Dominique Manotti: Dead Horsemeat

‘Just because a man sleeps with whores, it doesn’t mean he kills queers. Let’s change the subject. Last Wednesday, why did you accuse Jubelin of having killed Michel?’

‘I wasn’t myself.’

‘That’s not a good enough answer, and you know it.’

‘Jubelin and I have fallen out. We’ve crossed swords at Pama. The day before the murder, he asked me to hand in my notice. As he hated Michel and the life we lived – I think he was ashamed of it -, I was in shock, I didn’t know what I was saying. I don’t seriously think that Jubelin had Michel killed. I’m not being devious, if that’s what you want to know.’

‘If I find Michel’s killer, whether it’s Deluc or someone else, you’ll tell me what you know about Jubelin.’

Again, she leans forward, the smile, turns on the charm.

‘Our interests might well converge there.’ A silence. ‘I’ve already found his successor. Young, assistant manager of Pama’s insurance arm for ten years, a graduate of the École Polytechnique and a Protestant. After Jubelin, an ambitious, unscrupulous self-made man, he’s someone who’ll offer a reassuring image and steer a steady course.’

Sincerity in her voice. It’s probably safe to assume that she’s not trying to protect Jubelin by giving me Deluc. Daquin runs his thumb over his lips.

‘You have no proof against Deluc. But for reasons of my own, I’m going to pursue this line of inquiry.’ He rises. ‘It would probably be best if nobody knows you’re back home. You never know. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have anything.’

Take a walk through Paris, to think. Taxi down to the Seine, then Daquin walks home from the Pont du Carrousel via Saint-Germain-des-Prés and Boulevard Raspail. First point: my trump card is still Perrot’s chauffeur. To be played first. Second point: I have no means of putting pressure on Annick Renouard, I simply benefit from a bit of sympathy for having briefly been Michel’s lover. But is she really trying to find his killer, or is she using this murder to play some complicated game at Pama? There’s nothing of the naïve young girl about her. He walks for a kilometre mulling over the question and concludes that she’s probably in earnest. Third point: in any case, I have no choice, I have to play her game because, whatever happens, she’ll give me Jubelin who may be as important to me as Perrot. I’ll have to improvise as I go along.

He enters the Villa des Artistes. A shock. Rudi’s there, sitting on a low wall, waiting for him. Stunning: black trousers, black leather jacket, belted, round neck buttoned up to the chin. Only a month. Another era. Rudi smiles at him.

‘I’ve come to lock up my apartment and move out my things. I wouldn’t dream of coming to Paris without dropping in to say hello. You’re usually in at this hour on a Sunday.’

Daquin opens the door and they go into the house. Rudi, very much at home, takes off his jacket to show a beautiful orange-yellow shirt, and sits down on the sofa. Daquin disappears behind the counter, mixes two margaritas and waits to find out what this visit is about. They chat about this and that. Hundreds of thousands of demonstrators, Honecker’s resigned, the Politburo’s in tatters. Daquin admits he’s been wrong about the GDR. Rudi tells him about his day-to-day life in Berlin, two trips to the GDR with a false passport, the excitement.

‘And it’s not over. The Communist world is falling apart and we are the ones who are burying it.’ Daquin is still waiting. ‘Mitterrand is leaving in two days for an official visit to the Federal Republic of Germany. And he’s planning to go to the GDR in November.’ Silence. ‘The opposition in my country takes a dim view of this trip.’ Still no reaction. ‘Could you introduce me to a few people I could discuss it with? Purely to exchange information, of course. Friends of Lenglet’s, for example?’

Sigh of relief from Daquin. Situation clarified, defined.

‘I can.’ Glances at his watch. It’s already after one, appointment at the stadium at three. ‘Tomorrow. But fair’s fair. One of my inspectors is leaving for Munich tonight, on unofficial business. He doesn’t speak German. Can you find a crash pad there for him?’

After a night on the train, Lavorel finds himself in the café at Munich railway station, sitting between a worthy colleague from the Fraud Squad, a bespectacled fair-haired boy who resembles him like a brother, and a man in his thirties called Stefan, who introduced himself as the interpreter hired by Superintendent Daquin.

The low-down on A.A. Bayern, an insurance company specialising in the property and civil engineering sector. A good network that stretches from Bavaria to cover the whole Federal Republic of Germany. A family business established after the war, listed on the stock exchange in 1965, but the Muller family owns – or rather still owned – thirty per cent of the capital until recently, when Heinz Muller, the MD, sold all his shares in a single day causing the share price to plunge and paving the way for Pama’s takeover bid.

‘Does that sound at all odd to you?’

‘Yes, but Muller is free to sell as he pleases. Then, he left the city with his entire family. No complaints, nothing. It remains to be seen whether the takeover bid is above-board, and that’s a matter for the stock exchange authorities.’

He doesn’t seem inclined to say any more, pays for his drink and leaves Lavorel alone with his interpreter.

‘What do we do now?’

‘Let’s drop by Muller’s place, on the off-chance.’

A large, very bourgeois apartment building. Entry phone. Stefan rings the buzzer. No reply. After a while, a young woman comes out of the building. Stefan approaches her.

‘I’m a friend of the Mullers. I was supposed to come and see them but they’re not answering my letters, nothing. Do you know where I can get hold of them?’

‘No idea. They moved out suddenly, about a month ago. They didn’t leave a forwarding address. We were surprised, it wasn’t like them. They were always charming neighbours.’

At the reception desk of A.A. Bayern’s head office, Stefan, with Lavorel still at his side, asks to see Heinz Muller. He is sent to see his secretary. A tall, square, rather heavy woman, around forty, friendly.

‘I’m looking for Herr Muller. We made an appointment over a month ago. Yesterday I went to his apartment as arranged, but there was nobody at home. And his neighbours don’t seem to know where he’s gone.’

‘Well neither do I. I’ve worked with him for ten years. And one fine day he informed me he was selling everything and leaving the company. The next day, he did just that. He didn’t come in the following day, and I haven’t heard a word from him. It’s unbelievable.’

She seems very put out.

‘Wasn’t there a police investigation?’

‘No. Why should there be? He’s free to sell up and go off, even if it does seem absurd.’

‘There must be a solicitor, banker, lawyer, someone who knows how to get hold of him?’

‘Probably, but not the company’s.’

Stefan quickly translates the gist of this for Lavorel, who pulls a face. Last try.

‘What about you, did you notice anything recently, odd behaviour, something that might help me understand and give me an idea where to start?’

She hesitates slightly.

‘There’s something that bothers me. I haven’t told anyone about it yet. Herr Muller is an upright family man. In ten years of working together, he never acted improperly.’ Stefan, composed and earnest, translates at once for Lavorel who says to himself that he wouldn’t venture to either. Perhaps a nutter like Romero would, but even he might balk. ‘On several occasions recently, I heard him tell his wife on the phone that he had meetings and would be home late. I knew it wasn’t true. One day, I followed him. He dropped in to the Europa Eroscenter before going home. I was very disappointed that he should be like that.’