Rough Trade

by Dominique Manotti

  He went into the study. Very welcoming. There, too, a french window, the balcony, Paris beyond. The three walls furnished with shelves in light wood, running from top to bottom, full of books. In the middle of the room, a huge English desk, with a green leather top, behind it a matching leather armchair, and in front of the window a small two-seater sofa in fawn leather. It must be really pleasant working here. He went to the bookcase: nineteenth-century novels, Russian, English, American. Classical Greek tragedies, Arabian and Persian poets in bilingual editions. All in meticulous rows. On the desk, Doris Lessing’s Children of Violence. Daquin whistled between his teeth. Took out a book, then another, opened them, leafed through, put them back. Hardly any dust. It was no dead library. Persian poets? Rare, even so. There were about thirty titles. He opened them one after another. And there on the flyleaf of a bilingual anthology of Court poetry, he read a date: 27 January 1958, and a dedication: ‘An unforgettable meeting’. It was signed ‘O’. He experienced a curious feeling. A sort of jealousy. He slipped the book into the inside pocket of his jacket. To bring him luck?

  The last two shelves, as he did his complete tour of the room, were empty. Also empty, or almost, were the drawers of the desk. If there had been bookkeeping records here, there were no more. Lavorel would have to find something else. The apartment was arranged in a mad sort of way, and nowhere were there any photos. No mementoes of the past. No old letters, old keys, nothing whatever. The lady must have had a difficult relationship with her past.

  Daquin walked around the apartment for a while longer. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. In fact he couldn’t bring himself to leave: night fell in the absent woman’s apartment, and it was fascinating. Ashtrays everywhere, even on the edge of the bath: she was a heavy smoker. All were impeccably dean. Two large porcelain ashtrays with ads on them: Hostellerie du Bas-Bréau, at Barbizon.

  In the kitchen, not much in the cupboards, nothing that suggested gourmet cooking. One thing however made him smile: she used the same coffee as he did. He must remember. He’d offer her a cup when he had her in front of him in his office. It was almost 7 o’clock, he must go. He wasn’t tense enough any more, not on tenterhooks. It was becoming dangerous. He must close the door in the kitchen, listen carefully to all the noises from outside before going out, simply pull the door to behind him, go down the stairs, wait for the concierge to be distracted, that would never be for very long, and calmly walk out into the street. Then, once outside, a short walk in the fresh evening air as far as the Seine, and a stroll up to square de l’Alboni. What an exhilarating day.

  7 SUNDAY 9 MARCH

  10 a.m. Deauville

  A spacious apartment on the seafront. Two policemen rang the bell. No answer. They rang again … A man in his fifties came and opened the door in his dressing-gown. Obviously disturbed. And very surprised to find the policemen.

  ‘Good morning, monsieur. The Paris Drugs Squad have asked us to check whether Mademoiselle Lamouroux is really here.’

  The man turned to Virginie, who was wrapped in a bath towel and standing petrified in the middle of the sitting-room.

  ‘Someone’s asking for you, delightful girl.’ Said with irony and a touch of malice.

  Virginie came to the door.

  ‘Mademoiselle, you should have notified the Drugs Squad of your change of address. Don’t forget to report tomorrow at the 10th arrondissement police station, by nine a.m. at the latest. Thank you, monsieur. Excuse us for disturbing you. Have a nice Sunday.’

  12 a.m. Villa des Artistes

  Daquin went home to change, after a pleasant evening at the house of his friend, who was a TV producer, and a rather good night with a little blonde actress – the real works – who absolutely had to know how a superintendent – a real commissaire – made love. She was so tanked up that he wasn’t certain she would remember who he was now.

  Message on the answerphone. Soleiman’s voice: ‘I’ve been trying to get you. Call me.’ No date, no time.

  Daquin dialled the only number he had, the Committee one. Soleiman picked up the phone on the second ring. There was the hum of conversation – probably Turkish – in the background.

  ‘I’ve phoned several times. You weren’t at home all night.’

  Daquin burst out laughing.

