3.30 p.m. Passage du Désir
He had to check the Citroën CX’s number. None was registered with this number, which belonged to a small Renault: a teacher, MAIF:* no report of it being stolen. So, false plates. Then he had to call Soleiman. He phoned from another office, you never knew.
‘Sol. I’ve been followed, and I’m not sure by whom. I have to take precautions right away. Don’t come to see me and don’t try to meet me, either at my place or the office. I’ll get in touch as soon as the situation becomes clearer. Be very careful Sol. Don’t go out alone. These are probably drug traffickers and they’ve a pretty crude approach to things.’
Now he had to see Lavorel.
*
‘What are you up to?’
‘I’ve almost pieced the network of Anna Beric’s manufacturers together. When you bring her in to me, if you bring her in, I’ll be able to launch the biggest operation in tax recovery the Sentier’s ever known. I can’t guarantee any link with drugs, but dirty money and white powder often go hand in hand.’
‘Meillant’s still Anna Beric’s boyfriend. And they both conceal their relationship very carefully.’ Lavorel was looking at Daquin and waiting for what came next. ‘You’re going to ask for a meeting with Meillant. And question him about the Sentier. He’s been in this neighbourhood for twenty years, and knows everything. Nothing could be more natural than you asking his opinion.’ Daquin thought for a moment. ‘You can even mention Anna Beric. After all, we’d be pathetic cops if we hadn’t traced things back to her.’
‘What is it you want to know, patron?’
‘I’d like to know what Meillant was up to today. Behaving like a Samurai, or taking early retirement?’
*
Thomas and Santoni hovered between triumphalism and despondency. Simon had given them everything: the lists, his accounts. Fifty members. About twenty highly-placed executives in very large businesses, six deputies, two senators, three well-known lawyers, two TV journalists and a superintendent from the Vice Squad who’d retired six months ago. And the hassle had only just started.
They also had the pseudonyms of the members who’d rented studios on Friday 29 February. Icarus, then, for the young Thai girl. Achilles, Prometheus and Theseus for the three other studios. Daquin felt like laughing. This is what the Ancient Greeks were used for these days. Prometheus so you can have a bang and smoke a joint.
And on the list of regular ‘service providers’ was Virginie Lamouroux.
Silence.
‘A cover for dealing?’
Thomas shrugged his shoulders. Daquin was thinking aloud.
‘We’ll get Vice officially involved right away and leave them to sort it out with their old superintendent and Simon’s theoretical, but probable protection. We’re only interested in the murder ourselves. And in Virginie Lamouroux. And this time we’re going to lock her up and examine what she has to say to us a bit more closely. As for the rest, the most logical course is to take the list of fifty members – after all, it’s not enormous – question everybody, check their pseudonyms, alibis, habits as regards drugs and girls and what they know about Virginie Lamouroux. But with the clientele we’re inheriting, three-quarters are going to refuse to acknowledge belonging to this network. If we shake them up, at the least we’ll have the European Commission for Human Rights up our asses and if we insist even further, the United Nations. Not even mentioning our direct superiors. Leave these papers with me, I’m going to read them, write a report and see my chief.’
*
Peace and quiet, armchair, coffee, feet on desk: Daquin read the list of members attentively. The names were typed one below the other. Opposite each, the date they joined, the dates they settled their monthly instalments, by cheque or cash. Everyone was up to date. In the margin, Thomas and Santoni had noted a few bits of information in pencil: deputy … superintendent Vice Squad since 1979 … journalist on Le Monde and, among the rest, were three names which meant something. Osman Kashguri, banker; Franco Moreira, businessman; Themistocles Lestiboudois, businessman.
So, Kashguri had cropped up yet again. An old customer of Anna Beric, who’d given her an alibi for the murder of her pimp. An Iranian. ‘Iranians taught me to smoke heroin,’ VL had said. The Turkish drugs came from Iran. It was time to phone Lenglet, get some leads on this Kashguri.
