Dominique Manotti: Dead Horsemeat

‘Gentlemen, 1989 is an important year for the French economy. Share values are at a peak, the property market is booming, and there’s a great future ahead for the new generation of managers.’

Low voice, slightly husky, offbeat. Very seductive. She’s on top of her subject and her audience. She raises her glass towards them, and drains it in one gulp. Now, the Q amp;A game. About Jubelin, who’s still a virtual unknown.

‘Young, sporty, a self-made man. An excellent huntsman and experienced rider. And extremely skilled at his job. Background in insurance.’

And then about Pama’s policy.

‘Is Pama really going to sell off its industrial assets, as Jubelin announced at the AGM?’

‘Industrial investments are always riskier and less profitable than property investments. If we refocus our activities on property, it is first and foremost to guarantee our insurance customers better returns. But the transition will be smooth.’

Competent. Relaxed. A journalist talks of a ‘coup’. Sharp response.

‘How can you say that? It all happened at the shareholders’ meeting with absolute transparency. Our company is a model of democracy.’

‘Apparently you’ve known the new CEO for a long time…’

Annick leans forward with a radiant smile, her voice heavily ironic:

‘I’m perfectly aware of what people are saying, and I couldn’t care less.’

‘She’s brilliant, this communications director,’ a journalist whispers to his neighbour.

The free-ranging discussion goes on for another half hour, the audience is entranced. Then it’s late, and the journalists leave. Tomorrow, there won’t be any awkward questions at the press conference. And no hostile articles on Jubelin in the coming days.

Annick moves over to the window. It’s done. The pressure’s off. A painfully hollow feeling in her chest. The sun is setting. The occasional patch of light on the facades of the tower blocks. Paris to the left, the first lights glowing in the distance. The Grande Arche, to the right, floodlights, they’re working round the clock to finish it for the 14 thJuly. Thick glass panes, not a sound. At last, a kind of peace. At this height, nothing can get to me.

Full moon over the stables and the surrounding forest, a coolness rises from the trees. The horses are asleep in their stalls, top barn doors open, some lying down, some standing. Others are idly chewing straw. Little noise, a light rustling. And a few sighs.

A man in white overalls and green Wellingtons gaping around his calves walks the length of a row of stalls. He is carrying a heavy iron cube in one hand, and two reels of cable. He stops in front of one of the loose boxes, puts down his load, and opens the door. A frisky little black horse pushes forward its nostrils and sniffs his hand. The man strokes its neck, scratches the base of its ears, inspects the horse. Then he shuts the door and busies himself with the metal cube. Plugs a cable into an electricity socket, two other cables, one red, one blue, connected to two metal clips. Holding the clips, he goes back into the stall. The horse raises its head. He caresses the animal’s neck, talking to it softly. Trusting, the horse lowers its head again and carries on munching straw. A clip inside its ear. It tickles, and the horse tosses its head.

‘Easy boy, easy does it.’

The horse quietens down. A clip under the tail, the animal jumps, turns its head, curious now, to stare at the man who checks that the clip is firmly attached, then goes out again. He pulls a lever on the transformer. A giant shudder racks the horse, lifting it off the ground. Its eyes rolling, its entire body desperately tensed is suddenly drenched in sweat, then it sinks noiselessly to the ground, its eyes staring, vacant. The man walks over to the animal, checks that it is dead, removes the clips, neatly rolls up the cables then leaves, taking his paraphernalia with him.

It is nearly 2 p.m. this Sunday afternoon, and Romero has just woken up. He is sitting on the floor of his one-bedroom, eighth-floor apartment, gazing out of the bay window overlooking the Quai de la Loire, with a clear view over Montmartre and the northern suburbs of Paris. He is bare-chested, wearing tight, black-and-white boxer shorts. Sitting beside him is a young woman in a baggy T-shirt, her face lost in a mass of chestnut curls. They’re nibbling biscuits and eating coffee ice-cream floating in iced coffee in tall glasses. From time to time, Romero dips a finger in his glass and draws coffee ice-cream lines on the young woman’s face, which he then meticulously licks off, and that makes her giggle.

‘Take your T-shirt off.’

She does so. Romero draws ice-cream circles on her breasts, then leans towards the taut cool pink nipples. The phone rings. He gets up, cursing.

A woman’s voice with a trace of a Spanish accent.

‘Detective Inspector Romero?’

Romero pulls a face and turns his back to the girl to concentrate on the conversation.

‘Yes, it’s me, Paola. Go on.’

‘Please come, I have to point out someone to you, it’s important.’ Romero hears the murmur of a crowd in the background. ‘I’m at Longchamp racecourse, in the betting hall. Window 10.’

‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

‘Hurry up. It’s really urgent.’

He hangs up, turns round. The young woman, still sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, is playing with her nipples, squeezing them between her fingers.

‘You’re not rushing off now, are you?’

He goes down on all fours and licks the salty beads of perspiration between her lavender-scented breasts.

‘Those are my breasts.’

He yanks her down onto the carpet, no time for preliminaries, and anyway, that’s how he likes it, fast and furious, then to collapse feeling utterly spent.

Quick shower, runs a comb through his hair, hesitates, looks at his watch, already 2.45, no time to shave, T-shirt, jeans, trainers. Don’t forget the revolver, ID. A linen jacket. Glance in the mirror, tall, slim, dark hair, a handsome fellow, pleased with himself. Everything’s just fine.

The girl hasn’t moved. Lying on her stomach in a pool of sunshine, she dozes in front of the bay window. He caresses the small of her back.

‘I shan’t be long. Will you wait for me?’

No reply.

Romero arrives at Longchamp. It is 3.30 when he enters the betting hall. Concrete, grey, the floor strewn with slips of paper. For the time being, it’s not crowded, the public is roaring on the stands. A few loners prefer to hang around in front of the TV screens, exchanging dejected comments. Nobody by window 10.

End of the race, the crowds suddenly surge into the hall heading for the windows. Shouts, crumpled newspapers, the clink of bottles and glasses from the bar. Romero recognises the noise that he’d heard in the background when Paola had phoned him earlier.

But still no Paola at window 10. He wandered around the hall a bit, vaguely worried. A trap? Unlikely. Lean up against a wall to protect his rear, keep his jacket open, glance around the room. The bell, betting’s closed. The crowds make their way back to the stands. Still nobody at window 10. Flashback to the face streaked with coffee ice-cream, to the erect pink nipples. And a sense of unease. Glance at his watch, 3.40. And at that moment, a woman rushes screaming from the toilets at the far end of the hall.

Superintendent Daquin contemplates the corpse of a young woman, sitting on the toilet seat, propped up against the cistern, leaning slightly to the left. Her throat has been slit, the carotid artery slashed, a gaping fresh red wound, the trachea severed, cartilage ruptured, white against deep red, a gold cross on a chain on the rim of the wound. Her blood has spurted out, splattering the walls. Her summer dress is stiff, sticky, rust red. And above the mess of flesh and blood, her face, tilted right back, is calm, eyes closed, mouth half-open. A beautiful Amerindian face, high cheekbones, very dark skin, thick mass of black hair brushing the floor. The pool of blood on the tiles seeps under the toilet door.