Dead Horsemeat

by Dominique Manotti

  ‘Yes.’ Smug. ‘I’ve got a cab rental business that’s doing well. What do you want of me, exactly, other than to swap childhood memories?’

  ‘I’m working on a cocaine smuggling and murder case, and the trail leads here, to the racetrack.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with me?’

  ‘Nothing, I think. But you know this place inside out, and you can help me find my way around.’

  ‘I’m going to be straight with you: don’t count on it. People in racing circles hate blabbermouths, and a gambler can’t afford to get burned.’

  ‘I’m going to be just as straight. You have no choice, Béarn. Your business may be going well, but the bulk of your income comes from somewhere else. You and a retired superintendent set up a charity for the families of police officers who’ve died in the course of duty. You collect funds from firms and you give them windscreen stickers so they are exempt from parking tickets. Much appreciated. And you give the charity ten per cent of what you collect, by doctoring the cheques. I have proof.’ They attack the lobster in silence. ‘You see,’ Romero clenches his fist level with Béarn’s neck, ‘I’ve put a noose on you.’ He squeezes his fist. ‘I can tighten it. It depends what you give me.’

  Cheese. Dessert. All the tables are now occupied.

  ‘Ask away. I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Cocaine. Are people snorting the stuff here?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. The drivers run on red wine and Calvados. That’s the tradition in French harness racing. Not like the steeplechasing scene.’

  The horses for the first race come onto the track. Béarn becomes absorbed in Paris Turf. The sulkies ride backwards and forwards past the stand, at a slow pace, speeding up from time to time. The horses fly. Béarn picks up the telephone, presses a key marked ‘Bets’, gives his orders for the first race, in a language Romero doesn’t really understand.

  ‘The members’ hotline,’ explains Béarn. ‘For regulars like me. I place my bets over the phone and settle my account once a fortnight, or once a month.’ Still showing off, but his heart isn’t in it any more.

  The horses are at the starting line and they’re off. The commentator’s voice tirelessly drones the numbers of the leading horses. The tension in the room is palpable, but restrained. Romero remembers a previous visit to the racecourse, many years ago, when he was in the stands down below. The excitement was infectious, you couldn’t help being caught up in it. Here, when the horses launch into the last lap, some of the punters jump to their feet, there’s a bit of shouting, but most of them remain very calm. The numbers of the winning horses go up. Béarn sits down again.

  ‘I’ve been jinxed for the last week. Haven’t had a single winner.’

  Romero continues his questioning.

  ‘What about drugs in a wider sense?’

  ‘The horses, of course, need a bit of “help” so to speak. You see the effort that’s required of them… but that’s got nothing to do with coke.’

  ‘Who provides this “help”?’

  ‘The owners, the trainers…’

  ‘Keep that up and I tighten the noose a fraction.’

  Béarn drinks the coffee the waiter has just brought. He lowers his voice.

  ‘Look up there, next to the bar, in the armchair on the left. Pierre Aubert, a retired vet. He’s reputed to be able to get an old nag to win. He was struck off after running into a spot of bother. But owners still consult him and he continues to supervise the condition of a number of horses. During race meetings, you find him in the stables or here, in the bar.’

  Romero glances absent-mindedly at the horses coming onto the track for the second race. Tremor of excitement: there’s a woman driver.

  ‘Really? It’s unusual, check in the bible.’

  And Béarn proffers Paris Turf.

  ‘Number 15. That’s the one. An Englishwoman.’

  ‘How can you recognise a woman under a helmet from such a distance?’

  ‘The way she sits on the sulky, the way she holds her back, the set of her hips. There’s no mistaking it. You recognise mares from the way they trot, don’t you? I’m going to bet on number 15.’

  ‘That’s stupid. As far as I know, no woman has ever won at Vincennes.’

  ‘All the more reason. You should do likewise. Things couldn’t be any worse for you.’

  Romero rises and goes over to buy his ticket from the window next to the bar. Two people ahead of him. Which gives him the time to check out Pierre Aubert. A ten-franc ticket, number 15 to win. It’s 27 to 1.

