‘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.’
4 p.m. Rue du Fauhourg-Saint-Martin
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 woul
d 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.
4 THURSDAY 6 MARCH
8 a.m. Passage du Désir
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 tak
en. 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.’
Rough Trade Page 3
