Rough Trade

by Dominique Manotti

Genres: Political Thrillers; Terrorism & Assassination Thrillers; Vigilante Thrillers

Synopsis

This fast-moving story takes the reader rapidly along dark paths of sinister events in Le Sentier, the heart of Paris's rag trade. One spring morning a Thai girl is found dead in a fashion workshop. Another unlucky prostitute, or something more sinister? A club is uncovered where people secretly get filmed having sex - including some very distinguished men. This is the seedy underworld of Paris - the traffic in heroin, illegal immigrants without work permits, police officers' secret lives. A Turkish man - a police informer and leader of exploited immigrants rag-trader workers - is also Police Inspector Danquin's lover. This is a gripping morality tale of twentieth-century Paris. Dominique Manotti teaches nineteenth-century Economic History. "Rough Trade", her first novel, was awarded the top prize for the best thriller of the year by the French Crime Writers Association.

Release date: October 7, 2004

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 188

Sample

Heroin is now entering from Iran, Pakistan and Afghanistan. Last year Iran harvested 1,500 tons of raw opium. It is in these countries that the opium is being refined – and particularly in Turkey – then transported by road into Western Europe. Note, however, that this heroin is 20 per cent pure, as opposed to only 3.5 per cent as produced in Mexico. In Germany last year there were 600 cases of overdosing as a direct result of this new heroin.

Libération, 15 January 1980

There’s a girl, sitting naked on the edge of a vast white bed in the middle of a room, with mirrors all around. She’s childlike yet already world-weary. In a corner is a Louis XV armchair; at the far end, a table-height fridge. On it are tumblers, flutes, goblets, an assortment of glasses. She’s gently swinging her legs and singing to herself. A man comes in. He’s also naked. She studies him, gives him the once-over. Around forty-five, bullneck, fat, small bum, thin legs, balding, but a real mat of ginger hair on his chest. She smiles and beckons, and he, with gluttonous face, sidles slowly towards the ice-box, opens it, pours himself a very generous whisky –‘Want a drink, baby girl?’ – he raises his glass to her. The gesture is rather too expansive: he sloshes the whisky on the thick white carpet. She shakes her head, says nothing, but has a constant smile. He drinks, lets the glass fall on the carpet, goes over to her, collapses on the bed, laughing.

She makes him lie face down, sits on the small of his back. Next to him, she’s incredibly fragile. She begins massaging him, mewing softly to get herself into the rhythm. He lets her do it, groans with pleasure, encourages her. ‘Give your little daddy a cuddle.’ She lies on top of him, nibbles his neck, his ears. He stirs slowly, emits a few inaudible sounds, snatches at the carpet with his fingers. She turns him over on to his back. He looks pleased. She gently massages his dick. The man leans up on his elbows. He looks at this tiny body barely able to balance on his, turns towards the mirrors and smiles at them. He’s humming. She solemnly applies herself to her task. Her face is more attentive, her smile fixed, her eyes watching the other person’s reaction.

All at once the man senses he’s being watched. He seems to be waking from a long sleep, but his eyes are glazed. The girl slowly raises her hands towards the man’s nipples and starts pinching them gently. The humming transmutes to a long moan. He sits up and she falls on the bed. He’s overcome with panicky fear. His eyes are dilated. He screams ‘She’s going to kill me’. He curls up, hands over eyes, and starts kicking out at the girl. ‘Is it a game?’ she asks, still smiling, but seems a little anxious. She avoids the kicks and tries to calm him by drawing him down on the bed, caressing his shoulders and nipples. ‘Remember, I’m your baby.’ But he screams again. ‘Don’t grow up, don’t grow up.’ Then he grabs her by the throat, shakes her, throws her down on the bed and squeezes, squeezes. ‘You won’t have me.’ She struggles a bit, not much, she’s completely crushed by the man’s massive weight. She can’t cry out any more. After one, two minutes she stops struggling altogether.