  ‘Eh! You jealous?’ A vexed silence. ‘Ten, this evening, at my place. OK?’

  ‘Fine.’

  *

  Daquin’s asleep on the sofa in the living-room when Sol arrives. He opens one eye, grumbling. Sol signals he’s going up to the bathroom. When he comes back down, wearing a brand-new white dressing-gown, that fits, and which was left for him on the edge of the bath, Daquin’s awake and drinking coffee. He puts the full cafetière on the low table in front of him.

  ‘I’ve made some lasagne for you. It’s in the oven. I’ve already eaten.’

  Soleiman goes to get his meal, and some cutlery, then sits beside Daquin on the sofa.

  ‘What’s happened to you? Have you been fighting with thugs?’

  Daquin’s upper lip is swollen and he has a bruise on his left cheek from a blow.

  ‘Yes and no. I was playing rugby this afternoon. We were the weaker side and we suffered throughout the match. So you could say the other side were a bunch of thugs …’

  ‘I’ve got some important things to show you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  From his dressing-gown pocket Soleiman takes out the four photos that Daquin gave him. On the back of each are names, initials, dates. The four men arrived in France almost at the same time – during the summer of 1979. All their papers are in order, residence permits, work permits. Three of them were members of the office of the Association of Lighting Technicians, when it was set up in September. Then, in January, when the workshops were opened, they left the association office to look after their management. But they can still be seen quite often where the association hangs out. There wasn’t any falling out, more a specialization of duties.

  ‘That confirms what we thought about the links between the extreme right and drugs. And that gives us a lead to follow up. How and why have these four got their papers?’ Daquin leans back deeply into the sofa and draws Soleiman against himself. ‘Move a bit closer. I’m very tired. I feel like being affectionate. Tell me, where are you living now, and what on?’

  Soleiman suddenly stiffens and stands up.

  ‘Why d’you ask me that. To fill up your police reports?’

  Smile. ‘Come here. Good God. There’s no police report on you here in France. Sol, there never will be. I’d never write a word. You’re mine, but mine alone. I asked you this question, simply because it interests me. And since you’re mine, I’ve a certain amount of responsibility towards you.’

  ‘You haven’t made a report on me?’

  ‘No.’

  Soleiman sits down again.

  ‘Not even one with a false name?’

  Smile. ‘No.’

  ‘When this business is over, no one will know that I’ve given you information, and I shall be truly free again?’

  ‘Of course. It’s what I told you right from day one, isn’t it?’

  And even if it were true …? You couldn’t trust cops, they’re capable of anything, but, Soleiman thought, I really want to believe that.

  Daquin’s holding his neck and caressing him slowly.

  Soleiman feels his whole body invaded by a sort of heat, drowsiness, relief. It reminds him exactly of the sensation he got from morphine – it was the day after … The Istanbul press had published his photo on the front page: sought for a double murder. The fear and anguish were such that he’d only survived with morphine which his doctor friend had given him, until he managed to get out of Turkey with papers stolen from a French tourist. The same relief, that feeling of letting go. He feels it going to his head.

  ‘Now, will you tell me how you’re living nowadays?’

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

  ‘Well, I’m
going to tell you what my guess is. You don’t have a sou, because you haven’t the time to work to earn it. Your friends on the Committee have never thought of making you an advance.’ He pauses. Daquin goes on looking Soleiman straight in the eye. ‘Or, they may have suggested it to you, and you’ve refused it out of pride, so as not to appear beholden to them. You sleep under bridges and you’re half dead with hunger.’

  ‘Are you trying to humiliate me?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  Daquin slips his hand under the dressing-gown and slowly caresses the hollow of his thigh, then the buttocks, repeating the same movements, almost mechanically.

  ‘Relax a bit and let yourself go, my boy. I’m only trying to help …’ He carries on talking, very quietly.

