‘Call me Amélie.’ Faintly mocking: ‘Shall I show you around the place?’
Daquin, resigned: ‘Fine, let’s go.’
First of all she leads him towards the hangar. Once through the door, in the half-dark, books, magazines, newspapers, thousands of them, piled ceiling-high on the shelves. He doesn’t attempt to disguise his surprise. She’s delighted.
‘It’s my job, you know. I comb France buying odd magazines and newspapers. And I sell them to libraries all over the world seeking to complete their collections. I love horses, but I couldn’t make a living out of them.’
Daquin starts seeing her differently. In such a godforsaken place. Who would have thought it?
‘Shall I show you Nicolas’s horses?’
‘Lead the way.’
They walk over to one of the paddocks. She lifts the barrier and whistles. Two palomino horses canter towards them, heads high, and stop beside her, sniffing her pocket. She gives them sugar lumps.
‘Are they race horses?’
‘No, not at all. You really don’t know anything about horses.’
She speaks to them softly, almost crooning, scratches their noses, stroking their breasts. They nudge her sides, playful flirtation. Amélie cocks her head to one side and looks at Daquin with a smile. One of the horses, his golden coat tinged with auburn, nuzzles Amélie’s neck. His velvety lips are grey with white specks. He nibbles her blonde curls, breathes gently on her neck. She shivers. Incredulous, Daquin feels a surge of desire.
‘I’m not interested in horses, but I am interested in you.’
She smiles again.
‘Would you like a coffee?’
The ground floor of the house is all one room. In the centre, a square kitchen built around a vast range, very modern. To the left, the office area, two tables cluttered with computers, printers, telephones, Minitel terminal and fax machine.
‘My best customers are Japanese universities,’ she volunteers.
To the right, in front of a hearth, empty at this time of year, are three mismatched sofas covered with old blankets arranged around a makeshift coffee table. No television, but a hi-fi system and a collection of CDs. She sets the coffeepot and cups down on the table. They sit down.
‘You know that Nicolas Berger has been murdered?’
‘Yes, Moulin’s wife phoned me after your detective went to visit her.’
‘What was your relationship to him?’
‘Superintendent, I didn’t kill him. I can’t even imagine who would want to.’ Tears start in her eyes. ‘I’m very upset by his death. So what’s the point of talking about it?’
‘To help me find his murderer would be the most conventional reply, but hardly convincing. You’re going to talk to me because it will help you, it will help the grieving process. It’s never easy, and here, alone like this, it must be even harder.’
She says nothing for a long time. Daquin drinks coffee, in silence, and waits.
‘We’d known each other for a long time, since high school, in Rennes. Then we were involved in May ’68 and afterwards we were in the same political group.’ She smiles at him. ‘Far left, “tomorrow belongs to us” and all that. We were sure of ourselves and had great hopes. That creates a bond.’ She dwells on her memories for a moment. ‘When it all fell apart, I’d had it, I went to pieces and for a few years I lived almost like a vagrant, ferreting around fairs and flea markets. And then, by chance, I began to buy and sell old books and magazines. I loved it and I realised there was an opening. I looked for a way of buying a place. I bumped into Nicolas, in Paris, almost by accident. He was working in an insurance company with Annick Renouard and had joined the fast set, living a life of luxury. He adored the whole thing, but at the same time he felt mildly regretful, as if he’d somehow betrayed his youthful ideals. He got me a very good mortgage deal so I could buy this place. He used to come and see me from time to time, and we started sleeping together again, as good friends, like before. We shared a love of horses, that made us close. They’re very sensual animals, as I think you noticed.’ She becomes pensive. ‘Sometimes, I think he might have liked to live here, with me, but he couldn’t stand the isolation of the countryside…’
Daquin smiles.
‘I can understand that. Do you know if he had any enemies?’
‘No, I don’t. He was very well liked in show-jumping circles because he was always pleasant and didn’t try and outshine others.’
‘And at work?’
‘He didn’t talk to me about it much. He enjoyed his job, but he wasn’t at all ambitious. If Annick hadn’t been there to protect him, he’d have been trampled on a long time ago.’
‘Do you know her?’
‘Of course. Annick was at school with us, and then she was in the same political group.’
‘What was their relationship?’
‘I think Nicolas was always a little bit in love with her. But he wasn’t ruthless enough to interest her.’
‘Were there conflicts between them?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. But you’re asking too much. I hardly saw her again. To put it as tactfully as possible, we had chosen different paths in life.’
‘I found Christian Deluc’s name in Berger’s diary. Do you know him too?’
She looks surprised.
‘Of course. He was also in our group in Rennes. In a way he was even the ringleader.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘At one point I though Annick was in love with him, but no, she wasn’t capable of it.’ A silence. ‘I didn’t know Nicolas was still seeing him.’
‘Also in his diary, “Le Chambellan”. Does that ring any bells?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Were there other women in his life?’
A winning smile.
‘Of course, Superintendent. Probably quite a few, because he liked flirting. But he soon tired of his conquests. Perhaps too superficial, too vulnerable? I don’t think he really had a mistress.’
‘Did you know he was a regular cocaine user?’
