‘Hold on, I keep my nose clean and I have a family. With all they say about drug dealers…’
‘There’s no risk attached to the offer I’m making you. You’re simply going to make your delivery as though nothing had happened.’
‘And then?’
‘And then you’ll drive the lorry to a police garage at an address we give you, and you’ll stay there until tomorrow morning. That’s all.’
‘Looks like I don’t have any choice.’
‘I’m fixing a microphone to the inside of your overalls. While you’re making your delivery, we’ll be listening to everything, and we won’t be far away. So no funny business. Don’t try and switch it off, either. If there’s the slightest break in communications, you’re going straight to jail, and for several years. If everything goes smoothly, tomorrow you go home and you’ll never hear from us again.’
Half an hour later, the carefully reconstituted cases of offal are delivered to Thirard by a nervous, mumbling driver, to whom nobody pays the slightest attention. Daquin and his inspectors concealed in the forest a few hundred metres away check the presence of the bugs on their control monitors. Phone call to the Drugs Squad. Phase one accomplished. Embark on phase two.
Night of Thursday 19 October 1989
At 10 p.m., the bugged horse lorry leaves Thirard’s stable. Romero, Daquin and Le Dem, who has come to join them after work, follow it at a distance as it heads for Paris. Lavorel stays in the vicinity of Thirard’s place, and the new boys return to HQ.
The lorry turns onto the Paris ring road at Porte de la Chapelle. Takes the exit for the motorway to the south. Two Drugs Squad cars join the one being driven by Romero. They drive in convoy, keeping a good distance. Speed between ninety and a hundred kilometres an hour, two men in the lorry, nothing to report.
At thirty-five minutes past midnight, the lorry turns into a service station, heading for the petrol pumps. Now’s the moment. Bullet-proof vests, guns at the ready. This is it, thinks Le Dem, it’s war. I can’t do this. I’m scared, but it’s exciting, for sure. One of the Drugs Squad cars drives past the service station and positions itself so as to block off the exit onto the motorway. The other two cars drive slowly onto the forecourt. The lorry pulls up by a diesel pump, a man gets down and starts filling up. Romero draws up alongside the lorry on the other side of the pump. The third car screeches to a halt under the nose of the lorry, blocking its path. It’s the signal. All the inspectors leap out brandishing their guns. Romero points his gun at the man standing by the pump, Daquin just has time to open the passenger door and fling the man to the ground, when a third man whom nobody had spotted – he’d probably been sleeping in the back – begins spraying the cops’ cars with a submachine gun in one hand, while with the other he wrenches the gears into reverse and the lorry roars off with a screech of tyres. The cops shoot at the lorry, causing it to sway. The horses are whinnying and kicking against the sides, the lorry accelerates, leaving behind it rivulets of blood on the road. Diesel gushes from the blasted pump, spreads on the asphalt, stinking, slippery. And flammable. Total bedlam. Vehicles damaged, two cops wounded, one of the crooks lying on the ground, the other takes to his heels. The lorry gathers speed and – instinct or quick thinking – reverses back up the slip road instead of heading for the exit. Daquin lets out a yell and rushes after the fugitive. A shadow running, too far away. He pulls out his gun from deep in his jacket pocket. Just the time to think one day this thing’s going to go off in my face, and he shoots. The shadow vaults the fence and disappears. Daquin spots a dark stain on the asphalt, feels it with his fingertips, it’s wet and sticky, sniffs. Fresh blood. A piece of luck, he’s wounded, definitely not by me. Walks up to the fence, which is sagging a little. On the other side, a ploughed field. He goes back to the service station. Le Dem drags the wounded men out of range of the diesel jet. The third team pursues the lorry on the motorway, shooting at the tyres and bursting two. The lorry swerves and crashes into the central reservation. Barely slowing down, the cars and HGVs weave around them to avoid the shooting and the accident. In the service station, the drivers who’ve stopped to refuel see the bullet-riddled cars, two injured men and another in handcuffs lying on the ground, stare round-eyed and drive off without pausing. The service station manager has switched off all the lights.
‘Romero, take someone with you and bring me back the third man, dead or alive. I’d rather have him alive, but dead will do. That way, the field over there.’