  Soleiman has his eyes closed. He mustn’t move, mustn’t feel desire. I’m here, he thinks, because I’m powerless to do otherwise. But that isn’t true, not completely, not any longer. Soleiman feels the heat, but has stopped listening, stopped understanding. Relaxing relief. He feels tears rising behind his closed eyelids. Tears … When was the last time … Never, not even when he was a child, in Anatolia. Daquin increases the pressure. Exquisite abandon.

  8 MONDAY 10 MARCH

  7 a.m. Passage du Désir

  Daquin spent some time working before his inspectors showed up. He looked at the mail on his desk: Ali Agça’s file, which he’d requested from the Turkish police, had arrived. In it was a single murder, the assassination of Abdi Ipecki, editor-in-chief of Milliyet, Turkey’s most important newspaper, in February 1979. Nothing on Ali Agça’s modus operandi or previous record. Arrested in flagrante delicto, admitted to the murder. Imprisoned in Istanbul’s central gaol, escaped November 1979; no other details. On the wanted list ever since. Photo attached, very poor quality, difficult to identify. Daquin wrote out an envelope, slid Ali Agça’s photo inside, along with the one taken in rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin. ‘Can you let me know if these two are the same person?’ Addressed it to the lab at the Palais de Justice.

  His Turkish colleagues had been peculiarly laconic this time. If Soleiman’s file hadn’t been so much more complete, he’d never have been able to compromise him.

  Then an alert scan of the newspapers.

  ‘French Connection’s impossible resurrection’ ran a headline in Libération. The journalist had done quite a lot of homework, mentioned the role of the Americans in digging up the Marseilles lead again and concluded: ‘No one has yet found a smidgen of heroin from Marseilles in New York.’ So the Drugs Squad’s special check on Marseilles was now public knowledge. But the real question that Libération did not ask was: why had the Americans systematically moved in on Marseilles? And what or who precisely was concealed under the vague term ‘Americans’?

  8 a.m.

  When Attali and Romero arrived, Daquin was already making the coffee. They exchanged information as they sat round the table. Anna Beric, important for sure, Lavorel was on to that. Thomas and Santoni were continuing to look for a lead connected with the Aratoff Ballets, and their telephone was being tapped. VL had been staying in New York. That had to be investigated. Sobesky? Should they question him? Daquin adamant: not immediately. Find out the lie of the land first. That would be Attali’s job for the day.

  ‘And Romero, I’ve something else for you. Here are four names of Turks, with their photos. Recognize them? These are photos you took. My snout’s identified them. These Turks arrived recently, around July 1979. They had their papers sorted with no problems. Why? Go and see the National Immigration Office, see if they can throw some light on these files, find some irregularity or other. But be wary, on two counts: one, don’t mention it to any of your colleagues, not even Thomas and Santoni. They work in this neighbourhood all the time, my snout lives here and I want to protect him as much as I can, and that includes from my colleagues. Two, I don’t want anyone at the Immigration Office to know what you’re working on. When it comes to drugs, you must be more than careful. Use the rogatory letters* for the Thai girl’s murder and make up some story or other.

  9 a.m. 10th Arrondissement Police Station

  Attali and Virginie Lamouroux at a desk in a crowded, cluttered room.

  ‘What were you doing in New York from Saturday to Wednesday last?’

  ‘How d’you know I was there?’ She was shaken.

  ‘Answer my question.’

  ‘It was just a tourist trip.’

  ‘A bit brief.’

  ‘Well, that’s what it was. I had some emotional problems with my boyfriend, and I felt I needed a change of air.’

  ‘Sobesky’s son?’

  ‘You know that as well? Yes. Sobesky’s son.’

  ‘And the father?’

  ‘I work for him. That’s all.’

  ‘Be a bit more specific’

  ‘Well, he employs me on a regular basis, as a model.’

  ‘Why, in your opinion, did he tell the police you’d disappeared last Tuesday?’

  ‘I didn’t know he had. Could be I’d left his son and missed an appointment with him at work, and hadn’t let him know. Perhaps he thought I’d had an accident.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him?’

