Dominique Manotti: Dead Horsemeat

From the start, the discussion centres on cocaine. Consumption is soaring in Europe, heroin-cocaine bartering between the Italian and Colombian mafias, the place is awash with dirty money, there must be no compromise with the agents of death. Following the Paris summit and the setting up of the Financial Action Task Force on Money Laundering, we need to see results. The powers that be are counting on us. Our colleagues in the antinarcotics department seized a big haul in August. Fifty-three kilos of cocaine. We have to do better.

‘Fifty-three kilos, but no dealers,’ says Daquin. ‘I’m not sure we want to repeat that kind of operation.’

The director looks miffed and evokes the Drugs Squad’s track record over the last two years. Dubanchet leans over to Daquin:

‘Do you reckon the DEA supplied the stuff?’

‘It’s possible, France is crawling with their agents at the moment. Then something went wrong.’

The director mentions the two spectacular hauls made last year. And, three months ago, the arrest of Buffo, the mafia boss, on the Riviera thanks to close teamwork with other police departments and following a lengthy investigation …

‘A hasty arrest,’ interrupted Dubanchet. ‘I was there. Impossible to prove drug trafficking, he’s inside for cigarette smuggling. A fiasco, actually.’

‘On a tip-off from the DEA,’ adds another superintendent.

‘We must be thorough and cautious,’ concludes Dubanchet.

Daquin watches the chief who’s chain smoking. Relations are going to be strained.

Now, let’s move on to the case in hand. At the end of the meeting, Daquin speaks:

‘According to two of my informers, there’s heavy cocaine consumption in horseracing circles. I’d like to take a few days to check out these leads.’

‘Fine. Keep me posted.’

At 7 a.m. Daquin is at work in his office, Quai des Orfèvres. An office shut away at the end of the top-floor corridor with a window overlooking an interior courtyard, where he has total peace and quiet. A light, spacious office which acts as a meeting room for his whole team, furnished in a functional, all-purpose style. Daquin takes some files out of the wooden cupboards lining two of the walls, places them on his desk and leafs through them. A solitary task, needs to refresh his memory, spark ideas, decide which avenues to pursue. Try to be thorough and put two and two together. Cocaine and horses. Not much. The odd reference. The godfather of the Ochoa family in Medellín is a leading Colombian horse breeder. Flimsy… Racecourses as a money-laundering outlet. We know that… Doping racehorses with cocaine and amphetamine derivatives… A jockey… A lot of rumours, but nothing concrete comes to mind. And of course Romero’s dossier on the Paola Jiménez murder. Daquin slips in the Agence France Presse despatch dated 21 August 1989 reporting on the seizure of fifty-three kilos of cocaine by the antinarcotics department. Probably the end of the story.

He removes some documents and files them in his drawer, and puts the rest back in the cupboard. Dossiers are the keystones of power. Sitting with his back to the window, his feet resting on the edge of the desk, he reflects for a while.

Facing him, the whole section of wall next to the door is taken up by a cork board. As an investigation progresses, it fills up with addresses, telephone numbers, messages, appointments, maps, sketches. Daquin gets up, sorts, throws away or files information that is out of date, clears a space for the coming days. Just beneath the cork board, a state-of-the-art espresso machine stands on top of a cupboard. Inside are stocks of coffee beans and mineral water, cups, glasses, a few bottles of spirits and a plastic tray for dirty cups. All meticulously tidy. Daquin makes himself a coffee. A few moments’ quiet. Glances around the room. Familiar space, sense of well-being.

Shortly before 11 a.m., there’s a stir in the DIs’ office next door. On the dot of eleven, the men troop in noisily through the connecting door, bomber jackets, jeans and trainers, except for Lavorel, who always wears a blazer and dark trousers, or a suit. Romero, the seductive Latin Romeo, has worked with Daquin for nine years, Lavorel joined the team four years ago after several years with the Fraud Squad and a few sporadic joint operations. Podgy, with thinning fair hair and little metal-rimmed spectacles, he looks like a bureaucrat just on the point of fading away. But he and Romero have been accomplices for years. They were both born and bred on tough urban housing estates, one in Marseille, the other outside Paris, flirted with delinquency in their teens and are proud never to have forgotten it. Romero derives a real physical pleasure from his work as a detective inspector. And Lavorel, whose years at the Fraud Squad left him with a penchant for paperwork, sees it as a form of revenge: redressing, as far as he can, the iniquities of a justice system that spares the powerful and crushes the weak, and making the rich pay. The other two DIs, Amelot and Berry, are no more than kids, and this is their first assignment. With degrees in history and political science, unable to find a job, they took various civil service exams and ended up in the police, without really grasping the difference between their profession and that of a postman. Daquin calls them the ’new boys’.

Daquin makes coffee for everyone, then they all sit down. Daquin gives a brief report on his night at the station in the 16 tharrondissement, and the meeting with the new chief.

‘So we’re going to take a little time check out a certain Senanche, at Meirens’s place. He may be a small-time dealer who goes shopping in Holland. If that’s the case, we’ll soon know. You organise this amongst yourselves. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to various departments to see whether they’re working on any cases that might be of interest to us. We’ll have the first review here, in one week.’

Daquin has a job navigating the suburbs and motorway slip roads to find the entrance to La Courneuve Riding Centre. A vast area occupied by stables, indoor and outdoor schools and a few trees, wedged between a motorway, tower blocks and a landscaped garden. An odd sense of greenery without nature. Daquin parks the unmarked car in front of a low timber building housing six loose boxes. In front of them, a man in blue overalls is busy with a bay horse. Daquin stands still and watches him. His gestures are precise, doubtless repeated hundreds of times. The horse cooperates, waggling his ears, anticipating and enjoying the man’s every gesture. There is a physical bond between the two of them, they are like a couple, quietly trusting each other. Not something you often come across in this line of work. But it’s by no means cut and dried. The man knows he’s being watched, but appears unfazed. He finishes grooming the horse, without rushing, then leads him back into his stall. Daquin gets out of his car.

‘Le Dem? I’m Superintendent Daquin.’

A young man of average height, square face, dark brown hair in a crew cut, light blue eyes, a slow gaze.

They go and sit in the bar, which is empty and sinister at this hour, in front of two cups of brown, lukewarm instant coffee.

Get him to open up so as not to have to grope around in the dark. Tell him what he knows already, and then come back to the question.

‘With your superiors’ consent, I’ve come to ask you if you would agree to transfer to my team, the Drugs Squad, for the duration of an investigation in racing circles. It probably won’t be for long and you’ll be in line for promotion.’

‘Do I have the option of refusing?’

Daquin decides to smile.