Rough Trade (30 page)

‘As for Anna, it’s for her to decide. I’ll give you her reply in an hour’s time at your office.’

And Meillant left. Daquin marvelled.

*

Soleiman left the Jencovitch workroom by the back staircase while Daquin was finishing off Meillant. He felt deeply uneasy. Mustn’t think about it, that was important. Tomorrow, we’ll see. Impossible to join Daquin that evening. He went down the rue du
Faubourg-Saint
-Denis as far as the Boulevards. Spend the night with a girl, any girl.

The warehouses were piled up with merchandise, but deserted. Dim bluish light. Romero and Marinoni, wearing packers’ overalls, both with badges perfectly in order, carrying a large toolbox. Dumont had accompanied them as far as the Turkimport
packing-cases
. ‘The security people do a round every hour. They’ve just done the last one. Check your watches. You’ve got to stop working before you hear them coming and hide right here, between these four cases. They won’t have their dogs tonight. Be brave. Good luck!’

It wasn’t difficult to open the cases, nor to burrow through the first layer of merchandise. It would be much more difficult to go further down. And closing them was tricky. It was no good
hammering
gently, the noise seemed deafening. Three cases during the first hour. The hiding-place. Romero and Marinoni were sweating. And if Dumont … The round went through. Work began again. The fourth case. The cover came off. The inner packing pushed aside. A range of firing-pins for sub-machine-guns, apparently.

Marinoni hugged Romero.

‘Shall we look further down?’

‘Not worth it. And no more cases. That’s enough.’

Closed it again. Marked it discreetly, collect all the tools and put them away. Wait in the hiding-place. Dumont would come at 2 a.m. Romero fell asleep.

Soleiman emerged slowly from sleep. The girl had gone. Good. She’d left a note on the floor beside the bed: ‘Coffee on the stove to be reheated. Pull the door to behind you when you leave. See you again soon?’

He got up. A kind of hangover. Converted maid’s bedroom, rue du Faubourg-Poissonnière, quite nice. Sunshine and light through the two little windows. He reheated the coffee and drank it, stretched out naked in a patch of sunlight. It felt good. Looked at the time. Nine o’clock, he had to leave. Don’t think, let time pass. Got dressed, pulled the door to behind him. The Boulevards. A little further on, the Gymnase. Why not? A moment of warmth in the Turkish cocoon, that could help.

Soleiman pushed the café door open. All talking stopped. The Turks rose to their feet. Applause, whistling, cheerful shouts,
slogans
. Soleiman hesitated. News got round quickly in the Sentier. After the beating up he’d suffered a week before Soleiman had put Jencovitch in hospital and sacked the Superintendent of the 10th arrondissement. He was a hero. Everyone wanted to tap him on the shoulder, offer him a coffee or a raki. And belong to the
Committee
. Soleiman sat down. His head was swimming.

Romero was alone in the office with Daquin. Spares for weapons. Clandestine traffic. Protected at a high level.

‘We’ve got into another splendid wasp’s nest. Does your customs man know where the hardware ends up?’

‘Nothing’s very certain. Istanbul first. Then … The stuffs pretty classic. Iran perhaps, one way of getting round the international blockade? We need a specialist to tell us more about these problems.’

Daquin made two coffees which they drank in silence.

‘How can we organize that? In any case the arms traffic will elude us. There may be financial links with drugs, but they may be complicated to expose. On the other hand the link with Sener’s murder is fairly direct. Well have to pin down this man Oumourzarov. We’ll see what can be got out of them. How do you see the next move?’

‘Accidents can happen quickly. When the contents of a packing case spill out over the floor it’s hard not to know what’s inside it.’

‘When can that happen?’

‘Tomorrow if necessary, in the afternoon at the latest.’

The telephone rang.

‘Good morning,
commissaire
, Lespinois here. How are you?’

‘Very well, Monsieur Lespinois.’

‘I’m with Lenglet and we’re talking about the Middle East. I’m going there tonight. He tells me you’re taking a close interest in the Iranian drug scene.’

