Dominique Manotti: Rough Trade

‘And what about the delivery? How was that going to be made?’

He normally had stuff from five manufacturers to deliver. The Turk had made him a list, in a particular order that had to be followed, of twenty shops where he had to stop to deliver the gypsy pants containing the drugs.

‘And you made this delivery before notifying us of the body?’

‘Yes.’

A barely whispered yes. He waited for a fresh onslaught, which didn’t happen. He still didn’t understand all the rules of the game.

‘Go on.’

‘I went into the shop, with the red pants over my arm, so that they were easy to see. Someone was there, waiting for me. I said: “I’ve brought the design,” He took the pants and said, “Thanks. I’ll pay you later”. That’s all. And then I left.’

‘You didn’t handle any money?’

‘No.’

‘Who pays you then?’

‘The Turk.’

‘How much?’

‘Five thousand francs.’

‘I’d like the list of shops.’

The Yugoslav tried to remember, slowly coming up with twenty or so manufacturers’ shops, one by one, scattered through the Sentier.

‘And now the Turk’s name and address?’

The Yugoslav gave his name, Celebi, an address of 25 rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin, but pointed out these were probably false. He’d hired him two weeks ago at the Café Gymnase on the boulevard. That’s the way Turks did things, round there, they drink coffee at the Gymnase, the workroom bosses go there, they chat, they do business. Then they give an address, but it’s never a genuine one. In any case, they’re always paid in cash.

‘Could you recognize him?’

There was some hesitation. The Yugoslav wasn’t sure. He said ‘Yes’, very uncertainly.

Santoni flipped through the photos that Attali and Romero had taken. Daquin watched him. One of the photos made him look up at Daquin. ‘That’s him.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Certain.’

‘Would you be willing to testify?’ The Yugoslav was frightened. ‘Listen to me hard. We’d only ask you to testify if we arrested the whole network. And then you wouldn’t be the only witness, not even the most important, and they’d all be in the nick. There’s nothing much to be afraid of. If you testify that this Turk prepared the sachets of heroin in your workroom kitchen on Monday 3 March, we wouldn’t hold you to any drug trafficking charge. If you don’t testify, we’ll have to show that someone was responsible for the presence of heroin in your kitchen. You see what I’m getting at? So now that you’ve got my drift, I’m going to ask you again. Will you testify against this Turk when we ask you?’

‘Yes, monsieur le policier .’

Daquin stroked his hair. It was so much better like that.

‘Now to another matter. You’re not French. Who’s your manager?’

‘I just head the workroom, I’ve no company. I work for Anna Beric. She’s the one who gives me my orders, my invoices and payslips.’

‘Who’s this Anna Beric?’

‘She was Yugoslav originally. A very distant relation of mine.’

‘How long have you worked with her?’

‘A very long time. At least five years.’

‘Where can I find her?’

‘She lives at 21 rue Raynouard, in Paris.’

Daquin signed to the cop waiting at the door.

‘Take him away, and warn the nick he’s agreed to testify so they must treat him properly.’

7 p.m. Villa des Artistes

Daquin’s waiting for Soleiman, as he prepares a meal. Vegetable soup with Tomme cheese from the Savoy, a genuine low-fat Tomme, such a rarity in Paris he couldn’t resist it. And salami. Not much in the mood for cooking tonight. Remember to ask Soleiman whether or not he eats pork.

He’s listening to the news on the radio, only half concentrating. The chief of the Belgian drug squad has just been accused of drug trafficking. What a laugh. The American hostages in Tehran have been handed over to the Revolutionary Council. Good luck, comrades. Rain begins to fall against the window.

With the news finished, the doorbell rings twice. Soleiman comes in, closes the door behind him. He’s standing stock still, looking grim, ill at ease, his hair streaming, soaked to the bone in his shabby pullover. He’s even shivering with cold.

‘Come on, you bloody fool. Go and have a hot bath; there are towels up there and my dressing-gown. And have a shave. You’re a disgrace with your two-day-old beard. Dinner’s ready in a quarter of an hour.’

Soleiman goes upstairs. He hasn’t uttered a word.

After a shower, he stands in front of the bathroom mirror in a splendid dressing-gown — it’s blue with fine black stripes and much too big for him — looking at his reflection as he shaves.

He can see himself again, in Daquin’s office, cornered, trapped, and his mind trying to function, but it isn’t easy. If it really is the extreme right trafficking in drugs … and nothing else. He can still hear Daquin making a date at his place, and adding, ‘Before you come, shave off your moustache, I don’t like men with moustaches.’ It had taken a few long seconds to realise the implications. He’d wanted to kill himself. And then he’d come to with a jolt: not now, not when the Sentier’s beginning to move, not when people are beginning to trust him. After all, Daquin wouldn’t be the first he’d gone to bed with. He must just close his eyes. Let it happen. Wait.

He gently rubs his lips. He has a frantic need for a smoke. But Daquin’s made it clear: ‘No cigarettes at my place. I can’t stand the smell of stale tobacco in my house.’

At the table, Soleiman eats in silence. He always gives the impression he doesn’t give a toss about what he’s eating. Daquin watches him throughout the meal. He waits fairly patiently for Soleiman to tell him what he has to say. It’s just before coffee that it comes out.

‘Two days ago now, I was asked to represent the Committee on the negotiations team that’s meeting at the Ministry.’ Daquin says nothing and continues watching him. Is that all? No reaction?

‘Listen, Sol. That’s your business, not mine.’

‘You’re not going to phone them and tell them I’m a murderer?’

Daquin looks at him incredulously.

‘What’re you playing at? Frightening yourself? Come.’ He stands up. ‘We’ll have coffee.’ They sit side by side on the couch. On the low table is a packet of photos.

‘Look at these photos carefully and tell me if you recognize anyone.’

‘Where were they taken?’

‘You’ll see afterwards.’

One by one, the photos slowly pass through Soleiman’s hands. Their quality varies.

‘This guy here — he’s one of the three in charge of the Association of Lighting Technicians.’

‘Explain.’

Daquin puts the photo to one side. Soleiman explains the Grey Wolves Fascists in Turkey, the infiltration of Turkish immigrants … the murders of left-wing militants in Germany. Last November the association established a base here, near rue de Château d’Eau. They work with the CFT at Aulnay. Daquin writes it all down in his notebook.

‘D’you know his name?’

‘Yes. It’s Hassan Yüçel.’

‘Go on.’

Two further photos are added to the first. When Soleiman’s looking at one of the photos, Daquin senses a sudden tension, an involuntary jolt. But Soleiman passes on. If this prick says nothing, I’ll give him the boot, Daquin thinks. Three, four photos on, then Soleiman stops, goes back, picks up the photo he’d reacted to, points his finger at a rather blurred figure in the background.

‘I’m not completely certain.’

Daquin heaves an inward sigh of relief. He would not have liked to kick him out.

‘Can it be enlarged and made dearer?’