10 a.m. Autoroute to the South
After a very peaceful beginning to the morning, a fuck with Soleiman and breakfast in bed (blinis, crème fraîche, taramasalata and coffee), Daquin drove towards Fontainebleau. It was a fairly nice day, and quite pleasant to get away for a time from all that Bernachon-Simon filth. How much did Simon actually make? Fifty memberships at 2,500 francs, 125,000 francs a month, tax-free, shit! And that, in addition to his official income. Obviously you had to deduct what he had to pay out to his protectors — about whom they knew nothing as yet. Daquin was not driving fast, which gave him time to think about a whole load of things. And to pay some attention to an alarm signal — completely instinctive — which told him that, when you’re driving at 110 kilometres an hour, it wasn’t normal to have that Citroën CX behind you the whole time. He checked … filled the tank. The Citroën continued on its way. But two kilometres further on, it was behind him again. Daquin took the turn to Barbizon, stopped on the verge, spread out a map, which he pretended to consult, The Citroën overtook him. He set off again. He was now certain. But why have a superintendent followed — this is what was strange. And who would do it? Traffickers? Or other police services? People in cahoots with the Marseilles traffickers, for example. How should he react? Until he knew more, prudence was advisable. I’ll wait and see what happens, he told himself. I’ll still go on to Barbizon.
11 a.m. The Auberge of Bas-Bréau
The auberge was beautiful. The façade was very old and behind it stood low buildings of a more recent date, but discreet, with a garden full of flowers and colour. It was, no doubt about it, a marvellous spot for an amorous assignation. Daquin could readily imagine Anna Beric in this setting. Meillant, less so. But perhaps, after all, he didn’t know him that well. He went into the bar. The décor was three-quarters English. No customers, the barman was alone: it was still rather early in the morning.
‘A coffee, please.’ He took out his warrant card. ‘Don’t worry. Nothing serious, just a routine inquiry about two people we’ve reason to believe are customers here.’
He showed the photos. The barman’s face lit up with a big smile.
‘Of course, it’s Mme Beric. A delightful, beautiful woman, very polite, and not like some of those old cows, know what I mean?’
‘I know what you mean very well. Does she come here often?’
‘Yes, she’s a regular. I couldn’t say exactly how often she comes, but we see her at least once a month.’
‘And him?’
‘I don’t know what his name is. He’s always with her. Most times, they arrive separately and meet up in the bar, at about eight in the evening, then they have dinner and spend the night here. Next day they each go their separate ways. But it’s always she who pays. Funny, isn’t it? He doesn’t look like a gigolo exactly.’
‘No, not exactly. When was the last time you saw them? Roughly?’
‘Three weeks ago? Tell me, I hope there’s nothing serious bugging her?’
‘For our part, no. She’s only on the fringe of a very complicated case, and I need to hear from her as a witness. Thank you very much for your co-operation.’
And Daquin paid for his coffee, despite the barman’s protests.
An idle stroll down Barbizon’s main street: artists’ studios and galleries showing piles of lousy paintings, and here, there was no trouble in tracking down the Citroën, parked in a small adjacent street. He memorized the registration number, lunched peacefully on the terrace of a little café and read the papers. Then an uneventful trip back to passage du Désir.
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 penciclass="underline" 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.