  The horses are ready, the starting signal is given… number 15 gets off to a good start… 15 is holding back, tucked into the main bunch… On the last bend, 15 pulls away and moves to the outside… It enters the last lap in third place. Once in the middle of the track, the driver goes hell for leather, releasing the horse’s mufflers and the animal takes off, leaving the other competitors behind. As if they had stopped.

  Romero laughs. Béarn, deep in gloom, not a single winner, once again, curses, with a tinge of respect for the winning gambler.

  ‘Let’s get back to business. There must be some heavies around on a racecourse like this!’

  ‘Of course. Security guards at all the entrances, outside the stables, in the car parks.’

  Romero gets to his feet. ‘As you please…’

  ‘Sit down. Here, with one phone call, vetted clients can bet huge sums on the races at Vincennes, but also up there.’ He nods towards the telephone booths by the bar. ‘At the bookies in London, you can imagine there are people who sometimes forget to pay. The client vetting department employs people whose job is recover the money. I’m asking you to be very discreet. I like this place, I couldn’t live without it.’

  ‘I have no reason to deprive you of it.’

  ‘There are four of them. Two are always on duty. They’re at the bar right now.’ Romero flashes a look in their direction. Two tall, black-haired guys in dark suits. They’re real thugs. That’s what they’re paid for. To scare people.

  Romero gets up.

  ‘Thank you Béarn. For the invitation, the meal, the company. I’m off, I don’t want to jinx you any more.’

  Romero goes up to the window to collect his winnings. Has a drink at the bar, next to the two thugs. They’re deep in an argument with the vet about the chances of a horse in the next race. He’s on familiar terms with them. As Romero picks up his change, he wonders if there’s a way of chatting up the woman driver.

  Sunday 1 October 1989

  Daquin wakes slowly, there’s no hurry, opens one eye, half asleep, then the other. Reaches over with one arm. Alone in the bed. Strains to listen, the sound of someone moving around downstairs. From the light filtering through the shutters, it must be a fine day. All the better, because this afternoon, the rugby season re-opens after the summer break. He stretches languorously. In a few hours, he’ll be meeting up with his team-mates from last year, the locker-room banter, and put on shirt number 8. Then, first day of training, relaxed. Warming up on the pitch, a few passes, the first clashes. All his muscles beginning to work. The renewed pleasure of physical contact, the scrums, suddenly breaking away from the pack, violent dashes with the taste of blood in his mouth. And then, the locker room again, the warmth and intimacy of the showers, the dull aches and the sharp pains. The closeness above all. Enough to make him happy for a good while. Daquin rolls over in bed. This year, a new twinge of anxiety: and supposing, this afternoon, when the moment comes to dive into the scrum, supposing I’m afraid? Too old perhaps for this game? Don’t want to have to give up, not now.

  Daquin gets up, slips on a silk dressing gown and goes downstairs. Rudi, wearing a long, dark red Indian shirt, his immaculate blond lock over the corner of his right eye, is sitting on the sofa reading an Ismail Kadare novel that had been lying on the coffee table. I rather like him reading my books. Daquin goes behind the counter. Breakfast is all laid out on a tray: the coffee pot, two cups, a plate of bread drizzled with olive
oil and tomatoes. Nice. He takes the tray, places it on the coffee table, kneels in front of Rudi, opens his shirt which is buttoned up to the neck, kisses his very pale pink left nipple, slowly draws the palm of his hand over his hairless, sculpted chest. Rudi distant, no reaction. He carefully does up the shirt again, sits down on the sofa, pours two cups of coffee and attacks the bread and tomatoes.

  ‘Your friends from the security service came to see me the day before yesterday.’ Daquin carries on eating. ‘They know very well that I was in prison in the GDR, and that I still have contacts with the opposition there.’

  Daquin smiles.

  ‘It wasn’t me who told them.’

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t. They wanted to know why I’m living in France, and not in the GDR. I didn’t tell them about you.’ A silence. ‘Your president’s planning an official visit to the GDR in November and I’ve been told in no uncertain terms to behave myself until then.’

  ‘That’s not such a long time.’

  ‘You have no idea what’s going on back home. The mass exodus to West Germany is continuing, completely out of control. Every Monday evening, the Neues Forum organises a street demonstration in Leipzig, and the police turn a blind eye…’

  ‘Yes, and Honecker’s going to fall ill and a successor will be found.’

