‘There’s something strange about this little mule of yours. Too well dressed for a poor Colombian girl. Romero, you’re hopeless. A cop can learn more about a woman from her clothes than from staring at her tits.’
‘Nobody’s perfect, chief.’
Silence.
‘In my opinion, we should go and see her mother. Now, before someone else does.’
When they reach Fleury-Mérogis, Daquin and Romero are told that Madame Jiménez was released yesterday, on judge’s orders.
‘May we see Paola Jiménez and her mother’s files?’
The minute she was arrested, Paola Jiménez had asked for lawyer Maître Larivière to be contacted.
‘I’ve known Larivière for twenty years. He was already wheeling and dealing with the CIA when I was working with the FBI. A mule who dresses in Sonia Rykiel and has the address of a pal of the CIA… But apparently Larivière refused to take the case. That was before your visit, Romero… Let’s check out the mother.’ Daquin skims two pages. ‘Not bad either. A week ago, she received a visit from Maître Astagno, who stated he was her lawyer. Have you heard of Astagno?’
‘Of course.’
Romero is distinctly uncomfortable.
‘High-flying lawyer, regular defender of the big drug traffickers we sometimes manage to arrest in France. Last year, he got a Medellín cartel treasurer off. The guy was handling huge sums of money placed in nine accounts registered in Luxembourg. It seems it wasn’t possible to prove that the money derived directly from drug smuggling. Does it make sense to you for Astagno to take an interest in an ageing Colombian mule? And manages to get her out in three days?’
‘No, of course not. Chief, I admit anything you want. I was careless, I trusted a pretty girl. I was slow, and I’m partly to blame for her death. Now what do we do?’
‘We drop it as quickly as we can. This case stinks. Probably a coup organised by the Americans, a publicity stunt before the Arche summit which is supposed to be a landmark occasion in the international drugs war. Paola brings in a sample to bait the buyers. For some mysterious reason, the operation goes pear-shaped. She’s arrested, perhaps on a tip-off from the Americans themselves, seeing as Larivière refused to get involved. When you put her back in circulation, the prospective buyers talk to the mother, and kill the girl. And to cap it all, there are probably a few French cops mixed up in it. So tread carefully. You open a case and it turns out to be a can of worms.’
Friday 14 July 1989
Annick, Jubelin and Nicolas arrive together at the private Maréchaux mansion bordering on Place de l’Étoile. They had to walk, for the whole district is in a state of siege. In less than half an hour, the 14th July parade will begin, a special extravaganza to celebrate the bicentenary of the French Revolution of 1789. A beaming Perrot greets them on the steps. In the hall, Domenico Mori, elegant as ever, accompanied by three Italians. Perrot makes the introductions: Enzo Ballestrino, Mori’s financial advisor, Michele Galliano and Giuseppe Renta, Munich-based directors of subsidiaries of Mori’s consortium.
Then he takes them all on a guided tour of the mansion. The first-floor rooms, high ceilings, white oak Versailles floors, huge curved bay windows overlooking Place de l’Étoile, sumptuous walls and ceilings decorated with panelling and plasterwork. No furniture, just several buffet tables laden with food, drink and floral arrangements facing the bay windows. Between the tables are the TV monitors that will relay the procession. On the second floor, more empty rooms with a view of Place de l’Étoile, groaning buffet tables and TV screens.
Perrot turns to the Italians:
‘It’s thanks to my friend Jubelin and to Pama that I was able to buy this residence a month ago. It has already been sold to a Japanese insurance company, at the highest price per square metre of the entire Golden Triangle. In three months, I’ve made a net profit of fifteen per cent.’
‘And by underwriting the operation,’ continues Jubelin, ‘Pama gains a foothold in Japan, without spending a cent. Give me plenty of business like that, and we’ll remain good friends.’ Laughter.
The guests arrive in small clusters. When the parade starts, at around 10 p.m., there are about a hundred people there, businessmen, members of ministerial cabinets, ‘and their spouses’, jostling at the windows on the two floors. The procession formed in Avenue Foch winds round the Arc de Triomphe, passing beneath the windows of the mansion, then turns into the Champs Élysées to the continuous boom of drums and, from time to time, the whine of bagpipes.