A group of Turks, about fifteen in all, and five or six Frenchmen, are crowded together at the back of a café-tabac opposite the station. Everyone’s drinking black coffee and the French are eating croissants. On a table are two huge piles of leaflets in salmon pink paper, typewritten then just roneoed, recto in French, verso in Turkish.

The Defence Committee for Turks in France calls upon the Turkish workers of the Sentier district to stop working on Monday 3 March, and to assemble at the Sentier Metro station at midday. The purpose of this meeting is to get your papers legalized and have better working conditions.

They cluster around a map of Paris. Soleiman’s forming small groups of five, made up of Turks with a Frenchman in charge. Each group receives a list of streets to cover, some are jotting down names on a bit of newspaper or cigarette pack. The scene has an air of Bolshevik Russia, pre-1917.

Everyone stands up – there’s bedlam – and goes out into the square. It’s going to be a beautiful day. Like plunging into the complete unknown, but that’s too shaming to admit. You must look as though you know what you’re doing.

Soleiman takes charge of a group and begins to tackle rue d’Aboukir, a female journalist from Libération in tow. He’s tall, slim, very erect, even a bit rigid, with a longish face, high cheekbones, a thin prominent nose and huge blue eyes, a light brown mop of hair, dark complexion. The Turks listen to him, the girl looks on. Each building is to be gone into, the names read on the mailboxes, and any picked out that look Turkish or Yugoslav. They climb the stairs. In the old buildings the entrance halls are dark, staircases tortuous. On every floor the noise of sewing-machines can be heard. Soleiman knocks on the door. The boss opens up, or more often a worker. A discussion then ensues, either in Turkish or French. ‘Good morning. We’re the Defence Committee for Turks, we’ve come to talk to you about the strike and the rally to get legal papers for Turkish workers.’ Whoever opens the door turns to the workshop: ‘What d’you reckon? Shall we let him in?’ ‘Yes … sure …’ Not a single door is shut on them the whole morning.

Cramped, ill-lit, overheated workrooms, smells of dressing. But a warm atmosphere. Enormous radio sets broadcast news and music from back home. There’s talk, banter. From time to time a cousin drops by to say ‘hallo’ or a worker goes downstairs to play the pinball machine.

When Soleiman and his group enter, the machines stop, people jostle between the tables, coffee’s passed around, the boss joining in the discussion. The idea seems remote. But will they come for the midday meeting in the Sentier? Maybe. Soleiman leaves a few leaflets. The group heads for the next floor up or the next building.

Boulevard Saint-Denis, then rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin … the buildings become more spacious, the workrooms better lit, more airy. Behind the nineteenth-century façades, some of the courtyards are real factories, with tailoring on every floor and female workers living in the servants’ quarters in the attics; women in headscarves and long skirts open the door. Soleiman doesn’t know what to say to them. He must find it inappropriate for them to go down into the street.

The group works its way back up as a far as rue de Belleville. Really dilapidated buildings sometimes, seedy corridors, miserable workrooms, some even without a door, just a big cardboard box blocking the entrance, but the same welcome everywhere. The group’s worn out, it’s hot at this hour of the morning. More and more frequently they stop at bistros, and here workers are already coming to ask Soleiman for leaflets themselves (for here everyone knows everything). Now they must turn back in order to be at the Sentier Metro station at midday.

In the street running down towards the square, small groups of militants are joining forces, overexcited by the welcome they’ve received. They move out on to the square. No one’s there. Of course, it’s what you’d expect. Imagine opening the workroom door, listening, yes, going down to the street: they mustn’t fantasize. But the militants have a fighting spirit and are used to being on their own. Soleiman puts the PA system in position. They unravel some rolls of red fabric to mark boundaries for their meeting place. That raw red is beautiful in the sun. Soleiman begins speaking in Turkish. He gives an account of what it’s like to have illegal status, disguised as a tourist with a camera slung over his shoulder; the fear you have to overcome when you see a policeman on the street, the way you have to go on walking, the friskings, the nights in police stations, deportation orders. It’s over. We want no more of it. We’re here, we’re working. We want residence permits, work permits. Dignity.