‘It’s not a crime he deserved to die for.’
‘Of course not, but it can sometimes bring people into contact with killers.’
‘He never talked about that scene. He’d been using cocaine for a long time, since the aftermath of May ’68. In our group, there was a lot of pressure. You had to conform to a strict code of communal living, with a quasi-permanent inquisition. Nicolas got into the habit of snorting then, in secret, to help him cope, and escape. He continued afterwards. But he managed his dependency very well. A bit like a social drinker.’
‘You may see it like that, but the night before he died, he handed out between twenty and thirty grams of cocaine to his friends, a quantity that represents a considerable sum of money, and easily enough to get him convicted for pushing.’
She looks taken aback.
‘I don’t know anything about it.’
A faraway look, her hands clasped around her knee, she clams up. Daquin pours himself another cup of coffee and sips it.
‘Thank you for confiding in me,’ he smiles, ‘and for the coffee.’ He gets up, bends over and kisses her hand. ‘Will you permit me to come and see you again, not as a policeman but as… a friend?’ he asks hesitantly.
‘If you like, Superintendent.’
She watches him leave. Le Dem is already by the car, waiting for him.
On the way back, Le Dem gives Daquin his report. The groom knows Berger well. He met him at Thirard’s.
‘The guy who owns the place where they shot the video with the black horse?’
‘Yes. He’s a former show-jumping champion, a trainer and a horse dealer, probably one of the best known in French show-jumping circles. According to the groom. So he worked for him and met Berger there on several occasions. One morning, he’s fired by his boss, on the pretext that he’d been hanging around the stables one night when he had no business being there. He found himself out on his ear, furious and skint. Berger came out of the stables at the s
ame time. The groom stopped him and asked for a lift to Paris. On the way, they talked, and Berger offered him a job here, he knew the owner was looking for a groom. One interesting detail: Berger had just had a row with Thirard, he was still very wound up, and kept saying that Thirard was a crook.’
‘A serious row?’
‘Apparently. No further details available.’
Daquin is pensive.
‘Maybe we should check out this Thirard.’ After a few moments’ thought: ‘By the way, Romero and I took from Berger’s office the file he was working on, the famous video. Nothing of much interest – costings, materials, correspondence, work schedules, appointments, reports, everything you’d expect to find. Plus an undated sheet of plain paper, no heading, with notes in Berger’s handwriting.
Daquin takes a photocopy out of his pocket.
‘Four columns. On the left, names that look like the names of horses. Opposite each name, three dates. The interval between the dates is usually short, two weeks to three months. All the dates are within the last two years. I’m giving you this photocopy, see if you can make anything of it.’
The car heads towards Paris. The weather’s clouded over, a fine drizzle begins to fall. For the last week, Lenglet has been so weak that he can no longer speak.
‘Le Dem, drop me off at the hospital.’
Lenglet opens then closes his eyes when Daquin enters the room, or so it seems to him. They are alone in the room together. Occasionally, someone walks past in the corridor. Daquin listens to Lenglet breathing. He goes over to the window. In the courtyard, under the trees, children are playing dodgeball. Daquin watches them. He freezes. Behind him, he is aware of the silence. Absolute. Irrevocable. His hand pressing hard against the cool glass pane. Despairing, I’m going to feel this death as a release. Have the guts to turn around.
Thursday 21 September 1989
Lavorel is sitting in the back room of a café in Vallangoujard with two gendarmes. The owner has given him a choice between white or red wine. He’s opted for the white, hoping it’ll be more drinkable than the red, right on top of his morning café au lait. It’s still quite acid. In front of them, a huge radio and a tape recorder. The wait grows longer. The owner comes over and sits down next to one of the two gendarmes.
‘Well, has my wine order arrived?’
‘Of course, yesterday evening, according to plan. I forgot to tell you, with all this trouble. Come and pick it up from the barracks, when you like, my wife will show you the cellar.’
The owner leans over towards Lavorel:
‘One of the gendarmes, Sallois, has a vineyard, in the heart of Bordeaux, and he makes this wine… say no more. He supplies all the local bars, and nobody’s complaining.’
A red light on the radio blinks, the owner discreetly leaves. A muffled, anxious female voice:
‘I’m coming, I’m opening the door.’ Louder. ‘Come up.’ A door closes. ‘Sit down.’ Chairs scraping. ‘Have you brought the bedspread?’
The voice of another, very young, woman. The rustle of paper: ‘Here it is. And have you got the money?’
‘Yes. But tell me again nice and slowly. So that I remember everything. This bedspread…’
‘Last year I took it on the pilgrimage to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Our gypsy pilgrimage. I touched the statue of the Black Sarah with it, while she was in the sea. You understand?’
‘Yes. So far.’
‘And I prayed to the saint, who has magic powers. She brings back unfaithful husbands. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. But I already bought a bedside rug that had touched Saint Sarah from you, and my husband didn’t come back.’
‘A bedside rug has less power than a bedspread, because you stay under the bedspread all night.’
‘I do, for sure, but he doesn’t, because he’s not there.’
‘The bedspread will make your wish come true. If you think about your husband very hard when you’re under the bedspread, the first night, you’ll dream of him, and he’ll be back within the week.’
