Dead Horsemeat

Saturday 30 September 1989

Romero has a meeting at midday, at the entrance to the owners’ enclosure at Vincennes racetrack. His friend is waiting for him, and greets him warmly. He is tall and slightly rotund with hunched shoulders and a pudgy face, dressed ostentatiously, cashmere jacket over a silk shirt, signet ring and chunky chain bracelet. Romero, in jeans, long-sleeved linen shirt to conceal his burns, sweatshirt slung around his shoulders and trainers, smiles at the thought that his friend’s attire would have made him envious a few years ago. They go in. The security guards on the door greet Monsieur Béarn. They take a lift directly up into the panoramic restaurant at the top of the enclosure, reserved for regulars. Romero’s stomach lurches. Before them, the restaurant is arranged like an amphitheatre, a series of steps leading down to the floor-to-ceiling bay window. The restaurant appears to be suspended above the track which stretches out seemingly within arm’s reach. Beyond it is the green mass of the Bois de Vincennes, the white silhouette of Paris above the trees, and a vast sky. A discreet little lamp and telephone on every table, white linen and crockery, the place exudes luxury. By the exit to the lift, at the top end of the restaurant, they see a huge bar, carpeting, leather armchairs. Romero catches his breath.

A maître d’hôtel in black comes to greet them and shows them to Béarn’s table. His table.

‘Take a good look, Romero, this is the Temple.’

‘Do you come here every day?’

‘Not every day, but to nearly all the race meetings.’

They sit down. The room gradually fills up. All regulars, they exchange jokes and tips. The true believers, says Béarn.

The first race begins in two hours. Béarn orders two glasses of champagne, then two foie gras, two lobsters and a Pauillac. He puts Paris Turf down on the table, folded at the page showing today’s racing schedule. Lots of notes scribbled in the margin. Picks up his binoculars and becomes absorbed in watching the sulkies, without numbers or blouses, doing little canters on the opposite side of the track, far from prying eyes. The waiter brings the foie gras.

Béarn loves trying to impress me. I’ll give him some slack before cornering him.

‘You’ve come a long way since our youth in Belle de Mai and pilfering from supermarkets.’

‘Yes.’ Smug. ‘I’ve got a cab rental business that’s doing well. What do you want of me, exactly, other than to swap childhood memories?’

‘I’m working on a cocaine smuggling and murder case, and the trail leads here, to the racetrack.’

‘What’s it got to do with me?’

‘Nothing, I think. But you know this place inside out, and you can help me find my way around.’

‘I’m going to be straight with you: don’t count on it. People in racing circles hate blabbermouths, and a gambler can’t afford to get burned.’

‘I’m going to be just as straight. You have no choice, Béarn. Your business may be going well, but the bulk of your income comes from somewhere else. You and a retired superintendent set up a charity for the families of police officers who’ve died in the course of duty. You collect funds from firms and you give them windscreen stickers so they are exempt from parking tickets. Much appreciated. And you give the charity ten per cent of what you collect, by doctoring the cheques. I have proof.’ They attack the lobster in silence. ‘You see,’ Romero clenches his fist level with Béarn’s neck, ‘I’ve put a noose on you.’ He squeezes his fist. ‘I can tighten it. It depends what you give me.’

Cheese. Dessert. All the tables are now occupied.

‘Ask away. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Cocaine. Are people snorting the stuff here?’

‘Not to my knowledge. The drivers run on red wine and Calvados. That’s the tradition in French harness racing. Not like the steeplechasing scene.’

The horses for the first race come onto the track. Béarn becomes absorbed in Paris Turf. The sulkies ride backwards and forwards past the stand, at a slow pace, speeding up from time to time. The horses fly. Béarn picks up the telephone, presses a key marked ‘Bets’, gives his orders for the first race, in a language Romero doesn’t really understand.

