Daquin had said that in a perfectly normal tone. Lavorel hesitated.
‘No. Nothing struck me.’
‘Find out her past, Lavorel. That, perhaps, will give you a clue as to where to look for her now.’
10 p.m. Parish of Saint-Bernard
Everyone has gone. Soleiman’s alone in his small windowless office that reeks of stale tobacco. Dog-tired, anxious, lonely. Yet another night. Having to go out, walk, find a bed.
Or sleep here perhaps, on a table in the committee room? He sits down. There’s the phone, with a direct line to Daquin’s office. He won’t be there at this hour. It rings once.
‘Daquin speaking.’
A moment’s silence.
‘Can I spend tonight at your place?’
*
Next morning Soleiman opens his eyes. Daquin’s already dressed, ready to leave. He kisses him on the neck.
‘I’ll leave you the key on the bedside table. It’s simpler. Do you eat pork?’
* In French law, these letters empower the police to carry out investigations.
9
9 a.m. At the Customs
Is there legitimate commercial trading with Turkey or Bulgaria which could be used as a channel for drug trafficking? Daquin had a whole morning’s work with pleasant, competent customs officers, who were somewhat disconcerted by his questions. And nothing of interest.
No leads found. It would be taken up again when there was more concrete information.
10 a.m. In the Cité
Santoni listened to the Bernachons’ recordings, in the company of two inspectors: bargain interpreters.
In English, M. Bernachon was preparing a trip to Thailand in a fortnight’s time. He was making appointments with the people he spoke to.
‘I don’t think I’ll need photos this time … I’ve still got some stock … I’d like to bring back two parcels.’ A pause. ‘Male … Yes, I know. I haven’t done it yet. But I have an order. I want two. Is that possible? … Oh, no. Not at that price. We’ll have to talk about it again when I’m out there with you. And of course I must see them.’
In German, Mme Bernachon answered someone calling from Munich.
‘Yes, I know the ballet’s incomplete. We’re missing a dancer. I already discussed it with your manager last Tuesday. I’m not shirking my responsibilities, I’m refusing to accept sole responsibility for the entire loss. You know perfectly well, I’m just an intermediary. I think I’m right in this matter. In fact, you can’t fault me. Yes, monsieur, you can’t fault me.’
11 a.m. Passage du Désir
Daquin pushed open the glass door. Attali was sitting at the small desk writing up a report from notes taken on a very small block of squared paper. Romero was working at the conference table. Both looked up at him and waited. On his own desk was a message from the lab: ‘Re the two photos. There’s absolutely no doubt it’s the same man.’ So Ali Agça had been in Paris, and perhaps still was.
‘Coffee?’ Without waiting for a reply, Daquin started the machine. ‘So, VL?’
‘She was very surprised and noticeably put out that we knew she’d been to New York. I asked her for the names of people who could verify her visit there, and she gave me some.’ Attali pushed his note block over to Daquin. ‘But I’ve something that’s more interesting, perhaps. First of all, Sobesky works with Anna Beric. And he has an associate, in New York to be precise. A man called Baker. VL didn’t mention him, but one never knows.’
‘So, in fact, we’ve something we need to think hard about.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Track down Baker’s full name and address. We’ll phone him and see if that yields anything. And what about you Romero?’
Romero gave Daquin the list of Turks who’d entered France using the Morora company as sponsors.
‘You’ve made a copy for me, obviously? This looks like an excellent lead. Carry on with it. By the way, Drugs are doing a stakeout of the two shops in rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin. I’m also going to ask them to do one of Sobesky and tap his phone. Once it’s set up, one of you’ll have to go through the recordings on a daily basis. And arrange for him to come here for Thursday so that we can see what he looks like. Use his notification of a missing person at the 10th arrondissement police station as an excuse.’
*
Thomas telephoned his colleagues in Munich.
‘We’re sorting out a procurement case here in Paris. Can you give us a bit of help? Who does this Munich phone number belong to?’
Munich rang back a few minutes later: one of the smartest nightclubs in town. Dance shows. And rooms on the first floor. All perfectly legal and controlled. An Eroscenter above the nightclub in fact.
‘Are there Thai dancers?’
‘Yes, some of them are. It’s quite exotic’
‘Minors?’
‘Certainly not. I repeat — it’s all legal.’ A pause for a moment.
‘The right kind of people go there. Know what I mean?’
‘Perfectly. And thanks.’
4 p.m. The Grands Boulevards
Virginie Lamouroux felt strained and tired. She’d worked all morning and still hadn’t eaten. But she wasn’t hungry. She’d had no drugs of any sort, ever since she’d got tangled up in these police restrictions. It would have been too dangerous. But she needed them, she just had to admit. She walked back up as far as the Grands Boulevards, went into a cinema at random, and sat in the fourth row. She was alone in front of the screen. She stretched out in the seat: she needed to relax, regain her sense of calm. Could she still get out of this tight spot or was it already the right moment to disappear? There was someone in the fifth row, two seats to her right. A sidelong glance. It was the cop who’d raped her. She was sure of it. How was that possible? No one can have followed me here, she thought. Her heart thumped, her hands were trembling. The man didn’t budge and said nothing. He was simply there, a monstrous presence that filled the whole auditorium behind her. She swayed as she stood up and rushed to the toilets. When she came out, several minutes later, she looked around. He wasn’t there any more. At least, she couldn’t see him any more. She sat down again in the back row. And now, she thought, I need to think about running away. How many days do I still have?
4 p.m. Passage du Désir
Attali was on the phone, speaking English with a heavy but passable French accent. Daquin picked up the receiver.
‘Mr Baker, please. Inspector Attali. French police … Good morning, sir, Inspector Attali of the Drugs Squad in Paris. I hope I’m not disturbing you. You’re obviously in no way obliged to give me an answer. We have arrested a young woman in the act of selling small quantities of drugs. She’s a Virginie Lamouroux. We’ve checked her whereabouts in the last fortnight. She’s told us that she was in New York from Saturday the first until Wednesday 5 March, on a tourist trip, and met you there. Can you confirm this?’
A marked silence. ‘Yes, that is so.’
Once he’d hung up, Attali asked: ‘Is he in the running too?’
Daquin shrugged his shoulders.
*
It was only towards eight in the evening that Lavorel returned to passage du Désir, tense and excited.
‘Anna Berk was accused in March 1958 of murdering her boss, a Yugoslav by the name of Yavitch, and charged.’ He consulted his notes. ‘The investigating judge, a man by the name of Parent, now retired to Meung-sur-Loire, dismissed the case for lack of evidence, after hearing the testimony of her clients, Scalfari and Rigault, two stallholders on boulevard de la Villette, and an Iranian student, Osman Kashguri.’