Rough Trade (2 page)

‘Hallo. Police station, 10th arrondissement here.’

‘Is that the police?’ A strong foreign accent.

‘Yes,
monsieur
.’

‘Come quickly. I’ve found a body. A girl, in my workshop.’

Thomas and Santoni walked in through the porch of 43 rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin. Left staircase. Third floor. No elevator of course. The entrance door was ajar. They knocked. Immediately, a man was there to meet them, obviously very upset.

‘Local Squad. Was it you who just called the police?’

‘Yes. Come in.’

And there in the dark entryway, twenty or so pairs of red linen gypsy pants were piled on the floor. The man picked them up. Underneath was the body of a very young woman, almost a child, of Asiatic origin: completely naked, lying on her back. Thomas went over to her and bent down. Death leaves no room for doubt. He tried lifting one of her arms. Must have happened more than twenty-four hours earlier. Bluish marks on her neck. Probably caused by strangulation. He looked a bit closer. With bare hands.

‘Was it you who found her?’

‘Yes.’ Said nervously.

‘Santoni, call Crime.’

Thomas took a look around the apartment. The entryway,
cluttered
with rolls of fabric and plastic. A corridor led into the two fairly light main rooms which overlooked the courtyard. Inside the two rooms, five big wooden tables fixed to the floor, spattered with different stains, twenty or so solid iron chairs, electric cables
hanging
here and there from the ceiling, huge neon striplights. And two old, somewhat dilapidated sewing-machines. On the other side of the corridor, a kitchen. White tiles. Sink, hot and cold water. Fridge, cooker. Formica table. Everything sparkling clean. Not a plate in sight. Seemingly absent-mindedly Thomas opened the fridge. It was full of vegetables, cheeses, drinks. Under the sink, the bin had been emptied and washed. Beyond the kitchen were two very dark recesses, perhaps an old bathroom, a small bedroom.

Then he concentrated his attention on the man who’d phoned them. His name was Bostic. He was Yugoslav, he rented the
apartment
and managed the workroom.

‘When did you find the body?’

‘When I opened the workroom, this afternoon.’

‘Why not this morning?’

‘There was the strike. I found the body, there, under the gypsy pants. I sent the workers home and phoned the police. I haven’t touched a thing.’

Thomas groaned.

*

Shortly afterwards, the officers from the Crime Squad arrived and took over. Specialists, the investigating magistrate,
*
photographs of the body, transport to the morgue … Thomas handed over the first statements made by Bostic, without comment.

‘What should we do then, with him?’

‘I’d like him to be held in custody with the Local Squad. That way, you have him at hand for further questioning tomorrow if you want. And we’d like to ask him a few questions ourselves on how his workroom’s run. Working without work permits, I’m certain. Just one Yugoslav, that’s not taking any risks.’

‘OK. Can you think of anything else you want to tell us?’

Thomas glanced enquiringly at Santoni.

‘Not me. You?’

‘No, nothing.’

Once Bostic was in custody, Thomas turned to Santoni.

‘What d’you think?’

‘He found the body this morning when he opened his workshop.’

‘Agreed.’

‘That gave him almost eight hours to spare.’

‘Just about.’

‘Before phoning us, he sold his machines, so we couldn’t seize them. It’s a workroom for illegal immigrants.’

‘Right again.’

‘It’s a normal sort of set-up for the Sentier, fairly grubby. But not the kitchen. Did you see how it was all spick and span? That’s where the workers eat and drink all the time in sweatshops like that. Even when it’s well run, it’s never as clean as that.’

‘So what shall we do?’

‘We’ll go back there, try to find what it was he cleaned up and threw away. And not a word to those smart alecs in Crime.’

*

The building had a concierge, apron over shapeless dress, and check carpet slippers. After two beers and a quarter of an hour’s rambling conversation, Thomas and Santoni learned that in fact Bostic put the bags of rubbish out at 10 a.m. Two blue bags.

