Dead Horsemeat

by Dominique Manotti

  They go and sit in the bar, which is empty and sinister at this hour, in front of two cups of brown, lukewarm instant coffee.

  Get him to open up so as not to have to grope around in the dark. Tell him what he knows already, and then come back to the question.

  ‘With your superiors’ consent, I’ve come to ask you if you would agree to transfer to my team, the Drugs Squad, for the duration of an investigation in racing circles. It probably won’t be for long and you’ll be in line for promotion.’

  ‘Do I have the option of refusing?’

  Daquin decides to smile.

  ‘Straight off? You don’t even want to know what it’s about?’

  ‘The thing is, I love my job here. I live with my horse, we patrol the park together. I protect the public, I help people when necessary, and my work is more about prevention than detection. I’m on very good terms with all the local kids, I give them a better image of the police. A public service without violence you know, that’s what suits me. The Drugs Squad is war. And I wouldn’t know how to do that.’

  A Martian in the housing projects. Just my luck to get landed with him.

  ‘Would this transfer cause you problems shall we say of a domestic nature?’

  ‘No, it’s not that, I’m single.’ Without showing any emotion.

  Daquin stares at the cup he’s toying with.

  ‘I’m not going to tell you that we’re non-violent. And I am aware that your concept of public service is different from ours. But if you agree to come on board, when this investigation’s over, I’ll have you transferred to Brittany, near your home town.’ A glance out of the window. At the door of the loose box, the bay horse, his head reared, ears pointed, listens to the roar of the motorway. ‘And I’ll ensure you can take the horse you’re working with at the moment with you.’

  Blink. Touché.

  ‘Could you do that?’

  ‘Superintendent’s word.’

  Grin. ‘Count me in.’

  Monday 11 September 1989

  ‘Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce our new colleague. He’s a true horseman. He’ll be our expert. He’s from a highway patrol unit in La Courneuve…’ glances at Lavorel and Romero. As expected, they immediately warm to him, ‘…and will be part of the team.’ Then turns to Le Dem. ‘Two things: nobody smokes in my office. And nobody comes in armed with their service revolver. You can leave it in the office next door or in the cupboard and collect it when you leave. Now, a coffee for everyone and let’s get to work.’

  Romero heads for the machine.

  ‘You’d better like your coffee strong, without sugar, if you want to impress the chief.’

  Le Dem smiles.

  ‘I like it weak with lots of sugar. Tough.’

  They all sit down and Romero opens with his report on the team’s progress to date. Daquin, at his desk, takes notes.

  ‘We easily found Meirens, identified Senanche, and found out about his customer network. He sells the stuff to kids who come in the mornings and ride the training horses, Olivier Deluc’s mates most likely. We haven’t seen him again, he’s been keeping a low profile. The procedure: they arrive by car, park in front of the stables and hand the keys to Senanche. While they’re riding, Senanche puts the stuff in the glove compartment and collects the cash. It’s very neat. The cars are registered in the parents’ names. We’ve got Jambet and Wilson, the fathers are high-flying executives, one at Parillaud and the other at Électricité de France, and Duran’s father’s a Venezuelan diplomat. We’ve also got the list of owners whose horses are trained by Meirens, it’s in the file.

  The second customer network is the local café, where Senanche goes several times a day and from where he makes all his phone calls. We’ve been tapping it for the last three days. I’ve made you a tape of the most interesting conversations, also in the file. You’ll see that Senanche receives and sends a lot of messages which are obviously related to his dealing activities. The customers are men, only one woman’s voice. The quantities being sold seem much bigger than those in the morning. The dealing seems to take place at racecourses. But Senanche hasn’t once left Meirens’ stables. As for his supplier…’

  ‘Not so fast. Let’s go back to the customers. Sounds as though they’re mainly from racing circles?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Amelot and Berry, dig further. Easy job. By checking the phone conversations against the horse racing schedules, you should be able to come up with a list of presumed customers.

  Lavorel looks riled.

  ‘Why are you going for the jockeys and grooms? That’s not your style.’