At the head of the procession, under a vast banner ‘We fight on’, a grey, silent crowd and a float swathed in black symbolise the death of hope in Tiananmen Square.
Deluc throws an arm around Annick and Nicolas.
‘The sight of the defeated is always tedious.’
‘I can’t share your cynicism.’
‘I’m not cynical, my friend. Just realistic. And I don’t mix entertainment with politics.’ He steers them towards the buffet. ‘Champagne all round. This magnificent parade to celebrate our anniversary. Do you remember? It’s exactly twenty years since we three left Rennes to come to Paris. Something worth celebrating.’
Annick’s mind darts back to that last evening in Rennes. Deluc, running away, her stumbling, caught by the cops, dragged to the police station, fucked by a detective inspector… Were they supposed to be toasting that unforgettable night? She glances around the room. Let bygones be bygones, and any excuse to drink champagne is a good one.
The guests amble between the buffet and the windows, up and down the stairs. In the heavily soundproofed rear rooms, a hi-fi plays music and a few couples are dancing.
On the Place de l’Étoile, after the French regions come the Americans, Russians and Scots, parading to the sound of hurdy-gurdies, fifes, bagpipes and the persistent rumble of the drums.
Annick has joined Jubelin and his Italian buddies. Ballestrino touches Renta’s arm, and exchanges a look with him. Silent dialogue. Renta bows ceremoniously to Annick:
‘May I ask you to dance?’
He’s about thirty-five, average height, slicked-back dark hair, dark eyes, and an elegance that is just a little overstated. A close-fitting grey alpaca suit, light grey silk shirt, and a wide, brightly coloured tie. Annick finds there is something slightly vulgar about him. Amused, she takes his arm and they make their way towards the back rooms.
The minute they leave, Mori steers Ballestrino, Galliano and Jubelin over to a slightly isolated corner of the buffet. They attack the cold meats and talk business. A few remarks about the recent AGM. And Pama’s future growth prospects. Quick review. They soon come back to Japan. This Maréchaux mansion deal, the first contact with the Pacific region. But they must consolidate in Europe before embarking on strategic interventions in the Far East. Mori agrees.
‘By the way,’ says Ballestrino, ‘my friend Galliano told me about a nice little opportunity in Munich.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A.A. Bayern, a medium-sized insurance company, solid family business, well established in the region. Has business relations with certain East German circles, useful just at the moment with things starting to stir behind the Iron Curtain.’
‘Even in East Germany?’
‘Much more than they’re saying here. Right now, A.A.’s shares are fairly high, but they could plummet in the coming months, if we so wish. And pave the way for a takeover bid that will be both easy and very profitable.’ Ambivalent smile. ‘It’s not a business proposition, it’s a favour.’
‘Why don’t you keep it for yourself, Mori?’
‘My group concentrates on industry. Where insurance is concerned, my stake in Pama is enough for me.’
Taking out his diary, Jubelin turns to Galliano:
‘Shall we have a meeting before you leave for Munich?’
They move back towards the windows. Jubelin greets an official from the Ministry of Finance, who pumps his hand warmly. Congratulations. A huge float trundles past carrying a 30-metre steam engine, surr
ounded by the deafening Drums of the Bronx going wild, to the indifference of the crowd.
Annick dances with Renta. Lots of Latino and West Coast beats. He dances well, and flirts a little, as etiquette requires. His tie is Yves Saint Laurent. Actually more of a bore than a hoodlum. A pirouette and a smile. Annick escapes, dives into the toilet, a quick snort, and returns, ravishing, to the windows and the spectacle below.
She bumps into Deluc, cigarette dangling from his mouth, one of those horrid smelly Indian cigarettes he got into the habit of smoking when he was in Beirut, deep in an argument with an opposition deputy about the soaring share prices and rising Paris property values. The deputy ceremoniously kisses Annick’s hand and starts explaining what’s happening at Pama to her. He’s clearly had one too many. Deluc takes advantage to make himself scarce, the bastard.
Jubelin, Nicolas and Ballestrino are sitting in front of one of the TV screens watching Jessye Norman launch into the ‘Marseillaise’ at Place de la Concorde. Nicolas turns to Ballestrino.