6 p.m. Nanterre
It was rush hour at Morora’s warehouses, the time when almost all the vans came back to base.
‘Factory inspection.’ Attali briefly flashed his tricolour card at a foreman snowed-under with work. ‘Is the boss around?’
‘No. M. Moreira isn’t here. He’s not often here on a Friday evening.’
‘Could you come around with me? I’m inspecting your company’s business. Monsieur …?’
‘Janvier. But you must realize I, I’m just a nobody here, just a wage-earner.’
‘I quite understand, Monsieur Janvier. I’m asking you your name so I can enter it on the report. First of all I’d like to see the workmen.’
The men were parking the vans and taking out the equipment. Once the rumour had got round that the stranger there was the factory inspector, there was deathly silence. No one moved. The immigrants didn’t know what a factory inspector was, but they perceived him as dangerous. Janvier introduced the workmen by name, one after the other. Attali made a note of all their identities and asked their country of origin. All originated in the same village, in the Moroccan Rif. He also asked for their work permits. There was a moment’s hesitation.
‘You’ll have to ask the boss about that. We’re not kept in the know about that.’
‘They don’t have their work permits on them?’
‘No.’
‘And their residence permits? While we’re here …’
‘No, nor those.’
A heavy atmosphere. Attali, looking grave, made a note of the absence of papers, and to ask the employer, then undertook a visit of the site.
‘Where’s the policy and procedures manual displayed?’
There was frank surprise on Janvier’s face. ‘Do we need one?’
Attali noted on the report: no policy and procedures manual. In the first half of the warehouse the vans were neatly parked and tools and machinery carefully stowed away. Against the walls were three benches for makeshift repairs. Attali went through the doorway set in the back wall to the second half of the warehouse. Beaten earth floor, walls of galvanized iron. On the left side, bunk beds, six rows of four. Five naked bulbs swung at the end of very long flexes, giving a gloomy light. In the corner was a row of cupboards, and along the back wall, five washbasins, two chemical WCs with no partitions, a fridge, two Butagaz burners, a big table, and some large cans which served as stools. It was simultaneously sordid and immaculately clean and tidy.
In the right-hand part of the warehouse, with no kind of partition, chemicals used in the business were stocked. Barrels, carboys, boxes, carefully stacked away and labelled. Attali conscientiously wrote down all the names of the products in his notebooks. A row of carboys a little apart from the rest had no labels. He went up to them.
‘What’s this?’
‘No idea. We never use them.’
Janvier hadn’t hesitated, so it seemed. Attali opened a carboy, which released a violent smell he knew by heart: acetic anhydride. He’d never hoped for such a find.
‘And has this been here a long time?’
‘Couldn’t tell you. I have a feeling it hasn’t.’
Attali went back through the first part of the warehouse. The Moroccans were gathered round a bench, with the other foreman. Visibly filled with misery and shame, they already saw themselves banged up.
Attali made his farewells to the foremen, informed them that he would call the boss on Monday and left in a dignified manner. Behind him he could hear the confused burble of people suddenly talking again. He sat at the steering wheel of his unmarked car which he’d parked in front of the café opposite. He sounded the horn to al
ert Romero, leaning on the counter, who said goodbye to the patron and jumped into the car beside his colleague.
‘So, you managed to persuade him we were journalists?’
‘Yes, but it was a long, difficult job. He’d never seen a journalist in his life.’
‘Just as well.’
8.30 p.m. Passage du Désir
‘Chief, it’s a brilliant scam. Moreira declares twenty-two workers he doesn’t actually employ: that’s the Turks. And he has twenty-two workers he doesn’t declare, and doesn’t pay either: that’s the Moroccans.’
Attali was euphoric, like some schoolboy who might have said it as a good joke, and for him that was a surprise.
‘How d’you mean? He doesn’t pay them?’
