Dominique Manotti - Dead Horsemeat

‘A serious row?’

‘Apparently. No further details available.’

Daquin is pensive.

‘Maybe we should check out this Thirard.’ After a few moments’ thought: ‘By the way, Romero and I took from Berger’s office the file he was working on, the famous video. Nothing of much interest – costings, materials, correspondence, work schedules, appointments, reports, everything you’d expect to find. Plus an undated sheet of plain paper, no heading, with notes in Berger’s handwriting.

Daquin takes a photocopy out of his pocket.

‘Four columns. On the left, names that look like the names of horses. Opposite each name, three dates. The interval between the dates is usually short, two weeks to three months. All the dates are within the last two years. I’m giving you this photocopy, see if you can make anything of it.’

The car heads towards Paris. The weather’s clouded over, a fine drizzle begins to fall. For the last week, Lenglet has been so weak that he can no longer speak.

‘Le Dem, drop me off at the hospital.’

Lenglet opens then closes his eyes when Daquin enters the room, or so it seems to him. They are alone in the room together. Occasionally, someone walks past in the corridor. Daquin listens to Lenglet breathing. He goes over to the window. In the courtyard, under the trees, children are playing dodgeball. Daquin watches them. He freezes. Behind him, he is aware of the silence. Absolute. Irrevocable. His hand pressing hard against the cool glass pane. Despairing, I’m going to feel this death as a release. Have the guts to turn around.

Lavorel is sitting in the back room of a café in Vallangoujard with two gendarmes. The owner has given him a choice between white or red wine. He’s opted for the white, hoping it’ll be more drinkable than the red, right on top of his morning café au lait. It’s still quite acid. In front of them, a huge radio and a tape recorder. The wait grows longer. The owner comes over and sits down next to one of the two gendarmes.

‘Well, has my wine order arrived?’

‘Of course, yesterday evening, according to plan. I forgot to tell you, with all this trouble. Come and pick it up from the barracks, when you like, my wife will show you the cellar.’

The owner leans over towards Lavorel:

‘One of the gendarmes, Sallois, has a vineyard, in the heart of Bordeaux, and he makes this wine… say no more. He supplies all the local bars, and nobody’s complaining.’

A red light on the radio blinks, the owner discreetly leaves. A muffled, anxious female voice:

‘I’m coming, I’m opening the door.’ Louder. ‘Come up.’ A door closes. ‘Sit down.’ Chairs scraping. ‘Have you brought the bedspread?’

The voice of another, very young, woman. The rustle of paper: ‘Here it is. And have you got the money?’

‘Yes. But tell me again nice and slowly. So that I remember everything. This bedspread…’

‘Last year I took it on the pilgrimage to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Our gypsy pilgrimage. I touched the statue of the Black Sarah with it, while she was in the sea. You understand?’

‘Yes. So far.’

‘And I prayed to the saint, who has magic powers. She brings back unfaithful husbands. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. But I already bought a bedside rug that had touched Saint Sarah from you, and my husband didn’t come back.’

‘A bedside rug has less power than a bedspread, because you stay under the bedspread all night.’

‘I do, for sure, but he doesn’t, because he’s not there.’

‘The bedspread will make your wish come true. If you think about your husband very hard when you’re under the bedspread, the first night, you’ll dream of him, and he’ll be back within the week.’

‘Right. How much did we say?’

‘Come off it? Have you got the money or not?’

‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it. But I don’t remember exactly how much we said.’

‘Twenty thousand francs.’

Lavorel downs a second glass of white wine, in surprise. One of the two gendarmes leans towards him and murmurs:

‘She works on the checkout at Mammouth, on the minimum wage, and she’s already forked out ten thousand francs for the rug.’

‘I want to see the money.’ Sound of a drawer opening. They must be counting the notes. ‘It’s all there, take the bedspread.’

‘I’ll see you out.’

The gendarmes pack away their equipment, triumphant.

‘There. We managed to convince this woman to press charges, and now, at last we’ve caught her red-handed. You’ll see, once our devotee of Saint Sarah’s banged up, complaints will pour in, that’s what always happens.’

Gendarmes are waiting for the two girls in the street. They march them off to the gendarmerie, it’s in the bag. And now they’re in their stride, a search of the gypsies’ farm.

Lavorel follows, resigned.

At the village exit, two blue cars are parked near an ancient fortified farmhouse, four stone buildings in a square without an exit between them, all facing inwards, a huge timber carriage entrance, closed. That’s where the girl they’ve just arrested lives, with Rouma, the farrier, and a few other gypsy families.

First warnings.

‘Open up.’

Voices on the other side of the door.

‘There aren’t any men here. Only women and children. We’re not opening the door.’

After ten minutes of fruitless argument, the gendarmes break down the door and force their way in, brandishing their guns. Lavorel hangs back, his hands in his pockets, convinced that this is a sinister venture. Five caravans are drawn up in a circle in the beaten earth courtyard. In the centre, thirty or so women and children huddle together. The buildings looking onto the courtyard seem to be pretty much reduced to ruins. The gendarmes assemble the women and children in an empty room, place them under heavy guard, and the search begins.

While they gather up the bedspreads in their packaging, along with the cheap jewellery, two stolen cars, motorbike parts and other odds and ends, Lavorel goes through the caravans and all the buildings looking for a possible stash of drugs, without much conviction. The forge, the workshops, the garage, a large collective kitchen with all mod cons, there’s even a cold store. Nothing. It’s frustrating, all the same.

Lavorel leaves the gendarmes drawing up impressive reports. For them, the prospect of days and days of thankless graft. And I’m leaving empty handed.

Next day, the atmosphere in Daquin’s office is tense. Lavorel gives an account of the storming of the farm, without embellishment or local colour. His reports never have Romero’s panache, but he’s not bothered.

‘As far as we’re concerned, in any case, it’s a bad move, which is likely to prompt Rouma to stop his deliveries for a while. But the gendarmes had been planning it for nearly six months. They’d never have agreed to delay it. So I jumped on the bandwagon. They simply promised not to arrest the farrier, since he has a legal professional activity.’

‘On the Berger front, it’s not much better,’ continues Daquin. ‘Two women as different as you can imagine give an almost identical portrait of him. A nice boy, loaded, without passion, without ambition and with a degree of talent. A clean-cut, socially adept coke addict. At first sight, there is no obvious reason why anyone would want to kill him. Nor was he a dealer, and never had been. He generously shared his twenty measly grams of cocaine with his friends, that’s all. At least, I hope so. Romero, you didn’t pay for your dose, did you?’

‘No, Superintendent. You know very well that it’s against the rules.’