Discouraged, he sat on the bed. Lay down, as if taking a nap, did some hard thinking. Imagined VL, sleeping here. Stretching out her arm, switching on the bedside light. It had a deep pink shade, a very beautiful light. He looked at the pedestal of the lamp: a cylinder of translucent glass filled with different coloured marbles. He turned off the light, unscrewed the fitting on which the bulb was mounted, tipped up the glass marbles on to the bed. And there, hidden amongst all the marbles, were cut diamonds. About twenty of them. He couldn’t possibly have got it wrong. With his heart beating, he sat for a moment thinking. Then he left the room, leaned over the banister of the stairs, listened to the sounds of cooking and crockery coming from the ground floor, and called Madame Lamouroux.
She came upstairs quickly, looking anxious. He placed a hand on her shoulder and asked her to come in. She took a diamond in her hand, looked at it, gave it back.
‘Is this my daughter’s?’
‘Yes, and, what’s more, I found them inside the bedside lamp.’ She was completely thrown.
‘Madame Lamouroux, I don’t understand any more than you do what these diamonds are doing here. If I go through the normal legal procedure to have them valued, not only is that going to take time, but everybody’s going to know about them. That would do your daughter no good when she returns.’
‘I really don’t want my husband to know anything about this.’
‘Bring the diamonds, and come with me to Paris. We’re going to question a number of people. As soon as we know what these stones have to say, you can come back here with them, and I’ll continue my investigation. It’s quicker and more discreet. Don’t you agree?’
‘How many days will it take?’
‘I really don’t know. Say two at the most.’
‘Leave me a bit of time to get ready. We’ll go in my car after lunch …’
3 p.m. Villa des Artistes
The instructions were clear. Today, tomorrow or later, a stranger would introduce himself into Commissaire Daquin’s house, stay for ten minutes or so and leave. He would be left to do what he wanted and would then be followed. Absolute discretion was required. It was, in principle, an easy job, at the beginning at least. The estate had only one entrance, through the porch of the building on avenue Jean-Moulin. Daquin’s house was being watched from the stairs of the building by Inspector Conrad, two other inspectors were waiting for his signal in the avenue to start the tail.
The estate was very quiet, seemed deserted. A smallish man, very broad shouldered, black hair cut short, went through the porch, down the pathway between the houses, stopped in front of Daquin’s door. It was obvious he had the keys. Conrad sauntered out into avenue Jean-Moulin, that being the agreed signal which would put Inspectors Allard and Zanetta on alert, a few dozen metres away, and came back into the estate. Hardly was he under the porch when he heard a woman screaming. It seemed to come from Daquin’s house. His initial reaction was to pull out his revolver. But that was absolutely not on. The instructions were clear: whatever happened, the ‘target’ must not suspect he’s being followed by cops. He began to run, heard windows opening behind him in the building which overlooked the estate. The door of the house was half open now. Without slowing down Conrad pushed it. Carried in by his thrust, he knocked against a body, slipped and went head first. And was given a thwack by a perfectly tailored cuff at the base of his skull, without him ever even seeing his aggressor. He crumpled, lights flashing before his eyes.
When he was at last able to stand on his feet again, he was alone beside a woman’s body stretched out full-length, face down. A puddle of blood, as deep as a pool, was slowly and steadily spreading around her. A pile of clean laundry had fallen to the ground. A white towelling dressing-gown was slowly soaking up the blood. Conrad ran out. There was no one on the estate, and in the avenue, Allard and Zanetta were still waiting for his signal.
4 p.m. Passage du Désir
On Daquin’s desk was Steiger’s telex: B. officially dropped out in 1975. Before 1970, he was in Islamabad, and from 70 to 75 in Tehran. His name then was Edward Thompson.
*
The photo team came by at about five: there was no one at the sandwich bar any more. The surveillance was stopped. A good job that no one had tried to retrace the network from there …
*
‘Lavorel. Time for coffee. Tell me, are your bosses at Finance still waiting for your first written report? Aren’t they getting impatient?’
