Rough Trade (4 page)

Romero arrived to change shifts. Attali was swaying slightly as he greeted him. Confab while the old boy, being discreet, went out to the kitchen. Decision taken to photograph anyone coming out of both shops: they would go over it with the Super tomorrow.

As he left, Attali passed under the porch and into the yard of the building. There were numerous tailoring workrooms on every floor, a hell of a racket. A bit of a chat with the concierge, a woman in her fifties, smiling, because she was so happy to be having a natter with a Frenchman, she missed it, you know. There were certainly two shops, with two names and two tenants, but they had a single letterbox and either one or the other picked up the mail. But you know I’d be amazed if their business was of any importance.

Attali went back into the street with a more assured step. He still felt very drunk. It was impossible to go home in this state. His mother would kick up such a fuss about it. He decided to take the photos to the lab, then go and see an old detective film in the Latin Quarter: it was a question of sleeping it off in peace.

Nerves on edge. It was always the same once an investigation got under way. Afterwards you managed the mountain of pressures and risks as best you could. On his desk Daquin found the packet of photos Attali had brought. Good work.

Thomas and Santoni arrived … introductions … handshakes … Daquin knew they were close colleagues of Meillant. Thomas and Meillant knew each other in the Resistance, and had joined the police together as patrolmen in 1945. But Thomas hadn’t wanted to, or couldn’t become a Super. He was, and would remain, a
divisional
inspector and he sensed a bitterness invading his whole
personality
. Santoni, whose career had taken a more classic course, had less ambition, was happy to play the role of faithful right-hand man. They both looked the same: in their fifties, paunch,
moustache
. Both looked typical cops: a combination of ease and pride. Daquin glanced into the small mirror over the sink. He had to keep the distinction between himself and them.

Now, the Yugoslav’s ours. They exchanged information,
established
tactics for questioning. Simple. He has to crack. Go to it.

*

The Yugoslav was waiting in Thomas and Santoni’s office
handcuffed
to the radiator pipe. He was sitting on the floor. Thomas got him up with a kick and manhandled him into a chair, his hands behind his back and attached to the chair’s struts. He took off his belt and tied a leg to the chair-leg, then did the same for the other one with his colleague’s belt. Daquin silently noted that both belts had been adapted with holes for this kind of operation. Obviously, it wasn’t the two men’s first attempt at this. They dragged their chairs up to sit very close to the Yugoslav. Daquin remained
withdrawn
, at arm’s length – or leg’s length away, behind a desk. Santoni signalled to him to open the top drawer. He did so and saw that, carefully tucked into their envelope, were the two plastic bags that had contained the heroin.

‘Good. Now you’re sitting comfortably, we can begin our chat. I just want to say, right away, so we don’t waste time, that we don’t believe a word of the statement you made yesterday. If you don’t cough up all you know – and quick – you’ll find yourself with charges of murder and sexual assault on a minor. If there comes a point when the cavalry’s out of sight, your chances of coming out of this are slight. Understand?’

He nodded ‘yes’ with his head.

‘When did you find the body on your premises yesterday?’

‘About four.’

No time to finish, he got kicked twice in the shins and cried out. A punch in the face from the right. ‘Don’t cry. You’ll ruin our reputation.’ A blow from the left. ‘Say “Yes,
monsieur
l
’
inspecteur
”, when my colleague speaks to you.’ The Yugoslav was completely disorientated. When Crime had questioned him the day before it had been a whole lot less emotional and he’d not expected this sort of welcoming committee. He tried to twist his head round to see who the third man was in the background, but there wasn’t time. Thomas caught him by the hair and pulled his head upright, while Santoni kicked him in the shins again.

‘Look at us, you asshole. It’s not polite not to look at people when they’re talking to you. Now you’ll give me a correct answer to my question: when did you find the body in your workroom?’

‘Seven in the morning.’

A glance passed between the three cops: rapid, professional – this was not a hard case. It was decidedly better.