‘I’ve heard you own a stud farm outside Milan.’
He sounds delighted. ‘I do. I’ve raised a few flat racing champions. Two of my colts ran at Longchamp last Sunday.’
Jubelin adds:
‘What a coincidence. I’m a great horse lover. I have several in training.’
‘Who with?’
‘Meirens, at Chantilly.’
‘I know him. If you’re ever in Milan, I’d be delighted to show you around my stables.’
Having rid herself, not without difficulty, of the inebriated deputy, Annick spots Nicolas and Jubelin in a heated conversation in a corner, slightly away from the others. She makes her way over to them, and they abruptly stop talking. Jubelin, on edge, turns to Nicolas.
‘We’ll talk about it in my office.’
Nicolas takes Annick’s arm.
‘Let’s go upstairs and watch the end of the procession.’
Now it’s the high point of the whole event. Women balanced on pedestals move forward with mechanical movements, revolving to the strains of a waltz. They are high above the ground, wearing huge wide-brimmed hats, crinolines with skirts several metres wide cascading down to the ground, each cradling a baby. Annick gazes at these stylised giants, which she finds threatening. Inexplicable feeling of discomfort.
The procession is winding up. Perrot moves from group to group. The single men are invited to round off the evening in the restaurant he owns, Rue Balzac, with some lady friends. Nicolas accepts, Jubelin, ever cautious, declines.
Tuesday 25 July 1989
Shortly before midnight, a slender crescent moon, clouds, strong winds. The stables are dark, nearly a hundred stalls around a huge square yard, on the edge of the forest. The trees groan in chorus, the buildings creak, the horses are a little restless. A hoof strikes the floor from time to time. On one side of the quadrangle are the grooms’ sleeping quarters, just above the horses’ stalls. Two windows are still lit.
In a shadowy corner opposite, a little explosion, barely louder than a banger, and a shower of sparks, then a blazing yellow flame, a pool of fire immediately in front of one of the stalls creeps along the ground and climbs around the door with a crackle. The horses whinny and grow restive. Lights come on in the grooms’ quarters. A panic-stricken neighing, pounding of hooves, the straw in the stall is now ablaze. The men are at the windows, the wind blows in sharp gusts.
By the time they descend, the fire has reached to the roof and is spreading from stall to stall with a roar. In the yard, half-naked men race to the doors to release the horses from their stalls. Wild with panic, the horses stampede towards the forest. A groom is knocked down and trampled. A horse, its mane on fire, whinnying in terror, hurls itself against a wall and sinks to the ground, its skull shattered. One whole section of the roof collapses amid a cascade of orange sparks. Along with the smell of burning, the wind carries the horrendous smell of scorched flesh and hide.
Soaking wet, blackened, desperate, the men, clutching every available hosepipe, sprinkle everything that is still standing to delay the fire’s progress. And the wind is still up.
A second row of stalls catches fire before the fire engine’s siren can be heard. The firefighters have to remove two dead horses blocking the path before they can reach the stable yard and turn their hose on the fire. After battling for an hour, they manage to put out the flames. Half of the stables are burnt out, reduced to heaps of charred timber and ashes, exuding a blackish fluid and a few wisps of smoke. A boy, his bare chest smeared black, lies sobbing beside the charred body of a horse, cradling its head in his arms.
Monday 21 August 1989
Agence France Presse despatch:
As part of its crackdown on illegal drug trafficking, OCRTIS, the French antinarcotics department of the Ministry of the Interior, recently seized 53 kilos of cocaine found aboard an abandoned Renault van in a warehouse in the Paris suburb of Aubervilliers. Neither the vendors nor the buyers have been identified.
Saturday 2 September 1989
The curtain comes down on the end of the first act of Berg’s Wozzeck. The lights come up in the auditorium of the Opera Garnier. Daquin rises, desperate to stretch and yawn. A glance at his lover, walking up the aisle a few metres in front of him. Of course he wouldn’t appreciate it. And I have no reason… Rudi, always so polite and distant. German, Prussian even, tall, broad shoulders, slim hips, blond, a romantic forelock, square jaw and blue eyes. Mesmerising. Women nearly always turn their heads to look at him when he walks past. A rather amusing misapprehension, best witnessed from a distance.
