Dead Horsemeat

by Dominique Manotti

  Daquin listens carefully. A memory is struggling to the surface. The murder was on Wednesday. Thursday evening, at the Élysée, rack of lamb, Château Carbonnieux, Deluc puts down his glass. ‘Yesterday afternoon, a meeting of our working party to crack down on drugs’ And he repeated: ‘Wednesday afternoon.’ Was he stating his alibi?

  ‘Help me to understand. Did Deluc know Michel?’

  ‘Of course. When I entertained, Michel did the cooking. All my friends knew him.’ Abruptly, she leans towards him, grows animated, smiling provocatively. ‘Michel and I made an odd couple, didn’t we? We were very happy together, for more than ten years. Affection without sex. Happiness. Can you understand that, Superintendent?’

  ‘From your point of view I can, but what did he get out of it?’

  ‘I was his anchor. I made every conceivable freedom and pleasure possible in his life.’ Her smile becomes more insistent. ‘Don’t tell me nobody’s ever loved you for your dependability rather than for sex. Usually, in these cases, you take the sex too. We didn’t have sex, and that suited Michel perfectly.’

  Daquin sinks deeper into his chair with a half-smile.

  ‘I’ve experienced that too, but it hurt. Let’s get back to Deluc. Why would he have wanted to kill Michel?’

  Now she’s sitting upright again, remaining stock still in her armchair.

  ‘I know Christian. I see him as disturbed, repressed and capable of anything. The type of person I wouldn’t be surprised to learn one day turns round and shoots his entire family and then commits suicide.’

  Lenglet’s breathless voice echoes in Daquin’s ears: ‘a repressed lech, made you think of a fundamentalist Protestant paedophile.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Complicated relationships with women. He remarries at each stage of his career. First wife, on arrival in Paris. Second, on his return from Lebanon, and third on entering the Élysée.’

  ‘Do you mind if I say that he’s not the only person who sleeps his way to the top? And that it’s not a crime?’

  Another broad smile. ‘I see what you mean, Superintendent, and you’re right. But Christian doesn’t sleep with his women.’ Daquin raises an eyebrow. ‘They’ve never made a secret of it. He’s a laughing stock among the Paris chattering classes…’

  ‘Charming. What about his son?’

  ‘He’s not the father. And it’s public knowledge that he only gets pleasure from Perrot’s girls.’

  ‘Just because a man sleeps with whores, it doesn’t mean he kills queers. Let’s change the subject. Last Wednesday, why did you accuse Jubelin of having killed Michel?’

  ‘I wasn’t myself.’

  ‘That’s not a good enough answer, and you know it.’

  ‘Jubelin and I have fallen out. We’ve crossed swords at Pama. The day before the murder, he asked me to hand in my notice. As he hated Michel and the life we lived — I think he was ashamed of it —, I was in shock, I didn’t know what I was saying. I don’t seriously think that Jubelin had Michel killed. I’m not being devious, if that’s what you want to know.’

  ‘If I find Michel’s killer, whether it’s Deluc or someone else, you’ll tell me what you know about Jubelin.’

  Again, she leans forward, the smile, turns on the charm.

  ‘Our interests might well converge there.’ A silence. ‘I’ve already found his successor. Young, assistant manager of Pama’s insurance arm for ten years, a graduate of the École Polytechnique and a Protestant. After Jubelin, an ambitious, unscrupulous self-made man, he’s someone who’ll offer a reassuring image and steer a steady course.’

  Sincerity in her voice. It’s probably safe to assume that she’s not trying to protect Jubelin by giving me Deluc. Daquin runs his thumb over his lips.

  ‘You have no proof against Deluc. But for reasons of my own, I’m going to pursue this line of inquiry.’ He rises. ‘It would probably be best if nobody knows you’re back home. You never know. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have anything.’

  Take a walk through Paris, to think. Taxi down to the Seine, then Daquin walks home from the Pont du Carrousel via Saint-Germain-des-Prés and Boulevard Raspail. First point: my trump card is still Perrot’s chauffeur. To be played first. Second point: I have no means of putting pressure on Annick Renouard, I simply benefit from a bit of sympathy for having briefly been Michel’s lover. But is she really trying to find his killer, or is she using this murder to play some complicated game at Pama? There’s nothing of the naïve young girl about her. He walks for a kilometre mulling over the question and concludes that she’s probably in earnest. Third point: in any case, I have no choice, I have to play her game because, whatever happens, she’ll give me Jubelin who may be as important to me as Perrot. I’ll have to improvise as I go along.

