‘The kid’s father?’
‘Yes, the kid’s father. Presidential advisor. In all likelihood, he’s the person who had me followed and photographed – by one of our chaps, incidentally – and who had someone tell the chief to sideline me. With one major question mark: did he go so far as to have Nolant killed simply to give his blackmail attempt more weight? And yesterday evening, he invited me to work directly with him, at the Élysée. Don’t worry, Lavorel, I said no.’
‘What does he want?’
‘It’s obvious. To protect Perrot and Pama. Especially Perrot, I’d say.’
‘Chief, if you drop this now, I’m going back to being a delinquent. And with the experience I’ve gained thanks to you, I think I still have time to make a brilliant career at it.’
‘What about you, Le Dem, what do you think?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while. A farrier is murdered. We nab a horse trader and a vet. All in the trade. Everybody’s delighted. Although I was shocked, I believe it was right. But when we get to the fat-cat financiers and politicians, they stop us. I don’t know how to explain this but I take it as an affront to men like me.’
‘How far have you got with the chauffeur’s supplier?’
‘We’ve found him. It’s the grocer on the corner. A hundred metres from the concierge’s lodge. A Moroccan. He received some heroin in orange juice cartons from Holland. We nicked one from him. It’s in the cupboard in our office.’
Daquin remains silent for a while. Efficient, they really are efficient.
‘Romero, make us a coffee. We’ll carry on the conversation afterwards.’
The all get up. A fifteen-minute break, then Daquin goes on:
‘I’m going to try and sum up. You’ll see, it’s not straightforward. One thing is certain: we’ve smashed an international cocaine ring that goes from Colombia to Italy via France, and arrested those directly running the operation, which isn’t bad going compared with some of our colleagues’ recent operations… A hunch: Transitex is only one link in a much wider network, as is suggested by the involvement of Ballestrino, a major player, as is suggested by the murder of Paola Jiménez, and which explains the pressure to have us pulled off the investigation. Remember, Romero, Aubert told us a whole story about meetings with Colombians to do with horses. A good lie always includes an element of truth. Like Ballestrino, the Ochoas breed horses. Imagine that the Colombians and the Italians, at high level, used the cover of a race meeting to arrange a summit meeting, on 9th July at Longchamp, in the owners’ enclosure, which Jiménez chanced to witness. We’ve seen the bosses meet in the luxury hotels and casinos of the Riviera.’
‘In that case, why would Paola call me, and not her CIA contact?’
‘Good question. Le Dem, you should block your ears to protect your innocence. Suppose that Paola Jiménez did happen upon a meeting between the Colombians, the Italians and her CIA contact… She must have realised her life was in danger.’
Romero shudders. He hears the breathless voice on the phone. He sees the sun, the naked girl on the carpet. Daquin smiles at him.
‘It’s probably because you were late that you’re still alive. As far as this aspect of the case is concerned, you can see we’re completely in the dark, so we’ll ignore it, at least for the time being. And we’ll concentrate on the French ramifications of Transitex. Now, we have a clearer idea of the Pama conglomeration’s internal organisation. Perrot controls Deluc whom he’s known for a long time.’ Quizzical looks from Romero and Lavorel. ‘They met in 1972-73, in Beirut. He uses him for his property deals, like those in the Bastille district, but above all, he’s used him at least twice to protect Transitex: to get the tax inspectors to come down on Moulin, and to put a stop to our investigation. So Transitex is him. He must have an equally important role within Pama. He goes in as a shareholder, two years ago, at the point when Jubelin decides to ally himself with the Italians to take control. It figures that he acted as intermediary between Jubelin and Ballestrino, who’s an associate of his in Transitex. He could also have introduced Thirard to Jubelin. And he’s the prime mover behind Pama’s new focus on the property sector, which I imagine serves as a front for money laundering operations. I’m leaving out Nolant’s murder. I don’t know how that fits in with the rest.
‘If I’m more or less on the right track, our situation isn’t hopeless. We have three lines of attack. First of all, definitely, the chauffeur. Romero and Le Dem, you contact Dubanchet and his team. We have similar working methods, and he knows that I’ve been put on leave. Tell him about the grocer, and catch him red-handed. In other words, from now on, don’t let the chauffeur’s wife out of your sight and nab them when she comes in for supplies.