‘So why didn’t you phone the station right away? What were you doing between 7 a.m. and 4 p.m.?’

‘I was selling the machines.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they’d be seized.’

‘And why would they be seized?’

‘Because I employ illegal immigrants and I thought the police would find out.’

Inspector Thomas stroked his chin, over and over again.

‘It’s good you respect the intellectual capacity of the police, it’s rare nowadays.’

The Yugoslav looked as though he were about to cry.

The (still invisible) Super’s voice: ‘And you cleaned your kitchen.’

Said in a very calm, anodyne tone, and at the same time as he drew from his jacket pocket a large signet ring, which he calmly put on his right hand. The Yugoslav said nothing. Santoni hit him again.

‘Answer me. You cleaned your kitchen. Yes or crap?’

‘No. I did not clean my kitchen.’

His field of vision was interrupted by the Super with a mighty backhander. The chair fell over backwards, the Yugoslav with it. He hit the desk as he fell and his right eyebrow streamed blood.

‘Just listen to me, asshole. The police lab told us the kitchen was cleaned from top to bottom on Monday and it was you who were in the workroom. We’ve got witnesses.’

The Yugoslav was openly weeping now, still upturned on the floor, with the Super standing over him. Blood was pouring into his hair.

‘Yes. Perhaps I did clean my kitchen. I don’t remember very well.’

‘Make an effort to remember. Why did you clean your kitchen?’

As he asked, the Super caught the Yugoslav by the shirt collar, and rather brutally brought the chair upright, and with his other hand shoved the two bags in their plastic envelope under his nose.

The Yugoslav groaned in terror. It was over, he wasn’t really a hard case, all that was left to do was to record his confession.

It hadn’t been his idea. It was one of his Turkish workers. He’d brought in the two packets yesterday morning at about six. They’d both gone into the workroom, without noticing anything out of the ordinary. The Turk must have opened the two packets in the
kitchen
and made up the small 50 gram doses, weighing out each one, and then sewn them into the pockets of the twenty pairs of red gypsy pants which were on top of the pile. And then they would have mixed the pants into a delivery that was to be made. It was when he went to load the rest of the heap of gypsy pants, that he’d discovered the body.

‘And what about the delivery? How was that going to be made?’

He normally had stuff from five manufacturers to deliver. The Turk had made him a list, in a particular order that had to be followed, of twenty shops where he had to stop to deliver the gypsy pants containing the drugs.

‘And you made this delivery before notifying us of the body?’

‘Yes.’

A barely whispered yes. He waited for a fresh onslaught, which didn’t happen. He still didn’t understand all the rules of the game.

‘Go on.’

‘I went into the shop, with the red pants over my arm, so that they were easy to see. Someone was there, waiting for me. I said: “I’ve brought the design,” He took the pants and said, “Thanks. I’ll pay you later”. That’s all. And then I left.’

‘You didn’t handle any money?’

‘No.’

‘Who pays you then?’

‘The Turk.’

‘How much?’

‘Five thousand francs.’

‘I’d like the list of shops.’

The Yugoslav tried to remember, slowly coming up with twenty or so manufacturers’ shops, one by one, scattered through the Sentier.

‘And now the Turk’s name and address?’

The Yugoslav gave his name, Celebi, an address of 25 rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin, but pointed out these were probably false. He’d hired him two weeks ago at the Café Gymnase on the
boulevard
. That’s the way Turks did things, round there, they drink
coffee
at the Gymnase, the workroom bosses go there, they chat, they do business. Then they give an address, but it’s never a genuine one. In any case, they’re always paid in cash.

‘Could you recognize him?’

There was some hesitation. The Yugoslav wasn’t sure. He said ‘Yes’, very uncertainly.

Santoni flipped through the photos that Attali and Romero had taken. Daquin watched him. One of the photos made him look up at Daquin. ‘That’s him.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Certain.’

