Dominique Manotti: Dead Horsemeat

‘We won’t meet here again. You can reach me at home, it’s up to you to stay in touch. If anyone asks, you don’t know where I am. And if the chief gives you a job, you do it.’ A smile. ‘I’d be surprised. He’ll try and avoid pissing you off, at least for a few days. And as the saying goes: May God watch over and protect us all. We need that at least.’

Daquin rises and takes down the photos of Michel from the cork board. He’ll keep them. As a souvenir.

Duroselle tells himself it’s a nightmare when, on leaving his office, he sees Daquin walking towards him, elegant as ever, with a big, friendly smile.

‘I was waiting for you. What a pleasure to see you again. Come, I’m inviting you for lunch.’

Duroselle apologises to his colleagues, and follows Daquin with a sinking heart.

A tiny restaurant full of provincial charm. Astonishing, less than 30 kilometres from Paris. An elderly woman, of slight build and well-preserved, with a black choker round her neck (like my grandmother in a remote part of the Nivernais, more than 30 years ago, incredible), comes over and proposes coddled eggs or grated carrots. Two coddled eggs and a Beaujolais.

Daquin observes Duroselle. The look of the defeated. I’ve got him in the palm of my hand. Too easy to be any fun. So let’s make it quick.

‘I’ve come to give you news of the Moulin case.’

‘I thought I wasn’t ever going to see you again.’

‘It’s true, I promised. But there have been some new developments. First of all, the person behind Moulin’s tax inspection, a man called Thirard, is well and truly a killer. But that’s not all. He’s also an international drugs smuggler. As a matter of fact, I’ve arrested him.’

‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

A strangled cry. Daquin thinks he can hear Duroselle’s teeth chattering. He calmly finishes his coddled egg.

‘That’s not so certain. In searching Thirard’s place we found a note about Moulin’s tax inspection which mentions your name, and only your name.’

‘What would you like as a main course, gentlemen? Rabbit or beef bourguignon?’

‘Rabbit, that’ll make a nice change. What about you, Duroselle?’ He nods, no longer able to speak. ‘Two rabbits please. I’ll continue. If this note is made public, one way or another, your superiors will see it as the ideal way of getting you to carry the can for this unfortunate tax inspection ordered from outside. And they’ll succeed. That is, unless we find the drug dealer’s real accomplice, and that’s where you can help us.’

A very mediocre cheese, a piece of chalky Camembert. Rural apple tart. I won’t risk the coffee. A little plum brandy maybe?

‘So Duroselle, you’re not saying anything?’

‘What do you want, you bastard?’

‘It’s very simple. I give you a name and an address. Christian Deluc, Quai d’Orléans, Paris. By the day after tomorrow, I want his tax records from 1981 onwards. And within a few days, you’ll be beyond suspicion once and for all. You couldn’t ask for more, could you?’

Lavorel drops in to see Daquin at the end of the day. It’s the first time he’s been to the Villa des Artistes. He feels ill at ease, this isn’t his world. He prefers Daquin in his office, at HQ.

‘Interesting, the diskette. On that day, A.A. Bayern’s share price collapsed.’

‘I’d gathered that.’

‘Those shares were bought at rock-bottom prices by various financial companies based in Luxembourg and Guernsey. They were probably acting as fronts, but a long inquiry would be needed to find out who’s behind them. When Pama announced its public tender offer, they immediately tendered their A.A. Bayern shares at the offered price and have thus more than doubled their money in the space of just a few weeks.’

‘Is that illegal?’

‘Yes, insider dealing. But it’s common. It takes five years’ investigation to get a suspended fine.’

‘A bit controversial?’

‘Not at all, chief. With all due respect, sir, I don’t think you quite get it. These days, it’s no longer a crime to make a fortune illegally. It’s a proof of intelligence and good taste. Only losers stay poor in the ’80s.’

‘Let’s get back to the subject, Lavorel.’

‘If we look at A.A. Bayern, it gets even better. During the first two hours of monitoring, the price remained stable. Then it began to plummet, and finally collapsed. On inquiring further, the owner of thirty per cent of the capital suddenly sold everything. Does that ring any bells’

‘Transitex?’

‘Exactly. Only much bigger. The person watching the prices knew they were going to collapse that day, although there was nothing to suggest it. It looks like a forced sale, with the involvement of the person who saved that information onto the diskette. Madame Renouard, perhaps. You found it at her place, didn’t you?’

‘That’s right. I say, Lavorel, how do you fancy a few days’ holiday in Munich?’

Daquin, clean shaven in a towelling bathrobe, is sprawled on the sofa drinking coffee. Sonny Rollins, for a bit of rhythm while he lets his mind roam. Take stock of the situation. Not easy. Internal investigation: of no importance, for show. But the photos… Michel’s murder… If I don’t solve this, I may as well hand in my notice. I’ve already been semi-retired. A holiday… What do I have left? Romero and Lavorel. My inspectors. Daydreams for a moment. If I go, they’ll go too. Lenglet was always suggesting I join him in the Middle East. The four of us would have made a good team. Too late. Notes that the memory of Lenglet is no longer painful. Gets up, makes a coffee and stretches out on the sofa again.

Let’s go over it all again. Romero, Lavorel, and the Martian too. With them, there’s one possible point of impact, the business with the chauffeur. That’s solid. We simply have to choose the right moment to pounce. My trump card.

And then there’s Annick Renouard. At this point, Sonny Rollins no longer fits the bill. Daquin puts on Thelonious Monk in concert in London and sprawls on the sofa again. Amazing Monk, discordant Annick. Image: Amélie’s head on his shoulder, the smell of hash, our generation is a bit off the wall. Annick’s sure of herself but she’s afraid of me. Why? Use that fear? Daquin pictures Annick leaning forward, seductive smile, husky voice. This woman can stand on her own two feet. If I try to get past her by sheer force, she’ll resist, and the outcome is uncertain. Michel, of course, Michel. I’ve got her. Daquin goes upstairs to get dressed.

Taxi to the clinic at Le Vésinet, a magnificent white nineteenth-century villa surrounded by gardens, trees and lawns interspersed with flowerbeds. A nurse shows Daquin up to the second floor, waxed parquet floors.

‘How is she?’

‘So-so.’ A dismissive shrug. ‘Drugged up to the eyeballs. She’s going home tomorrow, but don’t tire her out.’

‘Don’t worry.’

The nurse knocks on the door, shows Daquin in and leaves them. A small room, simplicity and comfort. Annick is sitting by the window looking out over the garden. She slowly turns her head, looks at Daquin, surprised to see him there. He’s wearing a dark grey heavy corduroy suit with a round neck over a cashmere sweater. Not exactly the same man as in his office.

‘Sit down, Superintendent, and tell me what you’re doing here.’

‘I’ve come to find out how you are…’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

Her face hollow and pale, her pupils like pinholes, her speech and movements sluggish. And fully in control. Daquin smiles at her.

‘… and to talk to you about Michel.’

‘I saw Inspector Bourdier yesterday.’ Very curt. ‘I told him everything I had to say. It’s finished. I don’t want to talk to you about him.’