The brightly lit foyer is crowded, noisy and stuffy. Daquin pauses by a window and gazes at Place de l’Opéra glistening in the rain, studded with lights and swarming with people and cars. Enticing. Rudi comes back from the bar with two glasses of champagne. And picks up the conversation exactly where he had broken off when the curtain went up.
‘Thousands of people are leaving East Germany, through Poland and Czechoslovakia, and still not a word about it in your press. Incredible. My parents wrote and told me that a surgery unit in the biggest hospital in East Berlin has just closed because all the nurses have left the country. Theo, are you listening to me?’
‘Not really.’ He smiles. ‘I’m thinking over the evening.’ Drains his glass. ‘I hate wearing a tie, the sets are enough to make you weep, the staging is pretentious, I don’t like the music and the champagne’s lukewarm. I’m going to find a taxi. How about I take you home with me?’
The phone rings insistently. Daquin takes a while to surface. A glance at his watch, it’s 2 a.m. He kicks off the duvet. In the vast bed, Rudi’s sleeping on his stomach, his face turned to the wall, his arms above his head. Fair hair against the dark green sheet. Straight out of an aftershave ad. Odd thought. It must be exhaustion. The phone keeps ringing. He picks up the receiver.
‘Superintendent Daquin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Superintendent Janneret, 16th arrondissement. I’ve just had the Drugs Squad on the phone…’
‘What do you want?’
‘Can you come over to the station?’
‘Now?’
‘As soon as possible.’
‘Send a car for me, 36 Avenue Jean-Moulin in the 14th. In half an hour.’
‘Will do, and thank you.’
Getting up is no easy matter, groping around in the dark so as not to wake Rudi. The bathroom, privacy regained: first of all a long shower, hot, then cold, power jets full on, painful awareness of every muscle. Then, naked in front of the big mirror, he shaves meticulously, enjoying the feel of the metal razor on his skin, the pleasure of watching each familiar feature slowly emerge from the lather, the tingle of the aftershave. That’s better. Now the wardrobe, to something to slip into quickly. No idea what’s in store, an all-purpose outfit: leather jacket, linen trousers. And Daquin leaves. The ivy-covered houses of the Villa des Artistes make the night seem even blacker and more silent. A car driven by a uniformed poli
ce officer is already waiting at the entrance to the Villa on Avenue Jean-Moulin.
The superintendent is pacing up and down outside the police station.
‘So what’s going on?’
‘We did one of our routine swoops in the Bois de Boulogne and my men picked up the usual bunch of transvestites. Plus a young man, half naked in a bush. A punter. And in the pocket of his jacket hanging from a tree, six hits of coke. We bring him in, and he kicks up an unbelievable stink, demands that we inform his father, Christian Deluc, presidential advisor. If it had been up to me, I’d have packed him straight off home, I’ve got my hands full enough, I don’t need any additional complications. But he made such a nuisance of himself that the trannies started getting pissed off and threatened to inform the press if we just let him go. Can you imagine the scandal? Anyway, coke’s a matter for the Drugs Squad and the duty officer seemed to think you were the best person to sort the matter out quietly.’
‘Is the kid a minor?’
‘No. He’s just turned eighteen.’
‘Have you informed his father?’
‘No, we were waiting for you.’
‘Don’t. Select two of your men to help me do a body search and find us some rubber gloves.’
Daquin enters the station. At the back of the duty office is a lockup with three cells. In the first two, ten or so transvestites in their work clothes. They bang on the bars, harangue the cops, yell and sing. Daquin goes over to them, his step purposefully heavy, his gaze expressionless. He raps sharply on the bars of one of the cells.
‘Cut it out, girls. Let me work in peace.’
A lull.
Daquin has the third cell opened, brings out a thin, sullen youth, points to the door of the office just opposite and follows him, accompanied by two subordinates assigned to him by the station chief.
‘Leave the door open, the girls want to watch the fun.’
One cop at the typewriter. The other perches on the corner of the desk. Daquin stands.
Dead Horsemeat Page 2