A lengthy and thorough search of the ploughed field. Hard work advancing over the furrows, and it is a very dark night, far from the lights of the capital. Cautious approach towards a dark mass slumped in a hollow. The man has lost consciousness.
When the two cops return carrying the injured man like a sack, they find the service station looking like the aftermath of an urban war. Police cars and fire engines everywhere, blue lights revolving ominously. The damaged lorry has been towed back to the service station forecourt by a breakdown truck. The fire-fighters have stemmed the diesel leak and are pouring mountains of sand around the pumps. The fumes are suffocating. The two injured cops and Romero’s prisoner are driven off in an ambulance and the two other prisoners locked in an armoured van with barred windows. Four horses have been herded together on a square patch of grass a little way away, and two dead horses are lying in a pool of blood a little to one side.
‘They were very badly injured, one had the jugular severed and the other, two broken legs. I put them out of their misery,’ says Le Dem.
‘Don’t apologise,’ says Daquin. ‘As long as you haven’t finished off our colleagues…’ Romero gives a nervous laugh. And now, we have to find the cocaine. By 5 a.m. at the latest. We’ve got three hours left.’
The remaining Drugs Squad cops start pulling the lorry apart. Engine, wheels, petrol tank, seats, chassis, the lining of the bodywork. Nothing. They become increasingly edgy. The receiving device has been destroyed by bullets, but when the lorry turned into the service station, the cocaine was still on board. Or at least the bugs were. A shudder of anxiety.
Le Dem, standing aloof, gazes at the bodies of the horses.
‘Get up off your ass Le Dem and come and help us.’
He appears not to hear but leans over the croup of one of the dead horses and lifts its tail.
‘This is where the coke is.’ Daquin and Romero come over. ‘Look, it’s a mare. Her vulva’s been sewn up.’
Le Dem crouches down, takes his Opinel knife out of his pocket, cuts the thread, thrusts his arm into the mare’s vagina up to his shoulder and brings out a blood-streaked plastic sachet full of compressed powder. There is a huge sense of relief. Daquin sits down on a kerb. Romero gives the bloodstained Le Dem a hug.
‘What do you feel like, a butcher or a midwife?’
Then he goes over to a car phone, forcing himself to speak calmly. It is twenty past four. Lavorel’s on the other end.
‘It’s over. We’ve got the goods and the delivery men.’
‘Can we launch phase three?’
‘We can.’
At 6 a.m., a team from the Drugs Squad picks the lock of the empty Transitex office and swarms in. Another arrests the Dragovich cousins and carries out a search of the racecourse, and a third quietly picks up the vet from his home.
At the same time, a young investigating magistrate accompanied by Lavorel and ten men as backup rings the bell of Thirard’s house, a traditional-style stone farmhouse, away from the stables. After a while, Thirard comes down.
‘Open up. Police.’
Thirard opens the door. He must have been in the middle of getting dressed. He’s wearing jodhpurs, T-shirt and a smoking jacket. Lavorel stares at him intrigued. Calm, unperturbed, a totally expressionless face. The man Le Dem admires. Thirard checks their search warrant, then politely stands aside to allow the magistrate and police officers inside.
The search progresses without incident and without yielding anything of interest. Thirard lives alone
in a comfortable house whose rustic style has been fairly well preserved, but without much personality. Nothing to report. Lavorel’s bored.
Up to the office, which is in the converted attic. A huge bay dormer window has been put in the roof, and in front of it, stretching the entire length of the room, is a table. When he works there, Thirard has an unrestricted view of his stables. On the table is a computer, diskette boxes, and underneath, columns of drawers. Obsessive tidiness, not a scrap of paper or a pen lying around, not a speck of dust. While Lavorel opens drawers, Thirard sits down in a fauve leather armchair in a corner, and doesn’t say a word. He waits, without impatience, and seems barely interested. Lavorel soon finds the records of his horse dealings. Kept with extraordinary meticulousness. Names of the horses, identification numbers, amounts, names of buyers consortia and vendors. Bank statements showing commissions paid and transfers, most of them to banks in Luxembourg. Same for the administration of his stables. Salaries, social security contributions, the horses’ upkeep, VAT calculations. Everything seems to be accounted for down to the last cent. There are also the insurance policies for the horses, with Pama, and the payments of the premiums. They all died one or two months before their insurance policy expired, what organisation… and the compensation paid out by Pama. Watertight in the event of a tax inspection, and Thirard above suspicion. As long as one is unaware that part of his horse dealing is quite purely and simply fictitious. A glance at Thirard. Touching, in a way, this obsessive neatness and his determination to be above board. What would Le Dem say? Trying to convince himself that Thirard is truly, and solely, a major horse dealer? The magistrate orders some of the files to be taken away in boxes.