*

An old sheet was spread out on the ground in the yard, under the timed light. The two men took off their jackets, rolled up their sleeves and emptied the first of the building’s three dustbins. They had to press the light switch every three minutes, open up the waste bags one after the other, sort out the household rubbish, bits of rag, newspapers, empty bottles. Everything had to be examined much more closely since they didn’t know what they were looking for. Perhaps, for the best – when you knew what you were looking for, you risked making a judicial error, so my chief told me when I began in this business. No risk of that here.

The concierge arrived to cast an eye every now and again. First dustbin: nothing. All the jumble of rubbish had to be put back. Second bin: nothing. Third bin: contents which could have come from Bostic’s kitchen, like the other sacks. Coffee grounds, paper plates, wrapping paper, stale bread. And two strong plastic bags of a good size, transparent, empty. Thomas stood up. Along the joints was a very fine white powder. Very carefully he took a speck on his index finger, and tasted it with the tip of his tongue. Smiled at Santoni. This was it. Heroin.

It’s already dark. Soleiman walks briskly down avenue
Jean-Moulin
, dives into a porch and enters the villa des Artistes,
muttering
. Third house on the right amidst a jumble of greenery, big studio window, white blinds lit from behind. An outside lantern glows above the entrance. He rings twice, pushes the door, enters and locks it behind him. A large spacious room, spotlights almost everywhere, leather, wood, a mezzanine in the shadows. A man is busy in a kitchenette at the back of the room behind a wooden counter. The kitchen’s very modern, tiled in shades of ochre. The man’s about thirty-five, rather handsome square face, well-built type once, a Rugby three-quarter, brown eyes and hair. In jeans and polo neck, bare feet.

‘Ah, congratulations. Your meeting was a success, well beyond all your expectations. My chums weren’t anticipating that – quite honestly, they didn’t know what to do.’

‘We said you didn’t meddle in that sort of thing and you’d left me
carte
blanche
.’

‘But I didn’t meddle, did I. Congratulations.’

‘Leave off. I can manage without your congratulations.’

‘OK, OK. let’s get down to business. You’ve seen loads of people today. Now, do you have something for me?’

‘Possibly. Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin, near the boulevard, on the left as you go up, there’s a Turkish sandwich shop. A tiny little shop, with a counter right on the street. The Kurds say that that’s where the Turks are peddling drugs.’

‘I know where you mean. I’ll put it under surveillance tomorrow morning. It may be our first lead, after a month of floundering around …’ Going back to the kitchenette. ‘It’s ready. Lay the table.’

‘I’m not staying for dinner. I’ve friends to see.’

‘Soleiman. Stop messing me around. You can go and see
whoever
you want, but afterwards. You’re dining with me, because I want to fuck you after I’ve eaten, not before.’ And, with a big smile: ‘And there’s no need to look so grim all the time. It doesn’t put me off; quite the reverse, it gives me the feeling I’m forcing you, and that I find exciting.’

Daquin had stopped off in a café right opposite the sandwich bar, which had just opened. The sandwich place was somewhat basic. Just a deep narrow passageway, with a counter all down one side and a cramped street frontage, completely open today as the
weather
was fine. No tables or chairs. Three men were busy behind the counter. At the back were a door and hatch through to the kitchen. Customers were forever coming and going – all Turkish, on first impression. Sandwiches, salads, coffees, teas, rakis, beers. No one seemed to stay for any length of time. A duff lead?

‘Another coffee please.’

Once the early morning rush was over, the clientele quietened down. People standing at the counter chatted for longer. Every so often, someone went right to the back of the shop, passed behind the counter and from there into the kitchen, then came out again. Must check if there’s any significance in this.

Daquin walked up to the Local Squad’s headquarters in passage du Désir. It was there, on the third and final floor, of a small brick and stone building, jammed into a tiny scruffy street in the 10th
arrondisssement
, that Daquin and his team were installed: a meeting room had been turned into an office for the duration of their
investigation
. They were a small
ad
hoc
team, whose remit from the head of the Drugs Squad was to explore any leads to an eventual ‘Turkish trail’, following tip-offs from the German police. Large bright room with sloping ceiling, two metal desks – one for Daquin, the other for his inspectors,
*
two upright armchairs, six chairs, an oval table, two typewriters, two telephones and a small sink, a stove, a coffee-machine. On one side two big windows
overlooking
the courtyard, on the other, a glass door on to a calm, light corridor. It was a makeshift den, but pleasant.