  ‘Don’t act dumber than you are. We’re going to keep the rich brats to ourselves, you never know, it might always come in useful. If we need the help of other departments to get to the big boys at the top, we’ll need something to bargain with, and we’ll chuck them the jockeys. I also want you to find out more about Jambet, Wilson, Duran and the owners, if you can. And, just in case, Amelot and Berry will also check whether there are any possible links with the Paola Jiménez case. Can we move on to the supplier? … Go on, Romero.’

  ‘We don’t have much. Senanche sells too much for an amateur just dabbling. He lives on site and never leaves the stables except to go to the café. At the café, we kept a close watch on him. There’s no way he can be picking the stuff up there. That brings us back to the stables. That’s where the drugs must be delivered.’

  Daquin turns to Le Dem.

  ‘Who can come into a stables regularly without arousing suspicion?’

  ‘Apart from the stable-boys, the stable boss, the trainer, the jockeys in the morning, a few amateur riders, the owners, journalists from the racing press. During the day there are deliveries of horse feed or straw, and the guys who come to collect the manure. Then there are vets, farriers, and the drivers who transport the horses to the race-courses. I’ve probably left a few out.’

  ‘That’s a lot of people.’ Daquin thinks for a moment, goes over to the coffee machine and switches it on. ‘I’m going to see the chief to tell him we’ve made a start and that we’re carrying on. It’s much too early to start criminal proceedings. It makes no difference as far as you’re concerned. Romero, Lavorel and Le Dem, find me Senanche’s supplier. Who wants a coffee?’

  Friday 15 September 1989

  Concealed in the forest, Le Dem and Romero watch the farrier who has just pulled up in his white van. Le Dem follows him with binoculars, while Romero jots down notes on a little pad.

  2 p.m. The van pulls up in front of the forge, in the right hand corner of the courtyard. The farrier gets out, accompanied by his assistant. Aged about thirty-five or so, dressed in a T-shirt and linen trousers, strong build, about six foot, very powerful shoulders and arms, and a gut. Beefy. Tanned complexion, black hair, moustache. His assistant is young, fourteen or fifteen years old, a kid. The stables manager comes out to greet the farrier. They chat, no contact, the manager goes off. The farrier opens the rear of the van, takes out his equipment – anvil, hammer, bag of tools. Puts on his leather apron. The van door remains open, the stock of horse shoes visible. Nothing to report. The assistant goes off with some halters. Comes back with two horses, and ties them up inside the forge.

  2.15 p.m. The two men are at work.

  Le Dem, his eyes glued to the binoculars, describes the process step by step, Romero absently jots down a few notes. They carry on for a couple of hours uninterrupted. Le Dem remarks:

  ‘Real pros, fast, efficient, good relationship with the horses. In my view, they can’t be the suppliers.’

  Romero chuckles.

  4.15 p.m. Senanche walks towards the two men.

  ‘Now concentrate.’

  ‘He’s carrying some cans of beer. Puts them on the anvil. And wanders off. No contact. The farrier and his assistant have a break, drink the beers. A groom comes over. Chats with the farrier. Goes away. Comes back with a horse. The farrier watches it walk, then trot, inspects its hooves. They talk. The
groom leads the horse away. Le Dem turns to Romero: ‘That’s routine, the groom’s asking the farrier’s advice, that shows he’s respected.’

  4.30 p.m. The farrier picks up the beer cans, walks over to the van and opens the front door on the passenger side. Puts down the cans. Picks up a rag, a napkin? Mops his forehead and neck, and puts it back.

  4.35 p.m. He goes back to work. His assistant also goes back to work.

  4.45 p.m. Senanche comes back. He walks round the van. The front door is still open. He leans inside. I can’t see what he’s doing inside the vehicle. He straightens up and leaves. He’s holding the empty beer cans, that’s all. The farrier’s still working.

  ‘Right. The stuff’s been delivered.’ Le Dem is sceptical. ‘Let’s carry on, that’s what we’re here for. But I’m telling you, we’ve just witnessed the delivery being made. And it’s not the first. The farrier’s a real pro at this too.’

  Le Dem continues to watch the horses coming and going, and Romero goes on making occasional notes, without much conviction.

  5.20 p.m. An unidentified youth aged about twenty arrives at the forge.

  Romero looks up from his notepad.