‘Right. How much did we say?’
‘Come off it? Have you got the money or not?’
‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it. But I don’t remember exactly how much we said.’
‘Twenty thousand francs.’
Lavorel downs a second glass of white wine, in surprise. One of the two gendarmes leans towards him and murmurs:
‘She works on the checkout at Mammouth, on the minimum wage, and she’s already forked out ten thousand francs for the rug.’
‘I want to see the money.’ Sound of a drawer opening. They must be counting the notes. ‘It’s all there, take the bedspread.’
‘I’ll see you out.’
The gendarmes pack away their equipment, triumphant.
‘There. We managed to convince this woman to press charges, and now, at last we’ve caught her red-handed. You’ll see, once our devotee of Saint Sarah’s banged up, complaints will pour in, that’s what always happens.’
Gendarmes are waiting for the two girls in the street. They march them off to the gendarmerie, it’s in the bag. And now they’re in their stride, a search of the gypsies’ farm.
Lavorel follows, resigned.
At the village exit, two blue cars are parked near an ancient fortified farmhouse, four stone buildings in a square without an exit between them, all facing inwards, a huge timber carriage entrance, closed. That’s where the girl they’ve just arrested lives, with Rouma, the farrier, and a few other gypsy families.
First warnings.
‘Open up.’
Voices on the other side of the door.
‘There aren’t any men here. Only women and children. We’re not opening the door.’
After ten minutes of fruitless argument, the gendarmes break down the door and force their way in, brandishing their guns. Lavorel hangs back, his hands in his pockets, convinced that this is a sinister venture. Five caravans are drawn up in a circle in the beaten earth courtyard. In the centre, thirty or so women and children huddle together. The buildings looking onto the courtyard seem to be pretty much reduced to ruins. The gendarmes assemble the women and children in an empty room, place them under heavy guard, and the search begins.
While they gather up the bedspreads in their packaging, along with the cheap jewellery, two stolen cars, motorbike parts and other odds and ends, Lavorel goes through the caravans and all the buildings looking for a possible stash of drugs, without much conviction. The forge, the workshops, the garage, a large collective kitchen with all mod cons, there’s even a cold store. Nothing. It’s frustrating, all the same.
Lavorel leaves the gendarmes drawing up impressive reports. For them, the prospect of days and days of thankless graft. And I’m leaving empty handed.
Friday 22 September 1989
Next day, the atmosphere in Daquin’s office is tense. Lavorel gives an account of the storming of the farm, without embellishment or local colour. His reports never have Romero’s panache, but he’s not bothered.
‘As far as we’re concerned, in any case, it’s a bad move, which is likely to prompt Rouma to stop his deliveries for a while. But the gendarmes had been planning it for nearly six months. They’d never have agreed to delay it. So I jumped on the bandwagon. They simply promised not to arrest the farrier, since he has a legal professional activity.’
‘On the Berger front, it’s not much better,’ continues Daquin. ‘Two women as different as you can imagine give an almost identical portrait of him. A nice boy, loaded, without passion, without ambition and with a degree of talent. A clean-cut, socially adept coke addict. At first sight, there is no obvious reason why anyone would want to kill him. Nor was he a dealer, and never had been. He generously shared his twenty measly grams of cocaine with his friends, that’s all. At least, I hope so. Romero, you didn’t pay for your dose, did you?’
‘No, Superintendent. You know very well that it’s against the rules.’
Lavorel grows impat
ient.
‘But all the same, he was murdered.’
‘The only little blip was an argument with a horse dealer by the name of Thirard.’
Le Dem interrupts him. The Martian’s growing bolder.
‘Actually, on the subject of Thirard, that list you gave me was indeed to do with horses. They all belonged to Thirard, or were in livery at his stables. And they all died on the date opposite each name in the first column. I haven’t found out what the figures in the other two columns mean yet.’
‘Right.’ A long pause for thought. Then Daquin gets up. ‘Today’s Friday. Over the weekend, the gendarmes will be working. We’re going to rest. And on Monday, we’ll review the whole case with a fresh eye.’
Daquin makes himself a coffee then leans back in his chair with his feet up on the desk and allows his thoughts to wander. Lenglet. Don’t want to let his death to get me down. I’m alive. Rudi, a certain weariness. The investigation’s dragging its feet, but there’s progress. Starting from almost nothing, two corpses already, possibly three, if we can link Paola Jiménez to our case. Daquin rises, straightens up, stretches, makes himself another coffee, and sits down again. A series of images. The farrier at his forge, the burning car, the gypsies’ farm being stormed. And Amélie. Amélie living in the back of beyond among her books and horses. A persistent image of the golden horse with grey lips nibbling the blonde curls against the delicate nape of her neck. An urgent need to brush his lips against that neck, kiss that hair. He picks up the telephone.
‘Madame Gramont, Superintendent Daquin. I’d like to invite you to dinner this evening, at a restaurant in your neck of the woods.’
‘That’s a good idea, Superintendent. It’ll take my mind off my work. But let me invite you to dinner at my place. My groom’s gone away for two days and I can’t leave the horses.’
Dead Horsemeat Page 7
