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Authors: Dominique Manotti

Tags: #Crime, #Detective and Mystery Fiction

Rough Trade (3 page)

BOOK: Rough Trade
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7 p.m. Drugs Squad
 

‘Our first leads at last,
patron
. But there’re a few fairly significant points I’d like to talk to you about, which aren’t in the written report.’

‘I’m listening, Théo. I’ve all the time in the world. My wife’s off skiing, and I’m a bachelor just like you. Whisky?’

‘No thanks. I’d like a vodka though, if you have one. When you formed my team a month ago, we had a clear objective. It was to be a very limber, loose sort of group, set up to look for leads. You promised me you’d fill it out in due course as we progressed, or have the Paris Drugs Squad take up certain files. Does this still apply?’

‘Sure.’

‘Good. For nearly a whole month now we’ve found nothing. We checked the names and info the Germans supplied and they don’t tally with anything of ours. Maybe the guys in question aren’t in France, or more probably we haven’t found any trace of their
presence
. Now Attali’s gone through all the police files on overdosing there’ve been in the last three months in the Paris area, to try to find any abnormal overdosing compared with the usual scenario, so we can track down eventual dealers. Good idea. Loads of work. Complete dead end. What’s more, our statistics don’t yet show any rise in deaths through overdosing, as the Germans’ do. It’s
probable
that Turkish opium isn’t yet operational. Our second line of attack was to nose around the Turkish communities in the area. Romero’s been mooching round the Turkish workers at
Citroën-Aulnay
. They’re very isolated – no contacts with the French, very confined. So, hardly likely there. I’ve kept the Sentier for myself. I wasn’t familiar with it at all, but I had a good sense of the place: right in the heart of Paris, an expanding immigrant population, and not illiterate peasants, but totally uncontrolled – neither by our police, nor by the immigration services. At the same time, there’s a move among the Turkish workers in the rag trade to get legal papers. I don’t know if you’ve been following this item in the newspapers?’

His chief gave a vague wave of the hand, which could have meant absolutely anything, accompanied by a large swig of whisky. Daquin found himself wondering if the Old Man was interested in anything he was saying. He had to overcome his feeling of
despondency
and carry on.

‘Seventeen Turks have been on hunger strike since last 11
February
. The people behind this strike are extreme left-wing militants. According to our German colleagues, if you recall, the drugs are in the hands of the extreme right. I’m going to hang around on the strikers’ side. I’ve had photos taken. I’ve asked our Turkish
colleagues
for reports on this whole community. And from their
responses
, I’ve chosen a guy who seems to me, let’s say, “vulnerable”. He’s here without any papers, under a false name. In Turkey, he’s labelled a militant in a very active ultra left-wing group. He’s been wanted since ’79 for the assassination of an
extreme
right-wing militant in Istanbul and close on the heels of that, for the murder of a cop who was chasing him. Not only that: between eighteen and twenty, he was arrested several times by the Istanbul police because he made a living as a prostitute in the tourist areas.’

His chief glanced over his glass. There, I’ve caught his interest, Daquin thought. He could swear that his eyes held a smile, but he chose to ignore both the smile and its innuendo.

‘He seemed to me to correspond exactly to the profile I was
looking
for. We provoked a brawl in a bistro where he hung out,
arrested
twenty or so guys, and dispersed them among the police stations in the arrondissement. The following day, my young
assassin
was in my office. There I forced him to accept or refuse: either he stirred himself and got me leads on drugs in the Sentier, or I sent him straight back to Turkey. It didn’t work right away. So, I threw in the bit about the drug network being controlled by the Turkish extreme right. If he gave me these tip-offs, I’d liquidate the extreme right, and then he could do what he liked with his mates: legalizing illegal workers, I don’t give a toss. I added a couple of remarks about what the effect would be if his mates found out he’d been a prostitute. I told him the Turkish police had sent us photos – which wasn’t true – but it worked. Yesterday, he gave me our first lead. But this morning two inspectors from the Local Squad in passage du Désir came to see me. Yesterday they found a body in a workroom in the Sentier, a girl of twelve or thirteen, a Thai,
probably
a prostitute. And, in the same workroom, two bags which had contained heroin – the purest sort – exactly what we’re looking for. About a kilo’s worth. Which could be the start of a second lead.’

‘Brilliant job, my dear Théo, and when all’s said and done, in record time. So, what is it you’re asking for?’

‘Well, first, I wanted to put you in the picture, as regards my snout, bearing in mind the current unrest among the Turkish workforce. Then, the body in the workroom. The workroom
manager
’s in police custody, but time’s running out for that, and the case belongs to Crime. I’d like to be able to keep the follow-up of the inquiry into this murder, since it’s probably linked to drug
trafficking
, and for that augment my team with the two inspectors from the Local Squad who’ve let us take part in it, and who’ve already been very impressive. We’ve everything to gain by this.’

