Dead Horsemeat

by Dominique Manotti

  Lavorel grabs Blascos by the shoulder.

  ‘Help me.’

  They each grab Romero under one armpit, drag him out to the car parked outside and lay him on his stomach on the back seat. Head for the hospital. Blascos laughs uncontrollably.

  ‘I haven’t laughed like this for years. Come back guys. Whenever you like.’

  Once Romero’s been taken care of and sent home in a taxi, Blascos and Lavorel return to the party, which is still in full swing.

  ‘Tell me, who’s the guy who’s so generous with the coke?’

  ‘A friend of Massillon’s. He’s called Nicolas Berger, and that’s all I know about him.’

  Blascos waits until the end of the party to sell to the guests who want to stock up before going home. And Lavorel waits for Nicolas Berger to find out a little more about him.

  Sunday 17 September 1989

  Nicolas Berger leaves Massillon’s villa at around 7 a.m., seemingly on good form, with Lavorel trailing behind, rather the worse for wear. After about thirty kilometres, they approach a large farm, still in the Ile de France. It is an imposing stone-built, partially fortified construction. Some large trucks are parked in a field in front of the farm, their ramps lowered, and horses everywhere, tethered to the trucks, being led or ridden by young people wearing jeans, and competitors in white jodhpurs, black boots and tailored red or black jackets.

  Nicolas cruises slowly around the thronging field, and Lavorel concentrates on tailing him without knocking anyone over. Then Nicolas pulls up beside a large green and white truck and Lavorel drives past and parks his car twenty metres further on, under a tree. Nicolas goes over to the truck driver. After changing his clothes, he leads a horse out of the truck, mounts it, rides around the farmhouse and disappears.

  Lavorel picks his way across the field on foot. People are rushing busily all over the place, calling out; they all seem to know each other. The atmosphere is that of a cheerful gathering of old friends and there’s a powerful smell of horses. Lavorel feels very out of place in his blue blazer, by now slightly grubby, and his smart shoes.

  Behind the farm, a vast grassy field surrounded by white fences, with brightly coloured jumps and flower beds everywhere. Along one side of the field a bank has been made into a stand for the spectators and across the far end drinks are being served in a white canvas marquee. At first glance, it’s tempting. Lavorel sits down and knocks back three disgusting cups of coffee. Behind him, a group of riders are talking about horses and business, thumping each other and joking, and drinking red wine. Lavorel consults his watch: 9 a.m. They’re certainly not wasting any time. The first competitors arrive. Lavorel glances at them. His first impression is that horses and riders are all doing exactly the same thing, and that the bars fall at random. Then twice, a horse and its rider in fluid harmony jump with graceful ease, and the bars remain in place. But it soon becomes tedious to watch.

  Snatches of conversation, behind Lavorel: ‘Who’s this gorgeous girl with you? Will you introduce me?’ ‘Come on, you’re kidding, don’t you recognise her? You slept with her last night…’ ‘I was pissed…’ ‘And you aren’t now?’ ‘Of course I am! I’m riding in five minutes.’ He raises his glass. ‘To our horses and all who mount them!’

  What the fuck am I doing here, in the middle of the field, surrounded by idiots? Lavorel stands up and wanders about aimlessly. He spots Nicolas Berger in a field on his own, cantering his horse, looking very focused on the task. Reserves of strength, this guy, after partying all night… Cop’s hunch, nothing doing here. No whiff of coke. Wine for sure, but not coke. Keep an eye on the truck, rather. Lavorel goes back to the car park, settles inside his car in the shade, it’s getting hotter and hotter, and falls asleep.

  A resounding explosion. Lavorel wakes with a jump, and gazes horrified at Berger’s blazing car, a single orange flame leaps several metres into the air. The car park’s full of stampeding horses and screaming people. Just beside the inferno, hanging on to the green and white truck, in a sort of tragic bubble of motionless silence, a horse, its foreleg blown off, its head lowered, blood spurting everywhere. The animal crumples in slow motion. The emergency services arrive with an ambulance. Lavorel, in a state of shock, extricates himself from his car, walks over and watches two human silhouettes on fire.