‘I am interested in it, yes. As for closely, that’s another matter …’

‘Things are changing out there. The Islamic Revolutionary Party is launching a great campaign against drugs and drug-takers. It’s rather new in the cultural profile of that country. Under the Shah, you know, people aged over sixty had the right to their free supply of opium, distributed by the State. I think it’s principally a means of liquidating those who run the traffic, mostly pro-Westerners. The Islamists will certainly take over the traffic again on their own account later. But it’s certain that the current traffickers, and their contacts overseas, won’t be there much longer. I thought this
information
might interest you, it’s not in circulation yet.’

‘Certainly, Monsieur Lespinois. And thank you for calling me. Best wishes to Lenglet, since he’s with you, and
bon
voyage
.’

He hung up.

‘Congratulations, Romero. You’ve become a pawn in the struggle between the big international banks. Few people acquire that
honour
.’ Romero didn’t understand a word. ‘The France-Mediterranean Bank is trying to destroy the position held by the Parillaud Bank in the Middle East, a position probably due to the alliance between the bank and the traffickers in drugs and arms. What we’re doing can weaken Parillaud out there and France-Mediterranean will be very grateful to us. What can we do in all this? Let’s go back to our own affairs. I’m sending a report today to my chief and to the
investigating
magistrate about the links between our two strong-arm guys from the embassy and Oumourzarov. I’m asking permission to use the letters rogatory available to me for carrying out a search at the company’s headquarters and at Oumourzarov’s house. I’ll be turned down. But when the packing-case falls over we might just be able to stay on the case. By the way, when you go to supervise the falling packing-case take a press photographer with you. Here are the
details
of a friend of mine who helps me sometimes. The soul of discretion. Telephone him on my behalf.’

Attali and Rimbot were starting their third day of enquiries at the restaurants. First restaurant, Le Petit Riche, rue Le Peletier. The waiters were about to finish laying the tables, the dining-room was still very dark. A waiter called the
maître
d’hotel
, who did not invite them to sit down; his lack of goodwill was obvious. First photo, VL. Never seen her. Second photo, Kashguri. Attali did not possess Daquin’s experience yet, but he could have sworn that the man was lying when he replied that he didn’t know him.

‘Who was on duty on Friday 14 March, at lunchtime?’

‘I don’t remember.’

Attali raised his voice, the waiters began to listen: ‘Pay attention, if you take us for half-wits we might get angry and even accuse you of complicity. Let me remind you that we’re investigating a murder. This girl was assassinated just after lunching with this man. Give me a list of all the waiters who were present that day.’

The
maître
d’hotel
grumbled a bit, disappeared for a short time and came back with the required list. Attali took it and checked with the waiters present. Three of them had been there on March 14 at midday.

‘I’ll interview them one at a time. Where can I sit? That table will suit me very well.’

He had a table at the back of the room cleared.

‘Inspector, you’re going to disrupt my entire service.’

‘No way. I’ll have finished very quickly.’

It was the third waiter, a certain Judicelli, who formally identified Virginie Lamouroux.

‘It was I who served them. They were at that table.’ He indicated one of the tables at the back, not far from where they were at the moment. ‘They looked like a normal couple. I wouldn’t have noticed them if the woman hadn’t spilt a glass of wine over the man’s trousers. I don’t know how it happened, I didn’t see it. I myself had just knocked over a dish in the kitchen.’ He glanced at the
maître
d’hotel,
not to worry, he was a long way off. ‘I remember thinking: “But it’s Friday 14 and not Friday 13.” I rushed over to try and repair the damage. What struck me was the man’s attitude. He was very good-mannered, so he said nothing, but he was overtaken by a kind of suppressed fury, it was remarkable. He was trembling. It seemed a bit over the top for a wine stain on a pair of trousers. Do you think that’s why he killed her?’

Daquin had just come out of the shower, he had almost finished shaving in front of the wash-basin mirror. Soleiman appeared at the bathroom door. A sideways glance from Daquin. Soleiman looked relaxed, almost happy, he’d never seen him like that before.

‘I didn’t hear you come in. You look pleased with life this evening …’

‘Daquin, if you knew …’ Soleiman described his triumph at the Gymnase that morning. ‘And it’s been like that all day. I went round the workrooms. In the street people said good-morning to me, walked along with me, bought me coffees …’ He had begun to undress.

