Rough Trade

by Dominique Manotti

  Daquin looked at the page: 4 p.m. FI group. And 8 p.m.: Bertrand.

  ‘Do you remember where you went to have dinner? And at about what time?’

  ‘Yes, we went to the Brasserie Lipp, where we usually go.’

  ‘I’ll have it checked.’

  ‘Be discreet.’

  ‘Of course. I also wanted to tell you that in France the use of certain substances is illegal.’

  Kashguri showed great self-control, smiled and still kept his hands folded.

  ‘On that point you could certainly catch me out fairly easily. It’s a habit I acquired in my own country where such things are widely tolerated. But you know as well as I do that a charge of that sort would cause you many problems, involving many people over what is really a minor offence.’

  He’s pleased with himself, thought Daquin, he’s convinced he’s won a point. It was the right moment to try something on.

  ‘Do you know Virginie Lamouroux?’

  ‘No, I don’t know that person.’

  Kashguri had not reacted. Daquin showed him the photograph of Virginie that Madame Lamouroux had given to Attali.

  ‘You’ve never met her?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Yet Virginie Lamouroux has told us that she learnt to smoke heroin in your company.’

  At those words Daquin was sure he noticed a reaction. Kashguri sat bolt upright in his chair.

  ‘Listen,’ he said in a very dry voice, ‘I’m not intimately acquainted with all the people in whose company I spend somewhat hectic evenings. I don’t know this lady and I don’t wish to discuss my favourite pastime any further.’

  ‘Very well, Monsieur Kashguri. Thank you for attending this interview.’

  Kashguri was surprised that Daquin had brought it to an end so quickly.

  They both stood up. Daquin accompanied him back to the door and returned to his desk.

  He wants to send me towards Bertrand. Very well. Attali will go. I must find out why he wants us to go in that direction. I think he knows VL. But I have to prove it. If I manage that, he’s in it up to his neck. But in what? Drug trafficking? The murder of the Thai girl? Both? Is it him VL’s blackmailing?

  Noon. Chez Mado

  Daquin was meeting Meillant for lunch. He went to pick him up at the police station in the 10th arrondissement. The two men shook hands. They’d hardly seen each other since the Police Academy. That was nearly ten years ago already. Meillant hadn’t changed. Short, thickset rather than fat. Three-piece suit, white shirt, dark tie. Grey hair, carefully combed back. Was he wearing Brylcreem? He looked fearfully old-fashioned. Whatever can Anna Beric see in him? Daquin still felt the animosity that had kept them apart at the Academy.

  ‘I’m taking you out to lunch. I’ve booked a table at Chez Mado. Do you know it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s a local curiosity, just two steps away.’

  They reached Chez Mado, didn’t linger at the bar and went through the red curtains. Mado came over rapidly to meet them, embraced Meillant and shook hands with Daquin, looking him over for a moment with the eye of a connoisseur, and seated them at a table in a quiet area right at the back of the room.

  ‘It’s cassoulet day today.’

  ‘Perfect, two cassoulets, Cahors wine, and bring us the best hors-d’oeuvres you’ve got to make us wait patiently.’

  As he spoke Meillant tapped the owner’s impressive pair of buttocks, she thanked him with a smile and swayed off towards the kitchen.

  Meillant described Mado’s career to Daquin in minute detail.

  ‘You see all that hardware that Mado carries around?’ he said finally. ‘Well, it’s all real gold and precious stones. Even her spectacles aren’t made of rubbish: they’re diamonds and platinum. She doesn’t trust banks and prefers to carry her fortune about on her person. And she keeps all her jewellery on when she’s having sex, apart from her spectacles.’

  Meillant really made a meal of it.

  ‘You know that it was here that Thomas found the trail leading to the Ballets Aratoff?’

  No, Daquin didn’t know that. It was Meillant who had sent me Thomas and Santoni in order to keep himself informed about an investigation that was taking place on his patch. How could I have been so naive as not to realize that earlier? Continue acting as if all was in order. Fortunately the cassoulet was superb.