  Monday 18 September 1989

  Nearly every morning, Daquin walks from Avenue Jean-Moulin to Quai des Orfèvres via Montparnasse and Boulevard Saint Michel, which takes him just under an hour at a brisk pace. But today, the weather’s cool and fine, and Daquin is in no hurry. A detour to buy a kilo of Brazilian coffee from a coffee roasting shop in Rue Mouffetard, to try it out. Then he carries on via Place Maubert and a maze of back streets down to the Seine. He pauses and leans on the parapet. He always experiences the same thrill at the sight of the immense sky right in the heart of the city, today a very pale blue, and around him, every shade of grey. The Seine, grey-green, the stones of the embankment and the arched bridges yellowy-grey, and the grey-white bulk of Notre Dame standing out against the dark mass of a clump of trees. Daquin inhales deeply two or three times and goes up to his office, where his detectives are waiting for him.

  Lavorel mechanically wipes his glasses and blinks. Romero is sitting awkwardly, one buttock resting on the edge of a chair. The other three are standing, trying to look inconspicuous. Daquin scrutinises them for a moment, sits down in his chair and prepares himself for the worst.

  ‘Go on, I’m listening.’

  Romero starts.

  ‘We’ve identified the supplier. He’s a certain Dimitri Rouma, farrier, a gypsy, residing in Vallangoujard in the Val-d’Oise.’

  Surprised. ‘Bravo.’

  ‘Lavorel and I went to a cocaine-fuelled party in Chantilly on Saturday night, at the house of a jockey called Massillon. Several of Senanche’s customers there, others unknown. We took a note of all the vehicle registration numbers, and there was a guy called Nicolas Berger dishing out coke to everyone.’

  ‘Excellent. What next?’

  Lavorel picked up:

  ‘I tailed Berger from the party to a horse show he was competing in. And there, he was murdered. His car was booby-trapped and blew up twenty metres away from me. He was killed instantly, along with one of his friends who was sitting in the car next to him. Guy named Moulin. And I didn’t see a thing, I was asleep.’

  ‘Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.’ False innocence: ‘Were you alone? Where were you, Romero?’

  With as much dignity as he could muster. ‘At the party, I accidentally sat on a plate and injured myself. I went home.’

  ‘Don’t feel bad Romero, it happens to all of us, more often than you’d imagine. Berry, your turn to make the coffee. We’re going to try this one.’ Hands him the packet of Brazilian coffee. ‘Do a good job, it’s an honour and a step up. And don’t forget, a weak one for Le Dem. And then, to work.’ Daquin smiles. ‘Now we’re finally getting to the heart of the matter.’

  Audible sighs of relief.

  After the break, everyone seated, pens and notebooks poised. Lavorel describes the explosion: two bodies in the car, the arrival of the gendarmes who took charge of the investigation, identification of the victims, clues, forensic reports, eye-witness accounts.

  ‘I introduced myself to the captain and explained what I was doing there. He’s expecting to hear from you.’

  ‘Did you mention the party at Massillon’s to him?’

  ‘No, I decided to leave that to you.’

  ‘You did the right thing.’

  Daquin thinks for a moment, doodling on a blank sheet of paper.

  ‘In two hours I want written accurate, detailed reports on the identification of Rouma, the party at Massillon’s, and Senanche’s customer network. Meanwhile, Le Dem, you come with me, I want to find Massillon before the gendarmes do. On my return, I’ll edit your reports before passing them on to the chief, then I’ll contact the gendarmerie and the public prosecutor. My line of action will be t
o try and cooperate with the gendarmes over Nicolas Berger’s murder, and to give them the list of Senanche’s customers in exchange. They’ll be happy and it’ll free us up to chase bigger fish. We’ll have to be discreet about it, because the one thing the police department doesn’t forgive is cooperating with the gendarmes.’

  ‘Amelot and Berry will carry on with their job and finish it, cross-referencing all the lists, the new registration numbers, and the tapped phone conversations. Lavorel and Le Dem, you take Rouma. You can start by going to see the gendarmes in Vallangoujard. I’ll let them know you’re coming. I’m certain they already have files on him. A gypsy farrier in a godforsaken village in the Val-d’Oise is hardly inconspicuous. And Romero and I will handle Nicolas Berger’s murder.’

