Rough Trade (21 page)

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.

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.

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.

Romero was fast asleep. The telephone rang. He picked it up, grumbling. In a bad temper. Exhausting day yesterday, and he hadn’t slept all night, because of Daquin’s allusion to bent police officers. What had he meant? Impossible to say. He’d fallen into a deep sleep about 6 in the morning, barely two hours ago … What a job.

The voice belonged to Yildiz …

‘Did I wake you up, Romeo?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right, I’ll be quick. Today Turgut Sener is going to collect the diplomatic bag at Roissy, as he does every month. He’ll be leaving from boulevard Malesherbes about 10, in an embassy van.’

‘When are we going to have dinner together, Yildiz? I miss you.’

She laughed.

‘Ring me back when you’re in a better mood.’

Romero got up. A nearly cold shower, a litre of coffee. The
untidiness
of his apartment disgusted him. A little pile of white dust under the chair where he’d left his clothes the day before. Dirty crockery all over the place. Must get organized.

A clean sweatshirt, the last but one, jeans, trainers, a leather jacket. Must join his colleagues in the Drugs Squad.

The two inspectors, Romero and Marinoni, were waiting in an
unmarked
Renault 5 fifty metres away from the annex to the Turkish Embassy in boulevard Haussmann. Marinoni was very cheerful and told one funny story after another. Romero relaxed a little.

A small white van drove out from the embassy buildings. It was easy to follow, the traffic was flowing freely and they knew where it was going.

The van turned into the Customs transit car-park at Roissy airport. Romero let it go ahead for a few moments and then followed it into the supervised area, showing his police card. Sener remained nearly an hour in the Customs office, then he returned, along with a packer and a large sealed crate, on a trolley. It was manoeuvred into the van, which then left, followed by the two inspectors in their Renault 5. They returned to Paris without incident.

The van drove into the embassy garage in avenue de Lamballe.

Another wait. Marinoni went to have a drink in a café twenty metres away. Romero made notes about the various moves that had taken place in the morning, adding the exact times, then he started on the crosswords.

Sener reappeared at the wheel of a dark blue 205 with a Paris registration. He drove towards the city centre. At that time of day it was still not difficult to follow a vehicle. Sener parked on a
pedestrian
crossing in rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis, got out of the 205 and took from the back seat a plastic bag from
FNAC
which seemed to contain a rectangular box. Romero remained at the wheel and Marinoni followed Sener on foot.

Marinoni came back.

‘Sener’s sitting at a table in the Brasserie Flo in cour des
Petites-Ecuries
, along with a woman of about fifty. They seem to know each other well. They’ve ordered lunch, they’ll be there for some time. Let’s go and have a bite to eat too, I’m really starving.’

It took twenty minutes to swallow some hot food in a brasserie in rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis, while keeping an eye on the
entrance
to cour des Petites-Ecuries. Then they walked slowly towards the Brasserie Flo, talking as they did so.

Sener came out with the woman whom Marinoni had seen earlier. Fairly average, about fifty, tall and slightly plump, chestnut hair, permed and tinted, discreet make-up, classic suit. No time wasted on her appearance, but well groomed. Now she was carrying the
FNAC
bag. They separated in rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis. He
embraced
her, kissing her lightly on the lips, then, in stylish fashion, kissed her hand, with meaningful implications.

‘I assume that Sener’s the old girl’s lover.’

‘Looks like it.’

She turned right, followed by Marinoni. Sener went back to his car, with Romero after him, absent-mindedly stuffed the parking ticket in his raincoat pocket and drove off. Romero followed
without
difficulty.

Sener reached rue de la Procession, parked on a pedestrian
crossing
again and disappeared into the Immigration Office. Romero parked in his turn, just anywhere, and walked towards the 205. From the inside pocket of his jacket he took out a little file that he had modified for his personal use a few years ago when he was an adolescent in Marseilles. He glanced at the second hand on his watch, bent over the boot of the 205 with a very preoccupied air and tinkered with the lock, which gave way. He checked: forty-five seconds. Good. Despite lack of practice it could be done in less than a minute. He had one regret, however: his range was still very limited. French cars, Volkswagens … He would have liked to try American or Japanese cars. He’d never had the opportunity. The boot was empty. Romero closed it again and went back to sit in his car once more. Another hour-long wait. He was really fed up.

Sener came out of the Immigration Office with Martens. I could have taken a bet on it.

And they went off on foot. Romero followed them at a distance. They turned right, then left, stopped at Martens’ Renault 5, got in, drove off and left Romero behind.

When Romero came into the general office Santoni was beginning to describe his trip to Munich. He had found only ten or so young Thai girls who had been through Paris.

‘In Switzerland and Germany there’s a whole network of
specialized
cabarets and the girls don’t usually stay longer than six months in the same town. They have no money, never go out into the street, always travel from one town to another with a minder who holds their identity papers. After three or four years, when they’re “old”, they join the “normal” prostitution network or else they’re given an air ticket to fly back home. The police and the owners of the nightclubs pretend to believe they’re twenty years old, as stated on their passports, but the clients don’t get it wrong, and it’s really paedophiles who frequent those clubs. It saves them the expense of travelling to Thailand … The clubs are never empty. Enough said. Of the ten or so children who went through Paris seven had “worked” for the Club Simon and they identified five of the members. The retired Superintendent was the most assiduous. No comment. An entrepreneur, Lamergie, who’s already admitted having made use of them. Two deputies. And Kashguri. But he never had sex with them. He watched while other men did. Obviously I took statements in the official way. But in a few months’ time it will certainly be difficult to find those girls. There. It’s all in my report and the statements are attached.’

‘Good work, thank you. Here, as far as the mannequins are
concerned
, we’re marking time. Thomas will tell you about it. Have your weekend off, you’ll need at least two days to get over all that Swiss-German cleanliness.’

*

Daquin remained alone with Romero.

‘I’ve already had a call from Marinoni. The woman he followed from the Brasserie Flo went up into the Berican workroom in
passage
de l’Industrie.’

Romero was very surprised.

‘Could she be Paulette? Moreira’s friend?’

‘It’s possible. Marinoni’s still over there. And what about you?’

‘Sener went to see Martens at the Immigration Office and I lost track of them when they left in Martens’ car, after 4 o’clock. Before that I took a look, unofficially of course, into the boot of Sener’s car. It was empty. Has Marinoni spoken to you about the
FNAC
plastic bag?’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t go in to question the staff at the Brasserie Flo. I was waiting for the green light from you. If those two are good clients the owners could possibly warn them.’

‘You did right. Forget Flo. We’ve better things to do. Romero, tomorrow it’ll be the Berican workroom.’

*

In front of Daquin was a telex sent to him during the afternoon by the head of the Drugs Squad. The reply from the wife of the
director
of the French Institute for Anatolian Studies. Fifty or so names. Personal remarks against some of them.
Grumpy.
Dirty.
Good-
looking
.
The director’s wife had enjoyed herself. Only one name meant anything to Daquin: Kutluer.
Already
middle-aged.
Pity
.

And then, right at the end:

‘
At
the
last
Erwin
dinner
I
had
long
discussions
with
a
woman
whose
name
isn
’
t
on
the
list
,
because
she
was
only
passing
through
,
Erwin
told
me.
Anna
Eerie.
She
’
s
beautiful
,
intelligent
and
cultured.
And
I
don
’
t
know
her
address
.’

Madame, one day I’ll go to Istanbul to thank you.