‘But we’re not dropping Pama. Lavorel, I’m giving you this diskette. I found it at Annick Renouard’s place the day Nolant was murdered. It’s a listing over one day, the 19th September last year, of the share prices of A.A. Bayern, a company for which Pama has just made a takeover bid. See if you can make any sense of it.
‘And lastly, I’ll go off on leave as soon as this meeting is over, I have no choice, and I’ll make use of the time to dig up more on Deluc and try and grasp the nature of his links with Perrot.
‘We won’t meet here again. You can reach me at home, it’s up to you to stay in touch. If anyone asks, you don’t know where I am. And if the chief gives you a job, you do it.’ A smile. ‘I’d be surprised. He’ll try and avoid pissing you off, at least for a few days. And as the saying goes: May God watch over and protect us all. We need that at least.’
Daquin rises and takes down the photos of Michel from the cork board. He’ll keep them. As a souvenir.
Duroselle tells himself it’s a nightmare when, on leaving his office, he sees Daquin walking towards him, elegant as ever, with a big, friendly smile.
‘I was waiting for you. What a pleasure to see you again. Come, I’m inviting you for lunch.’
Duroselle apologises to his colleagues, and follows Daquin with a sinking heart.
A tiny restaurant full of provincial charm. Astonishing, less than 30 kilometres from Paris. An elderly woman, of slight build and well-preserved, with a black choker round her neck (like my grandmother in a remote part of the Nivernais, more than 30 years ago, incredible), comes over and proposes coddled eggs or grated carrots. Two coddled eggs and a Beaujolais.
Daquin observes Duroselle. The look of the defeated. I’ve got him in the palm of my hand. Too easy to be any fun. So let’s make it quick.
‘I’ve come to give you news of the Moulin case.’
‘I thought I wasn’t ever going to see you again.’
‘It’s true, I promised. But there have been some new developments. First of all, the person behind Moulin’s tax inspection, a man called Thirard, is well and truly a killer. But that’s not all. He’s also an international drugs smuggler. As a matter of fact, I’ve arrested him.’
‘It’s nothing to do with me.’
A strangled cry. Daquin thinks he can hear Duroselle’s teeth chattering. He calmly finishes his coddled egg.
‘That’s not so certain. In searching Thirard’s place we found a note about Moulin’s tax inspection which mentions your name, and only your name.’
‘What would you like as a main course, gentlemen? Rabbit or beef bourguignon?’
‘Rabbit, that’ll make a nice change. What about you, Duroselle?’ He nods, no longer able to speak. ‘Two rabbits please. I’ll continue. If this note is made public, one way or another, your superiors will see it as the ideal way of getting you to carry the can for this unfortunate tax inspection ordered from outside. And they’ll succeed. That is, unless we find the drug dealer’s real accomplice, and that’s where you can help us.’
A very mediocre cheese, a piece of chalky Camembert. Rural apple tart. I won’t risk the coffee. A little plum brandy maybe?
‘So Duroselle, you’re not saying anything?’
‘What do you want, you bastard?’
<
br /> ‘It’s very simple. I give you a name and an address. Christian Deluc, Quai d’Orléans, Paris. By the day after tomorrow, I want his tax records from 1981 onwards. And within a few days, you’ll be beyond suspicion once and for all. You couldn’t ask for more, could you?’
Lavorel drops in to see Daquin at the end of the day. It’s the first time he’s been to the Villa des Artistes. He feels ill at ease, this isn’t his world. He prefers Daquin in his office, at HQ.
‘Interesting, the diskette. On that day, A.A. Bayern’s share price collapsed.’
‘I’d gathered that.’
‘Those shares were bought at rock-bottom prices by various financial companies based in Luxembourg and Guernsey. They were probably acting as fronts, but a long inquiry would be needed to find out who’s behind them. When Pama announced its public tender offer, they immediately tendered their A.A. Bayern shares at the offered price and have thus more than doubled their money in the space of just a few weeks.’
‘Is that illegal?’
