Dead Horsemeat

by Dominique Manotti

  On Daquin’s desk is a big brown envelope which must have been delivered by hand. No address, no stamp, just his name in block letters.

  He makes himself a coffee, sits down and opens the envelope. Four glossy photos, large format. Michel and him in the bar, Daquin’s hand inside Michel’s sweater. Daquin’s lips on Michel’s face. The first kiss. It was just before they left together. Both clearly identifiable. At first they stir the acute memory of the pleasure of that evening. Daquin feels a pang of gratitude towards Michel, who was so alive. With his finger, he traces Michel’s features. Flashback, his cool lips, his warm mouth. The photos are very slightly fuzzy, as if they had captured the heat of their touch. And then Daquin’s anger at the memory of the naked corpse at the foot of the bed, the battered skull, came flooding back. Finally he tells himself it’s about time he reacted as a cop.

  Picks up the four photos and pins them to the cork board on the back wall of his office. A phone call to Inspector Bourdier.

  ‘Come and see me in my office as soon as you can, I’ve got something to show you.’

  Who? It could be an intimidation tactic linked to the busting of Transitex, to discourage us from going any further, either Perrot or Jubelin could be behind it. But it could also be someone from within the police. A cop from the Horseracing and Gaming division out to protect the debt recovery boys from further snooping. Daquin thinks long and hard. Or it has nothing whatsoever to do with our investigation. An opportunity seized by a clandestine intelligence and blackmailing outfit within the police, the Ministry or elsewhere. There are all sorts of possibilities.

  Phone rings. Daquin picks it up. The switchboard.

  ‘Please hold for Monsieur Deluc who’s calling from the Élysée.’

  ‘Let me introduce myself. Christian Deluc, presidential advisor. I have just met your director and I’d very much like to make your acquaintance.’ Silence. ‘Would you be free to have dinner with me, tonight, at the Élysée, I’m on duty, I can’t leave the building.’

  ‘Certainly, Monsieur Deluc.’

  ‘Perfect. See you this evening. Eight thirty?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Perrot, Deluc, Beirut, this is it. The photos too?

  A few minutes later, the phone rings again, his direct line. It’s the director of the Drugs Squad.

  ‘Come and see me in my office.’ Curt.

  I’m certainly not going to sit twiddling my thumbs today.

  When Daquin enters the director’s office, he finds his superior ashen-faced. With rage? The photos are spread out on his desk.

  ‘Sit down, Daquin. I received these this morning.’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘Is it a set-up?’

  ‘No. I spent an evening in that bar, with that man.’ A smile. ‘And it was a great evening.’

  ‘What else do you have to say about this?’

  ‘That it concerns my private life, Sir. When these photos were taken I was off duty. It’s a chance meeting in a bar where there are many chance meetings. With a consenting adult.’

  ‘I find these compromising for my department. That’s not all. There was an anonymous note with these photos.’ Silence. Daquin doesn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Apparently the second man is a certain Michel Nolant, murdered a few days later.’ Still no reaction. ‘In all likelihood in the course of a homosexual pick-up that turned nasty. And you were apparently seen in the vicinity.’

  Daquin laughs.

  ‘Do you suspect me, Sir?’

  ‘Not yet. But I’d like you to take the situation more seriously. The director of the Crime Squad is hopping mad.’

  ‘I’m taking it very seriously. Maybe you’re aware that I was called to the scene of the murder by Inspector Bourdier of the Crime Squad, who’s in charge of the investigation, because this murder ties in with my own investigation into the Transitex case. The minute I recognised Michel Nolant, I informed Inspector Bourdier of the encounter which these photos so touchingly record. I also informed him this morning, before coming to see you, that I had received some souvenir photos. He’s coming to have a look at them this afternoon, in my office.’

  ‘I’m going to talk to the Crime Squad and see if they can order an internal investigation. Meanwhile, I’d like you to consider yourself on leave.’ An ironic smile. ‘Well deserved too, now that the Transitex case is closed.’

  ‘May I inform my inspectors of your decision myself?’

  Terse. ‘Of course’.

  ‘Have you asked yourself, Sir, who might be trying to intimidate me, or even remove me, and why?’