  ‘Meillant, did you know Osman Celik?’

  ‘Yes, I knew him well.’

  ‘I thought you did. Can you tell me a bit more about him?’

  ‘I helped him to get his papers in order, about two years ago that was, and to open his workroom. We kept in touch ever since.’

  ‘You knew of course that he was assassinated yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve read the report from the Crime Squad.’

  ‘Have you got a theory?’

  ‘Settlement of political accounts. Osman Celik was a man of the left. He’d already had problems with the Grey Wolves in Istanbul.’

  ‘He wasn’t involved with drugs at any level?’

  ‘No, really not. Not his scene at all. The usual little carry-ons in the Sentier, yes. But people don’t kill each other over those, not so far, in my district.’

  On his way back Daquin mused a little. So, Celik had been a snout for Meillant. Should he tell Sol or not? And who knew about it?

  3 p.m. Passage du Désir

  Two hours given over to questioning, one after the other, two young mannequins who had worked with Virginie Lamouroux. Thomas led the interrogation, assisted by an inspector from the Vice Squad. Daquin sat behind them in an armchair, observing without intervening. They didn’t learn much. Virginie Lamouroux used to work through an answering machine. Attali had already found it, installed in the apartment owned by Sobesky’s son. She took a very reasonable commission. The girls liked her, there were never any dirty tricks or arguments. As for the drugs business, that was more difficult. The girls had to be hustled along a bit, but they had no experience of police tactics and were soon caught out. It was the clients who took drugs. The fashion at the moment was for LSD. Did they smoke too? Yes, perhaps, in a very small way, and they preferred heroin. Did everything go via Virginie Lamouroux? No, not necessarily. And what about Kashguri? They had both had him as a client, the appointments were made through Virginie, like the others. He was a rather unusual client. He would come with friends and sit apart through the whole performance, smoking, watching, drinking, but he never even took his clothes off.

  *

  Santoni had had good hunting. The six deputies and two senators who had belonged to the Club Simon were all members of the parliamentary group for Franco-Iranian Friendship, which comprised about thirty people. He had a complete list of the names. The chairman was Gérard Bertrand. He could be found at the Assembly or at home, 57 avenue Bosquet. Daquin showed his appreciation.

  ‘And I’ve found a good photo of Bertrand at a press agency. Shall I add it to the file I’m taking to Munich tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s an idea, but keep it out of the reports.’

  *

  Romero reported late in the afternoon. No developments anywhere. Except with Moreira. He’d telephoned to a certain Paulette asking her to supply false papers. His men had been so scared since the visit by the fraudulent works inspector that they would have to be replaced. Since this was happening rather sooner than expected the usual supplier had run out. Could she manage to arrange it? She would try.

  Paulette’s telephone number was that of a Sentier workroom in the passage de l’Industrie.

  18 THURSDAY 20 MARCH

  8.a.m. Passage du Désir

  Everyone in the office was studying something. Daquin was reading the papers. Libération led on the boycott of the ministerial regularization of Turks without papers.

  There was some admiration for Soleiman.

  Romero was drafting a report on the shadowing of Sener.

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Théo?’

  �
��Yes, chief.’

  ‘Rouen have just called us. They’ve got a nameless corpse on their hands which might belong to you. Can you send someone to take a look?’

  ‘Why did they think of us?’

  ‘He looks like a half-breed and his clothes come from Istanbul. Contact Inspector Petitjean at the Central Police Station in Rouen.’

  Daquin hung up.

  ‘Romero, that’s for you. Take the file of photos with you. It could be useful.’

  9.30 a.m. Brasserie Lipp

  The swing doors to the Brasserie Lipp were propped open and a deliveryman in blue overalls was bringing out crates of empty bottles and taking in full ones. Attali sat down on the terrace and glanced at the interior, endless mirrors, light-coloured ceramics and dark wood. A woman arranging a huge bunch of orange lilies. No customers. There was one waiter, all in black and wearing a vast white apron that reached down to his feet. He came up to Attali. Sounds of crockery and voices in the kitchens. Attali showed his identity card. The waiter went to find the person in charge, a respectable man wearing a grey suit, white shirt, dark tie.