‘No, I’m sure he doesn’t. He gives them lodgings, you should see what they’re like, he feeds them, but he doesn’t pay them. They all come from the same village. Moreira must be in cahoots with a big Moroccan landlord who’s probably organized their trip here, making them pay dearly … The families have all stayed behind in their village. Like that, if a worker gets it into his head to protest, what would happen to his family back home would soon make him change his mind. His business has the appearance of being in order, nobody bothers them, not the tax people nor the factory inspectorate. The Turks in the network appear as innocent workers, and the boss makes an enormous profit out of the real workers, for he’s only paying their national insurance, not wages. Which makes a change from the Sentier, where bosses pay them wages but no national insurance.’
‘There’s a lot of conjecture in all this. And we don’t have time to dig deeper.’
‘But that’s not all. In the workshops I found acetic anhydride stacked up among other chemicals. The business’s activities are ideal for buying chemical products the Turks need for refining heroin, without attracting attention, and they probably use the same methods to bring it back home as they do to bring the drug here.’
‘Now, that’s more solid. We’ll tap Moreira’s phone calls, business and home. You’ll follow them with the others. There’s something brand new as regards VL. She’s dabbling in a complicated game of prostitution in which she’s fooling the middlemen. And, what’s more, Moreira and Lestiboudois feature in the list of clients. There’s every possibility we’ve chanced on a network of dealers for our drug. Or some other one. But, this time, we’ve enough facts to make her spill the beans. Attali, find her as quick as you can, arrest her and bring her here for questioning.’
*
Night has fallen. In passage du Désir there’s absolute calm. Time for reflection. I’m still in a complete fog, but at least I’ve several leads. Moreira and the setting up of the network? VL, Lestiboudois, the Club Simon and dealing? But, as far as I can see, nothing links it to the Mafia or the Turkish extreme right. Except, perhaps, one thing: the presence of the Bank of Cyprus and the East. Keep the report modest.
First, we have Attali and Romero’s concrete results: a few words on Moreira and Martens to add weight to a request for tapping their line, and soonest possible. Nothing on the methods used, obviously.
Then Bernachon-Aratoff, that’s already done. Everything on the Simon scam. The list of clients – for which we’re most grateful. Reactions in high places won’t be long in coming. The two cases must remain our group’s responsibility, the fact that Virginie Lamouroux is involved, just like Moreira, shows they’re linked to drug trafficking. Nothing on the Citroën and the possible tailing. Let’s wait As for Anna Beric and Meillant, I’m keeping that to myself.
Finished. It’s after 11 p.m. I’m tired. I’ll file the report on my way home.
A real feeling of regret at not being able to meet Soleiman. A memory of his sleeping form under the orange duvet. His tanned skin and his darker, almost black, penis. Not worth going home for dinner. Some sauerkraut in a brasserie on the way will do.
* Mutuel d’Assurance Automobile des Instituteurs de France – a large French insurance company with wide interests, including insuring teachers’ cars.
13 SATURDAY 15 MARCH
10 a.m. Passage du Désir
‘We’ll begin rather at random with some of the businessmen, and some politicians.’
Thomas and Santoni listened and scribbled notes, relieved that Daquin was taking matters in hand.
‘We’ve nothing against a man who frequents whores, of whatever persuasion. So, a priori, we must go softly-softly. But our aim is to throw light on the murder of a Thai child, committed on 29 February last by a certain Icarus. So they must give us their pseudonym, tell us what they were doing on the evening of the 29th, what they could see, if they went into the Club Simon that evening … if they wouldn’t mind. And as we’re obstinate creatures, we’d also like to know if they know Virginie Lamouroux, in what circumstances they’ve kept her company, if they’ve used her to procure girls or drugs … We’re going to contact them by phone. Obviously, they’re not obliged to agree to meet us. But we can say to them that we’re making inquiries about the murder and rape of a child, and if it comes to having to obtain rogatory letters in order to get them to talk to us as witnesses, we’ll be considerably less discreet. Here are the lists of names to phone. Is everything dear? Get to work.’