  ‘Daquin, you don’t need to teach me my job.’

  Daquin is leaning against the parapet of the embankment once more. Grey sky, an intense, mellow light, like in a film. In the same spot as the other evening. Go back to that evening, relive it moment by moment. He left from here, on foot, heading for the Marais. He walked past the cathedral, crossed the bridges, inhaled the cool air of the Seine deeply then turned into the narrow back streets with their stone buildings and their promise of pleasure. At no point had he worried about whether he was being followed. So it is possible that he was. He’d walked up Rue Vieille-du-Temple. A little further on, in front of him, he had spotted Michel and begun to follow, not approaching him immediately, watching him wiggle his arse. When he’d turned into Rue du Bourg-Tibourg, Daquin had followed him, moving closer all the time. It was definitely he, Daquin, who had gone up to Michel, a few metres from that bar. No chance, therefore, that Michel had been involved in setting him up. Which one of them had suggested that bar rather than another? Neither. It was chance. It was the closest one to the spot where he had spoken to Michel. None of this is getting me anywhere.

  Standing outside the bar, which is closed at this hour of the morning, Daquin replays their movements one by one, the movements captured in the photos. Of course, it’s obvious. Those photos were taken from behind the bar, some way from where he and Michel were. The barman. Goes over the entire early part of the evening in his mind. And only the barman. A glance around: the street is almost empty. No iron shutters, a simple wooden door and yellow and brown tiles. Not very sturdy. Walks up to it, touches it with his fingertips. It’s locked. Behind the door, there’s the sound of someone moving around, probably the cleaner. Visualise the place. The bar on your left as you go in. The big, dark room with tables, curtained off booths. And to the right, the toilets, three separate little rooms, spacious, all tiled in red and white, decorated with magnificent posters of naked men. A smile as he recalls the big mirror in a wooden frame next to the toilet bowl. And in each one, a huge washbasin. Daquin gives the door a sharp, powerful shove, the bolt pulls away from the frame and the door opens. Daquin goes in and closes it behind him. The barman from the other evening is there in jeans and shirt sleeves, a black apron around his waist, mopping the floor between the tables. He straightens up. Backache, Daquin notes automatically.

  ‘What do you want? Can’t you see we’re closed?’

  A step forward. With one hand, Daquin grabs his arm and raises him, clamping his other hand over the barman’s mouth. He catches him completely off guard. Drags him into the toilets. Muffled protests. He’s probably recognised me. Flings him into one of the toilets and locks the door. Grabs his hair, jams him up against the washbasin with all his weight, turns the tap full on and shoves his head under it. Holds him there for two long minutes. The best way to stop him from yelling once the conversation gets under way. Pulls his head up out of the basin. The man’s knees are wobbly, he’s dripping wet, and half choking. Not really in a position of strength. Daquin vigorously shakes his head.

  ‘To wake you up a bit. Do you remember the photos you took on Saturday night?’

  Dunks him again. Someone’s moving around in the bar. Daquin, ears pricked, goes into the next toilet. Another long minute. The barman’s racked with spasms. A couple more minutes. Then Daquin returns. The hardest thing in these circumstances is to be patient. He lets the barman breathe. The man retches violen
tly and vomits water and the remains of his last meal into the washbasin. Daquin barks:

  ‘Next time will be even worse. Who were you working for the other evening? Quick or you go under again.’

  ‘A cop, Rostang.’ A barely audible croak.

  ‘Has he got a hold on you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Daquin lets him go. The barman slumps onto the floor, glancing at his reflection as he slides down and ends up wedged between the toilet bowl and the big mirror.

  ‘Fancy yourself, do you?’ He grabs him by the hair and twists his face round towards the mirror. ‘Take a good look at yourself.’ Without letting go, a kick, not too hard, in the lower back, as a warning. ‘Tell me about this Rostang.’

  ‘He’s a cop in Intelligence.’

  He tries to look away. Daquin forces him to face the mirror.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He knows a lot of people around here.’

  ‘What about Saturday evening?’

  ‘He followed you. He asked me to photograph you. I couldn’t say no.’

