He had to take advantage of the fact that the girl was destabilized, he mustn’t let her recover her self-control.
‘Tell me about your relationship with Kashguri.’
She retreated into her shell again. Tried to hide her feelings with a smile.
‘I’ve nothing more to say.’
‘That’s not true. Whenever that name is mentioned your whole body goes on the defensive. Did it turn out badly?’
‘Maybe. So what?’
‘Tell me about it. We aren’t on police premises here. You want to talk about it and there’s no better listener than me.’
Dorothée hid her face in her hands to escape Daquin’s gaze.
‘How do you know that?’
‘I listen to you, I look at you, I pay attention to you, that’s all.’
‘He got me raped under appalling conditions.’
Her voice was low, all on one note, her hands still over her face. Daquin allowed silence to set in. For her the worst was over, she certainly had the right to fix her own speed. Dorothée retreated into her memories. She then fixed her eyes on her plate. Her voice didn’t change.
‘He offered me a lot of money to spend an evening at his apartment, with some friends, he said. I’d had him as a client two or three times at the Club Simon, he used to come with friends and he’d watch us make love. That was all. I thought it would be the same sort of thing at his place. I accepted.’
Silence again, a very long silence.
‘I arrived at his place. He seemed to be alone and thanked me for coming. We sat in the drawing-room and smoked a little heroin. I began to feel drowsy. He led me into a bedroom, somewhere in the apartment. There was hardly any furniture, just a big brass bed.’ For the first time Dorothée looked up at Daquin. ‘You know, old-fashioned, with high rails at the top and bottom.’
‘Yes, there was one in my grandmother’s house.’
Dorothée looked down at her plate again. ‘There were two men in the room, his menservants. They caught hold of me, one held me, the other literally tore my clothes off. I began to scream and struggle. That made them laugh. Kashguri sat in an armchair and smiled. I was terrified, I thought they were going to kill me and that nobody would ever find me again. When I was completely naked they tied me to the bed with cords, I was stretched out on my back, with my arms and legs apart and they began to beat me with riding whips. I screamed as loudly as I could.’
A long silence. The memory of her suffering.
‘When I stopped crying out they untied me. I couldn’t move. I was bleeding all over, and they raped me, one after the other, and then both of them at once. I lost consciousness. I think Kashguri was masturbating during this time.’ Silence again. ‘Then one of the men looked after me, putting something on the wounds that smelt very strong. And then they wrapped me up in a kind of towelling sheet and carried me to a car, then they took me to my own apartment. They left me there in the middle of the night with a pile of money. I didn’t make a complaint. I looked after myself. I’m not working any more, I don’t go out any more, I’m living on Kashguri’s money.’ A pause. In the end she looked up from her plate. She smiled, a young smile. ‘It’s true, you’re really a good listener.’
Daquin wanted to stroke her face gently, but thought it was surely the last thing to do. I’ll get Kashguri. One way or another. I’ll have him in my power.
2.30 p.m. Passage du Désir
A message from Romero on the desk: The corpse is that of Cekbi, the little Turkish dealer, the accomplice of the Yugoslav workroom boss.I’ll be back at 8 o’clock this evening.
Celebi had been liquidated: the news produced a reaction. Daquin prepared a note for Attali and Lavoreclass="underline" Be in the office at 8 o’clock this evening. Then he went home. Gave himself coffee and cognac. Lay down on the sofa, dosed his eyes, his mind wandering half-way between light sleep and conscious intellectual activity.
3p.m. The National Assembly annexe
Bertrand had agreed to give Attali an appointment. ‘Half an hour, not more, I’ve a lot of work on hand. And I’d be glad if you’d be discreet and not tell the usher or my secretary that you’re a police officer.’
The building was modern: marble, steel, wood, thick carpets. Genuine luxury. At least one can see what happens to the money paid out in taxes. And it wasn’t going into police stations.
Attali entered the office. Bertrand stood up, shook hands and indicated an armchair. He was fairly tall, heavily built, with red hair and white skin, well over forty. Attali immediately found him antipathetic.
‘Well?’
‘Monsieur, we’re checking the movements of Monsieur Kashguri during the evening of 29 February. He’s told us that he spent the evening with you.’
‘What is Monsieur Kashguri accused of?’
‘He’s not been accused of anything. We’re checking the movements of many people, it’s to do with an investigation following a murder committed during the evening of 29 February.’
Bertrand stared at Attali, chewing his lower lip. A long silence. A feeling of unease. He opened his desk diary.
‘On 29 February, from 4 o’dock onwards, I chaired a meeting of the parliamentary support group for Franco-Iranian relationships, to which Monsieur Kashguri had been invited as an expert. The meeting ended at about 8 o’clock or 8.30, and then we went to have, dinner together at the Brasserie Lipp, as we do fairly often. My secretary had booked the table.’
‘Fine, thank you, Monsieur Bertrand.’
‘Inspector, the situation between the United States and Iran is very tense at the moment. France has considerable interests in Iran. It plays a leading role in efforts to make Europe adopt an attitude of mediation and dialogue. In order to avoid an irreparable break. Monsieur Kashguri is a valuable ally for French diplomacy. I won’t say anything more on the subject. Obviously that doesn’t mean that he’s above the laws of this country. But it dearly means that we’re asking you to proceed with the greatest caution.’
In the elevator Attali spoke loudly and dearly: I’m full of hate. And in the end it made him laugh.
3.30 p.m. On the Route Nationale between Paris and Rouen
The road ran alongside the Seine, at least thirty metres above it. Beneath was a vast platform where trucks came to discharge their loads of chalk into the hangars. Below was a lime factory with silos going down to the river. Barges tied up there, below the silos, as they took on their cargoes. Petitjean let Romero look at the layout of the place.
‘According to the forensic surgeon, the man was probably killed on the platform by a bullet through the heart, fired at point-blank range. After 5 o’clock the trucks stop driving round and the place is deserted. The killer went through the factory fence here.’ He pointed to a place where the wire had been pushed down. ‘And he went on to the lime silos that way, dragging the corpse along.’ He indicated the marks on the clayey soil. ‘Then he slid the body into silo no. 3 and went off. If the body had remained in the lime for more than forty-eight hours inside the silos or in a barge it would have been impossible to identify it. But a barge came to take on a load beneath Silo no. 3 at 5 o’clock in the morning on 19 March. The bargee, who was going backwards and forwards several times a day at that time, took on the load by himself and didn’t notice anything. We checked this out, it’s quite possible that the body slipped through the loading shaft. Then the bargee left for the Rouen cement works, thirty kilometres from here, where unloading began at 8 o’clock. By 9 o’clock we had the corpse. No papers on it. Nothing in the pockets. The labels on his jacket, his trousers and shirt had been torn off. He was wearing socks. Identification seemed to be very difficult. Fortunately, when I came to make enquiries here I found a shoe that must have fallen off the body when it was being dragged away from the platform beneath the overhanging slope. The shoes were certainly expensive, since the name of the shop was marked inside the leather, with the address: Istikal Caddesi, Istanbul. After that I worked my way up through the system until I came to you. Twenty-four hours, no longer. I don’t think we’ve done too badly over this, considering we’re just little country cops.’ Romero smiled at the notion that he’d become a Parisian.