Dominique Manotti: Dead Horsemeat

First of all she leads him towards the hangar. Once through the door, in the half-dark, books, magazines, newspapers, thousands of them, piled ceiling-high on the shelves. He doesn’t attempt to disguise his surprise. She’s delighted.

‘It’s my job, you know. I comb France buying odd magazines and newspapers. And I sell them to libraries all over the world seeking to complete their collections. I love horses, but I couldn’t make a living out of them.’

Daquin starts seeing her differently. In such a godforsaken place. Who would have thought it?

‘Shall I show you Nicolas’s horses?’

‘Lead the way.’

They walk over to one of the paddocks. She lifts the barrier and whistles. Two palomino horses canter towards them, heads high, and stop beside her, sniffing her pocket. She gives them sugar lumps.

‘Are they race horses?’

‘No, not at all. You really don’t know anything about horses.’

She speaks to them softly, almost crooning, scratches their noses, stroking their breasts. They nudge her sides, playful flirtation. Amélie cocks her head to one side and looks at Daquin with a smile. One of the horses, his golden coat tinged with auburn, nuzzles Amélie’s neck. His velvety lips are grey with white specks. He nibbles her blonde curls, breathes gently on her neck. She shivers. Incredulous, Daquin feels a surge of desire.

‘I’m not interested in horses, but I am interested in you.’

She smiles again.

‘Would you like a coffee?’

The ground floor of the house is all one room. In the centre, a square kitchen built around a vast range, very modern. To the left, the office area, two tables cluttered with computers, printers, telephones, Minitel terminal and fax machine.

‘My best customers are Japanese universities,’ she volunteers.

To the right, in front of a hearth, empty at this time of year, are three mismatched sofas covered with old blankets arranged around a makeshift coffee table. No television, but a hi-fi system and a collection of CDs. She sets the coffeepot and cups down on the table. They sit down.

‘You know that Nicolas Berger has been murdered?’

‘Yes, Moulin’s wife phoned me after your detective went to visit her.’

‘What was your relationship to him?’

‘Superintendent, I didn’t kill him. I can’t even imagine who would want to.’ Tears start in her eyes. ‘I’m very upset by his death. So what’s the point of talking about it?’

‘To help me find his murderer would be the most conventional reply, but hardly convincing. You’re going to talk to me because it will help you, it will help the grieving process. It’s never easy, and here, alone like this, it must be even harder.’

She says nothing for a long time. Daquin drinks coffee, in silence, and waits.

‘We’d known each other for a long time, since high school, in Rennes. Then we were involved in May ’68 and afterwards we were in the same political group.’ She smiles at him. ‘Far left, “tomorrow belongs to us” and all that. We were sure of ourselves and had great hopes. That creates a bond.’ She dwells on her memories for a moment. ‘When it all fell apart, I’d had it, I went to pieces and for a few years I lived almost like a vagrant, ferreting around fairs and flea markets. And then, by chance, I began to buy and sell old books and magazines. I loved it and I realised there was an opening. I looked for a way of buying a place. I bumped into Nicolas, in Paris, almost by accident. He was working in an insurance company with Annick Renouard and had joined the fast set, living a life of luxury. He adored the whole thing, but at the same time he felt mildly regretful, as if he’d somehow betrayed his youthful ideals. He got me a very good mortgage deal so I could buy this place. He used to come and see me from time to time, and we started sleeping together again, as good friends, like before. We shared a love of horses, that made us close. They’re very sensual animals, as I think you noticed.’ She becomes pensive. ‘Sometimes, I think he might have liked to live here, with me, but he couldn’t stand the isolation of the countryside…’

Daquin smiles.

‘I can understand that. Do you know if he had any enemies?’

‘No, I don’t. He was very well liked in show-jumping circles because he was always pleasant and didn’t try and outshine others.’

‘And at work?’

‘He didn’t talk to me about it much. He enjoyed his job, but he wasn’t at all ambitious. If Annick hadn’t been there to protect him, he’d have been trampled on a long time ago.’

‘Do you know her?’

‘Of course. Annick was at school with us, and then she was in the same political group.’

‘What was their relationship?’

‘I think Nicolas was always a little bit in love with her. But he wasn’t ruthless enough to interest her.’

‘Were there conflicts between them?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. But you’re asking too much. I hardly saw her again. To put it as tactfully as possible, we had chosen different paths in life.’

‘I found Christian Deluc’s name in Berger’s diary. Do you know him too?’

She looks surprised.

‘Of course. He was also in our group in Rennes. In a way he was even the ringleader.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘At one point I though Annick was in love with him, but no, she wasn’t capable of it.’ A silence. ‘I didn’t know Nicolas was still seeing him.’

‘Also in his diary, “Le Chambellan”. Does that ring any bells?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘Were there other women in his life?’

A winning smile.

‘Of course, Superintendent. Probably quite a few, because he liked flirting. But he soon tired of his conquests. Perhaps too superficial, too vulnerable? I don’t think he really had a mistress.’

‘Did you know he was a regular cocaine user?’

‘It’s not a crime he deserved to die for.’

‘Of course not, but it can sometimes bring people into contact with killers.’

‘He never talked about that scene. He’d been using cocaine for a long time, since the aftermath of May ’68. In our group, there was a lot of pressure. You had to conform to a strict code of communal living, with a quasi-permanent inquisition. Nicolas got into the habit of snorting then, in secret, to help him cope, and escape. He continued afterwards. But he managed his dependency very well. A bit like a social drinker.’

‘You may see it like that, but the night before he died, he handed out between twenty and thirty grams of cocaine to his friends, a quantity that represents a considerable sum of money, and easily enough to get him convicted for pushing.’

She looks taken aback.

‘I don’t know anything about it.’

A faraway look, her hands clasped around her knee, she clams up. Daquin pours himself another cup of coffee and sips it.

‘Thank you for confiding in me,’ he smiles, ‘and for the coffee.’ He gets up, bends over and kisses her hand. ‘Will you permit me to come and see you again, not as a policeman but as… a friend?’ he asks hesitantly.

‘If you like, Superintendent.’

She watches him leave. Le Dem is already by the car, waiting for him.

On the way back, Le Dem gives Daquin his report. The groom knows Berger well. He met him at Thirard’s.

‘The guy who owns the place where they shot the video with the black horse?’

‘Yes. He’s a former show-jumping champion, a trainer and a horse dealer, probably one of the best known in French show-jumping circles. According to the groom. So he worked for him and met Berger there on several occasions. One morning, he’s fired by his boss, on the pretext that he’d been hanging around the stables one night when he had no business being there. He found himself out on his ear, furious and skint. Berger came out of the stables at the same time. The groom stopped him and asked for a lift to Paris. On the way, they talked, and Berger offered him a job here, he knew the owner was looking for a groom. One interesting detail: Berger had just had a row with Thirard, he was still very wound up, and kept saying that Thirard was a crook.’