  He enters the Villa des Artistes. A shock. Rudi’s there, sitting on a low wall, waiting for him. Stunning: black trousers, black leather jacket, belted, round neck buttoned up to the chin. Only a month. Another era. Rudi smiles at him.

  ‘I’ve come to lock up my apartment and move out my things. I wouldn’t dream of coming to Paris without dropping in to say hello. You’re usually in at this hour on a Sunday.’

  Daquin opens the door and they go into the house. Rudi, very much at home, takes off his jacket to show a beautiful orange-yellow shirt, and sits down on the sofa. Daquin disappears behind the counter, mixes two margaritas and waits to find out what this visit is about. They chat about this and that. Hundreds of thousands of demonstrators, Honecker’s resigned, the Politburo’s in tatters. Daquin admits he’s been wrong about the GDR. Rudi tells him about his day-to-day life in Berlin, two trips to the GDR with a false passport, the excitement.

  ‘And it’s not over. The Communist world is falling apart and we are the ones who are burying it.’ Daquin is still waiting. ‘Mitterrand is leaving in two days for an official visit to the Federal Republic of Germany. And he’s planning to go to the GDR in November.’ Silence. ‘The opposition in my country takes a dim view of this trip.’ Still no reaction. ‘Could you introduce me to a few people I could discuss it with? Purely to exchange information, of course. Friends of Lenglet’s, for example?’

  Sigh of relief from Daquin. Situation clarified, defined.

  ‘I can.’ Glances at his watch. It’s already after one, appointment at the stadium at three. ‘Tomorrow. But fair’s fair. One of my inspectors is leaving for Munich tonight, on unofficial business. He doesn’t speak German. Can you find a crash pad there for him?’

  Monday 30 October 1989

  After a night on the train, Lavorel finds himself in the café at Munich railway station, sitting between a worthy colleague from the Fraud Squad, a bespectacled fair-haired boy who resembles him like a brother, and a man in his thirties called Stefan, who introduced himself as the interpreter hired by Superintendent Daquin.

  The low-down on A.A. Bayern, an insurance company specialising in the property and civil engineering sector. A good network that stretches from Bavaria to cover the whole Federal Republic of Germany. A family business established after the war, listed on the stock exchange in 1965, but the Muller family owns – or rather still owned – thirty per cent of the capital until recently, when Heinz Muller, the MD, sold all his shares in a single day causing the share price to plunge and paving the way for Pama’s takeover bid.

  ‘Does that sound at all odd to you?’

  ‘Yes, but Muller is free to sell as he pleases. Then, he left the city with his entire family. No complaints, nothing. It remains to be seen whether the takeover bid is above-board, and that’s a matter for the stock exchange authorities.’

  He doesn’t seem inclined to say any more, pays for his drink and leaves Lavorel alone with his interpreter.

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘Let’s drop by Muller’s place, on the off-chance.’

  A large, very bourgeois apartment building. Entry phone. Stefan rings the buzzer. No reply. After a while, a young woman comes out of the bui
lding. Stefan approaches her.

  ‘I’m a friend of the Mullers. I was supposed to come and see them but they’re not answering my letters, nothing. Do you know where I can get hold of them?’

  ‘No idea. They moved out suddenly, about a month ago. They didn’t leave a forwarding address. We were surprised, it wasn’t like them. They were always charming neighbours.’

  At the reception desk of A.A. Bayern’s head office, Stefan, with Lavorel still at his side, asks to see Heinz Muller. He is sent to see his secretary. A tall, square, rather heavy woman, around forty, friendly.

  ‘I’m looking for Herr Muller. We made an appointment over a month ago. Yesterday I went to his apartment as arranged, but there was nobody at home. And his neighbours don’t seem to know where he’s gone.’