‘Yes, insider dealing. But it’s common. It takes five years’ investigation to get a suspended fine.’
‘A bit controversial?’
‘Not at all, chief. With all due respect, sir, I don’t think you quite get it. These days, it’s no longer a crime to make a fortune illegally. It’s a proof of intelligence and good taste. Only losers stay poor in the ’80s.’
‘Let’s get back to the subject, Lavorel.’
‘If we look at A.A. Bayern, it gets even better. During the first two hours of monitoring, the price remained stable. Then it began to plummet, and finally collapsed. On inquiring further, the owner of thirty per cent of the capital suddenly sold everything. Does that ring any bells’
‘Transitex?’
‘Exactly. Only much bigger. The person watching the prices knew they were going to collapse that day, although there was nothing to suggest it. It looks like a forced sale, with the involvement of the person who saved that information onto the diskette. Madame Renouard, perhaps. You found it at her place, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right. I say, Lavorel, how do you fancy a few days’ holiday in Munich?’
Saturday 28 October 1989
Daquin, clean shaven in a towelling bathrobe, is sprawled on the sofa drinking coffee. Sonny Rollins, for a bit of rhythm while he lets his mind roam. Take stock of the situation. Not easy. Internal investigation: of no importance, for show. But the photos… Michel’s murder… If I don’t solve this, I may as well hand in my notice. I’ve already been semi-retired. A holiday… What do I have left? Romero and Lavorel. My inspectors. Daydreams for a moment. If I go, they’ll go too. Lenglet was always suggesting I join him in the Middle East. The four of us would have made a good team. Too late. Notes that the memory of Lenglet is no longer painful. Gets up, makes a coffee and stretches out on the sofa again.
Let’s go over it all again. Romero, Lavorel, and the Martian too. With them, there’s one possible point of impact, the business with the chauffeur. That’s solid. We simply have to choose the right moment to pounce. My trump card.
And then there’s Annick Renouard. At this point, Sonny Rollins no longer fits the bill. Daquin puts on Thelonious Monk in concert in London and sprawls on the sofa again. Amazing Monk, discordant Annick. Image: Amélie’s head on his shoulder, the smell of hash, our generation is a bit off the wall. Annick’s sure of herself but she’s afraid of me. Why? Use that fear? Daquin pictures Annick leaning forward, seductive smile, husky voice. This woman can stand on her own two feet. If I try to get past her by sheer force, she’ll resist, and the outcome is uncertain. Michel, of course, Michel. I’ve got her. Daquin goes upstairs to get dressed.
Taxi to the clinic at Le Vésinet, a magnificent white nineteenth-century villa surrounded by gardens, trees and lawns interspersed with flowerbeds. A nurse shows Daquin up to the second floor, waxed parquet floors.
‘How is she?’
‘So-so.’ A dismissive shrug. ‘Drugged up to the eyeballs. She’s going home tomorrow, but don’t tire her out.’
‘Don’t worry.’
The nurse knocks on the door, shows Daquin in and leaves them. A small room, simplicity and comfort. Annick is sitting by the window looking out over the garden. She slowly turns her head, looks at Daquin, surprised to see him there. He’s wearing a dark grey heavy corduroy suit with a round neck over a cashmere sweater. Not exactly the same man as in his office.
‘Sit down, Superintendent, and tell me what you’re doing here.’
‘I’ve come to find out how you are…’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
Her face hollow and pale, her pupils like pinholes, her speech and movements sluggish. And fully in control. Daquin smiles at her.
‘… and to talk to you about Michel.’
‘I saw Inspector Bourdier yesterday.’ Very curt. ‘I told him everything I had to say. It’s finished. I don’t want to talk to you about him.’
‘I’ve come to talk to you about Michel. Not the murder.’
‘His life is none of your business.’
‘It is, in a way. I spent a whole night with him, last week.’ She stares at him fixedly, without budging. Maybe it hasn’t sunk in? ‘I had sex with him, if you prefer. He enjoyed it very much, and so did I.’
She closes her eyes, still sitting motionless, opens them again after a moment, and says in the same slow, confident voice, as if stating the obvious:
‘I must have been wrong about you. You’re not a rapist cop.’