‘The members’ hotline,’ explains Béarn. ‘For regulars like me. I place my bets over the phone and settle my account once a fortnight, or once a month.’ Still showing off, but his heart isn’t in it any more.

The horses are at the starting line and they’re off. The commentator’s voice tirelessly drones the numbers of the leading horses. The tension in the room is palpable, but restrained. Romero remembers a previous visit to the racecourse, many years ago, when he was in the stands down below. The excitement was infectious, you couldn’t help being caught up in it. Here, when the horses launch into the last lap, some of the punters jump to their feet, there’s a bit of shouting, but most of them remain very calm. The numbers of the winning horses go up. Béarn sits down again.

‘I’ve been jinxed for the last week. Haven’t had a single winner.’

Romero continues his questioning.

‘What about drugs in a wider sense?’

‘The horses, of course, need a bit of “help” so to speak. You see the effort that’s required of them… but that’s got nothing to do with coke.’

‘Who provides this “help”?’

‘The owners, the trainers…’

‘Keep that up and I tighten the noose a fraction.’

Béarn drinks the coffee the waiter has just brought. He lowers his voice.

‘Look up there, next to the bar, in the armchair on the left. Pierre Aubert, a retired vet. He’s reputed to be able to get an old nag to win. He was struck off after running into a spot of bother. But owners still consult him and he continues to supervise the condition of a number of horses. During race meetings, you find him in the stables or here, in the bar.’

Romero glances absent-mindedly at the horses coming onto the track for the second race. Tremor of excitement: there’s a woman driver.

‘Really? It’s unusual, check in the bible.’

And Béarn proffers Paris Turf.

‘Number 15. That’s the one. An Englishwoman.’

‘How can you recognise a woman under a helmet from such a distance?’

‘The way she sits on the sulky, the way she holds her back, the set of her hips. There’s no mistaking it. You recognise mares from the way they trot, don’t you? I’m going to bet on number 15.’

‘That’s stupid. As far as I know, no woman has ever won at Vincennes.’

‘All the more reason. You should do likewise. Things couldn’t be any worse for you.’

Romero rises and goes over to buy his ticket from the window next to the bar. Two people ahead of him. Which gives him the time to check out Pierre Aubert. A ten-franc ticket, number 15 to win. It’s 27 to 1.

The horses are ready, the starting signal is given… number 15 gets off to a good start… 15 is holding back, tucked into the main bunch… On the last bend, 15 pulls away and moves to the outside… It enters the last lap in third place. Once in the middle of the track, the driver goes hell for leather, releasing the horse’s mufflers and the animal takes off, leaving the other competitors behind. As if they had stopped.

Romero laughs. Béarn, deep in gloom, not a single winner, once again, curses, with a tinge of respect for the winning gambler.

‘Let’s get back to business. There must be some heavies around on a racecourse like this!’

‘Of course. Security guards at all the entrances, outside the stables, in the car parks.’

Romero gets to his feet. ‘As you please…’

‘Sit down. Here, with one phone call, vetted clients can bet huge sums on the races at Vincennes, but also up there.’ He nods towards the telephone booths by the bar. ‘At the bookies in London, you can imagine there are people who sometimes forget to pay. The client vetting department employs people whose job is recover the money. I’m asking you to be very discreet. I like this place, I couldn’t live without it.’

‘I have no reason to deprive you of it.’

‘There are four of them. Two are always on duty. They’re at the bar right now.’ Romero flashes a look in their direction. Two tall, black-haired guys in dark suits. They’re real thugs. That’s what they’re paid for. To scare people.

Romero gets up.

‘Thank you Béarn. For the invitation, the meal, the company. I’m off, I don’t want to jinx you any more.’

Romero goes up to the window to collect his winnings. Has a drink at the bar, next to the two thugs. They’re deep in an argument with the vet about the chances of a horse in the next race. He’s on familiar terms with them. As Romero picks up his change, he wonders if there’s a way of chatting up the woman driver.