Rough Trade

by Dominique Manotti

  7 p.m. Villa des Artistes

  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 looking 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.’

  5 FRIDAY 7 MARCH

  8 a.m Passage du Désir

  All the photos taken in the last two days were spread out on the table. Daquin, Attali and Romero were carefully arranging them in two series: the sandwich bar and the accessory shop, in chronological order.

  Enter a fair-haired young man, on the dumpy side, white shirt, dark suit, tie, brief-case and tortoiseshell rimmed spectacles. He introduced himself as Lavorel, of the Finance Squad.

  ‘We were expecting you. My chief told us yesterday that you’d be coming. Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He looked surprised.

  Daquin went over to the machine, made coffee for everyone. Then he began to re-examine the photos. The classification was finished.

  ‘First shop: only Turks or similar. Second shop: much more mixed clientele. We speculate that the first shop is used as a rallying point for the supply network
, and for the moment we won’t discuss that. It’s too serious and we haven’t enough information. The second could be used for putting the drugs into circulation, which, per se, involves more French than Turks, and third-or fourth-rank roles. We’re going to take soundings there. You two, you go and hang about in the area. Choose someone who comes out of the shop who might look like a dealer. Stop and search him – some distance away, and be as discreet as you can. If it’s a dealer, bring him here. If you don’t find any drugs, make your excuses. And, most important, don’t make any mistakes. Good luck.’

  *

  Daquin and Lavorel were left on their own.

  ‘You’ve read my report on Bostic?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you familiar with the Sentier’s professional underworld?’

  ‘No way. For the last three years I’ve been in Finance, working on the misdemeanours of members of the Stock Exchange. My presence here, so I understand, is the result of some compromise among the high-ups. Some are absolutely for a clean-up in the Sentier, so as not to leave the territory completely free for the people demanding the legalization of illegal immigrants. Others think it’s bullshit, and we should let it stay as a sector that’s working well and can’t do so without illegal labour. So they agreed on designating someone, but they took on some naïve young guy who knows nothing, and who’ll get himself tied up in knots, very likely. So, here I am.’

  ‘And what’s your opinion of the whole business?’

  ‘That’s what I’m here to find out. That’s what I see my role of cop as, and I can tell you I’ll bust a gut to get something out of this dungheap.’

  ‘You’ve a curious way of expressing yourself for a suit-and-tie man.’

  ‘I haven’t always been one.’

  ‘Ah, right. And what did you do before you were in Finance?’

  ‘I was a hooligan.’

  A moment’s silence.

  ‘I mean, what did you do in the police before you were in finance.’

  ‘It was my first posting.’

  ‘Would it be very indiscreet to ask why you’re in Finance?’

  ‘No, it’s not indiscreet. I’ve always hated people you call suit-and-tie men. And I’ve no wish to go yob-bashing in high-rises.’

  ‘Well, as you’ll see in the Sentier, neither the workers nor bosses are exactly suit-and-tie men.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘We’ve organized a small office for you, next to this one. I’d like you to keep me posted on your work every day. And pop in to say hallo. Let me know who owns those two shops at 5 rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin.’

  9 a.m. Rue des Petites-Ecuries

  Early that morning Santoni parked a 4L van, converted into a surveillance vehicle, with two-way mirror side windows, just in front of the window of the Aratoff Ballets Company in rue des Petites-Ecuries, and set himself up more or less comfortably inside, with cigarettes and cans of beer close to hand. At nine o’clock precisely, a large woman opened up the agency office, went in and sat down behind a counter, at the back on the left. Santoni was unable to see what she was doing. Towards ten, a man and another woman were in the building. They hadn’t gone through the street entrance. At twelve-thirty, the fat woman came out, locked the door behind her. There was no longer anyone in the offices. There hadn’t been a single customer all morning.

  Santoni unfolded himself carefully. He was stiff all over. And followed the woman. Not far – to a café-brasserie fifty metres away. She sat at a very small table on the terrace. Santoni went in and found a seat right next to her. She ordered steak and French fries and a glass of red wine. Santoni gave her the once-over. A big fat lump, well and truly past her fiftieth birthday, with short, permed, mousy hair, large breasts which sagged on to a big belly, swollen legs, feet bulging over the tops of her shoes. A small white blouse and navy-blue pleated skirt. And between her breasts a cross and a medallion of the Virgin of Lourdes jangled on a gold chain. She could have passed for a schoolgirl from Sainte-Marie de Neuilly who’d grown poor and ugly. At about one-thirty, the lump rose. A little saunter as far as Montholon Square. Santoni found it was a good idea.