Lavorel carries on searching. Standing against the back wall is a big, heavy iron cupboard with a sophisticated lock system.
‘It’s open,’ says Thirard.
So it is. At the back are five empty post sacks. And a sixth, tied up with a simple piece of string, which Lavorel undoes: stuffed with banknotes, small denominations of lire and dollars. On the outward journey, cocaine, on the return, money to launder. Put it through the bureaux de change leaving no evidence, then the half-laundered cash is paid into the various bank accounts without any difficulty. In this business, aren’t the majority of payments in cash? It will be harder to establish whether some of the cash has stayed in France, and what it has been used for, or whether everything has gone back to the Italian partners. Need to dig further. Thirard hasn’t moved a muscle. The sack of notes and the empty bags join the accounts files in the boxes to be taken away.
Friday 20 October 1989
There’s a buzz of excitement at the Drugs Squad headquarters. The vet, Thirard and the Dragovich cousins have been taken into different offices. Daquin, Romero and Le Dem, reeking of diesel, mud and blood have gone to get changed. On their return, council of war in Daquin’s office.
‘Let’s try to separate out the problems and define our objectives. First of all, the Italian ramifications. The three men stopped driving the horse lorry are known to the Milan police: some departments are keeping them under surveillance while others are protecting them. For the time being, we’ll hold them. But without any hope of getting them to talk. We have nothing to bargain with. And it’s a waste of energy and time trying to beat anything out of them. I’m absolutely convinced that Ballestrino is in this up to his ears. But I don’t know what our Italian friends are going to decide.’ A pause. ‘Milan, capital of the north. The reputations of a fair sprinkling of Italy’s financial elite are likely to be tarnished. Fancy a trip to Italy, Lavorel?’
‘If you don’t mind, chief, I think I’ve got plenty to keep me busy here.’
‘Here. In Paris.’ Groan. ‘Too true. It’s a bit soon to start crowing, we’ve still got a long way to go. At least we now have a proper motive for the Moulin and Berger’s murders. They must have got wind of the Italian trafficking connection. And it’s very likely that the hit men who murdered them came from abroad and have probably already gone back. Almost impossible to prove.’ A pause. ‘Barring a miracle, we can hardly expect Aubert or Thirard to grass on their bosses. Too dangerous for them. Depressed?’
‘Not yet.’ Romero smiles. ‘Go on chief, you’re on great form.’
‘So initially, we’re going not going to aim too high. We’ll see about Perrot and Pama later. Lavorel and Le Dem, you handle Thirard. Do what you can. The new boys can take care of the Dragoviches. Question them separately, make up any old excuse to justify their arrest, and whatever you do, don’t mention Rouma’s murder. I only want to know how they operate, how they organise their teams, and about their movements over the last month. With a bit of luck, one of them will be in the clear the day of the murder, and that will help us focus. Romero and I will deal with the vet.’
Thirard is sitting in a chair, his elbows on a table, in a tiny, windowless office, impeccably elegant as always and apparently unruffled. When Le Dem enters the room, slightly ill-at-ease, and comes and sits down opposite him, Thirard’s eyes flicker.
‘How did the cops manage to recruit such an excellent groom?
Le Dem smiles. ‘I still do have a grandfather who bred draught horses.’ A silence. ‘But in my neck of the woods, it’s hard to find work.’ Another silence. ‘My chief wants you to take the rap.’
‘I think he’ll succeed.’
