9 p.m. Villa des Artistes
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.’
* In France the investigating magistrate has wide responsibilities for investigating crimes, arresting suspects, and gathering evidence.
2 TUESDAY 4 MARCH
8 a.m. Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin
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.
10 a.m. Passage du Désir
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.
10 a.m. Parish of Saint Bernard
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 corr
idors 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.
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 WEDNESDAY 5 MARCH
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?’
Rough Trade Page 2