Daquin’s two inspectors were waiting for him. On the surface Attali and Romero appeared much the same. They’d grown up together in a council block on the Belle-de-Mai estate in Marseilles. They were the same age – around twenty-five – and both wore bomber jackets, jeans and basketball boots. But Attali had been the good boy, top of his class, quickly passing his inspector’s exam, so he could support his mother and sisters, who’d been having a hard time. He was serious, polite, boring. Romero’s childhood and
adolescence
had teetered on delinquency. He was a handsome guy: regular features, jet-black hair. But he’d abused his physique. He’d passed his inspector’s exam at the same time as Attali, purely as a challenge, and perhaps because of a secret wish to be up and off. It was the first time that, after three years in the business, they’d teamed up together under Daquin’s leadership, as from a month ago. When Daquin came in, they were playing noughts and crosses.

He cast a disillusioned glance in their direction, made himself a coffee, then said: ‘I’ve some work for you. A Turkish sandwich shop, at the bottom of rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin, very near here. It’s to be put under surveillance – with cameras. It’s a lead from one of our snouts. No way you can use a vehicle. If you have to stay several days, you’ll be spotted right away. Might be better, perhaps, to find a window in the building opposite. Take complete responsibility for mounting this operation. I want photos – not of all the customers of course, but all the ones who go right into the shop and pass behind the counter. See the Super at the 10th
arrondissement
: Meillant’s his name. He’s been told about our team. He’s been in this neck of the woods at least twenty years. Knows everybody. He’ll certainly be able to help you.’

*

Once the two inspectors had left, Daquin delved into the
newspapers
. He was convinced that part of the solution to the problem was back there, in the countries of origin, and he needed to understand what was going on there. With the Ayatollah Khomeini
coming
to power, always making trouble, US hostages in Tehran, the extreme right and extreme left slaughtering each other in Turkey at the rate twenty deaths a day, and now Soviet intervention in Afghanistan, reading the papers was a lengthy business.

It was here that the Defence Committee for Turks in France had found a base. A small windowless office in the basement of the parish hall next to the church.

Today, the day after the demo, it was like a tidal wave. The
narrow
dark corridors of the ground floor were swamped with Turks who wanted to join the Committee. Soleiman made each new member answer an anonymous questionnaire. How many hours a day d’you work at present? In the off-season? Wages? When, why did you change your job? Family? How long have you lived here? Lodgings? Who’s the landlord? What rent d’you pay? Four packed pages of questions, in Turkish and French. Men were sitting around all over the place, in the corridors, the yard, assiduously filling in their questionnaire. And supposing, by some miracle, it might come in useful for something? Soleiman read through them all again, discussing items with each person, explaining or filling in gaps, if questions hadn’t been understood properly. He was here for everyone, listening attentively. He’d never sat behind a
sewing-machine
himself, had lived on his wits, always, while he’d been in Paris, photographing tourists at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, selling popcorn, roast chestnuts, and here he was becoming a specialist on work problems in the rag trade.

There were rumours that a black market in membership cards had already started in the Sentier. Sold to the Committee at 16 francs, they were being sold on at 100 francs in workrooms where there were people unwilling, or too scared, to show their faces
outside
. For the Turks, these were the first official documents they’d had in France. It was said, and it was probably true, that some men had produced their card at an identity check in the Metro, and that the police had let them through.

Gradually, the wave of people reached the small windowless
office
. All the corridors on the ground floor stank of strong stale tobacco, the lino was spattered with fag ends and burn marks. So many people were milling around, they had to impose a one-way system with notices in Turkish. The lavatories were filthy and
overflowing
. The small, rather peaceful canteen was taken over and turned into a café open all hours, a smoking den. Priests and parishioners present in the building shut themselves away in their offices. Cohabitation was going to be difficult.

Negotiations with the office of the Secretary of State for
Immigrant
Workers would be opening the following day. The Committee was taking part. Brief confab. Soleiman was appointed,
unanimously
, to represent the Committee.

He could forget Daquin, breathe again. Soleiman left to chat up the girls on the boulevards.