  Massillon’s villa looks empty, door closed, windows open, but there’s a Porsche parked in the garden and the gates are still open. Daquin climbs up to a wrought-iron balcony and clambers over it without any apparent effort. After a second’s hesitation, Le Dem follows.

  The ground floor is deserted, and is an indescribable mess. Daquin freezes, looks and listens for a moment. Nothing appears to have been touched since the end of the party, yesterday morning. There’s disaster in the air. Daquin motions to Le Dem and rushes over to the staircase that leads up to the first floor. Doors open onto the landing. Only one room is occupied. Pale blue fabric on the walls, a pink and white en-suite bathroom, virtually no furniture, a big bed, a jumble of shot-silk sheets, and, lying across the bed, asleep on his stomach, a naked young man with a finely chiselled, slender muscular body. Daquin lingers for a moment, ill at ease. On the long-pile rug, a very young girl is asleep; she’s naked too. The boy’s hand is resting on her buttocks, and her hands are tied to the foot of the bed with a gold chain, secured with an elegant padlock inscribed with entwined initials which she probably wears as a necklace in other circumstances. A few red marks, dotted with dark spots on her lower back, buttocks and thighs. And beside the bed, next to an empty champagne magnum, a jockey’s riding crop, a vicious weapon in itself. Judging by the marks, Massillon had used it with less enthusiasm than at the finishing line of the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe, remaining within the bounds of decorum.

  Daquin stifles an urge to laugh, you have to respect people’s vocations, grabs the man under the armpits, hikes him up, carries him to the bathroom and dunks his head under the shower. The girl has woken up and is curled at the foot of the bed, her eyes dilated, trying to cover herself with a sheet, which isn’t easy without hands. Daquin returns, dragging the soaking man at arm’s length, and plonks him on the bed.

  ‘Police. I want to ask you a few questions. Are you awake enough to understand what I’m saying?’

  He nods, his teeth chattering. A damp patch slowly spreads on the silk around him.

  ‘Your friend Berger was murdered when he left here yesterday morning. His car was booby-trapped, and it exploded. Killed outright.’

  Massillon, stunned, gapes at him open-mouthed. Daquin turns to the girl.

  ‘Is your master always as lively as this, miss?’ She gives a little squeak. ‘Le Dem, go downstairs and get me two glasses of something, the strongest drink you can find, I think it’s the only way to wake them up.’

  It takes a little while until it’s finally possible to get some sense out of them. While Daquin ferrets around upstairs, Le Dem calmly explains the situation to Massillon, who’s beginning to dry off.

  ‘If you’re nicked for cocaine trafficking and you cop more than three months inside, which is highly likely, you’ll lose your jockey’s licence, and there’ll be no more parties, girls or the Porsche. Back to being a stable lad. It’ll be tough.’

  Everyone has forgotten the girl, still chained to the foot of the bed. Daquin comes back from his little stroll, having found nothing of interest.

  ‘What do you want?’ asks Massillon.

  ‘The name of your dealer.’

  ‘Senanche. He works at Meirens.’

  A pushover. Le Dem had told him, jockeys are used to obeying. The owners, the trainers, why not the cops too?

  ‘And Berger’s?’

  ‘Nicolas also bought from him, fairly often.’

  ‘Yesterday, Berger came here with a large amount of cocaine.’ Massillon looks panic-stricken. How do they know? Tries to recall who was at the party but his mind’s a blank. ‘Did Senanche supply it?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Actually, yesterday was a treat. Nicolas was celebrating an unexpected windfall. A company gave him a huge commission for getting them an advertising account. He brought coke the way anyone else would bring a bottle of champagne, you know?’

  ‘Did he often do that?’

  ‘No, it was the second time.’

  ‘And where did he get his “treats” from?’

  ‘I think it was probably at work. A big insurance company, Pama, where he was head of advertising.’ Massillon looks up at Daquin. ‘Will I be OK?’

  ‘It’s not up to me. I’m going to hand you over to the gendarmes, but I’m giving you a twenty-four hour headstart. You can finish off your girlfriend at your leisure, if you have the heart for it, and then it’s up to you to find some way of protecting yourself because you’re in for a rough ride.’

