Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

Schiffer burst out laughing. The music had stopped. The activity of the machines had ceased. A deathly silence reigned.

"Aren't we on first-name terms anymore?"

Instead of replying, the workshop's boss looked over distrustfully at Paul.

"This is Paul Nerteaux," the cop continued. "He's a police captain.

And my immediate boss. But he's above all a pal." He slapped Paul on the back and grinned. "You can trust him like you can trust me."

Then he went over to the Turk and put his arm around the man's shoulders. The ballet was choreographed down to the slightest movement. "Let me introduce you to Ahmid Zoltanoi," he said to Paul. "The best workshop manager in all of Little Turkey. As starchy as his overalls, but with a heart of gold, deep down. People round here call him Tanoi."

The Turk bowed slightly. Beneath his coal black eyebrows, he seemed to be sizing up this newcomer. Friend or foe? He turned back to Schiffer, his voice oily: "I heard you had retired."

"Force of circumstances. When there's an emergency, who do they call up? Uncle Schiffer, that's who."

"What emergency are you talking about, Inspector?"

The Cipher swept the pieces of cloth off a table and placed the picture of Rouyike Tanyol on it.

"Recognize her?"

The man bent down, hands in his pockets, thumbs out like gun triggers. He seemed to be balancing on the starchy folds of his overalls. "Never seen her before."

Schiffer turned over the snapshot. On the white edge, written in indelible marker, could distinctly be seen the victim's name and the address of the Sürelik workshop.

"Marius has coughed up. And the rest of you will follow. Believe me." The Turk's face fell. He gingerly picked up the photo, put on his glasses and stared at it. "Yes, her face does ring a bell."

"And the chimes must be pretty loud. She'd been here since 2001, hadn't she?"

Tanoi put down the photo. "Yes."

"What was her job?"

"Seamstress."

"She worked downstairs, I suppose?"

The manager raised his eyebrows while putting away his glasses. The workers had now started sewing again. They seemed to realize that the policemen were not after them it was their boss who had problems.

"Downstairs?" he asked.

"In the cellar." Schiffer was getting annoyed. "Now wake up, Tanoi, or I'll lose my temper."

The Turk swayed slightly on his heels. Despite his age, he looked like a contrite schoolboy "Yes, she worked in the lower workshop."

"Where was she from, Gaziantep?"

"Not exactly-a nearby village. She spoke a southern dialect.”

“Who's got her passport?"

"She had no passport."

Schiffer sighed, as though saddened by this fresh lie. "Tell me about her disappearance."

"There's nothing to tell. She left the workshop on Thursday morning. She never made it home."

"Thursday morning?"

"Yes, at six. She was on the night shift."

The two officers glanced at each other. So she had indeed been on her way home when she was jumped, but this had been at dawn. They had been right, except for the time of day.

"You say she never made it home," the Cipher continued. "Who told you that?"

"Her fiancé."

"They went home together?"

"No, he's on the day shift."

"Where can I find him?"

"Nowhere. He went back home." Tanoi's answers were as stiff as the stitches in his overalls.

"He didn't try to recover the body?"

"He had no papers. He couldn't speak French. So he fled in grief A Turkish destiny. An exile's destiny."

"Spare me the violins. Where are her colleagues?"

"What colleagues?"

"The ones who go home at the same time. I want to question them.”

“That's impossible. Gone, all of them, vanished."

"Why?"

"They're scared."

"Of the killer?"

"No, of you. Of the police. No one wants to get caught up in this affair."

The Cipher stood squarely in front of the Turk, hands behind his back. "I think you know far more than you're letting on, fat man. So let's take a stroll down into the cellars. It might refresh your memory"

The Turk did not budge. The sewing machines continued to rattle. Music was twisting beneath the steel girders. He hesitated another second, then headed toward an iron door under one of the galleries.

The officers followed him. At the bottom of the stairs, they dived down a dark corridor, went through a metal door, then took a second corridor with a clay floor. They had to bend their heads to walk. Bare light bulbs, hanging from the pipes on the ceiling, lit the way. Two rows of doors made of planks of wood, numbered with chalk figures, faced each other. A humming rose up from the depths.

When they reached a turning point, their guide stopped and picked up a metal bar concealed behind the springs of an old wire mattress. Advancing cautiously he started knocking on the pipes across the ceiling, setting off a series of deep echoes.

Suddenly, invisible enemies appeared. Rats gathered together on a cast-iron arch above their heads. Paul remembered the forensic scientist's words: With the second one, it was different. I think he used something… that was alive.

The manager swore in Turkish and banged as hard as he could in their direction. The rodents vanished. The entire corridor was now vibrating. Every door was trembling on its hinges. Finally, Tanoi stopped in front of number 34.

He forced the door open with his shoulder. A thundering noise exploded outward. Light spread into the tiny workshop. About thirty women were sitting behind sewing machines, which were going at full speed, as though propelled by their own momentum. Bent double beneath the strip lights, the seamstresses were pushing pieces of cloth beneath the needles, without paying the slightest attention to the visitors.

The room measured no more than twenty square yards and had no means of ventilation. The air was so heavy-with smells of dyes, particles of cloth, the stench of solvents-that it was barely breathable. Some of the women wore scarves over their mouths. Others had babies on their laps, wrapped in shawls. Children were also working, grouped together on the piles of fabric, folding them and packing them in boxes. Paul was suffocating. He felt like a character in a film who wakes up in the middle of the night only to find out that his nightmare is real.

Schiffer adopted his most sincere delivery: "This is the real face of Sürelik Limited! Twelve or fifteen hours' work, several thousand garments produced per day, per worker. The Turkish version of our three eight-hour shifts reduced to just two, or even one. And the same applies in all the other cellars, my boy"

He seemed almost delighted by the cruelty of the scene. "But don't forget, all this has the state's blessing. Everyone closes their eyes. The clothing industry is based on slavery."

The Turk was trying to look ashamed, but a flame of pride was burning in his pupils. Paul looked around at the women. A few eyes rose in response, but their hands continued their flurry, as though nothing and nobody could stop them.

He then pictured among them the matted faces, long wounds and bloody crevices of the victims. How did the killer get to these underground women? How had he noticed that they looked alike?

The Cipher launched into another round of questions, his voice raised above the din. "When there's a change of shift, that's when the delivery boys take away the finished products, isn't it?"

"That's right."

"If you include all the workers coming out of the shops, that means there's quite a crowd on the streets at six in the morning. And no one saw anything?"

"I swear to you."

The cop leaned against the wall of cinder blocks.

"Don't swear. Your God is less merciful than mine. Have you spoken to the bosses of the other victims?"