‘Sure. Unless I can help you.’
‘Listen, Le Dem. My father was a jockey. The first time a trainer asked him to restrain his horse, he refused, and the next day he had a broken leg. After that, he did as he was told. Three years later, he lost his licence, because he’d taken part in a race that had been rigged. And he ended up broke, as stables manager for the trainer who’d fixed the race. I made the decision to get out of the racing world, to get away from the thugs. I easily found people to lend me money to get started, and I found out a little later, when one of my horses had all four legs broken in transit, that they were friends of friends of my father’s. The day you turned up at my place, one of my stables had just burned down. Very delicate things, stables.’ (Le Dem had a flashback of Thirard’s grim face and heavy green Wellington boots pacing among the charred ruins. I so wish I could believe him…) ‘Your chief can do what he likes, but don’t expect me to cooperate, whatever happens.’
Romero takes down Aubert’s particulars…
‘Profession?’
‘Veterinary surgeon.’
‘Add “struck off”,’ says Daquin. ‘A veterinary surgeon who’s been struck off. Which is a pity. I’ve read your book on horse doping, it’s a clever approach.’
Embittered smile, silence. A bit cack-handed, this superintendent. Not exactly subtle. So much the better for me.
Aubert’s too sure of himself. He’s within my grasp. End of the observation phase. Now, the chase is really on.
Aubert has a ready-made story. He went to Medellín two years ago on behalf of a French owner who wanted to import Colombian horses to set up a breeding operation in France. He was entertained by Don Fabio Ochoa himself, at his splendid stud farm. They signed a deal, and he came back with two mares and a stallion… and some contacts with the sons who invited him to set up a business, through one of their right-hand men, a certain Martínez, who’s now gone back to Colombia…
A well-honed story, perhaps even partially true. Let it go.
‘I thought the Ochoa family never worked with cocaine addicts.’
He raises an eyebrow.
‘I’m not.’
Daquin gives him a sharp look. ‘I thought the issue came up when you were struck off.’
‘What if it did.’ Smile. ‘OK, I do occasionally snort. Do you think that makes my case worse?’
‘Probably not. We’ll come back to that later. Go on.’
Transitex, a detailed description of the operations, exoneration of the secretary and drivers… Daquin doesn’t learn anything new.
‘What about Thirard?’
‘I don’t know him. Martínez gave
me the address I was to deliver to, and I didn’t attempt to break the confidentiality.’
‘But Thirard knows you. Let’s go back to Transitex. What did you do in the lab?’
‘I identified the boxes of offal and the carcases in which the powder was hidden, sometimes the mark had been obliterated. Then I supervised the loading into the lorry, and the documents. To make sure nothing went astray.’
‘Of course. So you didn’t touch the goods?’ Silence. ‘How come we found traces of powder in your lab this morning?’
‘When the packaging’s damaged, it has to be re-done.’
‘And then for a coke user there’s a strong temptation to dip into the goods.’
‘I’m not suicidal.’
‘Probably not, but perhaps you’re too sure of yourself. As long as you shield your partners, as you’re doing right now, everything’s fine. They’ll hire you a lawyer, look after your family, put your money in a safe place. Four or five years inside, and then you’re free. But if they find out you’ve siphoned off some of the goods for your own use, how do you think they’ll react?’
‘Nobody will believe a word of what is obviously a police fabrication.’
Berry knocks at the door, enters and places a sheet of paper in front of Romero. The Dragoviches always work in pairs. Georges with Milon, and Boromir with Pierre. On the Monday of the murder, Boromir went to the dentist’s in the morning.
‘The Dragoviches have talked,’ announces Romero, pushing the paper under Daquin’s nose. ‘They’ve confessed to Rouma’s murder.’
‘A farrier called Rouma.’ Silence. ‘Unluckily for them, there were witnesses. And Daquin gives a detailed account of the murder.
‘When Georges and Milon realised they were in a tight spot, they admitted you had ordered the killing, for a contract of 50,000 francs,’ adds Romero. ‘What do you have to say about that?’
‘I categorically deny it. Never heard of this Rouma, nor of his murder.’
Dead Horsemeat Page 14