  Rudi gets up, clearly annoyed. Beautiful legs under the Indian shirt. He goes behind the counter and makes some more coffee.

  ‘Theo, I’m going to Berlin. I want to breathe the air of my own country, even if it is on the other side of the Wall. And in some way be part of…’ he falters for a moment, ‘… the revolution that’s happening there.’

  Daquin stretches out on the sofa. An affair that began with the dizzying desire for a perfect body, that helped me cope with Lenglet’s illness and to keep my head in the AIDS years. And now, the elegance of invoking the great tide of history to end a relationship entrenched in little daily pleasures and mutual respect, in other words, boredom. Like an ex-voto: Eternal gratitude.

  ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Come on then, quickly, let’s get dressed. I’ll take you for your last decent meal. I’ve got a meeting at three o’clock.’

  Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday 2, 3, 4 October 1989

  Check out the leads identified by Romero at the racetrack. Not difficult to track down the heavies from the debt recovery department who so terrified Béarn. Four Yugoslav cousins, the Dragoviches, who live together in a house in Nogent, run by a little old lady dressed in black, also Yugoslav, who acts as their cook, cleaner and nanny. Berry followed them on an intimidation and recovery operation. They don’t seem inclined to metaphysical reflection and are confident that they are within their rights. So they don’t take any special precautions, and don’t watch their backs. They are sufficiently threatening not to have to resort to violence. On two occasions, they used the Mercedes belonging to the operating company without permission. They’ve probably had a set of keys copied. They bank at the Société Générale in Nogent. They have four individual accounts and a joint account, which they pay cash into fairly regularly. The last payment, of 50,000 francs, was made the day after the farrier’s death.

  ‘Leave them alone,’ said Daquin. ‘They’re highly suspect, but there’s no point going any further until we have some idea of who their boss is. And we know where to find them when we need them.

  The vet is a trickier customer. First of all, he’s hard to trail. He has a Golf GTI, drives fast and travels around a lot. Lavorel, Amelot and Berry, on duty round the clock with three cars linked by radio, managed to tail him for three days. Luxury apartment in Avenue Foch (in the car park, there’s a Porsche, a Renault and a powerful motorbike, as well as the Golf GTI), a very pretty wife at least ten years younger than him, and two children, a girl and a boy, aged around five and seven.

  He shuttles between a pharmaceuticals lab in Rouen, a stud farm near Lisieux, and a stables in Chantilly where he gives consultations. Breeders come from all over the region to show him their horses. He looks, examines, advises, hands out phials and various products (always unlabelled) and stuffs 500-franc notes folded in four into the breast pocket of his tartan lumberjack shirt, which he wears outside his jeans. He also visits the Vincennes racetrack stables, more folded notes, and finishes off the afternoon hanging out in the bar of the panoramic restaurant. Lavorel’s team couldn’t follow him there. And then at eight o’clock this morning, this hangar, in Rungis, not far from the big meat market. Sheet metal façade, locked. On one side, an office has been installed with a window and door to the outside. Across the whole width of the hangar, there’s a sign: Transitex, meat import and export. Through the window, you can see a young woman bustling around, phoning, writing, filing. No sign of the vet. Around eleven thirty, a man parks his car outside the office, goes in and comes out half an hour later at the wheel of a refrigerated meat lorry. The vet comes out of the office shortly afterwards, gets back into his car and hares back to Paris. It is half past twelve.’

  ‘Let’s break off and see what the chief says,’ decides Lavorel.

  ‘What can a super-rich vet, who is on first-name terms with a bunch of hit men suspected of killing a drug trafficker, possibly be doing for a whole morning in a sleepy meat import-export company?’

  ‘We’ll tap Transitex’s phones, no problem. As far as Aubert’s personal residence is concerned, we’ll have to wait until we’ve got a bit more to go on. As for the rest, Lavorel, you are just the man to answer your own question.’