  ‘Weird-looking kid. Pass me the binoculars. And take notes. The farrier carries on forging a shoe. They talk. Look, the farrier’s on his feet. He’s grabbing the kid by the shirt, he’s lifting him off the ground with one hand. I don’t believe it… he’s grabbed his tongs… Shit!’

  A howl in the stable yard.

  ‘The farrier’s just branded the kid’s thigh with a red hot horse shoe. The kid’s on the ground. The farrier gives him a kick to get him on his feet.’

  ‘Come on Romero.’

  ‘Don’t panic. The kid crawls away, gets up, leaves. Are you still writing this down?’ He glances at his watch. ‘It’s 5.24.’ Picks up the binoculars again. ‘Nobody’s moving. This guy’s scary.’

  ‘Let’s go and…’

  ‘Wait a bit. The kid’s limping off towards the road that goes to Chantilly. Now we can go. But not to the stables. Go and get the car, don’t let anybody see you, and pick me up on the road.’

  And Romero races into the trees to catch up with the kid. He walks on the opposite side of the road, waiting for Le Dem to arrive. When the car comes into view, he crosses over, goes up to the kid who’s hobbling along sobbing and grabs his arm, opens the rear door of the car, shoves him inside and climbs in next to him.

  ‘Drive, Le Dem, wherever you like, but drive. And wind your window up.’

  ‘What do you want? Let me go, you’ve no right… Stop, I want to get out.’ Interspersed with sobs.

  Romero looks at him, and sniffs him. The kid, in shock, gives off the sour odour of needing a fix. Now’s the time.

  ‘Police. Tell me what you were talking to the farrier about.’

  ‘That’s my business. Let me go.’

  Romero puts his hand on the boy’s thigh which is streaked with a yellow and brown burn that’s beginning to blister, shreds of burnt fabric clinging to his flesh. But seemingly not very deep. The farrier knew how to control his violence.

  ‘I repeat. What were you talking to the farrier about?’

  And he squeezes the thigh. The kid yells. Le Dem swerves. Romero glares at him in the mirror and goes back to the kid.

  ‘I know you’re a user, and I don’t give a shit. It’s the farrier I’m interested in.’ He puts his hand back on the boy’s thigh. ‘Shall I do that again?’

  ‘No!’ he yelps.

  ‘Come on,’ hand still on the thigh, ‘spit it out.’

  ‘I wanted him to give me some stuff to deal.’

  ‘And why did he refuse?’

  ‘I owe him money.’ The kid hiccups. ‘I wanted to make some cash…’

  ‘He burnt you when you told him you didn’t have the dough.’

  Almost inaudible. ‘Yes’.

  ‘You spent the money on smack, and now you’re suffering cold turkey. You tell me who you wanted to sell to, and I’ll give you your hit, right now, in the car.’

  Slight pressure on the boy’s thigh. Groan. The kid’s in a sweat.

  ‘There’s a party here in Chantilly, tomorrow night, at Massillon the jockey’s place, and you can always sell stuff at these parties.’

  Romero takes out a square of paper from the breast pocket of his jacket.

  ‘Slow down a bit,’ he says to Le Dem, who’s staring at the road.

  The boy slips down between the seats and takes out his kit. He’s trembling all over. Romero opens out the paper, holds the spoon. The kid prepares the stuff, heats it up, filters it, shoots it into his arm, inhales deeply, slowly, and lolls backwards, his eyes closed, onto the seat.

  Romero taps Le Dem on the shoulder.

  ‘Now head for the hospital, but not too fast. Give him time to digest. We have to get that burn taken care of.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to hospital.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m known as Blascos.’

  Well you’re going to hospital, Blascos. We’ve got to get that burn seen to, otherwise it can get infected. You won’t have any trouble, I’ll take care of it.’

  When they reach A&E, Romero helps the boy out of the car. Holds him by the arm for a moment and whispers:

  ‘I’ll be at the party tomorrow night at ten. You’ll be there too and you’ll introduce me to your friends. And I’ll make sure you’ve got something to sell. OK?’

  He nods.

  ‘I want to hear you say it.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘If you let me down, you know what’ll happen to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now get in there.’