‘I’m working relentlessly. I’m accumulating the files. Bring me Anna Berk and you’ll have one of the most colourful trials in the annals of Finance.’
‘I need you.’
‘I don’t doubt it. You only ever offer me a coffee when you need me.’
Daquin smiled.
‘What’s that, Lavorel? You starting a protest movement?’
‘No, no, monsieur le commissaire, just stating a fact.’
‘The Euroriencar business, with its registered offices in Munich, branch in France, at Gennevilliers. What can you find out about it? Fast, obviously.’
‘I’ve made a note of it, patron.’
‘And now, what about Meillant? Have you seen him?’
‘Last Friday, at length. He knows the Sentier like nobody’s business. But he won’t give me any real help, most probably because he’s up to his neck in it, or because he’s protecting others who are.’
‘I know all that … another coffee?’
Lavorel pushed his empty cup over to Daquin, who rose and made two more coffees.
‘And he already knows that he mustn’t delay to be still in the running.’
‘Explain more.’
‘He’s taking a gamble on the success of the fight in progress in favour of giving the Turks permits. That’s going to make quite a big change to the networks and circuits put in place in the 1960s. And now the Chinese are beginning to move in. Meillant doesn’t want a brush with them.’
‘Lavorel, you see what I’m driving at?’
‘Of course. You’re going to lean on Meillant to get Anna Beric back. A lot depends on what you have up your sleeve, but it could work.’
*
Telephone.
‘Théo?’
‘Yes, chief.’
‘You must return to your house, urgently. The concierge of the estate has just been stabbed at your place, in your entrance hall.’
7 p.m. Villa des Artistes
The concierge died on arrival at the hospital. Daquin, seated on his sofa, was exasperated and ill at ease. He would have to go and see the family. He didn’t even know if she had one. To be truly honest, he couldn’t even remember exactly what she looked like any more. It was far from satisfactory. Cops and various specialists were milling in all directions, in his home, in his house. Unbearable. A scent of haste and mess. He drank one coffee after another. Gradually the house emptied. Till only the Drugs chief, Conrad and the two inspectors from Crime who were responsible for the case remained. Daquin offered them a drink. Everyone sat down. The chief explained very succinctly to the two inspectors from Crime the reasons why Daquin’s house was under surveillance, and asked them to omit all this aspect in their written reports. Daquin explained: ‘The concierge had my keys. She came to work every morning, she did everything, housework, laundry. She didn’t usually come in the afternoon, she worked somewhere else, and the murderers probably knew that. But today she most probably stopped by to drop off the clean laundry.’ Flashback to Soleiman’s dressing-gown, dripping with blood.
Conrad had seen nothing. Just the man from behind. Thickset. They must systematically question the whole neighbourhood, apartments and houses. Windows had been opened when the concierge screamed. Perhaps someone had seen the man running away? It was their only lead. Fingerprints would show nothing. The man would have been wearing gloves for certain. They would have to wait for the autopsy report. Essentially, it would confirm that the woman had died from being stabbed by a knife which had ripped her open from the base of the
abdomen right up to the sternum. But they would possibly also learn things about the nature of the weapon and the assassin’s technique.
*
Daquin and his chief were alone. Daquin, still in a bad mood.
‘You could send Inspector Conrad to work with the group in Marseilles. I don’t want to see him any more. I agree with what the press says. The system for training police officers must be changed completely.’
‘Théo, give me a whisky and when you’ve finished blowing your top, tell me how we’re going to proceed.’
‘I think that we can now dismiss the theory of a set-up by colleagues …’
‘I really hope so.’
Daquin groaned, without specifying what he was thinking at that moment.
‘In any case, after a cock-up like this, the traffickers, if it is them, won’t continue putting the pressure directly on me. That would be a bit too risky for them. And, to encourage them along this route, I’d like to be given constant visible protection, an armed policeman at my door, a surveillance vehicle nearby. I hope that that isn’t going to last long. And they should check my phone isn’t being tapped, at my office and at home.’