*
Once he was on his own, Daquin began with Lestiboudois. Not at home. He was playing golf at the International Club du Lys at Chantilly. Telephone call to the clubhouse.
‘M. Lestiboudois has just arrived.’
‘Put him on to me. Superintendent Daquin here.’ All it needed was a mention of the Club Simon to obtain an appointment. At 1 p.m. in the Lys club house.
‘I shall be coming with one of my inspectors.’
‘I’ll wait for you in the hall. Obviously, I shall make you stay for lunch. I’ll book a table right away.’
*
And now, Kashguri. Why resist his curiosity to get to know him? Kashguri was in the directory, and answered the phone after the first ring.
‘Monsieur Kashguri? Superintendent Daquin of the Drugs Squad here. I hope I’m not disturbing you?’
‘I’m working. What d’you want from me?’
‘We’ve just arrested M. Simon for aggravated procurement. You appear on the list of his regular clients.’
‘It’s not illegal.’
‘I know that as well as you do. But I’d like to ask you a few questions on the running of this private club.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘I shall ask for letters rogatory from the judge and obtain them and demand your presence in, shall we say, a more official manner.’
‘Very well, I’m looking at my appointments diary. I can come to see you on Wednesday next at 10. I’d prefer it if I came to you. Where should I go?’
‘I’d rather see you at an earlier date.’
‘That won’t be possible. And, even if you go through the judge, it won’t be any quicker.’
Daquin allowed some time to elapse.
‘Wednesday at 10, at the 10th arrondissement Local Squad police station, passage du Désir, Paris 10th, Commissaire Daquin’s office.’
He hung up, and sat motionless for a while, staring fixedly at the phone. It wasn’t going to be easy.
1 p.m. Rue Piat
A whole morning waiting in a police Renault 5 in front of Martens’ place: an old building, with little renovation done, just above Belleville Park. Undoubtedly, one of the prettiest views in Paris. Radio, crossword, a whole morning was a bloody long time. Martens came out of his place, on foot, sober and classically elegant in suit and tie. A few dozen metres on he went into a restaurant on the corner of rue Piat and rue des Envierges. Greeted like an old customer. Table reserved by the window. He ordered a bottle of champagne. A ravishing young woman arrived, with raven hair and very dark eyes. A warm vivacious face. She took off her long grey coat and underneath was an extremely clinging, extremely orange dress. Romero whistled in admiration. Lunch was washed down with a fair amount of booze, and apparently very happy. Outsi
de it was chilly and miserable, nothing to eat. Romero asked himself, was this really the job I should have taken up?
They went back. Arm in arm to Martens’. This guy was a bastard – a lucky bastard. Romero took advantage of the slack period to have a sandwich.
1 p.m. Chantilly
With Santoni, unmarked car, destination Chantilly. Daquin didn’t take long to spot the car following them. It wasn’t a Citroën this time but a Peugeot 405. The tailing was well done, more discreet than the day before. The traffic was thicker though.
Daquin stopped outside a tobacconist’s, noted the 405’s number when it passed by him. Then he continued to the Club du Lys, without bothering about it any more. Santoni hadn’t noticed anything.
They arrived at the Club du Lys. Daquin hated golf clubs. His childhood came back to him sickeningly. All those weekends when he’d been left on his own in luxurious, pseudo-English venues. Stop, now. Think of something else. One migraine a week was enough.
Lestiboudois spotted them and walked towards them. A small, good-natured man with white hair, amiable and rotund, in a beige wool and doeskin jacket over a dark brown sports shirt and matching velour trousers. He guided them towards the dining-room. A reserved table, a little apart, near a big bay window. White table-cloths, muted service. Aperitifs? Daquin ordered a margarita, Santoni a whisky, like Lestiboudois.
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