Dominique Manotti: Dead Horsemeat

‘Straight off? You don’t even want to know what it’s about?’

‘The thing is, I love my job here. I live with my horse, we patrol the park together. I protect the public, I help people when necessary, and my work is more about prevention than detection. I’m on very good terms with all the local kids, I give them a better image of the police. A public service without violence you know, that’s what suits me. The Drugs Squad is war. And I wouldn’t know how to do that.’

A Martian in the housing projects. Just my luck to get landed with him.

‘Would this transfer cause you problems shall we say of a domestic nature?’

‘No, it’s not that, I’m single.’ Without showing any emotion.

Daquin stares at the cup he’s toying with.

‘I’m not going to tell you that we’re non-violent. And I am aware that your concept of public service is different from ours. But if you agree to come on board, when this investigation’s over, I’ll have you transferred to Brittany, near your home town.’ A glance out of the window. At the door of the loose box, the bay horse, his head reared, ears pointed, listens to the roar of the motorway. ‘And I’ll ensure you can take the horse you’re working with at the moment with you.’

Blink. Touché .

‘Could you do that?’

‘Superintendent’s word.’

Grin. ‘Count me in.’

‘Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce our new colleague. He’s a true horseman. He’ll be our expert. He’s from a highway patrol unit in La Courneuve…’ glances at Lavorel and Romero. As expected, they immediately warm to him, ‘…and will be part of the team.’ Then turns to Le Dem. ‘Two things: nobody smokes in my office. And nobody comes in armed with their service revolver. You can leave it in the office next door or in the cupboard and collect it when you leave. Now, a coffee for everyone and let’s get to work.’

Romero heads for the machine.

‘You’d better like your coffee strong, without sugar, if you want to impress the chief.’

Le Dem smiles.

‘I like it weak with lots of sugar. Tough.’

They all sit down and Romero opens with his report on the team’s progress to date. Daquin, at his desk, takes notes.

‘We easily found Meirens, identified Senanche, and found out about his customer network. He sells the stuff to kids who come in the mornings and ride the training horses, Olivier Deluc’s mates most likely. We haven’t seen him again, he’s been keeping a low profile. The procedure: they arrive by car, park in front of the stables and hand the keys to Senanche. While they’re riding, Senanche puts the stuff in the glove compartment and collects the cash. It’s very neat. The cars are registered in the parents’ names. We’ve got Jambet and Wilson, the fathers are high-flying executives, one at Parillaud and the other at Électricité de France, and Duran’s father’s a Venezuelan diplomat. We’ve also got the list of owners whose horses are trained by Meirens, it’s in the file.

The second customer network is the local café, where Senanche goes several times a day and from where he makes all his phone calls. We’ve been tapping it for the last three days. I’ve made you a tape of the most interesting conversations, also in the file. You’ll see that Senanche receives and sends a lot of messages which are obviously related to his dealing activities. The customers are men, only one woman’s voice. The quantities being sold seem much bigger than those in the morning. The dealing seems to take place at racecourses. But Senanche hasn’t once left Meirens’ stables. As for his supplier…’

‘Not so fast. Let’s go back to the customers. Sounds as though they’re mainly from racing circles?’

‘Yes.’

‘Amelot and Berry, dig further. Easy job. By checking the phone conversations against the horse racing schedules, you should be able to come up with a list of presumed customers.

Lavorel looks riled.

‘Why are you going for the jockeys and grooms? That’s not your style.’

‘Don’t act dumber than you are. We’re going to keep the rich brats to ourselves, you never know, it might always come in useful. If we need the help of other departments to get to the big boys at the top, we’ll need something to bargain with, and we’ll chuck them the jockeys. I also want you to find out more about Jambet, Wilson, Duran and the owners, if you can. And, just in case, Amelot and Berry will also check whether there are any possible links with the Paola Jiménez case. Can we move on to the supplier? … Go on, Romero.’

‘We don’t have much. Senanche sells too much for an amateur just dabbling. He lives on site and never leaves the stables except to go to the café. At the café, we kept a close watch on him. There’s no way he can be picking the stuff up there. That brings us back to the stables. That’s where the drugs must be delivered.’

Daquin turns to Le Dem.

‘Who can come into a stables regularly without arousing suspicion?’

‘Apart from the stable-boys, the stable boss, the trainer, the jockeys in the morning, a few amateur riders, the owners, journalists from the racing press. During the day there are deliveries of horse feed or straw, and the guys who come to collect the manure. Then there are vets, farriers, and the drivers who transport the horses to the race-courses. I’ve probably left a few out.’

‘That’s a lot of people.’ Daquin thinks for a moment, goes over to the coffee machine and switches it on. ‘I’m going to see the chief to tell him we’ve made a start and that we’re carrying on. It’s much too early to start criminal proceedings. It makes no difference as far as you’re concerned. Romero, Lavorel and Le Dem, find me Senanche’s supplier. Who wants a coffee?’

Concealed in the forest, Le Dem and Romero watch the farrier who has just pulled up in his white van. Le Dem follows him with binoculars, while Romero jots down notes on a little pad.

2 p.m. The van pulls up in front of the forge, in the right hand corner of the courtyard. The farrier gets out, accompanied by his assistant. Aged about thirty-five or so, dressed in a T-shirt and linen trousers, strong build, about six foot, very powerful shoulders and arms, and a gut. Beefy. Tanned complexion, black hair, moustache. His assistant is young, fourteen or fifteen years old, a kid. The stables manager comes out to greet the farrier. They chat, no contact, the manager goes off. The farrier opens the rear of the van, takes out his equipment – anvil, hammer, bag of tools. Puts on his leather apron. The van door remains open, the stock of horse shoes visible. Nothing to report. The assistant goes off with some halters. Comes back with two horses, and ties them up inside the forge.

2.15 p.m. The two men are at work.

Le Dem, his eyes glued to the binoculars, describes the process step by step, Romero absently jots down a few notes. They carry on for a couple of hours uninterrupted. Le Dem remarks:

‘Real pros, fast, efficient, good relationship with the horses. In my view, they can’t be the suppliers.’

Romero chuckles.

4.15 p.m. Senanche walks towards the two men.

‘Now concentrate.’

‘He’s carrying some cans of beer. Puts them on the anvil. And wanders off. No contact. The farrier and his assistant have a break, drink the beers. A groom comes over. Chats with the farrier. Goes away. Comes back with a horse. The farrier watches it walk, then trot, inspects its hooves. They talk. The groom leads the horse away. Le Dem turns to Romero: ‘That’s routine, the groom’s asking the farrier’s advice, that shows he’s respected.’