Dominique Manotti: Dead Horsemeat

She checks her watch.

‘No time for dessert, I’ve got to get back. Can I leave you to pay?’

‘No problem, I’ve got your cheque book.’

‘I’ll be back late this evening, and I’ll be dining alone.’

‘That’s convenient. I’ve got a meeting with a publisher, a new comic strip album. It might go on into the evening. I’ll leave you a cold dinner in the kitchen.’

I’m allowed a quick line now , and Annick works frenziedly all afternoon. Got to go through the proposal from the ad agency for the autumn promotional campaign which is based entirely on a sports metaphor. The Pama team, united, fights to win, to ensure its policyholders win. At Pama, as in sport, ready, steady, go and let the best player win, a democratic, egalitarian company. Flashback: Michel smiles at her, you’re no good at lying to yourself … Even… But people keep disturbing her, no time to stop for breath. Phone calls. A departmental head wants to know… You have an appointment… A journalist on the line…

Annick isn’t able to get back to work on her campaign until 7 p.m.

When she looks up, much later, it’s dark outside. On her floor, there’s total silence. Everyone must have left without her noticing. She walks over to the window. A luminous evening, the Arche illuminated and the lights of Paris in the distance, beyond the office blocks. Tired, an emptiness in her heart. She smokes a cigarette, has a whisky, thinks of Jubelin… Unease. Think carefully about my relationship with him. We’re a team, but there’s never been equality. Those are the rules of the game, and I accepted them. It was that, or don’t play at all. But until now, we’ve had no secrets from each other. And now, a rift. I’m losing ground, I don’t know why. No way am I going to accept that. And if the investigation concentrates on coke trafficking, I’m in big trouble. Another whisky. I need some security. For example, find out what he was working on this afternoon, that was so top secret. Maybe something connected to Nicolas’s murder?

There’s a communicating door between the two offices, which they rarely use, and never in the other’s absence. Annick rummages in her desk drawer and finds the key lying among the paper clips and pens. She sits at Jubelin’s desk and turns on the computer. It says hello then asks for the password. Surprise. She hesitates. Unable to hack into the computer. But finding out Jubelin’s password is an exciting challenge. Do I know him as well as I thought? What kind of password would he choose? A name? She tries her own, Jubelin’s, that of his wife, his children. Rejected. The names of the companies he ran before the merger with Pama. Rejected. Outside the family and his business, who was important to him? The names of his horses. Rejected. She tries another ten words or so, unsuccessfully. This is getting really interesting. Tries to remember what might have been significant in the years she’s known him. One outstanding memory, their trip to Granada. She tries Granada. Rejected. The night at the Parador hotel, the open windows overlooking the fragrant gardens of the Alhambra. Jubelin murmuring ‘we’re going to devour the whole world, you and I.’ Champagne. Drinking out of each other’s glasses, laughing, in front of the window. Alhambra. The computer says welcome… Stop. Difficult to move on. The memory of their bodies perfectly attuned to each other. Well nearly… For a long time now, fucking Jubelin has been a tacit renewal of their alliance, without pleasure. I remember more clearly how he negotiated his way into Pama than the shape of his buttocks. An effort to visualise the said buttocks. Nothing doing. Men are hopeless romantics. Never mind the Alhambra. I’m going in.

Jubelin had been following share prices on the Frankfurt stock exchange. He had selected the company A.A. Bayern and had been monitoring the share prices in real time. Annick has never heard of this company. The shares had opened at a hundred and twenty marks, remained steady for a few hours and then fell heavily. At 4 p.m., they were at fifty marks. Then, Jubelin began instructing a Luxembourg-based financial consultancy that Annick had never heard of to purchase large numbers of shares. No way of knowing what he was up to exactly. But it didn’t seem to be vital to Pama, nor to be connected to Nicolas’s murder. Probably a tip-off Jubelin had acted on to make a fast buck. He’s always loved money. Money and women. Any women, anywhere, as long as they’re easy and it’s quick. A half smile. You have to forgive him his little weaknesses. Reassuring feeling of superiority. For the time being, I haven’t found any real reason to worry.

Just in case, she copies all the data onto a floppy disk, puts it in her pocket and switches off the computer, mentally muttering a few words of apology for the Alhambra. All she has to do now is lock the communicating door, put away the key and go home. Michel won’t be there this evening.

The sun is already up, but to the west, the sky is still tinged pink and pale blue. Le Dem is driving, calmly and skilfully. Daquin, beside him, is daydreaming. I don’t like driving, I hate the countryside. Not a good start to the day.

‘I paid a visit to Madame Moulin after the gendarmes had informed her of her husband’s death.’ Daquin suddenly perks up. ‘She’s landed with a riding stables to run, and has never worked in the place. She’s a nurse at Saint Germain hospital. Naturally she feels out of her depth. We toured the stables together and discussed the options for selling some of the horses.’

‘Interesting.’

Le Dem glances at Daquin, who remains impassive. He continues:

‘Berger’s two horses are in livery at Moulin’s. He often used to bring them to the shows and meet Berger directly at the showground, like last Sunday.’

‘What was Moulin doing in Berger’s car?’

‘Madame Moulin has no idea. It was around twelve noon. Perhaps they were going to have lunch together and then return to the show in the afternoon?’

‘Did you talk to her about Madame Gramont?’

‘Yes. Berger bought her horses and was a friend of hers. That’s all she knows.’

Daquin glances distractedly at the countryside flying past.

‘Romero told me how he got Blascos to squeal. Did that shock you?’

Le Dem thinks for a while, intense and earnest.

‘I don’t know. I think ultimately the kid was closer to Romero than he was to me.’ He pauses. ‘To be honest, I know this’ll sound odd to you, what shocked me the most was that an extremely professional craftsman like the farrier is selling drugs. I find that really hard to swallow.’

Daquin gazes at him in silence. He’s from another planet, but he’s not stupid.

Madame Gramont’s stud farm is in the middle of nowhere, at the end of a dirt track, in a dip deep in the Orne hills. Le Dem drove around in circles for a while before he found it. Three nondescript farm buildings, erected at random around a courtyard full of potholes, a huge truck parked in one corner, meadows marked off with grubby white ribbons, horses in the paddocks and, to one side, set slightly back, a vast corrugated iron hangar. Daquin pulls a face. It’s ugly, and it looks deserted. They sound the horn and get out of the car. A man comes out of the stables, and a woman from the house. The woman in the photo. Late thirties, not tall, muscular, vivacious. Short, curly almost flaxen hair, very pretty grey-green eyes and a warm smile. They shake hands. Le Dem wanders off to talk to the groom. Daquin reserves Madame Gramont for himself.

‘Call me Amélie.’ Faintly mocking: ‘Shall I show you around the place?’

Daquin, resigned: ‘Fine, let’s go.’