Free Rough Trade by Dominique Manotti Page A

furniture. ‘Would you like some tea, or a coffee? I suppose at this hour it’s not too early for an aperitif?’
    ‘No, I won’t have anything. Very nice of you though.’
    ‘So, what’s this favour?’ She sat down opposite him.
    ‘Well, it’s this: the flat I’m renting doesn’t have a cellar. The agents told me you might perhaps rent me yours.’
    ‘That’s not possible. I’ve already let it to people in the building, the Bernachons, I can’t go down there any more myself, you understand , so it’s of no use to me.’
    ‘Well, in that case, please excuse me for disturbing you.’ He stood up.
    ‘Is that all you’d like to know, monsieur le policier ?’ Thomas was taken aback. ‘You hadn’t noticed you’re built just like a cop? And, then, how d’you suppose the tenancy on the fourth floor would change without me knowing? Oh, don’t worry. I won’t say anything to the Bernachons, I don’t really like them. But now, you can’t refuse a coffee.’
    Thomas took off his mack and sat down again.
    ‘Well, since you’re not all that fond of them, let’s have a chat.’

11.30 a.m. Rue de la Procession
     
    The Immigration Office’s files were in perfect order. You could access them through the surname, nationality or date of arrival in France. Romero had no difficulty finding his four Turks. They’d been invited to come by the same employer, Monsieur Franco Moreira, of Morora Ltd, a rat extermination business in Nanterre. Quite a joker, this Moreira. And their files had been dealt with by the same civil servant at Immigration, Dominique Martens. It was just as easy to find all the files of Turks processed during the year and to discover that, out of a total of a hundred, twenty-two were dealt with through Martens, and of those twenty-two, all were working at Moreira’s in Nanterre. All he had to do now was carefully note all the names, and the address of the business.
    Then he went to say hallo to the director. All along the corridor, he could hear a buzz of conversation, punctuated by the clink of coffee spoons against cups. The deafening sound of inactivity.

1 p.m. Place Gaillon
     
    As soon as he entered Chez Pierre in place Gaillon, Daquin noticed Lenglet sitting at a table at the back, with a man. They were talking and drinking champagne. There was about them that certain undeniable, calm familiarity – of old lovers. He went over to them. The two men rose to their feet. Lenglet did the introductions.
    ‘May I introduce Superintendent Daquin. We did political science together. We shared everything in those three years, except our bed. Théo, Charles Lespinois, an old friend, an adviser to the France-Mediterranée Bank.’
    Tall, thin, with a distinguished, refined air about him. An extreme reserve. A grey three-piece suit, grey like his hair and eyes: a man of steel. Daquin thought of Sol, warm, wild, alive. Lenglet and I have stayed friends because we never hunted the same patch, he thought. All three sat down. The sommelier filled Daquin’s glass with champagne.
    ‘I ordered for you, Théo.’
    ‘You’ve always liked doing that.’
    ‘That’s true. Now let’s get down to business. Charles is a great fan of Turkey. And, in fact, the greatest connoisseur of Turkish political life I know.’
    ‘What would you like to know, commissaire ?’ The calm, steady voice of a man accustomed to the reality of power.
    The maître d’hôtel brought in the entrées.
    Daquin was tense and barely noticed what he was eating. These complex triangular relationships. Lespinois didn’t exactly give the impression of being a well-disposed helpmate. And Lenglet, who was the most intelligent man he knew, had multiple interests in the Near East. He turned to Lespinois.
    ‘Quite by chance, as the result of an inquiry in Paris, I’ve fallen on a whole bunch of extreme right-wing Turks, linked, it seems to me, to the Grey Wolves. I know nothing about Turkey. I’ve a hard job to place them. I’m looking