75 in Tehran. His name then was Edward Thompson.

*

The photo team came by at about five: there was no one at the sandwich bar any more. The surveillance was stopped. A good job that no one had tried to retrace the network from there …

*

‘Lavorel. Time for coffee. Tell me, are your bosses at Finance still waiting for your first written report? Aren’t they getting impatient?’

‘I’m working relentlessly. I’m accumulating the files. Bring me Anna Berk and you’ll have one of the most colourful trials in the annals of Finance.’

‘I need you.’

‘I don’t doubt it. You only ever offer me a coffee when you need me.’

Daquin smiled.

‘What’s that, Lavorel? You starting a protest movement?’

‘No, no,
monsieur
le
commissaire
, just stating a fact.’

‘The Euroriencar business, with its registered offices in Munich, branch in France, at Gennevilliers. What can you find out about it? Fast, obviously.’

‘I’ve made a note of it,
patron
.’

‘And now, what about Meillant? Have you seen him?’

‘Last Friday, at length. He knows the Sentier like nobody’s
business
. But he won’t give me any real help, most probably because he’s up to his neck in it, or because he’s protecting others who are.’

‘I know all that … another coffee?’

Lavorel pushed his empty cup over to Daquin, who rose and made two more coffees.

‘And he already knows that he mustn’t delay to be still in the running.’

‘Explain more.’

‘He’s taking a gamble on the success of the fight in progress in favour of giving the Turks permits. That’s going to make quite a big change to the networks and circuits put in place in the 1960s. And now the Chinese are beginning to move in. Meillant doesn’t want a brush with them.’

‘Lavorel, you see what I’m driving at?’

‘Of course. You’re going to lean on Meillant to get Anna Beric back. A lot depends on what you have up your sleeve, but it could work.’

*

Telephone.

‘Théo?’

‘Yes, chief.’

‘You must return to your house, urgently. The concierge of the estate has just been stabbed at your place, in your entrance hall.’

The concierge died on arrival at the hospital. Daquin, seated on his sofa, was exasperated and ill at ease. He would have to go and see the family. He didn’t even know if she had one. To be truly honest, he couldn’t even remember exactly what she looked like any more. It was far from satisfactory. Cops and various specialists were
milling
in all directions, in his home, in his house. Unbearable. A scent of haste and mess. He drank one coffee after another. Gradually the house emptied. Till only the Drugs chief, Conrad and the two inspectors from Crime who were responsible for the case remained. Daquin offered them a drink. Everyone sat down. The chief explained very succinctly to the two inspectors from Crime the reasons why Daquin’s house was under surveillance, and asked them to omit all this aspect in their written reports. Daquin explained: ‘The concierge had my keys. She came to work every morning, she did everything, housework, laundry. She didn’t usually come in the afternoon, she worked somewhere else, and the murderers probably knew that. But today she most probably stopped by to drop off the clean laundry.’ Flashback to Soleiman’s dressing-gown, dripping with blood.

Conrad had seen nothing. Just the man from behind. Thickset. They must systematically question the whole neighbourhood,
apartments
and houses. Windows had been opened when the concierge screamed. Perhaps someone had seen the man running away? It was their only lead. Fingerprints would show nothing. The man would have been wearing gloves for certain. They would have to wait for the autopsy report. Essentially, it would confirm that the woman had died from being stabbed by a knife which had ripped her open from the base of the abdomen right up to the sternum. But they would possibly also learn things about the nature of the weapon and the assassin’s technique.

*

Daquin and his chief were alone. Daquin, still in a bad mood.

‘You could send Inspector Conrad to work with the group in Marseilles. I don’t want to see him any more. I agree with what the press says. The system for training police officers must be changed completely.’

‘Théo, give me a whisky and when you’ve finished blowing your top, tell me how we’re going to proceed.’

‘I think that we can now dismiss the theory of a set-up by colleagues …’

‘I really hope so.’

Daquin groaned, without specifying what he was thinking at that moment.

‘In any case, after a cock-up like this, the traffickers, if it is them, won’t continue putting the pressure directly on me. That would be a bit too risky for them. And, to encourage them along this route, I’d like to be given constant visible protection, an armed policeman at my door, a surveillance vehicle nearby. I hope that that isn’t going to last long. And they should check my phone isn’t being tapped, at my office and at home.’

*

As soon as his boss had left, Daquin went out to call Soleiman from a phone box. It was ten in the evening. No reply. He went home and to bed, without eating.