*
As soon as his boss had left, Daquin went out to call Soleiman from a phone box. It was ten in the evening. No reply. He went home and to bed, without eating.
8.30 p.m. At the Hippopotamus
Romero drank a whisky standing at the bar, and munched some crisps. Ever since that morning he hadn’t been able to shake off an uneasy feeling every time he thought of Yildiz. A strange mixture of curiosity, anxiety and guilt. At eight-thirty precisely a woman came into the restaurant. Medium height, but the impression of being tall because her shoulders were strong, her hips slim and legs long. Very pale, triangular face, broad forehead, high cheekbones, immense golden eyes. All crowned with a great mass of naturally curly, coppery red hair, which this evening was arranged in a large 1900s-style chignon. Romero was transfixed. For an instant, he looked round to see what lucky man she was smiling at.
‘Are you Romeo?’
The serious voice, the accent …
‘Yes, well, I’d like to …’
‘I’m Yildiz.’
His breath was taken away. Fortunately, the receptionist came looking for them to take them to their table. A house cocktail for Yildiz, another whisky for Romero. Their grills arrived. Yildiz spoke first, about Istanbul, and how difficult life was for Turkish women, about her family. And her shyness, her loneliness during the four months she’d been in France …
Romero thought she laid it on a bit thick there. He would have to stay on his guard. He launched into his job: he was a police inspector, in the Finance Squad, a difficult investigation into the trafficking of black labour … in the course of which the name of Turgut Sener had cropped up.
‘I remembered that you worked at the embassy, and I thought you might be able to save me a lot of time and save me from making a few blunders if you could tell me what sort of man Turgut Sener is, what they say about him at the embassy …’
Yildiz took time to look at him, her chin resting on her hand. ‘Turgut Sener isn’t liked, or valued at the embassy. He belongs to the Turkès party, he’s been put there to watch the ambassador, who’s considered too moderate. He has a reputation for trafficking in everything, and extorting money under every kind of pretext from Turkish workers who need his services.’ She smiled at him. ‘Does that satisfy you?’
‘If you don’t mind me saying … Pardon my indiscretion, but why would an ambassador keep such a corrupt attaché?’
‘You perhaps aren’t all that familiar with the situation in Turkey at this moment. Turgut Sener will stay at the embassy as long as the Turkès party deems it necessary. The ambassador has no choice.’
Romero digested the information. Daquin would know what to do about it.
‘One more thing, Yildiz. If he’s corrupt and if everyone knows it at the embassy, it wouldn’t be all that inconvenient for you if the French police take an interest in him?’
‘You could see it like that.’
‘And you could give me some information on how he spends his time? In exchange, I’ll tell you all the little villainies he gets up to, if I find any.’
‘It could be fun.’
And she held out her hand to seal the deal. Romero took it and raised it to his lips.
This woman’s dangerous, he thought, and I’m in love.
16 TUESDAY 18 MARCH
8 a.m. Passage du Désir
‘As predicted, the meeting with Deputy Paternaud turned up nothing. He gave us the same spiel as Caron. On the other hand, we’re making rapid progress on the photofile of club members: the majority of them are well known, and we’re finding their photos at press agencies. We’ll have a complete file by Wednesday evening.’
‘Very good. Santoni can then leave for Munich on Thursday. I’ll see about contacting the Swiss and German police. While you’re waiting to go, Santoni, try to find out what these deputies have in common. They’re not in the same parties, nor elected from the same regions, so what’s the link between them?’
10 a.m. Rue Cadet
Madame Lamouroux led the way up the dark stairs, with Attali at her heels. This was the third diamond merchant they’d visited that morning. First floor, hefty old reinforced door. They rang. A young man in his thirties came to open up for them. Attali presented his card, explained: a woman had disappeared leaving her diamonds behind. The family and police were trying to identify them. They walked into a narrow, ill-lit, terribly old-fashioned office. There was a long wait. Madame Lamouroux no longer understood what she was doing there.