‘Would you be willing to testify?’ The Yugoslav was frightened. ‘Listen to me hard. We’d only ask you to testify if we arrested the whole network. And then you wouldn’t be the only witness, not even the most important, and they’d all be in the nick. There’s nothing much to be afraid of. If you testify that this Turk prepared the sachets of heroin in your workroom kitchen on Monday 3 March, we wouldn’t hold you to any drug trafficking charge. If you don’t testify, we’ll have to show that someone was responsible for the presence of heroin in your kitchen. You see what I’m getting at? So now that you’ve got my drift, I’m going to ask you again. Will you testify against this Turk when we ask you?’

‘Yes,
monsieur
le
policier
.’

Daquin stroked his hair. It was so much better like that.

‘Now to another matter. You’re not French. Who’s your manager?’

‘I just head the workroom, I’ve no company. I work for Anna Beric. She’s the one who gives me my orders, my invoices and payslips.’

‘Who’s this Anna Beric?’

‘She was Yugoslav originally. A very distant relation of mine.’

‘How long have you worked with her?’

‘A very long time. At least five years.’

‘Where can I find her?’

‘She lives at 21 rue Raynouard, in Paris.’

Daquin signed to the cop waiting at the door.

‘Take him away, and warn the nick he’s agreed to testify so they must treat him properly.’

Daquin’s waiting for Soleiman, as he prepares a meal. Vegetable soup with Tomme cheese from the Savoy, a genuine low-fat Tomme, such a rarity in Paris he couldn’t resist it. And salami. Not much in the mood for cooking tonight. Remember to ask Soleiman whether or not he eats pork.

He’s listening to the news on the radio, only half concentrating. The chief of the Belgian drug squad has just been accused of drug trafficking. What a laugh. The American hostages in Tehran have been handed over to the Revolutionary Council. Good luck,
comrades
. Rain begins to fall against the window.

With the news finished, the doorbell rings twice. Soleiman comes in, closes the door behind him. He’s standing stock still, looking grim, ill at ease, his hair streaming, soaked to the bone in his shabby pullover. He’s even shivering with cold.

‘Come on, you bloody fool. Go and have a hot bath; there are towels up there and my dressing-gown. And have a shave. You’re a disgrace with your two-day-old beard. Dinner’s ready in a quarter of an hour.’

Soleiman goes upstairs. He hasn’t uttered a word.

After a shower, he stands in front of the bathroom mirror in a splendid dressing-gown – it’s blue with fine black stripes and much too big for him – looking at his reflection as he shaves.

He can see himself again, in Daquin’s office, cornered, trapped, and his mind trying to function, but it isn’t easy. If it really is the extreme right trafficking in drugs … and nothing else. He can still hear Daquin making a date at his place, and adding, ‘Before you come, shave off your moustache, I don’t like men with moustaches.’ It had taken a few long seconds to realise the implications. He’d wanted to kill himself. And then he’d come to with a jolt: not now, not when the Sentier’s beginning to move, not when people are beginning to trust him. After all, Daquin wouldn’t be the first he’d gone to bed with. He must just close his eyes. Let it happen. Wait.

He gently rubs his lips. He has a frantic need for a smoke. But Daquin’s made it clear: ‘No cigarettes at my place. I can’t stand the smell of stale tobacco in my house.’

At the table, Soleiman eats in silence. He always gives the
impression
he doesn’t give a toss about what he’s eating. Daquin watches him throughout the meal. He waits fairly patiently for Soleiman to tell him what he has to say. It’s just before coffee that it comes out.

‘Two days ago now, I was asked to represent the Committee on the negotiations team that’s meeting at the Ministry.’ Daquin says nothing and continues watching him. Is that all? No reaction?

‘Listen, Sol. That’s your business, not mine.’

‘You’re not going to phone them and tell them I’m a murderer?’

Daquin looks at him incredulously.