And then the nearest cafés, packed full, begin to empty on to the square. The men listen, discuss things among themselves, enter inside the red cloth boundaries.

Little groups come down from adjacent streets, in small prudent clusters, but there are more and more of them. By 1 p.m. more than 2,000 workers have assembled inside the boundaries; in rue Réaumur the traffic is brought to a standstill – but not a cop in sight. It’s intoxicating. The illegal workers are occupying the street, and no one’s coming to move them off. The men are shouting ‘Yasasin

grevi
– Long live the strike. Residence permit, work permit’. The PA systems move about, everyone wants to put in a word. Soleiman is shivering in the sunshine. He has wanted this moment with every breath in his body, but he couldn’t believe it – only now does he become aware that he never believed it – this heady moment when the masses begin to be real, and abstractions are left behind, this moment where everything becomes – perhaps – possible … when the world will erupt into change.

No one knows what to do with this huge, unexpected crowd. Even if the cops aren’t here, they could still come. Staying in this one place makes them too vulnerable. But the men don’t want to leave any more. Unobtrusively Soleiman moves the cloth boundaries forward towards the Bourse du Travail – the Trade Union Centre. Here they can get news on the negotiations taking place with the government: they must stick together. They’ll be in a safe place too. The demonstration’s running very smoothly, it’s impressive seeing this really compact group of swarthy moustachioed men all in shades of grey, shouting slogans in Turkish without ever pausing for breath and clutching those long, silent red banners.

‘Hallo. Police station, 10th arrondissement here.’

‘Is that the police?’ A strong foreign accent.

‘Yes, monsieur.’

‘Come quickly. I’ve found a body. A girl, in my workshop.’

Thomas and Santoni walked in through the porch of 43 rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin. Left staircase. Third floor. No elevator of course. The entrance door was ajar. They knocked. Immediately, a man was there to meet them, obviously very upset.

‘Local Squad. Was it you who just called the police?’

‘Yes. Come in.’

And there in the dark entryway, twenty or so pairs of red linen gypsy pants were piled on the floor. The man picked them up. Underneath was the body of a very young woman, almost a child, of Asiatic origin: completely naked, lying on her back. Thomas went over to her and bent down. Death leaves no room for doubt. He tried lifting one of her arms. Must have happened more than twenty-four hours earlier. Bluish marks on her neck. Probably caused by strangulation. He looked a bit closer. With bare hands.

‘Was it you who found her?’

‘Yes.’ Said nervously.

‘Santoni, call Crime.’

Thomas took a look around the apartment. The entryway, cluttered with rolls of fabric and plastic. A corridor led into the two fairly light main rooms which overlooked the courtyard. Inside the two rooms, five big wooden tables fixed to the floor, spattered with different stains, twenty or so solid iron chairs, electric cables hanging here and there from the ceiling, huge neon striplights. And two old, somewhat dilapidated sewing-machines. On the other side of the corridor, a kitchen. White tiles. Sink, hot and cold water. Fridge, cooker. Formica table. Everything sparkling clean. Not a plate in sight. Seemingly absent-mindedly Thomas opened the fridge. It was full of vegetables, cheeses, drinks. Under the sink, the bin had been emptied and washed. Beyond the kitchen were two very dark recesses, perhaps an old bathroom, a small bedroom.

Then he concentrated his attention on the man who’d phoned them. His name was Bostic. He was Yugoslav, he rented the apartment and managed the workroom.

‘When did you find the body?’

‘When I opened the workroom, this afternoon.’

‘Why not this morning?’

‘There was the strike. I found the body, there, under the gypsy pants. I sent the workers home and phoned the police. I haven’t touched a thing.’

Thomas groaned.

*

Shortly afterwards, the officers from the Crime Squad arrived and took over. Specialists, the investigating magistrate,* photographs of the body, transport to the morgue … Thomas handed over the first statements made by Bostic, without comment.

