Dominique Manotti: Dead Horsemeat

Destination La Défense. Romero is at the wheel, as always. Daquin doesn’t like driving. Leaning against the door, he maintains an aggressive silence.

‘What’s up, chief? Things not looking good?’

‘I don’t know. We’ll see.’ After a lengthy silence: ‘I hate La Défense. It depresses me.’ They turn onto the ring road. ‘Look. The tower blocks have their backs to us in an untidy sprawl. The whole district is designed to look at Paris, and be seen by Paris. It’s a theatre, not a city, and we have to enter from the wings.’

‘I’m here, I won’t abandon you in the concrete jungle.’

Romero misses the car park entrance and is off on another lap of the ring road.

‘Great, take me on a tour of the area. We’re in no hurry. It won’t do any harm to keep Madame Renouard waiting.’

Sitting at her desk, her chair facing the bay window, Annick gazes at the blue sky, the glittering Arche, Paris in the distance. She chain smokes. What the hell does this cop want? Angst. A familiar chill, she finds it hard to breathe or move. She can hear them in the woods, she’s fallen into the ditch, sprained ankle. They arrive, kick her to her feet, shove and drag her to the police van. She’s shivering with fear. The police station stinks. A poky office, two chairs, a strapping inspector in his forties. Threats. Tied to the radiator, sit, stand, sit, stand. Slaps. The taste of blood in her mouth. Stripped, searched. Promises. How long does it go on… She gave the names of all her friends. He strokes her hair, offers a coffee, a handkerchief. And the inspector wrote everything down, smiling at her. Then, he came over to her. I’m going to fuck you then let you go. You were never here, you never told me anything. If you refuse, statement, court case and I’ll tell everyone that you grassed on your friends. Understood? Say you want me to fuck you… She said it. The next day, she left Rennes for good. Twenty years later, all it takes is for a cop to come near her to rekindle the memory of her humiliation, and, worst of all, she can still hear the sound of her own voice… Hands trembling, a quick line, using the steel surface of the desk.

The secretary shows Daquin and Romero into the office. They take in the black and white décor, black carpet, white walls. More black above the bare matt grey steel desk, the Soulages triptych lit by a row of ceiling spotlights to show it off to advantage. Fascinated, Romero walks over to the vast bay window. The feeling of being suspended in a cradle at the fulcrum of La Défense. Daquin slowly walks around the Soulages to catch the play of light. Intense pleasure.

Annick, smiling, sophisticated, leads them over to the sofa in the lounge area. Elegant, beige suit over a green blouse, her thick hair in an impeccable chignon, softened by a few wisps framing her face, a hint of make-up, no jewellery, just a discreet gold Omega watch bracelet. A carefully contrived image, but static, it lacks a sense of mood. This woman has a real talent for setting the stage. Above all, be careful. And Daquin imperceptibly plays up his image of oafish, clumsy cop in jeans and trainers.

Annick stands facing them, leaning against the desk, mesmerised by Daquin. Similar build to the one who raped her, a fairly ordinary man, tall, square set, forty-something, but more muscular and no beer gut. The secretary brings in coffee. Daquin picks up his cup. Not the same hands either. The other guy’s were thick and stubby, these are long, broad and bony. She must stop this stupid memory game, it’s dangerous.

‘What can I do for you, Superintendent?’

Daquin looks at her. That beautiful low, slightly husky voice…

‘Did you know Nicolas Berger well?’

‘Very well, yes, he was a childhood friend, and we work closely together.’

‘He’s dead.’

‘What?’ She straightens up. ‘Is this a joke?’

‘Not at all. He was murdered on Sunday morning.’

‘Murdered…’

Daquin tells her about the car explosion, with precision and detachment.

Annick feels dazed. A deafening buzzing in her ears, again that cold clammy feeling of suffocation. She walks over to a cupboard, pours herself a double whisky, which she downs in one go, and comes back and leans against her desk, once again perfectly in control. Daquin continues in a neutral voice:

‘Can you tell me what his work at Pama consisted of?’

‘He was head of Pama communications department’s image division, i.e. he selected the consultancies we work with and supervised production.’ The past tense, so quickly, so naturally….

‘You were his line manager?’

‘Yes. He was a wonderful colleague, very knowledgeable about all the new technologies, with lots of ideas for applying them to corporate communications.’

Grotesque talking about Nicolas in this way. She goes over to the video and switches it on.

‘His most recent project. It’s still at draft stage.’

An airborne black horse jumps, turns, dances. The image continually morphs from the freely moving horse to the same animal with a rider on its back. Images, no sound. Slow motion, suspended movements stretching to infinity, fluid harmony, horse and rider as one, their movement pure ballet in space. Still on her feet, Annick watches.

‘This is the visual for our new advertising campaign. As he loved horses and was a good rider, he was particularly committed to this video promo. More than usual.’

‘Do you know if he had any enemies at work? Any ongoing conflicts?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. He was really a likeable person, immensely charming.’ A pause. ‘And not ambitious. I’ve never seen him fall out with anyone.’

‘Money worries?’

With a smile: ‘He was on a good salary here.’ Thinks for a moment. ‘No, I think if he’d had any, he’d have talked to me about them.’

‘Did you know he had a coke habit?’

A silence. Annick turns her back to them and walks over to the bay window, comes back and leans against the desk again.

‘It’s fairly common in advertising circles. Let’s say I’m not entirely surprised.’

‘Had be been having trouble with his dealers recently?’

Curtly: ‘I know nothing about his dealers, Superintendent.’

‘I find that hard to believe. Because on at least one occasion, you contacted his regular dealer, on his recommendation.’ Turning to Romero: ‘We have the tape.’

Romero is torn between admiration and irritation. How could I have missed that, I’m the one who made the tape…

Annick is caught completely off-guard. She quickly regains her composure. She leans forward, winning smile, the body of a Sèvres china doll and the voice of a blues singer:

‘What have you come here for, Superintendent? To arrest me for using cocaine?’

‘Not exactly Madame Renouard. Do you know if Nicolas Berger himself was dealing coke?’

‘No.’ Emphatic. ‘I’m certain he wasn’t.’

She stops. Over-reaction. Careful. Danger.

‘The day before he died, he bought and re-sold around fifty grams of cocaine, which undeniably makes him a dealer. According to a witness, he allegedly acquired it here.’

‘Superintendent, I know nothing about it and I don’t want to answer any more questions on the subject.’

‘As you wish.’ Smile. ‘You’re not under any obligation. Could we have a look around his office? In your presence, of course.’

‘Follow me.’

‘Romero, in the meantime would you go and have a chat with Nicolas Berger’s colleagues and ask a few questions? Discreetly, of course, as usual.’

In Nicolas Berger’s office, much smaller and more ordinary that Annick’s, a large framed photo: two horses led by a tanned, smiling young woman with fair hair.