Enter a stooped old man with a limp. Madame Lamouroux took out an envelope from her bag, tipped it up on the little table covered in black velvet. The man turned on a lamp, put a magnifying glass to his eye, rolled the stones, then straightened up.
‘You’re from the police, they tell me?’
Attali held out his card.
‘Madame is the mother of the young woman we’re looking for.’
‘I know these stones very well, I was the one who sold them. All of them.’
Photo of Virginie Lamouroux.
‘Yes. To her. There’re about two million francs’ worth here.’
Madame Lamouroux felt tears welling in her eyes. The old man fondled the stones.
‘This one here’s the last I sold her. Two hundred thousand francs.’ (He opened the drawer of his desk, consulted an enormous register.) ‘The sixth of March. She brought me the money in cash.’
2 p.m. Boulevard Saint-Denis
On the Grands Boulevards, it was a fine day, there were lots of people about: coming out after lunch, returning to work, strolling around. A tall man, almost six foot, tanned, well-built, in his fifties, with a big moustache, came out of a café on Boulevard Saint-Denis and walked unhurriedly towards Faubourg-Saint-Martin. He stopped at a newspaper kiosk, bought Hürriyet and read the front page as he walked on. A thin young man in a grey wool bomber jacket, leaning against the kiosk, watched him pass, let him walk ahead a little, then followed him, hands in jacket pockets. He measured his step exactly in time with his, increased his stride without changing the rhythm, caught up with him. There was a bulge in his jacket. The other man felt something touch his back, just under the shoulder blade. He wanted to turn round. Heard a champagne cork pop. A luminous bloody explosion in his head. He crumpled to the pavement, stone dead. The thin young man overtook him, continued walking with the same measured step, until the next entrance to the Metro.
3 p.m. Passage du Désir
Daquin dealt with his current business. Contacted his Swiss and German colleagues. Agreed. Mail to follow. Wrote a report on Euroriencar in order to get permission for Drugs to tap the telephone and do a surveillance.
Called Soleiman. ‘This evening at the house. No danger any more. A cop at the door. I’ll explain to you. Just make sure he doesn’t see your face.’
*
&nbs
p; Telephone.
‘Commissaire Daquin?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Jurandeau here, superintendent at the 2nd arrondissement. There’s been a murder right on the street, corner of boulevards Saint-Denis and Sébastapol. I’m letting you know because the victim is a Turk, a workroom manager. And you’re working in the Sentier at the moment, so they tell me.’
‘Yes. Absolutely. I’m on my way. Thanks.’
‘We’ll meet down there.’
3.30 p.m. Boulevard Saint-Denis
The uniformed cops had blocked off a large rectangle on the wide boulevard pavement and were directing the crowd around it. In the centre, clusters of men in civvies were to-ing and fro-ing. Flashlights. Daquin showed his papers and stepped over the barrier. He introduced himself to Jurandeau, said hello to Crime, explained his presence. The photo service had finished. Daquin crouched beside the body, spread face-down. A tall, broad-shouldered man. A black hole under his left shoulder-blade. A rivulet of blood had trickled on to the pavement, beside his head. In his right hand, the man held a Turkish newspaper. Daquin looked at the title. A clean murder. Nothing to do with the butchery yesterday at his house. More like a setting for a tasteful film noir.
He stood up and went to see the inspectors from Crime, busily looking for witnesses among those nearby, but no one had seen anything. And that is undoubtedly true, thought Daquin. One of the inspectors took the time to tell him that the corpse was of someone called Osman Celik, boss of a tailoring workroom in passage Brady. He had papers on him, which were apparently in order. Killed at about 2 p.m. with a bullet from a revolver, at close range, in the back. The weapon was probably armed with a silencer. The bullet must have burst the heart and death would have been instantaneous, pending the autopsy report. As for anything else, they didn’t know where he came from, or why he’d had a bullet put in him.
Rough Trade Page 15