  ‘I’m getting pissed off with these questions …’

  Attali didn’t give her time to finish her sentence: in one move, he rose, leant over the top of the desk and gave her a resounding smack. Modelling himself on Daquin, but he didn’t quite have the self-assurance. In headquarters all conversation stopped dead. Everyone was looking at them. Virginie Lamouroux squirmed in her chair. She dearly didn’t know what attitude to adopt.

  ‘I didn’t tell him because I didn’t want to tell him … because, since I’ve been living with his son, I wasn’t supposed to go on sleeping with the clients, and I wanted to … for the money, and for the fun. So there.’

  She’d half shouted her reply, like an insult, but she had replied. Attali thought he’d made the point. He insisted, stressing his professional approach.

  ‘Tell me how and where I can get in touch with people in New York who could confirm that you were there from 1 to 5 March.’

  Virginie Lamouroux took out her diary. Gave him five names.

  ‘I’ll be checking these. Till Wednesday at 9 a.m. here.’

  11 a.m. Rue des Petites-Ecuries

  Thomas rang the second floor of the building. A frail old woman came and opened the door.

  ‘Madame, I’m a new neighbour of yours. I’m renting a flat on the fourth floor, I came to say hallo and ask a favour.’

  ‘Come in, monsieur.’ A sharp look. ‘And sit down a minute.’ She walked with difficulty, supporting herself on the furniture. ‘Would you like some tea, or a coffee? I suppose at this hour it’s not too early for an aperitif?’

  ‘No, I won’t have anything. Very nice of you though.’

  ‘So, what’s this favour?’ She sat down opposite him.

  ‘Well, it’s this: the flat I’m renting doesn’t have a cellar. The agents told me you might perhaps rent me yours.’

  ‘That’s not possible. I’ve already let it to people in the building, the Bernachons, I can’t go down there any more myself, you understand, so it’s of no use to me.’

  ‘Well, in that case, please excuse me for disturbing you.’ He stood up.

  ‘Is that all you’d like to know, monsieur le policier?’ Thomas was taken aback. ‘You hadn’t noticed you’re built just like a cop? And, then, how d’you suppose the tenancy on the fourth floor would change without me knowing? Oh, don’t worry. I won’t say anything to the Bernachons, I don’t really like them. But now, you can’t refuse a coffee.’

  Thomas took off his mack and sat down again.

  ‘Well, since you’re not all that fond of them, let’s have a chat.’

  11.30 a.m. Rue de la Procession

  The Immigration Office’s files were in perfect order. You could access them through the surname, nationality or date of arrival in France. Romero had no difficulty finding his
four Turks. They’d been invited to come by the same employer, Monsieur Franco Moreira, of Morora Ltd, a rat extermination business in Nanterre. Quite a joker, this Moreira. And their files had been dealt with by the same civil servant at Immigration, Dominique Martens. It was just as easy to find all the files of Turks processed during the year and to discover that, out of a total of a hundred, twenty-two were dealt with through Martens, and of those twenty-two, all were working at Moreira’s in Nanterre. All he had to do now was carefully note all the names, and the address of the business.

  Then he went to say hallo to the director. All along the corridor, he could hear a buzz of conversation, punctuated by the clink of coffee spoons against cups. The deafening sound of inactivity.

  1 p.m. Place Gaillon

  As soon as he entered Chez Pierre in place Gaillon, Daquin noticed Lenglet sitting at a table at the back, with a man. They were talking and drinking champagne. There was about them that certain undeniable, calm familiarity – of old lovers. He went over to them. The two men rose to their feet. Lenglet did the introductions.

  ‘May I introduce Superintendent Daquin. We did political science together. We shared everything in those three years, except our bed. Théo, Charles Lespinois, an old friend, an adviser to the France-Mediterranée Bank.’

  Tall, thin, with a distinguished, refined air about him. An extreme reserve. A grey three-piece suit, grey like his hair and eyes: a man of steel. Daquin thought of Sol, warm, wild, alive. Lenglet and I have stayed friends because we never hunted the same patch, he thought. All three sat down. The sommelier filled Daquin’s glass with champagne.