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
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 flagrantedelicto, 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?’