  Tuesday 19 September 1989

  Destination La Défense. Romero is at the wheel, as always. Daquin doesn’t like driving. Leaning against the door, he maintains an aggressive silence.

  ‘What’s up, chief? Things not looking good?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’ll see.’ After a lengthy silence: ‘I hate La Défense. It depresses me.’ They turn onto the ring road. ‘Look. The tower blocks have their backs to us in an untidy sprawl. The whole district is designed to look at Paris, and be seen by Paris. It’s a theatre, not a city, and we have to enter from the wings.’

  ‘I’m here, I won’t abandon you in the concrete jungle.’

  Romero misses the car park entrance and is off on another lap of the ring road.

  ‘Great, take me on a tour of the area. We’re in no hurry. It won’t do any harm to keep Madame Renouard waiting.’

  Sitting at her desk, her chair facing the bay window, Annick gazes at the blue sky, the glittering Arche, Paris in the distance. She chain smokes. What the hell does this cop want? Angst. A familiar chill, she finds it hard to breathe or move. She can hear them in the woods, she’s fallen into the ditch, sprained ankle. They arrive, kick her to her feet, shove and drag her to the police van. She’s shivering with fear. The police station stinks. A poky office, two chairs, a strapping inspector in his forties. Threats. Tied to the radiator, sit, stand, sit, stand. Slaps. The taste of blood in her mouth. Stripped, searched. Promises. How long does it go on… She gave the names of all her friends. He strokes her hair, offers a coffee, a handkerchief. And the inspector wrote everything down, smiling at her. Then, he came over to her. I’m going to fuck you then let you go. You were never here, you never told me anything. If you refuse, statement, court case and I’ll tell everyone that you grassed on your friends. Understood? Say you want me to fuck you… She said it. The next day, she left Rennes for good. Twenty years later, all it takes is for a cop to come near her to rekindle the memory of her humiliation, and, worst of all, she can still hear the sound of her own voice… Hands trembling, a quick line, using the steel surface of the desk.

  The secretary shows Daquin and Romero into the office. They take in the black and white décor, black carpet, white walls. More black above the bare matt grey steel desk, the Soulages triptych lit by a row of ceiling spotlights to show it off to advantage. Fascinated, Romero walks over to the vast bay window. The feeling of being suspended in a cradle at the fulcrum of La Défense. Daquin slowly walks around the Soulages to catch the play of light. Intense pleasure.

  Annick, smiling, sophisticated, leads them over to the sofa in the lounge area. Elegant, beige suit over a green blouse, her thick hair in an impeccable chignon, softened by a few wisps framing her face, a hint of make-up, no jew
ellery, just a discreet gold Omega watch bracelet. A carefully contrived image, but static, it lacks a sense of mood. This woman has a real talent for setting the stage. Above all, be careful. And Daquin imperceptibly plays up his image of oafish, clumsy cop in jeans and trainers.

  Annick stands facing them, leaning against the desk, mesmerised by Daquin. Similar build to the one who raped her, a fairly ordinary man, tall, square set, forty-something, but more muscular and no beer gut. The secretary brings in coffee. Daquin picks up his cup. Not the same hands either. The other guy’s were thick and stubby, these are long, broad and bony. She must stop this stupid memory game, it’s dangerous.

  ‘What can I do for you, Superintendent?’

  Daquin looks at her. That beautiful low, slightly husky voice…

  ‘Did you know Nicolas Berger well?’

  ‘Very well, yes, he was a childhood friend, and we work closely together.’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘What?’ She straightens up. ‘Is this a joke?’

  ‘Not at all. He was murdered on Sunday morning.’

  ‘Murdered…’

  Daquin tells her about the car explosion, with precision and detachment.

  Annick feels dazed. A deafening buzzing in her ears, again that cold clammy feeling of suffocation. She walks over to a cupboard, pours herself a double whisky, which she downs in one go, and comes back and leans against her desk, once again perfectly in control. Daquin continues in a neutral voice:

  ‘Can you tell me what his work at Pama consisted of?’

  ‘He was head of Pama communications department’s image division, i.e. he selected the consultancies we work with and supervised production.’ The past tense, so quickly, so naturally….