  12.25 p.m. Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin

  Attali and Romero strolled past the accessory shop. From time to time, they paused at a café opposite. They also went up to say hallo to the old boy and promised to keep him posted on how the investigation was developing. They were just wondering how they would recognize a dealer. No kidding … they’d already taken two hours and not reached any conclusion. It was already past midday. They would have to think about having some lunch. At that very moment there came into view a superb young woman, in her mid-twenties, no more, very slim, her mid-length hair blowing in the wind, almost dancing as she walked. Looks like a model, Romero said to himself. He knew little about that sort of thing, however. She was calmly walking down rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin, confident she was the centre of attention, and neither caring, nor hesitating, nor slowing down, she walked straight into the accessory shop. Romero and Attali exchanged a single glance. They might not know how to recognize a dealer, but they knew how to appreciate a pretty girl. In any case, she’d be more fun to play with than some dead-beat junkie in his thirties. When she re-emerged ten minutes later they followed her at a distance, one on each pavement, most discreetly. She went back up the Faubourg, taking the direction she’d come, and, unhurriedly, turned left into passage Brady. It was a fine day. She was wearing a sporty beige raincoat over a skirt and sweater which were also beige. A large dark brown Vuitton bag swung on her shoulder. When they reached passage Brady, the two cops prudently kept their distance. She took rue d’Enghien.

  The street was deserted at that hour and Romero judged they were far enough away from the shop to try something. He glanced round to check they were alone, went up to the young woman, passed his left hand under her elbow and with his right presented his warrant card. He pushed her under a porchway. Attali followed them.

  ‘Police. We’re running an investigation into drug peddling and you’ve been seen in the company of known peddlers. I’m obliged to search you, to check whether or not you have drugs in your possession.’

  The young woman protested vehemently and fought vigorously. She kicked them in the shins to try to get away. Romero leant all his weight on her, and pushed her into the dirty dark entrance to a stairwell which gave on to the porch. Attali signalled to him that he was controlling access points.

  While he held her face against the wall and her wrists behind her back, Romero undertook the search. First, the bag. The girl continued fighting energetically. Romero upturned the contents of the bag on the ground, a jumble of handkerchiefs, lipsticks, face powder, loose change … Signalled to Attali, who quickly checked the contents of her wallet, purse and powder compact. Nothing. He put everything back in the bag, and took up a position at the entrance to the stairwell. A glance towards Romero, whom he sensed was about to make a monumental blunder, but said nothing.

  Romero trapped the girl’s wrists with one hand, and with the other he undertook a body search, all the time holding her squeezed against the wall with his shoulder and body weight. Nothing in the raincoat pockets. Nothing in the shoes. His hand felt up her legs, nothing in her tights. A lump under the elastic in her panties, between her buttocks. He tore at her knickers, and, lo and behold, there was a sachet of white powder, about twenty grams’ worth by the look of it. Excitement? Pleasure of the hunt? Contact with the girl? He got the distinct impression she was fighting less. Consenting? The stairwell was in darkness. And Attali could only find one thing to say: ‘Hurry, hurry …’ Romero leaned against her with all his weight, undid his flies with one hand and pulled up her skirt. Groans of pleasure. Attali was torn between envy and anxiety. The girl drew away.

  ‘Right. Keep the sachet, but let me go. Otherwise I’ll bring a charge of rape. You know I can prove it.’

  Attali: ‘Let’s nick her, quickly. Don’t hang about.’

  ‘You’ll regret t
his, you pig.’

  With her hands handcuffed behind her back, and an inspector on either side, they quickly walked her back to passage du Désir. Romero and Attali exchanged not a single word.

  1.25 p.m. Passage du Désir

  Romero pushed the girl into Daquin’s office, removed the handcuffs and made her sit down, while Attali placed the sachet of powder on the desk. Romero gave a quick report of what had happened, omitting all the ‘details’. While he sat quite still, listening, Daquin looked at the violet bruising on the girl’s wrists and scratches on her face.

  She pulled herself up on her chair and said to Daquin: ‘Your shitty cop raped me, on the pretext of searching me. He had me pinned against the wall, half broke my wrists and raped me. I want a medical examination.’

  Daquin retorted in glacial tones: ‘You wish to lodge a complaint, mademoiselle?’ A few seconds’ pause. ‘Frankly, I’m not sure it’s the best solution. When you play dangerous games the way you do, you can’t honestly expect to be mingling with the upper crust the whole time. If you lodge a complaint against my inspector, which you’re entitled to do, I’ll immediately charge you with drug dealing. My inspector will be transferred, but you’ll be banged up for at least four years.’ He stared at her for a moment. ‘And I’m even convinced that if Romero gave you a hundred francs, which isn’t your usual rate, but in view of the circumstances, you’d agree to make him a special price.’ The girl went scarlet, but said nothing. ‘Romero, put a hundred francs in Mademoiselle’s mack pocket. Now let’s get down to serious matters. Attali, write it down. Your name, age?’

  ‘Virginie Lamouroux, twenty-five.’

  ‘Where d’you live?’

  ‘With a girlfriend.’

  ‘Would you mind speeding things up for everybody? When I ask a question, I want a precise answer, is that clear? Where do you live?