  ‘Well neither do I. I’ve worked with him for ten years. And one fine day he informed me he was selling everything and leaving the company. The next day, he did just that. He didn’t come in the following day, and I haven’t heard a word from him. It’s unbelievable.’

  She seems very put out.

  ‘Wasn’t there a police investigation?’

  ‘No. Why should there be? He’s free to sell up and go off, even if it does seem absurd.’

  ‘There must be a solicitor, banker, lawyer, someone who knows how to get hold of him?’

  ‘Probably, but not the company’s.’

  Stefan quickly translates the gist of this for Lavorel, who pulls a face. Last try.

  ‘What about you, did you notice anything recently, odd behaviour, something that might help me understand and give me an idea where to start?’

  She hesitates slightly.

  ‘There’s something that bothers me. I haven’t told anyone about it yet. Herr Muller is an upright family man. In ten years of working together, he never acted improperly.’ Stefan, composed and earnest, translates at once for Lavorel who says to himself that he wouldn’t venture to either. Perhaps a nutter like Romero would, but even he might balk. ‘On several occasions recently, I heard him tell his wife on the phone that he had meetings and would be home late. I knew it wasn’t true. One day, I followed him. He dropped in to the Europa Eroscenter before going home. I was very disappointed that he should be like that.’

  Stefan takes Lavorel to the nearest café.

  ‘This is beginning to get interesting. The Europa Eroscenter is notorious here. Its clientele is mainly businessmen, and it’s run by an Italian, a guy called Renta, suspected by the police of being involved in a pizzeria racket, but they’ve never been able to nail him. A smart guy. Muller was perhaps in business with Renta. Wait here for me. I’m going to make a few calls.’

  An hour later, Lavorel has eaten several sausages, drunk four beers, and is bored out of his mind. Stefan comes back, looking rather surprised.

  ‘When he disappeared, Muller was about to be arrested for espionage for the Stasi. An anonymous informer, with evidence to back up his accusation. You’ve really stumbled on a big fish. By accident?’

  Late that night, close to midnight, after having dinner together, Romero and Le Dem drop in on Daquin who’s waiting for them, listening to jazz and reading. Le Dem stares wide-eyed as they enter the Villa. Glass roofs, ivy-clad walls, peace and quiet – it’s a far cry from La Courneuve. No time to go on about it, get down to work straight away, sitting around the coffee table. Daquin does the talking.

  ‘I’ve found out how Deluc made his fortune. He earned a decent living until 1981 but didn’t seem to have a vast capital at his disposal. He rented an apartment in the 9th arrondissement. In 1982, he bought a one-hundred-square-metre apartment on the Île Saint-Louis. For the sum of around three million, using a loan from an offshore bank. At this stage, we don’t know what the loan repayment terms were or who the people are behind the bank. The vendor was Perrot’s property development company. In 1988, a year ago, after Mitterrand’s re-election, Deluc bought a villa on Lake Annecy for just over four million. This time, the vendor was a non-trading property company behind which it wasn’t difficult to find Perrot, and Deluc borrowed the money from the same offshore bank. To be investigated further. My conclusion so far is that Deluc had done his friend Perrot some huge favours, and not only the tip-off about the Bastille district in 1981. And it is very much in his interest to protect him, because if we manage to destroy Perrot, it’s very likely Deluc will go down too. Another totally unexpected factor, and a bit of a surprise, Annick Renouard is convinced that Deluc murdered Michel Nolant.’

  And Daquin gives them the gist of his conversation with Annick.

  ‘What do you think?’

  The response is rather sceptical.

  ‘That’s not all. Lavorel called me from Munich. The boss of A.A. Bayern is alleged to have been a Stasi agent about to be arrested, which would explain why he sold up and shipped out.’

  Le Dem, who is not very clear about the Stasi, takes this information in calmly, but Romero grasps the full impact.

  ‘Are you suggesting that someone at Pama has some sort of ties with the Stasi? Madame Renouard a Stasi agent… that’ll give me something to fantasise about on my next holiday.’

  ‘Don’t despair. The source can’t be checked. And even if the information is reliable, we can’t do anything about it, we don’t have the resources or the time. I told Lavorel to drop it and come back. He’ll be here tomorrow morning. Now, tell me how far you’ve got.’