‘What’re you playing at? Frightening yourself? Come.’ He stands up. ‘We’ll have coffee.’ They sit side by side on the couch. On the low table is a packet of photos.

‘Look at these photos carefully and tell me if you recognize anyone.’

‘Where were they taken?’

‘You’ll see afterwards.’

One by one, the photos slowly pass through Soleiman’s hands. Their quality varies.

‘This guy here – he’s one of the three in charge of the Association of Lighting Technicians.’

‘Explain.’

Daquin puts the photo to one side. Soleiman explains the Grey Wolves Fascists in Turkey, the infiltration of Turkish
immigrants
… the murders of left-wing militants in Germany. Last November the association established a base here, near rue de Château d’Eau. They work with the CFT at Aulnay. Daquin writes it all down in his notebook.

‘D’you know his name?’

‘Yes. It’s Hassan Yüçel.’

‘Go on.’

Two further photos are added to the first. When Soleiman’s
l
ooking
at one of the photos, Daquin senses a sudden tension, an
involuntary
jolt. But Soleiman passes on. If this prick says nothing, I’ll give him the boot, Daquin thinks. Three, four photos on, then Soleiman stops, goes back, picks up the photo he’d reacted to, points his finger at a rather blurred figure in the background.

‘I’m not completely certain.’

Daquin heaves an inward sigh of relief. He would not have liked to kick him out.

‘Can it be enlarged and made dearer?’

‘Yes, it can be done tomorrow. But even so, let me know tonight. We can confirm it tomorrow.’

‘I think it’s Ali Agça.’

‘Fine. But that means absolutely nothing to me.’

Soleiman leans back on the couch, solemnly.

‘I knew him in Istanbul. He’s the same age as me, perhaps a year or two older. He was studying political science at the university I wanted to go to. He was a Grey Wolf, and a real professional killer.’

Smile. ‘And weren’t you a killer, not a real one, not a pro?’ Soleiman frowns. ‘Go on.’

‘He killed several people, always using the same technique in the street, at point-blank range, right in the heart. He was arrested for the assassination of the editor in chief of
Milliyet
, a leftish
newspaper
, in 1979. Just at about the time I left Turkey, he escaped from gaol in Istanbul. If he’s here, it’s to kill and to kill people like me what’s more.’

‘Are you afraid?’

Soleiman stands up, exasperated. For years and years now he’s lived with this fear in his gut. In his family, in his village, in Istanbul. Fear too when, that evening, he walked in Yeniçeriler Cadesi, with his gun in his pocket, to meet the man he was going to kill. How can a cop like Daquin understand something like that …

‘A Fascist prick doesn’t frighten me and you can go to hell.’

‘Sit down. I’m being serious now. I’ve noted everything down. Look at the other photos.’

Soleiman shuffles through them distractedly. He’d been reliving the nightmare, the man crumpling to the ground, him starting to run, the cop barring his way, him aiming at the cop, firing at him twice, at random, running into the black night of winding streets of old Istanbul, for what seemed hours and hours. Daquin brings him a coffee.

‘Make an effort and listen. These photos were taken from
opposite
the sandwich shop you told me about, not of the
straightforward
customers outside. A Yugoslav dealer we arrested has formally recognized a Turk who’d delivered drugs to him in this series. Look, it’s this one.’ Daquin takes out a photo from the packet. ‘Goes by the name of Celebi. In this same series, you’ve recognized four people from the Grey Wolves. I draw two
conclusions
from this. First, your lead’s a good one. There are drugs hanging about this particular shop. Secondly, it confirms that there’s a close link between drugs and the extreme right. And as far as you’re concerned, that’s good news, isn’t it? You can relax a bit.’

Soleiman leans back on the sofa, eyes closed.

‘I’m bushed.’

‘Sol. You’re going to spend the night here. You can’t leave in this rain – it isn’t going to stop – not in the rags you’re wearing. Tomorrow morning, I’ll see what I can find you in the way of clothes. Come on. Let’s go to bed.’