Daquin shivered, The Persian poetry, ‘January 1958. An unforgettable meeting. O.’ Could it be the same person?
‘The police inspector who led the inquiry was called Pierre Meillant.’
Pierre Meillant. Daquin closed his eyes and rocked in his chair. Pierre Meillant, superintendent of the 10th arrondissement. They were together at the Police Academy in 1971 and Meillant had taken an immediate dislike to him. A labourer’s son, and a former member of the Resistance, entered the police as a patrolman in 1945, and climbed the ladder through internal promotions and competition. First inspector, then superintendent when he was approaching his fifties; an exceptional career, clawing his way up.
He couldn’t bear Daquin’s sense of ease as a young man of means, his brilliant academic career, superintendent at twenty-six. And his taste for boys, one freedom too many and a permanent provocation. Daquin had needed a great deal of sang-froid to avoid a fight. That and his admiration he had for Meillant — he was a very good cop. The real boss in his station and his district, where he’d worked for more than twenty years. A man of power: a concept of the police which gave him one more good reason to detest Daquin, who liked the recreational side to his job. Daquin opened his eyes and took a deep breath. Lavorel was still there, motionless, with a suggestion of a smile.
‘And, obviously, the next question is: is there still a connection between Meillant and Anna Beric?’
‘Obviously.’
10 p.m. Villa des Artistes
A long heavy day. Daquin’s worn out. So’s Soleiman apparently. He’s lingering in the bath, listening to the radio. He looks at his feet resting on the rim of the tub and remembers his first meeting with Daquin, in this house. Half dead with fear. His upper lip still stinging from the razor. And Daquin, surprising. In bed, he hadn’t said a word. Authoritarian and attentive. Not hurried. A sensualist. At this precise moment Soleiman feels an unusual sense of well being.
‘Hurry up, Sol. The pasta won’t wait’
It’s spaghetti carbonara. Doesn’t take long to make. Delicious. He hasn’t wanted to cook for a long while.
Daquin has prepared a duplicate list of the twenty-two names Romero gave him and left them on the low table, along with a whole pack of photos taken by Attali and Romero.
‘I’m leaving you all that. It’s for you. The list has been made up using the four names you gave me to start with. They all obtained their papers under the same terms at the National Immigration Office, and they’re all supposed to be working in the same business, which is probably a cover. Identify them, try to establish what links there can be between them that we know already, and find them. Sol, I’ve total confidence in you. We ourselves are working on the international links and French collusion. I’m giving you the whole of the Turkish side of this case in Paris. D’you think you can do this in a fortnight?’
A groan.
‘And what does that mean?’
‘It means “OK”.’
10
7a.m. Nanterre
Romero yawned. Not yet fully awake. It was a crappy suburb, amidst small villas built at the end of the nineteenth century, modern tower blocks and industrial warehouses. In this area it was mostly industrial warehouses and cul-de-sacs, with lots of potholes. But it was full of life at this time of day. Quite a few workmen and van drivers coming in to have a coffee or a glass of red wine before setting out. The café was just opposite Morora’s premises. It would be hard to find a better observation point.
‘A coffee, with cream, and a croissant please.’
‘No croissants.’
‘Bread and butter then?’
‘Right, a coffee, with cream, and a slice of bread and butter.’
Buzz of conversation. Romero took his coffee, sat at a table near the window, took out Le Parisien from his pocket and a pencil to do the crossword. Renault vans began coming out of Morora’s. He jotted down their departure times in the margin of his paper. In the van’s driver’s seat, as in the passenger seat, were immigrants. Romero could bet on it they weren’t Turkish. North African, possibly, but not Turkish.
At around eight, the gate appeared to close finally. The café had emptied. Still feeling sleepy, Romero stood up and dragged himself to the counter. The owner was the thin alcoholic type, in his forties and already burnt out.
‘Patron, get me a white wine. I need a bit of consoling. My mate’s not turned up. Will you have one? Keep me company?’
The owner filled two glasses.
‘I’m a driver/delivery-man,’ Romero went on. ‘Just lost my job.’ The owner remained silent. ‘D’you think it’s worth my trying across the street? I’ve seen a load of vans come out this morning.’
The owner glanced vaguely across the street.
‘At Morora’s? No way. They only employ North Africans, and then, they don’t make deliveries.’
Romero pushed his glass in his direction.
‘Let’s fill up again. It says “Rat Extermination” on the vans. What’s that involve, job-wise?’
‘They dean the waste chutes, sewers, abandoned cellars, all the places where there’s trouble with mice and rats. It’s a filthy job by all accounts. As it’s very dirty, they can’t find enough French people to do it, so they have to import North Africans. There’re only two foremen who’re French.’
‘I shouldn’t think that lot are very nice customers. They don’t drink and they’re always spoiling for a fight.’
Romero pushed his glass towards the owner again, who poured out the third round.
‘No. I wouldn’t say that. They slave their guts out, that lot, very quiet too. They never go out you know. Live on the premises. But Moreira, who owns the joint, has done a deal with me and I provide them with dinner every night. Which is good for my business, because without them this place’d be pretty dead in the evenings.’
‘So it must be a really long day then, from six in the morning till late at night?’
‘It’s all finished by eight. And in the afternoon I have a siesta.’
‘And these blokes pay up all right?’
‘That’s the good thing about it.’ An evil smile. ‘It’s Moreira who pays, in a lump sum, every week. A bit like a canteen, you see. I’m not saying it doesn’t mean I can’t make a bit on the side.’
Fourth round.
‘Are they Algerians?’
‘No. Moroccans. And all from the same village what’s more. They all arrived together.’
‘So, nothing for me there then. Can you think of any leads?’
‘Try the industrial baker’s. Go out of the cul-de-sac, turn left, and it’s the third on the right. I know they’ve got a big delivery service there.’
Romero thanked him, paid and left. With four dry white wines before nine in the morning, he could anticipate some heartburn.
9a.m. 10th Arrondissement Police Station
Attali was waiting in a porch opposite the 10th arrondissement police station. He saw Virginie Lamouroux go in and come out again a few minutes later. He went up to her, took her familiarly by the elbow and said: ‘Why didn’t you mention Baker to me?’
She jumped, paled, brusquely withdrew her arm and hurried on. Attali let her go.
9a.m. Rue des Petits Hôtels
The fat woman looked at her watch as she opened the agency office, not noticing the police vehicle parked twenty metres away. Daquin, Thomas and Santoni crossed the street, entered hot on her heels and took out their warrant cards and letters rogatory.
‘Police. We’ve come to carry out a search.’ They grabbed the fat woman. ‘Are you on your own?’
‘Yes, messieurs. The director and his wife aren’t here.’
‘At this time of day they’re usually here. Call them on the phone. They can’t take long, they live just upstairs.’