  Saturday 16 September 1989

  Le Dem hadn’t wanted to come. Romero didn’t press him, so it’s Lavorel who’s waiting with him outside Massillon’s villa. They’re both wearing miniature tape recorders concealed under their belts. Romero’s wearing a short-sleeved, floral summer shirt, and Lavorel a light blazer over a white shirt. A few cars crawl through the open iron gates and park in the garden. Two Porsches, a yellow Ferrari. And a lot of ordinary cars. Lavorel slips into the garden and makes a note of the registration numbers.

  Blascos arrives on foot, at around 10 p.m., clean and neatly dressed. He’s still limping but he looks in much better shape. Romero gives him an envelope, which he holds in a Kleenex.

  ‘There’s some coke in there. Top quality. You can sell it for a good price or cut it a little. Now get to work.’

  Romero whistles. Lavorel comes over to join them and the three men enter the vast nineteenth-century villa surrounded by gardens. There’s a flight of steps covered by an awning leading up to the front door which stands wide open. Entrance hall, to the left a drawing room which is empty for the time being, to the right the dining room where forty or so young men and women are gathered, chatting over drinks against a background of deafening house music. At the back of the room is a lavish buffet. Blascos greets everyone. Lavorel has his eye on six men, short, wiry, energetic, very well turned out, bespoke suits, luxury shoes, gold bracelets and chains. The jockeys, without a doubt. Very different from the others, young men of means, like Deluc, or others with more modest incomes, like Blascos. A dozen utterly beautiful girls. Romero feels a little tremor of excitement. And then a few others, nondescript.

  Blascos steers Romero by the arm. Lavorel follows.

  ‘Massillon, I’ve brought you two good friends of mine…’

  ‘Pleased to meet you. We’ll squeeze them in.’

  He shakes their hands. Then everyone goes back to the bowl of punch on the buffet. Things are already hotting up, although it’s still early. Lavorel wanders among the clusters of people, his ears pricked. The talk is of races, trainers, bonuses, bets or sex. Lavorel isn’t able to follow it all, and fears he’s wasting his time in this place which isn’t his scene. From time to time he glances at Romero. He watches him down one drink, then another, and starts to worry. People are attacking the
food. Romero, glass in hand, is sitting on a radiator, in front of a window, beside a bottle blonde with pneumatic breasts and lips. She slips her arm around his neck. When she moves off towards the buffet, Lavorel goes up to Romero and whispers:

  ‘Be careful, please.’

  ‘I can’t resist blondes.’

  ‘Your first wife was a redhead, the second very dark, and this one’s not even a real blonde.’

  ‘There aren’t any real blondes left, didn’t you know? What with pollution, nuclear power…’

  The girl’s on her way back, carrying two plates. With a flash of inspiration, Lavorel leans over to Romero, grabs his tape recorder and slips it into his own pocket. Damage limitation.

  Just then, it’s already approaching midnight, a new guest arrives, smiling. He’s immediately the centre of attention. He kisses a few girls and then takes a pretty lacquered box from his trouser pocket. Hearty applause, and the box begins to circulate. Lavorel on the alert. As the box goes round, they all take a pinch of white powder and snort it from the base of their thumb. Things are hotting up even more. Lavorel helps himself and discreetly sprinkles the powder on the floor. Meanwhile Romero, with a big grin, stares at him and has a quick snort. By now, disaster is imminent.

  Two girls jump up onto the buffet and start dancing among the dishes, high as kites, wild… They dance well. Everybody claps, the little box is still going around, faster and faster. The blonde has her hand between Romero’s legs, and her fingers are moving up and down to the rhythm of the music. When she gets the expected response, she suddenly leaps onto the table and begins a striptease between the two dancers, who become even more frenzied. The guests shriek with delight. She’s down to her bra… Romero rips off his shirt – Lavorel nervously pats the tape recorder in his pocket to reassure himself it’s there – beats his chest, lets out a Tarzan cry and clambers onto the table.

  Blascos, standing next to Lavorel, his eyes wide, says in an undertone ‘Some cop, huh?’

  Tarzan-Romero sweeps the blonde, now bra-less, into his arms, jumps down but misses his footing, crashes heavily onto the table, breaks a few plates, one or two bottles and gives himself a deep gash in his left buttock. Blood spurts everywhere.