Dead Horsemeat

Thursday 7 September 1989

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.

‘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.’