  ‘I need to ask you a few questions about two customers, just routine.’

  The two men sat down on the terrace, where the doors were still open.

  ‘Do you know Monsieur Bertrand and Monsieur Kashguri?’

  ‘Yes, they’re regulars.’

  ‘Were they here on Friday 29 February in the evening?’

  The man went to fetch two thick registers from behind the till, beside the orange flowers. The first one listed the names of the waiters, by teams, along with their hours of duty. Each man had added his signature beside his name.

  ‘29 February. I was here that evening. I might as well tell you at once that I don’t have any very clear recollections.’

  The second register contained the reservations.

  ‘29 February, Monsieur Bertrand had reserved a table for two at 9 o’clock.’

  ‘Why are all those reservations crossed out?’

  ‘We cross them out as and when the clients arrive.’

  ‘So if Monsieur Bertrand hadn’t come, his name wouldn’t be crossed out?’

  ‘Unless he’d cancelled by telephone. If a client cancels, we also cross out the name, since we don’t have to keep the table any longer.’

  ‘And do clients take the trouble to telephone if they want to cancel?’

  ‘Yes, our habitués here are careful not to let us down without warning,’

  ‘If Monsieur Bertrand had cancelled, would that have gone through you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you don’t remember if he did?’

  ‘No. It’s three weeks ago now. Monsieur Bertrand comes several times a week. We have a hundred or so reservations a day. Three or four of them are cancelled. So …’

  ‘Could you ask the waiters who were on duty that evening to contact me on this number if anyone remembers anything?’

  ‘Certainly, Inspector.’

  Attali left. He already knew there would be no follow-up.

  10 a.m. Passage du Désir

  The interrogation of the mannequins began again. It was becoming routine. Thomas was working together with the same inspector from the Vice Squad. Daquin remained to one side, observing without saying anything. Maud Mathieu. The interrogation was dull but confirmed the statements made by Lamergie.

  Daquin was bored. The presence of VL at the Club Simon on the evening of the 29th could be considered as established. Apart from that nobody knew anything about her. Everyone was marking time. I’ll stay for the last interview of the morning. Then I’ll go on to something else.

  Enter Dorothée Marty, a tall, slim, dark girl. Hair cut square, dark and full, a huge fringe covering her entire forehead. Framed by this black helmet her face looked childlike and small. She’s graceful, thought Daquin, who had remained slightly absentminded. The interrogation began. Like the others. Daquin had to make an effort to concentrate. Then suddenly, at the question ‘Do you know Kashguri, have you had him as a client?’ her whole body became rigid. Her attitude and her expression froze.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who found him for you?’

  ‘Virginie Lamouroux, like the others.’

  ‘Do you know if she was a personal friend of his?’

  ‘No, I never discussed that with her.’

  Thomas went on to something else. Dorothée Marty relaxed and her attitude became normal again. The interrogation continued. Incredible that neither Thomas nor the Vice Squad inspector had noticed anything. Not good cops. Or else they didn’t care.

  End of the interrogation. Dorothée Marty stood up, signed her statement and prepared to leave. Daquin stood up also. The two inspectors saw him open the door for the young woman and take hold of her elbow.

  ‘Does your superintendent try to pick up girls?’ the Vice Squad inspector asked Thomas. The latter shrugged his shoulders, indicating that he didn’t know and didn’t understand.

  ‘Mademoiselle, may I invite you to lunch? It’s the right time now and I’d like to talk to you a little in a completely informal way, obviously.’ Dorothée Marty looked surprised and hesitant. ‘Say yes. You’ve not much to lose, you have a Superintendent’s word for it.’

  ‘You know, I don’t usually eat lunch.’

  ‘I’ll take you to an Italian place that you’ll like. If you want, you need only have a cup of coffee.’