  ‘You know what you’re doing, it’s not the first time you’ve done this for him.’ The barman says nothing. ‘This time, you’d better take a few days’ holiday until all this blows over.’

  And he lets him go.

  ‘Martinot? Hello, Daquin here. Do me a favour. You know everyone. A colleague of yours in Intelligence, a guy called Rostang, does the name mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not much. There’s always been something odd about him, though there have never been any specific complaints about him. Ex Crime Squad apparently. In 1986, he was attached directly to the Ministry of the Interior.’

  ‘Didn’t he return in ’88?’

  ‘No.’ Laughs. ‘He must have worked miracles, he was moved to the Élysée.’

  ‘Martinot, I owe you one. Any time.’

  An Élysée usher leads Daquin through a maze of corridors to a small apartment located on the corner of Avenue Matignon for the use of the advisor on duty. Deluc, informed of his arrival by security, is waiting for him on the threshold. Daquin sums him up at a glance. Tall, slim, rigid, very rigid, glasses with delicate frames, thin almost non-existent lips, and on his face, a permanent sort of ironic smile. Remember, an uptight pervert. He stares lengthily at Daquin. Is he trying to find a resemblance to the photos? Not just that… An unhealthy curiosity. So here he is, the cop who goes cruising in gay bars… Daquin puts on a suave, solid and impassive front.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to come here. I didn’t want to delay meeting you.’

  More than friendly, almost charming. Why? He doesn’t need to be.

  Deluc takes his elbow and stands aside to let him into the apartment. Small, antique furniture, low ceilings, comfortable, intimate. A drawing room, dining room, the table is laid for two. A manservant, white jacket, black bow tie, perfectly trained without being unctuous, serves aperitifs. Champagne for Daquin, whisky for Deluc.

  ‘I waited until you’d finished your investigation. Brilliantly, so your director tells me. You have completely smashed a cocaine trafficking ring…’

  Completely… Is that his sense of humour?

  The phone rings. Deluc replies, takes notes, makes a phone call, returns. Busy, important. He’s showing off.

  ‘Let us eat. A simple meal, I hope you won’t hold it against me.’

  The manservant again. Attentive, discreet service. Warm oysters washed down with a Coulée de Serrant.

  ‘I waited for this case to be closed so that my contacting you would not be misinterpreted. I wanted to thank you personally for the way you acted concerning my son.’ Daquin raises his eyebrows. ‘The Superintendent of the 16th arrondissement informed me what happened on that unfortunate occasion. I’m grateful to you for sparing him the whole judicial process. You can now count on my support if you need it.’

  So this is what it’s about. Not very subtle. Does he think I’m finished and not capable of tracing things back to him? More likely, he simply doesn’t give a damn. He thinks he’s in a position of strength. Too sure of his power, this guy. Another phone call, fax, it’s Georges, for François. Deluc casually leaves the fax lying on the table, next to Daquin’s plate, while he calls the general secretary of the Élysée. He comes back to the table, puffed up, happy. Throughout this dinner at the Élysée, Deluc was putting on a performance, it was rather pathetic. This guy, take away his office and his chauffeur-driven car, and he’s lost.

  After the oysters, rack of lamb, baby vegetables, accompanied by a Château-Carbonnieux 1983. That at least, absolutely perfect. The meat, impeccably cooked, a masterpiece. In all, with Deluc’s play-acting, a memorable meal.

  Deluc in a confidential tone:

  ‘The situation could have been even more embarrassing for me as I’m part of a working party to crack down on drugs that has just been set up here at the Élysée and which reports directly to the President. You know that the battle against drug trafficking is one of the President’s priorities?’ Daquin nods. ‘A battle for civilisation that must be won…’

  Overwhelmed by a flood of violent images and feelings, Daquin closes his eyes for a second. A battle for civilisation… Opens his eyes again. Careful, don’t lose track.

  ‘In short, our team is tasked with drawing up a coherent policy and taking action without getting bogged down in red tape like the interministerial mission, or getting caught up in interdepartmental squabbles either. The people are sick and tired of drug-related crime, and we need to come up with some effective solutions. This team includes some of the President’s inner circle, and a few men on the ground. At our last meeting, yesterday afternoon,’ a pause, ‘yes, that’s right, Wednesday afternoon, I mentioned your name. The door is open to you, Superintendent Daquin.’