‘It’s a reasonable request. We’ll extend police custody for your man, and I’ll give you an official reply as to the rest tomorrow; but, for my part, I agree. I should also tell you that the Marseilles team has drawn a complete blank. In spite of the, let’s say, “insistent” leads from the Americans. And in spite of promising beginnings. You remember that haul of six kilos of morphine-base found in the tyre of an Armenian’s car last December? Since, then, nothing – impossible to find where the network starts. We’ve just folded up the team. Daquin, don’t put your trust in appearances, don’t believe I haven’t listened to you with the utmost attention. I really like your approach to your work.’

*
In France an
inspector
is roughly equivalent to a detective or an American lieutenant.

3
W
EDNESDAY 5
M
ARCH
 
 
8 a.m. Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin
 

Attali took the first surveillance shift – from when the sandwich shop opened. They were in an apartment belonging to a patrolman from the 10th arrondissment police station, retired for almost
fifteen
years. It was Meillant, the Superintendent from the 10th, who introduced them. Third floor, almost opposite the shop. Two tiny rooms, but with two big windows on the street, massive dark wood furniture, small kitchen, bog and so forth: every modern comfort. Attali had sunk into a large high-backed armchair by the window, the telephoto lens trained on the shop entrance, a truly comfortable situation. The old man wandered into the room, in slippers, with the red puffy face of an inveterate alcoholic. He was as happy as Larry to take up with the service again, he said. He’d prepared some café au lait and croissants. Then, without any breathing space, the first pastis. Attali tried vainly to be an honourable drinker, but right after the coffee the pastis was a bit startling. And already smells of sautéed mutton and haricot beans were coming from the kitchen.

He photographed people coming out of the long passageway which formed the shop interior. A waste of time photographing those standing in front, out in the street, where there was a
permanent
huddle.

The old man rambled on about the decadence of the
neighbourhood
. It was better before; now there were wogs everywhere, you couldn’t understand what anybody was saying any more. The
camera
worked on steadily.

10 a.m. Rue Saint-Denis
 

If they had the chance to keep on the case, they would have to prove how efficient they were. A small Thai prostitute doesn’t fall out of the sky naked and strangled into a workroom in the Sentier. The forensic surgeon’s report said that the body had been moved after death. So, where had it come from?

A prostitute. Santoni knew the area well. He went into a porn shop which sold videos and various other accessories. A
bespectacled
pimply youth behind the counter didn’t even look up from his paper. Some customers – all male – were wandering between the shelves – sidelong glances, flushed cheeks, hands in pockets, not really relaxed. Santoni brandished his warrant card, said ‘Police’ in a loud voice and walked towards the pimply youth, who jumped and looked at him stupefied. When he reached the counter, he turned round: all the customers had vanished.

‘See. It’s easy to ruin your turnover.’

‘Why’re you doing this,
monsieur
?’

‘To set your brain ticking, scumbag. A Thai kid, twelve years old, a prostitute, was killed on Friday or Saturday, in this area.’ He placed a photo of the dead girl on the counter. ‘Thomas and I want to know who she is, and who did it. It’s in your interest to find out: if not, we’ll be obliged to search your premises. And you’re going to see me here more often than you’d wish. Raids, arrests,
interrogations
. The big stuff. Not good for your customers. Get it?’

‘I’ve never heard any mention of this girl,
inspecteur
.’

‘That’s not good enough. Understand? You’d better stir yourself. Keep the photo – that would help. You can meet me at lunchtime – Chez Mado.’

Santoni walked out without looking back. A bit further up the street, at the entrance to a narrow, dirty, very dark corridor, was a superb black woman: aged about twenty, in an extremely clinging short red skirt and tube top of the same colour – too short – you could see her navel. With the ghost of a smile, Santoni ran his hand up under her skirt, slipped it into her pants and gently pinched her fanny, as it’s said grandfathers used to pinch their grandchildren’s cheeks once upon a time.

‘Hi, Snow White, where’s your girlfriend?’

‘Upstairs. Don’t go up. She’s busy.’

‘Out of my way.’

He pushed her roughly aside and ran up the steep stairs, walked along the corridor, took a key from his pocket and without pausing opened the last door on the left. Small bed-sit, window on to the street, proper shower room to the left, big bed to the right, mirrors everywhere, on the ceiling and walls. A table at the foot of the bed on which a blonde lay outstretched, legs dangling. The client got to his feet, terrified.

‘Police.’ Santoni brandished his card. ‘Get dressed and hop it.’ The blonde sat up. A genuine blonde, a bit skinny, enormous breasts, pink rings round the nipples. ‘You can get dressed too. I’m taking you in.’

The client had already gone. He must have been doing up his flies as he ran down the corridor.

‘Wait. I might as well make the most of it. Play with me between your tits.’

And Santoni undid his trousers, standing in front of the door.

