Dead Horsemeat

Friday 22 September 1989

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”.’