  Romero sits up.

  ‘The grocer told the concierge this evening that he’d be receiving a delivery some time this week.’ A pause. ‘I realise that this isn’t earth-shattering, after what you’ve just told us…’

  ‘No hesitation. We swoop on this delivery. It’s now or never. What do you say?’

  ‘We go for it.’

  ‘Le Dem, you can still back out.’

  ‘I’m beginning to like it.’

  ‘Fine, let’s do it. Now we have to get Dubanchet’s team to keep them under twenty-four-hour surveillance and pounce when the concierge comes to pick up her supplies, not before. Leave the grocer and the concierge to Dubanchet’s team, and you rush over and arrest the chauffeur with his pants down in the car park, if timing permits. Nab the girl who comes and gives him a blow job too. Lavorel’s coming back tonight, so there’ll be three of you to carry out the arrest. Then, interrogation in your office, at number 36. Plan thoroughly, Romero. I can’t show my face, but I doubt the chauffeur will be too hard to crack, he’s got too much to lose. And add some questions on Deluc. Which of Perrot’s girls did he visit… on the day Michel was murdered, did anything unusual happen at Perrot’s? Make it up as you go along, but you get the picture. Get Lavorel to write the reports, and tell him to drop anything you find out about Deluc. Above all, nothing must be mentioned that might connect him to Michel’s murder. He must write it in such a way that it gives the impression that the chauffeur is giving us Perrot without being asked for anything in return. That will make later negotiations easier. Once the report has been written, hand it to Dubanchet. A quick call to keep me posted, and go to bed with the phone off the hook. I’ll deal with the flack from Dubanchet and the chief.’

  Monday 6 November 1989

  Le Dem, in a swanky car, parked opposite Le Chambellan. Lavorel and Romero are walking slowly up Rue Balzac towards the Champs-Élysées. Perrot’s car arrives, moving slowly, the chauffeur gets out and opens the door. Perrot alights and vanishes inside the restaurant. The car pulls away slowly then turns into the driveway to the car park. Just as the chauffeur picks up the remote control to open the automatic doors, Romero opens the passenger door, whips out his gun and presses it into the chauffeur’s side. He stares open-mouthed at Romero and has the feeling that he’s about to go under. I’ve seen this guy somewhere before…

  ‘Police. Your dealer grassed. Open this door and drive slowly into the car park.’

  As he lets out the clutch, Lavorel clambers into the back. They enter the car park and the chauffeur heads towards a space right at the
back.

  ‘Not there,’ says Romero, ‘this is your space here.’

  The chauffeur obeys.

  Romero searches under the seat while Lavorel keeps an eye on the chauffeur. His groping fingers come into contact with a corner of carpeting that has come away. He lifts it: the cold feel of plastic. He pulls out a bag containing four small doses. Holds it under the driver’s nose and places it in his lap.

  ‘You do exactly as we tell you and you’ll come out of this better than you think. It’s not your hide we’re after.’

  Romero and Lavorel get out and hide behind a car parked nearby.

  ‘When the girl arrives, push the stuff as usual. But no blow job today, we haven’t got the time.’

  Another shock.

  The girl arrives, the same one Romero saw from his hiding place last time. The moment she opens the door, the chauffeur holds out the sachet. Surprised, she steps back and bumps into Lavorel and Romero.

  ‘Freeze. Police.’

  Romero inserts two fingers in her trouser belt and pulls out five neatly folded five-hundred franc notes. Lavorel hauls the chauffeur roughly out of the car.

  ‘Get moving, let’s not hang around. We’re going to Quai des Orfèvres.’

  Pushed and shoved to the car park exit. Le Dem’s waiting, parked at the entrance. Everybody piles into the car.

  The chauffeur is sitting in Daquin’s office, guarded by Lavorel, who is absorbed in making up a crossword puzzle. In the inspectors’ office, the girl is sitting cross-legged on a chair, looking bored and blasé. Romero is standing, half leaning on a corner of the desk, while Le Dem, seated, looks unconcerned as he asks her name and civil status. She smiles at him.

  ‘I’m not sure all this is entirely legal. Intrusion into a private residence, and the owner knows people…’