Once the girl had washed and dressed, Santoni passed her a photo of the little Thai girl and gave her some details.

‘You’ve two hours to ask around. I’m having lunch at Chez Mado. If I don’t have anything by the start of the afternoon, come this evening. I’m banging you up. Cold turkey for you. Understood?’

*

 

Thomas meanwhile, accompanied by five uniformed policemen, investigated one of the two Thai restaurants in the area. He made his presence known, brutally overturning tables, breaking a piece of china. A couple of smacks across the face for the owner, the staff lined up against the wall, the young cook (who had no papers) manhandled out of his hiding place under the kitchen table,
handcuffed
and attached to the coat rack by the entrance. Passers-by stared in, eyes popping.

‘Know this girl?’ Photo of the dead girl. ‘A girl from your own country. We want to know who she is, where she comes from. Find me details, and I’ll give you back your cook. Otherwise, he’s
deported
tomorrow, and the tax inspectors for you.’

Thomas and Santoni called this tactic ‘getting rid of the dead wood’.

12 a.m. Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin
 

After the fourth pastis, Attali ate the mutton sauté from a plate on his knees, and downed a bottle of Cahors with it, without leaving the window. At a rough guess, only Turks were going into the shop. Coffee and cognac. Attali caught himself hoping this cushy job wouldn’t last too long. The old boy went to have his siesta. Attali was nodding off too. The old boy was back, he was interested in the technology, was looking about, asking questions. It made his head reel even more than the pastis, but he had to remain friendly.

‘Why’re you only taking photos of the sandwich shop?’ the old boy asked.

‘Because we’re interested in the people working there. What else d’you think we should be photographing?’

‘Well, the accessory shop next door to it. (Shuttles, bobbins,
scissors
, sewing-machine repairs.) It’s owned by the same people. They’re either in one shop or the other, it depends on the time of day.’

‘How d’you know that?’

‘They’ve been there several months now, and we’ve had time to watch them, me and the owner of the bistro down there. They go from one shop to the other through the yard at the back: there’s a way through.’

Attali grouchily went on taking photos.

12 a.m. Rue de la Fidelité
 

Mado was an institution in the neighbourhood. An old prostitute, who’d moved over, with some style, into the restaurant business. Thomas went into the bar, behind which the ancient pimp and current husband sat enthroned, anaesthetized by alcohol fumes and abundant easy money. He’d served no useful purpose for a long time, but Mado was a woman of feeling and a faithful one at that.

Thomas greeted him politely, parted the thick red curtain which divided off the dining-room. Mado was there, her fifties all but faded away, a bottle blonde of Fellini proportions, tightly
constricted
in a tiny black skirt and pink angora top, and smothered in rings, bracelets and necklaces. With a Yorkshire terrier tucked
between
left forearm and bosom, she navigated her way between the tables to check they were properly laid.

Thomas placed his two hands on Mado’s buttocks. They were immense and firm, a foretaste of bliss.

‘Good morning, Big Boy. Table for later? Here, for two.’

She placed a small reservation card on it. Then led him by the arm towards the apartment just above the restaurant. Mado still slept with her ‘serious’ clients, but they no longer had to pay. After a bout of rumpy-pumpy she would automatically offer them a meal. Revenge? No one, in any case, would have dreamed of refusing. And especially Thomas, who adored big blondes, and who, Mado had convinced him, was an extraordinary lover. She had talent and a trade, and thought it best to stay on good terms with the cops.

*

 

At 1 p.m. Thomas walked downstairs into the dining-room, where Santoni was waiting. They sat down.

Mado came to sit at their table for a few minutes. It was here that they talked business. She would not have allowed Thomas to do it in the bedroom earlier on. A Thai girl of twelve, a prostitute, killed on Friday night/Saturday morning and whose body had been found in a rag trade workroom in rue Faubourg-Saint-Martin: did that mean anything to her? No. On first impulse, absolutely
nothing
. You’ve already rung a few bells in this area this morning? Well, perhaps that’s begun to have some effect. I’m going to see what I can pick up. A few swaying steps between the tables and Mado disappeared round by the bar.

She was an important person in local life. Everyone knew she talked to the police, but she stayed within the rules, within the accepted boundaries. She was recognized by everyone as an
indispensable
means of communication.

After a number of to-ings and fro-ings, Mado came back and signalled to the waiter: two coffees and two cognacs for these gentlemen.

‘Nothing on the girl herself. But there are people in the
neighbourhood
who work with Thailand and who can’t be totally legit. An agency which puts on shows, so-called. The Aratoff Ballets, in rue des Petites-Ecuries. As far as the shows are concerned, their main business seems to be organising a tour of the brothels in Bangkok through specialist travel agents.’

‘Sort of unfair trading through relocation of employment? Thanks for the lead, Mado.’

‘See you again some time, Big Boy.’

BOOK: Rough Trade
7.15Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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