Dominique Manotti: Dead Horsemeat

Dunks him again. Someone’s moving around in the bar. Daquin, ears pricked, goes into the next toilet. Another long minute. The barman’s racked with spasms. A couple more minutes. Then Daquin returns. The hardest thing in these circumstances is to be patient. He lets the barman breathe. The man retches violently and vomits water and the remains of his last meal into the washbasin. Daquin barks:

‘Next time will be even worse. Who were you working for the other evening? Quick or you go under again.’

‘A cop, Rostang.’ A barely audible croak.

‘Has he got a hold on you?’

‘Yes.’

Daquin lets him go. The barman slumps onto the floor, glancing at his reflection as he slides down and ends up wedged between the toilet bowl and the big mirror.

‘Fancy yourself, do you?’ He grabs him by the hair and twists his face round towards the mirror. ‘Take a good look at yourself.’ Without letting go, a kick, not too hard, in the lower back, as a warning. ‘Tell me about this Rostang.’

‘He’s a cop in Intelligence.’

He tries to look away. Daquin forces him to face the mirror.

‘Go on.’

‘He knows a lot of people around here.’

‘What about Saturday evening?’

‘He followed you. He asked me to photograph you. I couldn’t say no.’

‘You know what you’re doing, it’s not the first time you’ve done this for him.’ The barman says nothing. ‘This time, you’d better take a few days’ holiday until all this blows over.’

And he lets him go.

‘Martinot? Hello, Daquin here. Do me a favour. You know everyone. A colleague of yours in Intelligence, a guy called Rostang, does the name mean anything to you?’

‘Not much. There’s always been something odd about him, though there have never been any specific complaints about him. Ex Crime Squad apparently. In 1986, he was attached directly to the Ministry of the Interior.’

‘Didn’t he return in ’88?’

‘No.’ Laughs. ‘He must have worked miracles, he was moved to the Élysée.’

‘Martinot, I owe you one. Any time.’

An Élysée usher leads Daquin through a maze of corridors to a small apartment located on the corner of Avenue Matignon for the use of the advisor on duty. Deluc, informed of his arrival by security, is waiting for him on the threshold. Daquin sums him up at a glance. Tall, slim, rigid, very rigid, glasses with delicate frames, thin almost non-existent lips, and on his face, a permanent sort of ironic smile. Remember, an uptight pervert. He stares lengthily at Daquin. Is he trying to find a resemblance to the photos? Not just that… An unhealthy curiosity. So here he is, the cop who goes cruising in gay bars… Daquin puts on a suave, solid and impassive front.

‘Thank you for agreeing to come here. I didn’t want to delay meeting you.’

More than friendly, almost charming. Why? He doesn’t need to be.

Deluc takes his elbow and stands aside to let him into the apartment. Small, antique furniture, low ceilings, comfortable, intimate. A drawing room, dining room, the table is laid for two. A manservant, white jacket, black bow tie, perfectly trained without being unctuous, serves aperitifs. Champagne for Daquin, whisky for Deluc.

‘I waited until you’d finished your investigation. Brilliantly, so your director tells me. You have completely smashed a cocaine trafficking ring…’

Completely… Is that his sense of humour?

The phone rings. Deluc replies, takes notes, makes a phone call, returns. Busy, important. He’s showing off.

‘Let us eat. A simple meal, I hope you won’t hold it against me.’

The manservant again. Attentive, discreet service. Warm oysters washed down with a Coulée de Serrant.

‘I waited for this case to be closed so that my contacting you would not be misinterpreted. I wanted to thank you personally for the way you acted concerning my son.’ Daquin raises his eyebrows. ‘The Superintendent of the 16 tharrondissement informed me what happened on that unfortunate occasion. I’m grateful to you for sparing him the whole judicial process. You can now count on my support if you need it.’

So this is what it’s about. Not very subtle. Does he think I’m finished and not capable of tracing things back to him? More likely, he simply doesn’t give a damn. He thinks he’s in a position of strength. Too sure of his power, this guy. Another phone call, fax, it’s Georges, for François. Deluc casually leaves the fax lying on the table, next to Daquin’s plate, while he calls the general secretary of the Élysée. He comes back to the table, puffed up, happy. Throughout this dinner at the Élysée, Deluc was putting on a performance, it was rather pathetic. This guy, take away his office and his chauffeur-driven car, and he’s lost.

After the oysters, rack of lamb, baby vegetables, accompanied by a Château-Carbonnieux 1983. That at least, absolutely perfect. The meat, impeccably cooked, a masterpiece. In all, with Deluc’s play-acting, a memorable meal.

Deluc in a confidential tone:

‘The situation could have been even more embarrassing for me as I’m part of a working party to crack down on drugs that has just been set up here at the Élysée and which reports directly to the President. You know that the battle against drug trafficking is one of the President’s priorities?’ Daquin nods. ‘A battle for civilisation that must be won…’

Overwhelmed by a flood of violent images and feelings, Daquin closes his eyes for a second. A battle for civilisation… Opens his eyes again. Careful, don’t lose track.

‘In short, our team is tasked with drawing up a coherent policy and taking action without getting bogged down in red tape like the interministerial mission, or getting caught up in interdepartmental squabbles either. The people are sick and tired of drug-related crime, and we need to come up with some effective solutions. This team includes some of the President’s inner circle, and a few men on the ground. At our last meeting, yesterday afternoon,’ a pause, ‘yes, that’s right, Wednesday afternoon, I mentioned your name. The door is open to you, Superintendent Daquin.’

Daquin smiles. So this is the carrot.

‘You do me a great honour.’ A hint of irony. ‘If we’re talking about territory, I’m afraid that I might not be suited to that of the Élysée.’

Deluc’s expression suddenly becomes grim. End of the charm offensive?

Cheese. No, thank you, I’ll keep to this wine. And a baked Alaska. Haven’t had one of these for years. Memories, memories. At the Grill Bar of the Ritz, with Lenglet, and a few others. With champagne. And a strong coffee.

‘Let’s have coffee in the drawing room. Brandy?’

Two brandies. He’s not certain that Deluc is used to drinking so much, or, more likely, the part he’s playing has gone to his head. He’s just slightly losing control.

‘The chief of the Drugs Squad told me that your investigation took you to Pama’s doors. A member of Jubelin’s staff was apparently somewhat involved in drug trafficking before being murdered.’

‘Correct.’

‘Is it news to you if I tell you that Madame Renouard, whom I know well in another context, is a regular cocaine user?’

‘No, you’re not telling me anything I didn’t know.’

In a confidential tone. ‘I myself am a Pama shareholder.’ Laugh. ‘A small shareholder, of course. I don’t have the means… I bought some shares because I believe in the reconciliation between the socialists and private enterprise and the free market, after years of a mutual lack of understanding. It was a political gesture…’ Deluc seeks a sign of understanding, which is not forthcoming. Daquin sips his brandy, staring at his glass.

‘Jubelin has succeeded in creating an active and profitable private company in a field dominated by huge, nationalised state-run machines, and suddenly he has revived the entire sector and paved the way for the whole industry to break into new international markets. He has enterprise in spades. And enterprise is what we need nowadays. I consider him as a hero of the ’80s. It would be a pity if this firm’s reputation were to be damaged by the behaviour of a couple of its senior managers…’