‘Only coffees?’

A smile from Soleiman. ‘Not only coffees, today. Quite a lot of rakis too. In the workrooms they shouted and applauded … Last night I didn’t know what to think. It was the first time I’d beaten up a guy. It made me feel sick, I was disgusted, and I hated you.’

He climbed into the bath and turned on the shower.

Daquin went to the kitchen for some coffee and drank it in the bathroom, leaning against the wash-basin, watching Soleiman as he stood still under the stream of water which he’d turned on full. He’s shot two men but hitting a man twice while he was down on the floor made him feel sick … So what?

‘Come out, Sol.’

Daquin took him in his arms, holding the damp body, leaning it against the washbasin. The two men were facing the mirror. They were both the same height, but Daquin was much heavier. He put his hand in Soleiman’s hair and pulled his head up.

‘Look at yourself, Sol, while I fuck you.’

*

Soleiman was already half-asleep under the duvet, while Daquin dressed. Collarless shirt, dark red, grey Hollington suit in a wool and cotton mixture. A glance at the mirror. OK. He leant over the bed, ‘I shan’t be back tonight.’

Kissed him on the neck. Today he’s submissive. When will
rebellion
set in?

The plane from Marrakesh via Casablanca, with Anna Beric on board, landed on time at 3 minutes past 8. Daquin was waiting for her at the airport police window. The passengers arrived in groups. Daquin recognized her. Tall and slim, with shoulder-length hair. She was wearing a beige safari jacket and a matching linen skirt, A brown shirt blouse, apparently silk, brown leather sandals, and
carrying
a matching handbag.

‘Madame Beric.’

She turned towards him. Deep blue eyes, sunburnt skin, no
makeup
. He went up to her, kissed her hand and introduced himself.

‘I’m Superintendent Daquin.’ A faint smile, she was surprised. ‘Have you any luggage?’

‘Yes, one suitcase.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

He took her case from her. They went through the airport police offices and walked in silence towards the unmarked car that was parked just in front of the entrance. Daquin put the suitcase in the boot, opened the door for her, sat down at the wheel and drove off.

‘Where are you taking me,
commissaire
?’

‘To have dinner first of all. I’ve booked a table at the Pouilly Reuilly, a very good bistro in Pré-Saint-Gervais. You must have missed French cooking during that long month.’ Anna Beric looked at him without a word. ‘Afterwards I’ll take you home. We have an appointment tomorrow morning at 8 o’clock with Inspector Lavorel who’s dealing with your case in more detail.’

‘Am I under arrest or not?’

‘Yes, you are. Would you prefer me to take you to the local police station now?’

No reply. She looked at Daquin who was driving along calmly. Not more than 80 kilometres an hour in the outskirts of Paris. Meillant had told me he was ‘an out-and-out homo’. And I find a handsome man, a seducer.

‘I don’t understand. You blackmail Meillant to make me come back and stick me in prison. I arrive and you try to pick me up … for you really are trying to pick me up, aren’t you?’

‘I’m not trying to pick you up, I’m behaving like a man in love.’

‘You’re in love with me?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve a right to a few explanations.’

‘When I went to search your apartment I already knew you were a strong woman, which for me is very attractive. And then I loved your lingerie, its delicacy, its scent. Your coffee. Your red dress, fabulous. Last summer I saw one very like it, in Venice, in a shop window in Campo Santo Stefano. Displayed on an incredible wooden mannequin with the head of a doge.’

They arrived at the Pouilly Reuilly, a bistro in a narrow deserted street in Pré-Saint-Gervais. A long narrow room, bright yellow table-cloths, waiters in black and white, the proprietress relaxed and smiling. They sat down at a table near the door and ordered two glasses of champagne.

Anna Berk leant against the banquette. Closed her eyes for a moment. I knew I was playing a dangerous game. But I hadn’t reckoned with this Daquin man. Pierre, help. She opened her eyes again.

‘That’s where I bought that dress. In Venice. In Campo Santo Stefano.’

Huge eyes. Daquin looked at her, then studied the menu. A violent urge to possess her. Don’t be led astray. Remain in
command
of the evening.