  Tuesday 3 October 1989

  Eight horses to feed, muck out, groom and look after. Le Dem, in a check shirt, linen trousers and heavy shoes sets to work at six thirty in the morning. The best moment of the day. It’s cool, the horses are calm, the work organised, methodical, no panics or arguments yet, and it’s not too tiring.

  At eight o’clock, Thirard comes to the outdoor school, a few metres away from Le Dem’s loose boxes, with two breeders who show him some horses. Gimlet eyes, always on the alert, he watches a professional rider put the horses through their paces, at a walk, a trot and a canter, then taking the low jumps, without saying a word. Out of around a dozen horses, only one interests him, a slightly heavy iron grey, and he tries it on a higher jump. A fine performance. Thirard invites the breeders into the house to talk business over a bottle of wine.

  At eleven o’clock, stable inspection. Thirard doesn’t have a stables manager, he keeps an eye on everything himself, examines every stall and every horse with the groom in charge of it, runs a hand the wrong way over the croup to check it is clean, inspects the fetlocks and dispenses criticism and advice with the same authority he displays in the saddle. He is happy to listen to the groom’s comments on the condition of this horse or that, and he is attentive to the reactions of his mounts, as long as they obey him. Nobody argues with Thirard’s opinions or orders. Le Dem watches him at it. Ten years ago, if I could have really learned the profession properly, would I have ended up in the police? Almost certainly not. Better change the subject.

  On reaching Le Dem’s stalls, Thirard relaxes a little. After the inspection, the ghost of a smile, then:

  ‘This afternoon, saddle up this horse for me and bring him to the small indoor school. I’ll get him to jump.’

  On the dot of three, Le Dem leads a big brown bay to the small school, concealed among the trees. Thirard is already there, waiting for him. It’s the first time he’s entered the school, which is completely closed off with no windows. Only one skylight in the roof lets in the daylight. In a box next to the jumps are bandages and a bottle of turpentine. He rubs the horse’s legs. There’s a strong smell. Le Dem coughs.

  ‘Not used to the smell?’ laughs Thirard.

  Le Dem stammers, then carefully bandages the horse’s legs.

  ‘Get the whip and I’ll set the bars.’

  First of all the horse is allowed to canter freely around the ring a couple of times to loosen up. Then Le Dem drives
it with the whip towards the hurdle, a few easy jumps. Thirard watches.

  ‘He’s a bit lazy with his forelegs. You have to make him pick them up.’

  He constructs a much bigger jump with sharp black spikes on the top bar, then goes back to the centre of the school, holding a remote control. When the horse jumps, Thirard presses the button and the top bar is pushed up by two springs so that the spikes hit the horse’s front legs. The turpentine heightens the pain. Several jumps, the whip is needed more and more frequently.

  ‘Good, now the back legs twice, and that will be enough… Now, let’s see the result.’

  The bars are raised to the maximum height, without the spiked bar and without the remote control. A normal hurdle. Huge, thinks Le Dem.

  ‘Keep up with the whip,’ says Thirard. ‘Don’t miss him.’

  The horse soars, legs folded to avoid the anticipated pain, its style impeccable. Perfect. They lower the bars, a couple of easy jumps without restraint. Thirard stops the horse which is coated in froth, its legs trembling.

  ‘Hose his legs thoroughly and put cream on to soothe them.’ Three or four little pats on the neck. ‘A good horse. Groom him well, he’s being put up for sale tomorrow and should do well.’

  When Annick opens her front door, accompanied by Jubelin, Deluc is already there. He comes out of the kitchen, with his perpetual constipated half-smile.

  ‘I got here a little early and I was chatting to your butler…’

  He pauses ironically before the word ‘butler’, for emphasis. Annick, amused, (my relationship with Michel irritates him) walks over to the sofa and serves aperitifs. Deluc remains on his feet, leaning against the chimney breast.

  ‘… we exchange a few thoughts on Nicolas’s murder. Rather surprising, isn’t it?’ Silence. ‘What are you going to do now, darling, who’s going to feed your little habit?’ Then, abruptly changing subject, he turns to Jubelin. ‘Congratulations on the successful takeover bid for A.A. Bayern.’ Annick glances briefly at Deluc. Was he in on it too? ‘By the way, did Perrot talk to you about his luxury hotel project in Chantilly?’