Dominique Manotti: Dead Horsemeat

The Crime Squad is at work. Forensic doctor, photographer, experts. Just one witness, a woman touching up her make-up saw the blood oozing under the toilet door and ran out screaming. It was 3.40 p.m.

Daquin is tall, well over six foot, burly shoulders, powerfully built, possibly on the heavy side. Square, regular face, not particularly good-looking, alert brown eyes that take in every detail of his surroundings, a powerful physical presence. Since the arrival of his chief, Romero has felt more relaxed. Daquin turns to him:

‘Well?’

‘One of my snouts. She called me at home…’, slight hesitation, ‘…around two thirty, and asked me to meet her here, by window 10. She wanted to point someone out to me. She said it was important and urgent. She was killed before I got here.’

‘Where did you come across her?’

‘Jail. Fleury-Mérogis. When there was a big to-do about Colombian cocaine, I went in there to do a deal. She was inside, so was her mother. Mules. They were nabbed bringing in a hundred grams of coke each. She spoke French, seemed smart.’

‘Extremely pretty too.’

‘Yes.’ Annoyed. ‘I arranged for her to be released, and I promised I’d get her mother out if she tipped me off on the Colombian ring in Paris.’ Flashback to the girl’s body, lying in the sun in his apartment. He was wasting time. ‘I’m not proud of myself.’

Daquin stares at him for a moment.

‘So I see.’

Then he goes back to the body and examines it. The dress’s right sleeve has remained intact. Daquin leans over and pinches the fabric. Luxurious silk. Gently tugs the collar. Label: Sonia Rykiel. With the tip of his shoe he turns over a sandal lying by the toilet bowl. Two exotic leather straps signed Charles Jourdan.

‘And she spoke good French?’

‘Yes, fluently, just a hint of an accent.’

‘There’s something strange about this little mule of yours. Too well dressed for a poor Colombian girl. Romero, you’re hopeless. A cop can learn more about a woman from her clothes than from staring at her tits.’

‘Nobody’s perfect, chief.’

Silence.

‘In my opinion, we should go and see her mother. Now, before someone else does.’

When they reach Fleury-Mérogis, Daquin and Romero are told that Madame Jiménez was released yesterday, on judge’s orders.

‘May we see Paola Jiménez and her mother’s files?’

The minute she was arrested, Paola Jiménez had asked for lawyer Maître Larivière to be contacted.

‘I’ve known Larivière for twenty years. He was already wheeling and dealing with the CIA when I was working with the FBI. A mule who dresses in Sonia Rykiel and has the address of a pal of the CIA… But apparently Larivière refused to take the case. That was before your visit, Romero… Let’s check out the mother.’ Daquin skims two pages. ‘Not bad either. A week ago, she received a visit from Maître Astagno, who stated he was her lawyer. Have you heard of Astagno?’

‘Of course.’

Romero is distinctly uncomfortable.

‘High-flying lawyer, regular defender of the big drug traffickers we sometimes manage to arrest in France. Last year, he got a Medellín cartel treasurer off. The guy was handling huge sums of money placed in nine accounts registered in Luxembourg. It seems it wasn’t possible to prove that the money derived directly from drug smuggling. Does it make sense to you for Astagno to take an interest in an ageing Colombian mule? And manages to get her out in three days?’

‘No, of course not. Chief, I admit anything you want. I was careless, I trusted a pretty girl. I was slow, and I’m partly to blame for her death. Now what do we do?’

‘We drop it as quickly as we can. This case stinks. Probably a coup organised by the Americans, a publicity stunt before the Arche summit which is supposed to be a landmark occasion in the international drugs war. Paola brings in a sample to bait the buyers. For some mysterious reason, the operation goes pear-shaped. She’s arrested, perhaps on a tip-off from the Americans themselves, seeing as Larivière refused to get involved. When you put her back in circulation, the prospective buyers talk to the mother, and kill the girl. And to cap it all, there are probably a few French cops mixed up in it. So tread carefully. You open a case and it turns out to be a can of worms.’

Annick, Jubelin and Nicolas arrive together at the private Maréchaux mansion bordering on Place de l’Étoile. They had to walk, for the whole district is in a state of siege. In less than half an hour, the 14 thJuly parade will begin, a special extravaganza to celebrate the bicentenary of the French Revolution of 1789. A beaming Perrot greets them on the steps. In the hall, Domenico Mori, elegant as ever, accompanied by three Italians. Perrot makes the introductions: Enzo Ballestrino, Mori’s financial advisor, Michele Galliano and Giuseppe Renta, Munich-based directors of subsidiaries of Mori’s consortium.

Then he takes them all on a guided tour of the mansion. The first-floor rooms, high ceilings, white oak Versailles floors, huge curved bay windows overlooking Place de l’Étoile, sumptuous walls and ceilings decorated with panelling and plasterwork. No furniture, just several buffet tables laden with food, drink and floral arrangements facing the bay windows. Between the tables are the TV monitors that will relay the procession. On the second floor, more empty rooms with a view of Place de l’Étoile, groaning buffet tables and TV screens.

Perrot turns to the Italians:

‘It’s thanks to my friend Jubelin and to Pama that I was able to buy this residence a month ago. It has already been sold to a Japanese insurance company, at the highest price per square metre of the entire Golden Triangle. In three months, I’ve made a net profit of fifteen per cent.’

‘And by underwriting the operation,’ continues Jubelin, ‘Pama gains a foothold in Japan, without spending a cent. Give me plenty of business like that, and we’ll remain good friends.’ Laughter.

The guests arrive in small clusters. When the parade starts, at around 10 p.m., there are about a hundred people there, businessmen, members of ministerial cabinets, ‘and their spouses’, jostling at the windows on the two floors. The procession formed in Avenue Foch winds round the Arc de Triomphe, passing beneath the windows of the mansion, then turns into the Champs Élysées to the continuous boom of drums and, from time to time, the whine of bagpipes.

At the head of the procession, under a vast banner ‘We fight on’, a grey, silent crowd and a float swathed in black symbolise the death of hope in Tiananmen Square.

Deluc throws an arm around Annick and Nicolas.

‘The sight of the defeated is always tedious.’

‘I can’t share your cynicism.’

‘I’m not cynical, my friend. Just realistic. And I don’t mix entertainment with politics.’ He steers them towards the buffet. ‘Champagne all round. This magnificent parade to celebrate our anniversary. Do you remember? It’s exactly twenty years since we three left Rennes to come to Paris. Something worth celebrating.’

Annick’s mind darts back to that last evening in Rennes. Deluc, running away, her stumbling, caught by the cops, dragged to the police station, fucked by a detective inspector… Were they supposed to be toasting that unforgettable night? She glances around the room. Let bygones be bygones, and any excuse to drink champagne is a good one.

The guests amble between the buffet and the windows, up and down the stairs. In the heavily soundproofed rear rooms, a hi-fi plays music and a few couples are dancing.

On the Place de l’Étoile, after the French regions come the Americans, Russians and Scots, parading to the sound of hurdy-gurdies, fifes, bagpipes and the persistent rumble of the drums.