Daquin is surprised. Feels like telling her that it is perfectly possible to rape a boy. Flashback: he’s thirteen, it’s the year his mother died. Strangely, he is unable to remember the rapist’s features precisely. Just a moustache. The memory that is still etched in his mind today, just as acutely, is that of his own face, pushed down into the earth and the dead leaves, the taste of mud in his mouth, the smell of the earth, the suffocating sensation, the earth burning his eyes. Turns back to Annick. What experience does she have of rapist cops? Wait. Let it come out when she’s ready.
After a while, she continues:
‘Why do you say that?’
‘So that you know you are not alone.’ Daquin gets to his feet. ‘I’ll be off, you must be tired.’
‘Thank you for coming.’
Week-end with his family in Saint-Denis for Lavorel. His wife is a primary school teacher and town councillor. She raises their two daughters aged five and three competently and efficiently. The three of them form an organised, united trio who greet him warmly when he arrives. But he always feels like a tourist in his own home. His true life is elsewhere, it begins somewhere around Quai des Orfèvres. Long may it last. A few phone calls to his friends in the Fraud Squad to find a contact in Munich.
Sunday 29 October 1989
It is very early in the morning when Daquin’s phone rings. Annick’s voice.
‘Come to my place right away.’
An hour later, on the landing of the seventh floor, a glance at the closed door of Michel’s apartment and Daquin rings the bell. The door opens. She’s waiting for him.
In the main living room (a glance around, nothing’s changed since the other evening, the feeling of being back in familiar surroundings), Annick, wearing navy blue slacks and pullover, very prim, leads the way and sits in one of the wing chairs, her arms on the armrests, upright, slow, an air of suspense created with minimal effort.
Daquin sits in an armchair next to her, and waits. When unsure, do as little as possible.
‘I know who killed Michel.’
Ears pricked. ‘I’m listening.’
‘I want you to help me nail his killer.’
Daquin’s antennae sense danger. Things are moving a bit too fast, the situation is out of control. Flashback: internal investigation, being sent on leave. Lavorel and Romero. I don’t really have any choice.
‘To do that, I need proof.’
She stares at him for a moment. Stock-still. No coke for
several days, probably on medication.
‘The murderer is a friend of mine called Christian Deluc…’
Daquin sinks back in his armchair. He feels slightly giddy. Runs his hand over his face. Me too, I thought Deluc could have had Michel killed. So what she has to say interests me. But it’s no more than speculation. And as for killing Michel himself…What is she trying to drag me into?
‘Apparently you know him?’
‘A little. I met him once. Tell me how you reached this conclusion.’
‘I came home this morning. And on the coffee table I found this cigarette case.’
Lying in front of Daquin is a metal case, strawberries-crushed-in-cream pink, beedies – Indian cigarettes. Those are the cigarettes Deluc smokes. Unusual. You don’t find them in that packaging in France. They come from Davidoff, in Geneva. This case wasn’t here when I left. I found it when I came home this morning. I called the concierge who did the cleaning here while I was away, and asked here where she had found it. It was there, under the cushion of the wing chair.
Daquin opens the case. Half a dozen slim cigarettes, dark brown, carefully laid out, a cloying smell.
‘Is Deluc a friend of yours?’
‘Yes, you could say so.’
‘So he’s been here before?’ She nods. ‘Even if this case is his, he could have lost it at any time.’
‘No. No way. Michel and I liked to keep the place neat and tidy, with everything is in its place.’ Daquin remembers the meticulously organised studio. ‘Michel cleaned the place thoroughly every day. If the case had been in the wing chair before Michel’s death he would have found it and thrown it away. Or put it away. But it wasn’t put away.’ After a pause, she continues: ‘Deluc came here last Wednesday. Not Tuesday, otherwise the case would have disappeared on Wednesday morning. Not Thursday, as nobody except the concierge came into the apartment after the police left. Deluc came on Wednesday afternoon, rang the bell, and Michel opened the door. Deluc sat in the wing chair. They had a drink, Christian smoked a cigarette. The concierge found two dirty glasses and an ash tray in the sink. They went into Michel’s studio, and there, Christian killed him.
Dead Horsemeat Page 18