Dead Horsemeat (9 page)

The car heads towards Paris. The weather’s clouded over, a fine drizzle begins to fall. For the last week, Lenglet has been so weak that he can no longer speak.

‘Le Dem, drop me off at the hospital.’

Lenglet opens then closes his eyes when Daquin enters the room, or so it seems to him. They are alone in the room together. Occasionally, someone walks past in the corridor. Daquin listens to Lenglet breathing. He goes over to the window. In the courtyard, under the trees, children are playing dodgeball. Daquin watches them. He freezes. Behind him, he is aware of the silence. Absolute. Irrevocable. His hand pressing hard against the cool glass pane. Despairing, I’m going to feel this death as a release. Have the guts to turn around.

Lavorel is sitting in the back room of a café in Vallangoujard with two gendarmes. The owner has given him a choice between white or red wine. He’s opted for the white, hoping it’ll be more drinkable than the red, right on top of his morning café au lait. It’s still quite acid. In front of them, a huge radio and a tape recorder. The wait grows longer. The owner comes over and sits down next to one of the two gendarmes.

‘Well, has my wine order arrived?’

‘Of course, yesterday evening, according to plan. I forgot to tell you, with all this trouble. Come and pick it up from the barracks, when you like, my wife will show you the cellar.’

The owner leans over towards Lavorel:

‘One of the gendarmes, Sallois, has a vineyard, in the heart of Bordeaux, and he makes this wine… say no more. He supplies all the local bars, and nobody’s complaining.’

A red light on the radio blinks, the owner discreetly leaves. A muffled, anxious female voice:

‘I’m coming, I’m opening the door.’ Louder. ‘Come up.’ A door closes. ‘Sit down.’ Chairs scraping. ‘Have you brought the bedspread?’

The voice of another, very young, woman. The rustle of paper: ‘Here it is. And have you got the money?’

‘Yes. But tell me again nice and slowly. So that I remember everything. This bedspread…’

‘Last year I took it on the pilgrimage to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Our gypsy pilgrimage. I touched the statue of the Black Sarah with it, while she was in the sea. You understand?’

‘Yes. So far.’

‘And I prayed to the saint, who has magic powers. She brings back unfaithful husbands. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. But I already bought a bedside rug that had touched Saint Sarah from you, and my husband didn’t come back.’

‘A bedside rug has less power than a bedspread, because you stay under the bedspread all night.’

‘I do, for sure, but he doesn’t, because he’s not there.’

‘The bedspread will make your wish come true. If you think about your husband very hard when you’re under the bedspread, the first night, you’ll dream of him, and he’ll be back within the week.’

‘Right. How much did we say?’

‘Come off it? Have you got the money or not?’

‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it. But I don’t remember exactly how much we said.’

‘Twenty thousand francs.’

Lavorel downs a second glass of white wine, in surprise. One of the two gendarmes leans towards him and murmurs:

‘She works on the checkout at Mammouth, on the minimum wage, and she’s already forked out ten thousand francs for the rug.’

‘I want to see the money.’ Sound of a drawer opening. They must be counting the notes. ‘It’s all there, take the bedspread.’

‘I’ll see you out.’

The gendarmes pack away their equipment, triumphant.

‘There. We managed to convince this woman to press charges, and now, at last we’ve caught her red-handed. You’ll see, once our devotee of
Saint Sarah’s banged up, complaints will pour in, that’s what always happens.’

Gendarmes are waiting for the two girls in the street. They march them off to the gendarmerie, it’s in the bag. And now they’re in their stride, a search of the gypsies’ farm.

Lavorel follows, resigned.

At the village exit, two blue cars are parked near an ancient fortified farmhouse, four stone buildings in a square without an exit between them, all facing inwards, a huge timber carriage entrance, closed. That’s where the girl they’ve just arrested lives, with Rouma, the farrier, and a few other gypsy families.

First warnings.

‘Open up.’

Voices on the other side of the door.

‘There aren’t any men here. Only women and children. We’re not opening the door.’

After ten minutes of fruitless argument, the gendarmes break down the door and force their way in, brandishing their guns. Lavorel hangs back, his hands in his pockets, convinced that this is a sinister venture. Five caravans are drawn up in a circle in the beaten earth courtyard. In the centre, thirty or so women and children huddle together. The buildings looking onto the courtyard seem to be pretty much reduced to ruins. The gendarmes assemble the women and children in an empty room, place them under heavy guard, and the search begins.