  11.30 a.m. Rouen

  Cold, tiled floor, smells. The body on a trolley. The face was uncovered. White complexion, swellings more or less everywhere. Unreal. Not a dead man, more like a mask.

  ‘Those are burns caused by the lime,’ explained Petitjean. ‘But we’ve had his face made up, identification will be easier that way.’

  Romero put his briefcase down on a table, took out the set of photographs, leafed through them, picked out one of them and showed it to Petitjean.

  ‘OK. It’s him.’

  ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  They walked up and down in front of the morgue. Romero had brought some little cigars, Italian ones from Tuscany, which he always took when he went to a morgue: they smelt worse than the corpses. He offered one to Petitjean, who refused it.

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Not at all. Well?’

  ‘He’s a little Turkish dealer whom we’ve been on to for a couple of weeks, a certain Celebi.’

  12.30 p.m. Da Mimo

  Neapolitan atmosphere. Daquin was obviously an habitué. A small table at the end, with a red and white checked tablecloth. Daquin installed the young woman with her back to the room. For her he chose hors d’œuvres variés on a bed of vegetables dressed with oil and vinegar and for himself a pizza alla rughetta. Followed by grilled fish, chilled Orvieto as usual and for Madame, a mineral water.

  He had to take advantage of the fact that the girl was destabilized, he mustn’t let her recover her self-control.

  ‘Tell me about your relationship with Kashguri.’

  She retreated into her shell again. Tried to hide her feelings with a smile.

  ‘I’ve nothing more to say.’

  ‘That’s not true. Whenever that name is mentioned your whole body goes on the defensive. Did it turn out badly?’

  ‘Maybe. So what?’

  ‘Tell me about it. We aren’t on police premises here. You want to talk about it and there’s no better listener than me.’

  Dorothée hid her face in her hands to escape Daquin’s gaze.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I listen to you, I look at you, I pay attention to you, that’s all.’

  ‘He got me raped under appalling conditions.’

  Her voice was low, all on one note, her hands still over her face. Daquin allowed silence to set in. For her the worst was over, she certainly had the right to fix her own speed. Dorothée retreated into her memories. She then fixed her eyes on her plate. Her voice didn’t change.

  ‘He offered me a lot of money to spend a
n evening at his apartment, with some friends, he said. I’d had him as a client two or three times at the Club Simon, he used to come with friends and he’d watch us make love. That was all. I thought it would be the same sort of thing at his place. I accepted.’

  Silence again, a very long silence.

  ‘I arrived at his place. He seemed to be alone and thanked me for coming. We sat in the drawing-room and smoked a little heroin. I began to feel drowsy. He led me into a bedroom, somewhere in the apartment. There was hardly any furniture, just a big brass bed.’ For the first time Dorothée looked up at Daquin. ‘You know, old-fashioned, with high rails at the top and bottom.’

  ‘Yes, there was one in my grandmother’s house.’

  Dorothée looked down at her plate again. ‘There were two men in the room, his menservants. They caught hold of me, one held me, the other literally tore my clothes off. I began to scream and struggle. That made them laugh. Kashguri sat in an armchair and smiled. I was terrified, I thought they were going to kill me and that nobody would ever find me again. When I was completely naked they tied me to the bed with cords, I was stretched out on my back, with my arms and legs apart and they began to beat me with riding whips. I screamed as loudly as I could.’

  A long silence. The memory of her suffering.

  ‘When I stopped crying out they untied me. I couldn’t move. I was bleeding all over, and they raped me, one after the other, and then both of them at once. I lost consciousness. I think Kashguri was masturbating during this time.’ Silence again. ‘Then one of the men looked after me, putting something on the wounds that smelt very strong. And then they wrapped me up in a kind of towelling sheet and carried me to a car, then they took me to my own apartment. They left me there in the middle of the night with a pile of money. I didn’t make a complaint. I looked after myself. I’m not working any more, I don’t go out any more, I’m living on Kashguri’s money.’ A pause. In the end she looked up from her plate. She smiled, a young smile. ‘It’s true, you’re really a good listener.’