‘What should we do then, with him?’

‘I’d like him to be held in custody with the Local Squad. That way, you have him at hand for further questioning tomorrow if you want. And we’d like to ask him a few questions ourselves on how his workroom’s run. Working without work permits, I’m certain. Just one Yugoslav, that’s not taking any risks.’

‘OK. Can you think of anything else you want to tell us?’

Thomas glanced enquiringly at Santoni.

‘Not me. You?’

‘No, nothing.’

Once Bostic was in custody, Thomas turned to Santoni.

‘What d’you think?’

‘He found the body this morning when he opened his workshop.’

‘Agreed.’

‘That gave him almost eight hours to spare.’

‘Just about.’

‘Before phoning us, he sold his machines, so we couldn’t seize them. It’s a workroom for illegal immigrants.’

‘Right again.’

‘It’s a normal sort of set-up for the Sentier, fairly grubby. But not the kitchen. Did you see how it was all spick and span? That’s where the workers eat and drink all the time in sweatshops like that. Even when it’s well run, it’s never as clean as that.’

‘So what shall we do?’

‘We’ll go back there, try to find what it was he cleaned up and threw away. And not a word to those smart alecs in Crime.’

*

The building had a concierge, apron over shapeless dress, and check carpet slippers. After two beers and a quarter of an hour’s rambling conversation, Thomas and Santoni learned that in fact Bostic put the bags of rubbish out at 10 a.m. Two blue bags.

*

An old sheet was spread out on the ground in the yard, under the timed light. The two men took off their jackets, rolled up their sleeves and emptied the first of the building’s three dustbins. They had to press the light switch every three minutes, open up the waste bags one after the other, sort out the household rubbish, bits of rag, newspapers, empty bottles. Everything had to be examined much more closely since they didn’t know what they were looking for. Perhaps, for the best – when you knew what you were looking for, you risked making a judicial error, so my chief told me when I began in this business. No risk of that here.

The concierge arrived to cast an eye every now and again. First dustbin: nothing. All the jumble of rubbish had to be put back. Second bin: nothing. Third bin: contents which could have come from Bostic’s kitchen, like the other sacks. Coffee grounds, paper plates, wrapping paper, stale bread. And two strong plastic bags of a good size, transparent, empty. Thomas stood up. Along the joints was a very fine white powder. Very carefully he took a speck on his index finger, and tasted it with the tip of his tongue. Smiled at Santoni. This was it. Heroin.

It’s already dark. Soleiman walks briskly down avenue Jean-Moulin, dives into a porch and enters the villa des Artistes, muttering. Third house on the right amidst a jumble of greenery, big studio window, white blinds lit from behind. An outside lantern glows above the entrance. He rings twice, pushes the door, enters and locks it behind him. A large spacious room, spotlights almost everywhere, leather, wood, a mezzanine in the shadows. A man is busy in a kitchenette at the back of the room behind a wooden counter. The kitchen’s very modern, tiled in shades of ochre. The man’s about thirty-five, rather handsome square face, well-built type once, a Rugby three-quarter, brown eyes and hair. In jeans and polo neck, bare feet.

‘Ah, congratulations. Your meeting was a success, well beyond all your expectations. My chums weren’t anticipating that – quite honestly, they didn’t know what to do.’

‘We said you didn’t meddle in that sort of thing and you’d left me carte

blanche.’

‘But I didn’t meddle, did I. Congratulations.’

‘Leave off. I can manage without your congratulations.’

‘OK, OK. let’s get down to business. You’ve seen loads of people today. Now, do you have something for me?’

‘Possibly. Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin, near the boulevard, on the left as you go up, there’s a Turkish sandwich shop. A tiny little shop, with a counter right on the street. The Kurds say that that’s where the Turks are peddling drugs.’

‘I know where you mean. I’ll put it under surveillance tomorrow morning. It may be our first lead, after a month of floundering around …’ Going back to the kitchenette. ‘It’s ready. Lay the table.’