While they gather up the bedspreads in their packaging, along with the cheap jewellery, two stolen cars, motorbike parts and other odds and ends, Lavorel goes through the caravans and all the buildings looking for a possible stash of drugs, without much conviction. The forge, the workshops, the garage, a large collective kitchen with all mod cons, there’s even a cold store. Nothing. It’s frustrating, all the same.

Lavorel leaves the gendarmes drawing up impressive reports. For them, the prospect of days and days of thankless graft. And I’m leaving empty handed.

Next day, the atmosphere in Daquin’s office is tense. Lavorel gives an account of the storming of the farm, without embellishment or local colour. His reports never have Romero’s panache, but he’s not bothered.

‘As far as we’re concerned, in any case, it’s a bad move, which is likely to prompt Rouma to stop his deliveries for a while. But the gendarmes had been planning it for nearly six months. They’d never have agreed to delay it. So I jumped on the bandwagon. They simply promised not to arrest the farrier, since he has a legal professional activity.’

‘On the Berger front, it’s not much better,’ continues Daquin. ‘Two women as different as you can imagine give an almost identical portrait of him. A nice boy, loaded, without passion, without ambition and with a degree of talent. A clean-cut, socially adept coke addict. At first sight, there is no obvious reason why anyone would want to kill him. Nor was he a dealer, and never had been. He generously shared his twenty measly grams of cocaine with his friends, that’s all. At least, I hope so. Romero, you didn’t pay for your dose, did you?’

‘No, Superintendent. You know very well that it’s against the rules.’

Lavorel grows impatient.

‘But all the same, he was murdered.’

‘The only little blip was an argument with a horse dealer by the name of Thirard.’

Le Dem interrupts him. The Martian’s growing bolder.

‘Actually, on the subject of Thirard, that list you gave me was indeed to do with horses. They all belonged to Thirard, or were in livery at his stables. And they all died on the date opposite each name in the first column. I haven’t found out what the figures in the other two columns mean yet.’

‘Right.’ A long pause for thought. Then Daquin gets up. ‘Today’s Friday. Over the weekend, the gendarmes will be working. We’re going to rest. And on Monday, we’ll review the whole case with a fresh eye.’

Daquin makes himself a coffee then leans back in his chair with his feet up on the desk and allows his thoughts to wander. Lenglet. Don’t want to let his death to get me down. I’m alive. Rudi, a certain weariness. The investigation’s dragging its feet, but there’s progress. Starting from almost nothing, two corpses already, possibly three, if we can link Paola Jiménez to our case. Daquin rises, straightens up, stretches, makes himself another coffee, and sits down again. A series of images. The farrier at his forge, the burning car, the gypsies’ farm being stormed. And Amélie. Amélie living in the back of beyond among her books and horses. A persistent image of
the golden horse with grey lips nibbling the blonde curls against the delicate nape of her neck. An urgent need to brush his lips against that neck, kiss that hair. He picks up the telephone.

‘Madame Gramont, Superintendent Daquin. I’d like to invite you to dinner this evening, at a restaurant in your neck of the woods.’

‘That’s a good idea, Superintendent. It’ll take my mind off my work. But let me invite you to dinner at my place. My groom’s gone away for two days and I can’t leave the horses.’

‘I’ll be there in around three hours.’

‘I’ll be expecting you.’

He hangs up. Hesitates for a moment. Shall I go home and get changed? Desire creates a certain sense of urgency, so no.

When Daquin arrives, it is still daylight. A flame sunset on the horizon, over the hills, but the farm is already in the shade. Amélie comes out of the house to greet him. Tight-fitting pale blue jeans and a green T-shirt. She exudes the warm smell of cooking. Even more attractive than he remembered.

‘I’ve brought you a photo. It was on Berger’s desk.’

Visible emotion.

They sit down side by side on a stone bench against the side of the house. Champagne, as they watch night spread from the bottom of the valley. Gentle sounds from the stables, the rustle of straw, the horses’ breathing, a busy, cosy silence. It is Amélie who breaks it. She says, as if to herself:

‘The grieving process has begun. Slowly.’ A smile. ‘And I don’t know what to think about it.’

