When he was at last able to stand on his feet again, he was alone beside a woman’s body stretched out full-length, face down. A puddle of blood, as deep as a pool, was slowly and steadily spreading around her. A pile of clean laundry had fallen to the ground. A white towelling dressing-gown was slowly soaking up the blood. Conrad ran out. There was no one on the estate, and in the avenue, Allard and Zanetta were still waiting for his signal.
4 p.m. Passage du Désir
On Daquin’s desk was Steiger’s telex: B. officially dropped out in 1975. Before 1970, he was in Islamabad, and from 70 to 75 in Tehran. His name then was Edward Thompson.
*
The photo team came by at about five: there was no one at the sandwich bar any more. The surveillance was stopped. A good job that no one had tried to retrace the network from there …
*
‘Lavorel. Time for coffee. Tell me, are your bosses at Finance still waiting for your first written report? Aren’t they getting impatient?’
‘I’m working relentlessly. I’m accumulating the files. Bring me Anna Berk and you’ll have one of the most colourful trials in the annals of Finance.’
‘I need you.’
‘I don’t doubt it. You only ever offer me a coffee when you need me.’
Daquin smiled.
‘What’s that, Lavorel? You starting a protest movement?’
‘No, no, monsieur le commissaire, just stating a fact.’
‘The Euroriencar business, with its registered offices in Munich, branch in France, at Gennevilliers. What can you find out about it? Fast, obviously.’
‘I’ve made a note of it, patron.’
‘And now, what about Meillant? Have you seen him?’
‘Last Friday, at length. He knows the Sentier like nobody’s business. But he won’t give me any real help, most probably because he’s up to his neck in it, or because he’s protecting others who are.’
‘I know all that … another coffee?’
Lavorel pushed his empty cup over to Daquin, who rose and made two more coffees.
‘And he already knows that he mustn’t delay to be still in the running.’
‘Explain more.’
‘He’s taking a gamble on the success of the fight in progress in favour of giving the Turks permits. That’s going to make quite a big change to the networks and circuits put in place in the 1960s. And now the Chinese are beginning to move in. Meillant doesn’t want a brush with them.’
‘Lavorel, you see what I’m driving at?’
‘Of course. You’re going to lean on Meillant to get Anna Beric back. A lot depends on what you have up your sleeve, but it could work.’
*
Telephone.
‘Théo?’
‘Yes, chief.’
‘You must return to your house, urgently. The concierge of the estate has just been stabbed at your place, in your entrance hall.’
7p.m. Villa des Artistes
The concierge died on arrival at the hospital. Daquin, seated on his sofa, was exasperated and ill at ease. He would have to go and see the family. He didn’t even know if she had one. To be truly honest, he couldn’t even remember exactly what she looked like any more. It was far from satisfactory. Cops and various specialists were milling in all directions, in his home, in his house. Unbearable. A scent of haste and mess. He drank one coffee after another. Gradually the house emptied. Till only the Drugs chief, Conrad and the two inspectors from Crime who were responsible for the case remained. Daquin offered them a drink. Everyone sat down. The chief explained very succinctly to the two inspectors from Crime the reasons why Daquin’s house was under surveillance, and asked them to omit all this aspect in their written reports. Daquin explained: ‘The concierge had my keys. She came to work every morning, she did everything, housework, laundry. She didn’t usually come in the afternoon, she worked somewhere else, and the murderers probably knew that. But today she most probably stopped by to drop off the clean laundry.’ Flashback to Soleiman’s dressing-gown, dripping with blood.
Conrad had seen nothing. Just the man from behind. Thickset. They must systematically question the whole neighbourhood, apartments and houses. Windows had been opened when the concierge screamed. Perhaps someone had seen the man running away? It was their only lead. Fingerprints would show nothing. The man would have been wearing gloves for certain. They would have to wait for the autopsy report. Essentially, it would confirm that the woman had died from being stabbed by a knife which had ripped her open from the base of the abdomen right up to the sternum. But they would possibly also learn things about the nature of the weapon and the assassin’s technique.
*
Daquin and his chief were alone. Daquin, still in a bad mood.
‘You could send Inspector Conrad to work with the group in Marseilles. I don’t want to see him any more. I agree with what the press says. The system for training police officers must be changed completely.’
‘Théo, give me a whisky and when you’ve finished blowing your top, tell me how we’re going to proceed.’
‘I think that we can now dismiss the theory of a set-up by colleagues …’
‘I really hope so.’
Daquin groaned, without specifying what he was thinking at that moment.
‘In any case, after a cock-up like this, the traffickers, if it is them, won’t continue putting the pressure directly on me. That would be a bit too risky for them. And, to encourage them along this route, I’d like to be given constant visible protection, an armed policeman at my door, a surveillance vehicle nearby. I hope that that isn’t going to last long. And they should check my phone isn’t being tapped, at my office and at home.’
*
As soon as his boss had left, Daquin went out to call Soleiman from a phone box. It was ten in the evening. No reply. He went home and to bed, without eating.
8.30 p.m. At the Hippopotamus
Romero drank a whisky standing at the bar, and munched some crisps. Ever since that morning he hadn’t been able to shake off an uneasy feeling every time he thought of Yildiz. A strange mixture of curiosity, anxiety and guilt. At eight-thirty precisely a woman came into the restaurant. Medium height, but the impression of being tall because her shoulders were strong, her hips slim and legs long. Very pale, triangular face, broad forehead, high cheekbones, immense golden eyes. All crowned with a great mass of naturally curly, coppery red hair, which this evening was arranged in a large 1900s-style chignon. Romero was transfixed. For an instant, he looked round to see what lucky man she was smiling at.
‘Are you Romeo?’
The serious voice, the accent …
‘Yes, well, I’d like to …’
‘I’m Yildiz.’
His breath was taken away. Fortunately, the receptionist came looking for them to take them to their table. A house cocktail for Yildiz, another whisky for Romero. Their grills arrived. Yildiz spoke first, about Istanbul, and how difficult life was for Turkish women, about her family. And her shyness, her loneliness during the four months she’d been in France …
Romero thought she laid it on a bit thick there. He would have to stay on his guard. He launched into his job: he was a police inspector, in the Finance Squad, a difficult investigation into the trafficking of black labour … in the course of which the name of Turgut Sener had cropped up.
‘I remembered that you worked at the embassy, and I thought you might be able to save me a lot of time and save me from making a few blunders if you could tell me what sort of man Turgut Sener is, what they say about him at the embassy …’
Yildiz took time to look at him, her chin resting on her hand. ‘Turgut Sener isn’t liked, or valued at the embassy. He belongs to the Turkès party, he’s been put there to watch the ambassador, who’s considered too moderate. He has a reputation for trafficking in everything, and extorting money under every kind of pretext from Turkish workers who need his services.’ She smiled at him. ‘Does that satisfy you?’