‘I’m not staying for dinner. I’ve friends to see.’

‘Soleiman. Stop messing me around. You can go and see whoever you want, but afterwards. You’re dining with me, because I want to fuck you after I’ve eaten, not before.’ And, with a big smile: ‘And there’s no need to look so grim all the time. It doesn’t put me off; quite the reverse, it gives me the feeling I’m forcing you, and that I find exciting.’

* In France the investigating magistrate has wide responsibilities for investigating crimes, arresting suspects, and gathering evidence.

Daquin walked up to the Local Squad’s headquarters in passage du Désir. It was there, on the third and final floor, of a small brick and stone building, jammed into a tiny scruffy street in the 10th arrondisssement, that Daquin and his team were installed: a meeting room had been turned into an office for the duration of their investigation. They were a small ad
hoc team, whose remit from the head of the Drugs Squad was to explore any leads to an eventual ‘Turkish trail’, following tip-offs from the German police. Large bright room with sloping ceiling, two metal desks – one for Daquin, the other for his inspectors,* two upright armchairs, six chairs, an oval table, two typewriters, two telephones and a small sink, a stove, a coffee-machine. On one side two big windows overlooking the courtyard, on the other, a glass door on to a calm, light corridor. It was a makeshift den, but pleasant.

Daquin’s two inspectors were waiting for him. On the surface Attali and Romero appeared much the same. They’d grown up together in a council block on the Belle-de-Mai estate in Marseilles. They were the same age – around twenty-five – and both wore bomber jackets, jeans and basketball boots. But Attali had been the good boy, top of his class, quickly passing his inspector’s exam, so he could support his mother and sisters, who’d been having a hard time. He was serious, polite, boring. Romero’s childhood and adolescence had teetered on delinquency. He was a handsome guy: regular features, jet-black hair. But he’d abused his physique. He’d passed his inspector’s exam at the same time as Attali, purely as a challenge, and perhaps because of a secret wish to be up and off. It was the first time that, after three years in the business, they’d teamed up together under Daquin’s leadership, as from a month ago. When Daquin came in, they were playing noughts and crosses.

He cast a disillusioned glance in their direction, made himself a coffee, then said: ‘I’ve some work for you. A Turkish sandwich shop, at the bottom of rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin, very near here. It’s to be put under surveillance – with cameras. It’s a lead from one of our snouts. No way you can use a vehicle. If you have to stay several days, you’ll be spotted right away. Might be better, perhaps, to find a window in the building opposite. Take complete responsibility for mounting this operation. I want photos – not of all the customers of course, but all the ones who go right into the shop and pass behind the counter. See the Super at the 10th arrondissement: Meillant’s his name. He’s been told about our team. He’s been in this neck of the woods at least twenty years. Knows everybody. He’ll certainly be able to help you.’

*

Once the two inspectors had left, Daquin delved into the newspapers. He was convinced that part of the solution to the problem was back there, in the countries of origin, and he needed to understand what was going on there. With the Ayatollah Khomeini coming to power, always making trouble, US hostages in Tehran, the extreme right and extreme left slaughtering each other in Turkey at the rate twenty deaths a day, and now Soviet intervention in Afghanistan, reading the papers was a lengthy business.

It was here that the Defence Committee for Turks in France had found a base. A small windowless office in the basement of the parish hall next to the church.

Today, the day after the demo, it was like a tidal wave. The narrow dark corridors of the ground floor were swamped with Turks who wanted to join the Committee. Soleiman made each new member answer an anonymous questionnaire. How many hours a day d’you work at present? In the off-season? Wages? When, why did you change your job? Family? How long have you lived here? Lodgings? Who’s the landlord? What rent d’you pay? Four packed pages of questions, in Turkish and French. Men were sitting around all over the place, in the corridors, the yard, assiduously filling in their questionnaire. And supposing, by some miracle, it might come in useful for something? Soleiman rea. . .