Grief. Daquin pictures Lenglet on his deathbed. Not now, above all, not now. He takes from his pocket a piece of paper folded into four and carefully opens it out.

‘May I show you something?’

He hands her a photocopy of the list given to Le Dem. Amélie leans forward, her tanned neck exposed beneath the blonde curls, and reads.

‘They’re the names of horses. I know some of them. Famous show jumpers. And that one, Khulna du Viveret, the last one on the list, is the one Nicolas filmed for Pama.’

Night has completely enveloped the farm, and it’s very chilly. Amélie rises.

‘Let’s sit down and eat.’

She has cleared one of the tables in the office area, white cloth, pastel crockery and a cluster of candles. On the table, a selection of cold meats, a local speciality, breads, a red Loire wine, well chilled. Then she brings a chicken in a salt crust, accompanied by creamed mushroom purée. She deftly breaks open the salt crust and carves the chicken. Daquin concentrates on savouring the firm, tender meat that has a tang of the sea. A little taste of happiness. Amélie watches him, her elbows on the table and her chin cupped in her hands. I like men who enjoy their food. Out loud:

‘After your visit, my groom talked to me about Thirard and his row with Nicolas. I happened to mention Moulin’s name.’ Daquin stops eating. ‘Moulin went to see Thirard two or three months ago. He was drunk and in a furious rage. He shouted abuse at Thirard in front of everyone, accused him of having sent the tax inspectors to ruin him and swore he’d get his revenge by destroying Thirard’s filthy trade. Those were his words. Thirard didn’t seem to think it was very funny.’

Daquin gets up, walk over to the window, gazes out at the dark courtyard. Is it possible that we have the wrong victim? His car, him at the wheel, the coke, under the nose of Lavorel who was tailing him to boot, no wonder we assumed it was Berger. It didn’t even cross our minds that maybe the murderer might have been after Moulin. Or both of them? Even if it’s unlikely. A beginner’s mistake. In any case, the trail leads back to Thirard. Obviously.

Amélie comes over to him by the window.

‘Finish your meal anyway. You’ll have time to think about all that tomorrow.’

A creamy Livarot cheese. An apricot tart that sets his teeth on edge.

‘I didn’t have time to do anything more complicated,’ says Amélie.

‘Do you know this Thirard?’

‘Everyone does. He’s famous in show-jumping circles.’

Daquin gets up. Coffee is waiting on the low table. He sits down on one of the battered sofas.

‘A joint, Superintendent?’

Smile. ‘No, thank you, I don’t smoke. I’d rather have a brandy.’

‘No brandy, but I’ve got an old Martinican rum that’s rather good.’

She brings him a bottle and a beautiful balloon glass that you warm between your palms, and pours him a generous amount.

Music. Monteverdi’s
Madrigals of War and of Love
. Amélie opens the window, the horses love music. The chill night air blows in, nippy. She puts
out the light, the night wafts into the room carrying the smell of the stables. Daquin, cautious, tastes the rum. Not much body but very fruity, in perfect harmony with the chicken and the apricot tart. Closes his eyes with pleasure. Amélie comes and leans against him, her head on his shoulder, and rolls herself a joint with great concentration. Daquin watches her.

‘What were you doing in May ’68, Superintendent?’

‘I was abroad.’

‘So you missed out on a whole chapter of French history.’

‘It’s very possible.’

‘In a way our generation is slightly crazy.’

‘Maybe.’ He caresses the nape of her neck with his fingertips, then leans over, kisses her golden curls and nibbles them. ‘Right now, I don’t give a shit.’

Amélie shivers and laughs.

‘It’s said that a horse that submits to its rider “bends its neck”.’

After the fiasco of the search, they have to tail the farrier again, if that’s still possible. But first of all, to find him. Lavorel and Le Dem have been driving around the Chantilly stables area for over an hour, looking for the white van. Suddenly, as they cruise past one of the stables, they see some of the lads shouting and waving their arms. People come out of the tack room, the office, and run over to a corner of the courtyard where the white van, in fact… Lavorel abandons the car by the roadside and races over to the van, followed by Le Dem. On the concrete floor of the forge, surrounded by a dozen horrified people, is a dead horse lying on its side, hanging by its halter from the forge’s metal ring, its neck broken. And beneath the horse, the body of a man, three-quarters hidden from view, a corner of his leather apron and heavy shoes just visible. It could well be the farrier.