Attali to the retoucher: ‘Did she say anything to you?’
‘I think we exchanged a few words about the models, the ones she liked, the ones she didn’t like. That was all.’
‘At 10.30 the clients arrived, they were Japanese.’
‘Did Virginie know them?’
‘No, apparently not. The presentation began. Virginie was good, as usual. She wasn’t a very great mannequin, but in private presentations like this one she was excellent, for she was very … how shall I put it? … she made people want to touch things and take them away.’
Attali remembered Romero raping her at the foot of a staircase, while he … ‘I understand very well what you mean.’
‘By 11.30 or thereabouts she had presented everything. The Japanese asked to see several models a second time. Towards noon she began to be slightly impatient She told me she had a lunch appointment at half-past twelve. And she always hated being late.’
‘“For lunch”, are you sure?’
‘Yes, that’s what I remember. At about the same time the Japanese had seen enough. Virginie changed at high speed and went down to the shop. I stayed upstairs with the Japanese.’
The secretary continued the story: ‘She came downstairs saying “I’m going to be late”. I suggested calling a taxi for her. She replied “It’ll be quicker for me to walk”. I looked at my watch. It was 12.20, more or less.’
The cutter added: ‘I saw her going out through the door. She was walking quickly in the Opéra direction.’
11 a.m. Le Capucin café, La Chapelle Metro
Daquin went towards a small table at the back of the café. A big guy stood up to greet him. The thirty-year-old man looked like a fighter, he was squarely built, sturdy with close-cropped hair. They had met on rugby pitches. Beside him on the banquette was a whole collection of photographic equipment.
‘Another cup of coffee, please,’ he asked the owner.
‘Well, what’s it about this time, mystery man?’
‘I’m going to take you onto the balcony of an empty flat in a block near here. I’ll manage to get you in somehow, and you’ll manage not to be seen. From there you have the unrestricted view of a bed on the floor below, where there should be a leg-show between 12 and 1 o’clock. You will take a few photographs for me, suggestive ones, as the phrase goes …’
‘That you’ll use to blackmail the protagonists.’
‘No way. At the most I’ll use them to apply pressure in the cause of truth and justice.’
‘And in exchange?’
‘I’ll see you’re informed when we arrest the biggest network of drug traffickers ever dismantled to date. It’ll be exclusive to you.’
‘Have you got confidence in yourself?’
‘As far as I can have in this kind of business. That’s to say not much.’
‘I’m on. Let’s go. Pay for my coffee, commissaire.’
1 p.m. Passage du Désir
Daquin listened, Attali talked: ‘VL had a lunch date on Friday 14 March at 12.30. I don’t know where, I don’t know who with. But it was in an area a quarter of an hour’s walk away from rue des Jeûneurs, going towards the Opéra. I’ve got one possibility: I’ll get a map of the district, I’ll mark off the area I can reach in twenty minutes or so walking time from the Julie La Tour boutique, and I’ll go into all the restaurants in that area with photos of VL and Kashguri. It’s dangerous. Because, even if VL had lunched somewhere in the district, there’s not much chance that anyone would remember her. But I can’t think of anything else.’
‘Agreed. In particular you must target the chic expensive restaurants. And you must find some backup. But for that …’
*
A jubilant Romero came back.
‘Martens is devastated by Sener’s murder. He hadn’t heard about it. Marinoni had told him that his name and address had been found in Sener’s diary and that they’d spent the last weekend together. He confirmed it. He knows the two Turkish intellectuals. About three months ago he went to the races at Enghien with Sener. They met the two in question at the racecourse, spent the afternoon with them and since they were dead drunk by the end of it they drove them back to Enghien, to the door of a luxury villa in a location which Martens has described in fairly precise detail. It’s the only trail left to us for my contact at the embassy, as I’d foreseen, brought me nothing. Shall we continue further in that direction?’
‘Certainly.’
*
Telephone. The duty man at the entrance.
‘A Monsieur Alain to see you, commissaire.’
‘Yes, I’m expecting him, send him up.’
Alain entered in a rush and threw a large brown envelope onto the desk.
‘You’ll have a good laugh. Good luck, and don’t forget the reward, as you promised.’
He left immediately.
Daquin opened the envelope. Three large photos. Not works of art, but clear enough. In the first one Meillant, standing, seen in profile, perfectly recognizable, was taking part in fellatio with a big peroxide blonde who was kneeling in front of him, her face buried between his legs. Next photo: the big blonde, with her hair in her eyes and her breasts thrust forward, was sitting astride Meillant who was lying on his back. The identification in this one was less obvious. In the last photo the woman was kneeling while Meillant was fucking her from behind. She was clutching the foot of the bed and her features were very distinct, she was facing the camera. All that within an hour, the guy was in good form. I couldn’t have imagined anything better.
The image of Soleiman flashed before his eyes, his shattered body beneath the duvet. A stab of desire. I’m going home.
26
9 a.m. Enghien-les-Bains
Not very difficult to find the villa. Martens had said: ‘They had come to the racecourse on foot, as neighbours. To get them back home we drove about one or two kilometres. They live in a house beside the lake, in a cul-de-sac that runs alongside a big lycée built of brick.’
Romero and Marinoni easily found the lycée on a map and went straight there. They entered the cul-de-sac, Martens had said: ‘A very big house, well hidden, a black gate, very high, with gilding, very flashy.’ The house was there at the corner of avenue Regina and avenue Château-Léon, pompous names for two deserted culs-de-sac. Closely protected in fact. Railings covered with ivy, more than two metres high, and above it, carefully pruned chestnut trees. It was just possible to make out a large garden and a large house, millstones, brick and cement, tasteless. The shutters were open, the house seemed to be inhabited, but that was all that could be said. Access to the lake was also closed off by railings. No shops or concierges nearby. Impossible too to stay there too long without attracting attention. Go round the lake to see if the house was visible from the opposite bank.
A few hundred metres away the estate agents Gay, announcing that they specialized in high-class property. Let’s give them a try.
The two inspectors went in and introduced themselves to a charming young blonde woman, wearing a grey suit, serious efficiency. The villa at the corner of the avenue Regina and the avenue Château-Léon? The villa Léon. Yes indeed, she knew it very well. The Gay Agency manage it. It had been let for two years to Monsieur Oumourzarov, a Turkish businessman. Very high rent, paid without difficulty. The villa was very handsome, the entire raised ground floor was given over to reception-rooms, drawing-rooms, a dining-room, a smoking-room. On the first and second floors, ten or so bedrooms, five bathrooms. View over the lake …
‘What do you know about Monsieur Oumourzarov?’
‘Well … not very much.’ She searched through her files and took out the one dealing with the villa Léon. ‘On his form he had described himself as director of a commercial firm. Payslips from the Turkimport company, registered office in Istanbul. And the Parillaud Bank had guaranteed his credit-worthiness. Would you like the address of Turkimport?’