  Daquin smiles. So this is the carrot.

  ‘You do me a great honour.’ A hint of irony. ‘If we’re talking about territory, I’m afraid that I might not be suited to that of the Élysée.’

  Deluc’s expression suddenly becomes grim. End of the charm offensive?

  Cheese. No, thank you, I’ll keep to this wine. And a baked Alaska. Haven’t had one of these for years. Memories, memories. At the Grill Bar of the Ritz, with Lenglet, and a few others. With champagne. And a strong coffee.

  ‘Let’s have coffee in the drawing room. Brandy?’

  Two brandies. He’s not certain that Deluc is used to drinking so much, or, more likely, the part he’s playing has gone to his head. He’s just slightly losing control.

  ‘The chief of the Drugs Squad told me that your investigation took you to Pama’s doors. A member of Jubelin’s staff was apparently somewhat involved in drug trafficking before being murdered.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Is it news to you if I tell you that Madame Renouard, whom I know well in another context, is a regular cocaine user?’

  ‘No, you’re not telling me anything I didn’t know.’

  In a confidential tone. ‘I myself am a Pama shareholder.’ Laugh. ‘A small shareholder, of course. I don’t have the means… I bought some shares because I believe in the reconciliation between the socialists and private enterprise and the free market, after years of a mutual lack of understanding. It was a political gesture…’ Deluc seeks a sign of understanding, which is not forthcoming. Daquin sips his brandy, staring at his glass.

  ‘Jubelin has succeeded in creating an active and profitable private company in a field dominated by huge, nationalised state-run machines, and suddenly he has revived the entire sector and paved the way for the whole industry to break into new international markets. He has enterprise in spades. And enterprise is what we need nowadays. I consider him as a hero of the ’80s. It would be a pity if this firm’s reputation were to be damaged by the behaviour of a couple of its senior managers…’

  ‘On that point, you may rest assured. I don’t think that’s likely to happen.’

  Daquin has finished his brandy. Stretches his legs with a sigh of satisfaction. Perro
t must be extremely important for Deluc not to say a word about him.

  ‘You’re very quiet, Superintendent.’

  ‘Because I don’t have very much to say. But I’m listening to every word you say.’

  Friday 27 October 1989

  Daquin has come in to work very early on the diskette found at Annick’s place. Frankfurt stock exchange, Tuesday 19 September 1989, fluctuations in A.A. Bayern’s share values. Interesting, the company for which Pama has just made a takeover bid. Pass this on to Lavorel, if… But first of all, carefully plan how he’s going to tell his inspectors that he’s been told to go on leave. Romero and Lavorel. A slice of his life. At this precise moment, the most important. He’s playing for high stakes.

  The inspectors arrive. Daquin points to the board.

  ‘I received these yesterday morning, sent anonymously.’ Le Dem turns pink and stares at the floor. Daquin annoyed. ‘I did chat up this guy in a bar in the Marais a few days ago. These photos aren’t rigged. You can look at them, Le Dem. Of course, I didn’t know who he was until I found myself staring at his corpse, last Wednesday. This guy is Michel Nolant.’ Romero recalls Daquin’s shattered look in the ransacked bedroom. ‘Naturally, the same evening I informed Inspector Bourdier who’s in charge of the investigation.’ A pause. ‘Just as well. And I think I’m impervious to this kind of blackmail because I’ve always been open about my taste for boys. But that’s not all. First of all, the director of the Drugs Squad received the same photos at the same time. And he’s decided to send me off on leave, pending the results of an internal inquiry. I’m only here today because he gave me permission to inform you myself of his decision.’

  Romero and Lavorel exchange glances.

  ‘We resign.’

  ‘Don’t get carried away. I’m not sure what to do myself.’

  ‘You know very well that you can’t go off on holiday. Not after all this.’ Romero points to the photos. No need to spell it out.

  ‘It’s true that if I agree, I’m finished. But the enemy is a big fish. I think that a certain Deluc is behind this intimidation effort…’