‘Eggs in wine sauce, then tripoux, twice, and a chilled Brouilly. Starting with that dress I imagined what you were like, and at the airport I recognized you. But your eyes surprised me. I hadn’t imagined them as blue. Your drawing-room had intrigued me through its negative quality, but I loved your office. And I was madly jealous of this O …’

He took the anthology of Persian poetry out of his jacket pocket and opened it at the fly-leaf:
27
January
1958,
an
unforgettable
encounter
. Signed: O. Anna Beric placed her hand on the book. She was moved. Daquin took her hand, turned it over and kissed the throbbing veins at the wrist.

‘Forgive me for borrowing it, I’m returning it to you. But tell me how you met Osman Kashguri.’

Anna Beric leant back against the banquette. Felt she was
definitely
getting out of her depth and how pleasant that was. The eggs in wine sauce were sublime.

‘What do you know about my life, Daquin?’

‘A certain number of things. How you crossed war-time Europe on foot, at the age of ten. The aunt who slept with the Germans and took you over in Belleville. Her pimp who put you into
prostitution
on the streets when you were thirteen. And who was
assassinated
when you were twenty-three.’

‘In fact, you know a lot about me.’ She reflected briefly. ‘It was work I didn’t like. One day I was waiting for clients outside the café, supervised by my aunt. A young man stopped, he was about eighteen or twenty, he was good-looking. He had good manners, as my aunt used to say. He asked me if he could watch me when I was making love with another client. I said no, it wasn’t my sort of thing. And what is your sort of thing? I don’t know what got into me but I replied: Greek tragedies. He then began to recite to me the first lines of Cassandra’s prophecy in
Agamemnon
. I continued with those that followed. At that period I would recite the Greek tragedians to myself during the assignations. We would go upstairs together and spend an hour reciting poetry. He moved over very quickly to the Persian poets, whom I didn’t know at all. In Persian and in French. I liked that a lot. He came back often …’

She had never told this story to anyone, not even to Meillant. The tripoux came. And suddenly she was overcome with anxiety. Would it be prison tomorrow, and for how long?

‘Give me something to drink, Daquin.’

‘And then your wickerwork trunk, at the bottom of your wardrobe, also made me think long and hard. The workmanship of the weave, the beauty of the clasp, the leather corners. It expresses an
atmosphere
of other times, or other lands. Another gift from Kashguri?’

‘What are you trying to make me say? That I still see him? Well, I’ll tell you: he’s remained one of my best friends. He’s a rather flamboyant personality.’

‘And the trunk?’

Anna drank her glass of wine very slowly, her eyes on Daquin.

‘When he returned from Iran, in 1979, everything he brought with him, linen, books and small things were in trunks like that. I had gone to greet him when he arrived. I found those trunks superb. He gave me one. Now, it’s your turn, tell me how you … found me.’

Daquin described the police file, the old investigating magistrate, the ashtrays, the inn at Le Bas-Bréau. Anna was impressed. For desert there were prunes in Armagnac.

‘And the body in my workroom, which was the start of it all for me, have you found the murderer?’

‘No, not yet. Why did you go away? That body was there by accident, apparently.’

‘I’m not in the habit of underestimating the police. I thought there was a strong possibility that my setup would be discovered during the investigation. I wanted to find shelter. That seems
logical
to me.’

‘In Marrakesh?’

‘The weather is very fine there at this time of year.’

‘Certainly it is. But why not Istanbul?’ No reply. ‘Shall I take you home?’

*

In the car:

‘One more question, Daquin. Meillant told me you liked boys.’

A broad smile. ‘I like boys too. Why?’

No answer.

The car stopped in rue Raynouard, by the block where Anna Beric lived. Daquin didn’t move. Anna Beric looked at him.

‘What’s going to happen now?’

‘You’re going to go up to your apartment.’

‘And you?’

‘If you like, I’ll come up with you. Otherwise I’ll wait for you here. In any case tomorrow we’re going together to the local squad office in passage du Désir.’

Her hand on Daquin’s arm.

‘Come along. I’d like to offer you coffee, since you appreciate the brand I use.’