Dead Horsemeat

Tuesday 3 October 1989

Eight horses to feed, muck out, groom and look after. Le Dem, in a check shirt, linen trousers and heavy shoes sets to work at six thirty in the morning. The best moment of the day. It’s cool, the horses are calm, the work organised, methodical, no panics or arguments yet, and it’s not too tiring.

At eight o’clock, Thirard comes to the outdoor school, a few metres away from Le Dem’s loose boxes, with two breeders who show him some horses. Gimlet eyes, always on the alert, he watches a professional rider put the horses through their paces, at a walk, a trot and a canter, then taking the low jumps, without saying a word. Out of around a dozen horses, only one interests him, a slightly heavy iron grey, and he tries it on a higher jump. A fine performance. Thirard invites the breeders into the house to talk business over a bottle of wine.

At eleven o’clock, stable inspection. Thirard doesn’t have a stables manager, he keeps an eye on everything himself, examines every stall and every horse with the groom in charge of it, runs a hand the wrong way over the croup to check it is clean, inspects the fetlocks and dispenses criticism and advice with the same authority he displays in the saddle. He is happy to listen to the groom’s comments on the condition of this horse or that, and he is attentive to the reactions of his mounts, as long as they obey him. Nobody argues with Thirard’s opinions or orders. Le Dem watches him at it. Ten years ago, if I could have really learned the profession properly, would I have ended up in the police? Almost certainly not. Better change the subject.

On reaching Le Dem’s stalls, Thirard relaxes a little. After the inspection, the ghost of a smile, then:

‘This afternoon, saddle up this horse for me and bring him to the small indoor school. I’ll get him to jump.’

On the dot of three, Le Dem leads a big brown bay to the small school, concealed among the trees. Thirard is already there, waiting for him. It’s the first time he’s entered the school, which is completely closed off with no windows. Only one skylight in the roof lets in the daylight. In a box next to the jumps are bandages and a bottle of turpentine. He rubs the horse’s legs. There’s a strong smell. Le Dem coughs.

‘Not used to the smell?’ laughs Thirard.

Le Dem stammers, then carefully bandages the horse’s legs.

‘Get the whip and I’ll set the bars.’

First of all the horse is allowed to canter freely around the ring a couple of times to loosen up. Then Le Dem drives it with the whip towards the hurdle, a few easy jumps. Thirard watches.

‘He’s a bit lazy with his forelegs. You have to make him pick them up.’

He constructs a much bigger jump with sharp black spikes on the top bar, then goes back to the centre of the school, holding a remote control. When the horse jumps, Thirard presses the button and the top bar is pushed up by two springs so that the spikes hit the horse’s front legs. The turpentine heightens the pain. Several jumps, the whip is needed more and more frequently.

‘Good, now the back legs twice, and that will be enough… Now, let’s see the result.’

The bars are raised to the maximum height, without the spiked bar and without the remote control. A normal hurdle. Huge, thinks Le Dem.

‘Keep up with the whip,’ says Thirard. ‘Don’t miss him.’

The horse soars, legs folded to avoid the anticipated pain, its style impeccable. Perfect. They lower the bars, a couple of easy jumps without restraint. Thirard stops the horse which is coated in froth, its legs trembling.

‘Hose his legs thoroughly and put cream on to soothe them.’ Three or four little pats on the neck. ‘A good horse. Groom him well, he’s being put up for sale tomorrow and should do well.’

When Annick opens her front door, accompanied by Jubelin, Deluc is already there. He comes out of the kitchen, with his perpetual constipated half-smile.

‘I got here a little early and I was chatting to your butler…’

He pauses ironically before the word ‘butler’, for emphasis. Annick, amused, (my relationship with Michel irritates him) walks over to the sofa and serves aperitifs. Deluc remains on his feet, leaning against the chimney breast.

‘… we exchange a few thoughts on Nicolas’s murder. Rather surprising, isn’t it?’ Silence. ‘What are you going to do now, darling, who’s going to feed your little habit?’ Then, abruptly changing subject, he turns to Jubelin. ‘Congratulations on the successful takeover bid for A.A. Bayern.’ Annick glances briefly at Deluc. Was he in on it too? ‘By the way, did Perrot talk to you about his luxury hotel project in Chantilly?’

‘On Thirard’s land?’

Annick jumps in surprise.

‘Thirard, who owns the stables where we shot the ad? Do you know him?’

‘Yes. A little. He’s providing the land for the operation and Perrot the capital.’

‘I’m in,’ says Deluc. ‘I’ll reinvest my recent profits from the stock market.’

So he’d also been involved in the takeover bid.

‘I’m not. The links between Pama and Perrot are too close, my personal involvement in the operation wouldn’t go down well.’

Michel brings in a grapefruit and crab salad, served in the shells, places it on the plates and goes back to the kitchen.

Annick invites the two men to sit at the table.

‘Suppose we move on to the serious business?’

Jubelin gets straight to the point.

‘I and other company bosses are wondering about the effects of the measures taken at the Arche summit to clamp down on the laundering of drugs money.’

Deluc launches into a diatribe against the deathmongers and the danger they represent for civilisation…

‘The new official line,’ retorts Annick acerbically. ‘Useful for reclaiming the moral high ground cheaply, in these times…’

‘Don’t act all virtuous, Annick, you’re in no position to.’

Slight unease. During which Michel changes the plates and brings in a sauté of veal with leeks and raisins, Jubelin wonders why Annick is always so aggressive towards Deluc. Her childhood friend, she says, and so useful in his position…

A heated conversation about drugs money ensues. It touches on everything. True, these vast sums of cash risk causing international disruption and crisis. But the global economy also needs it, and besides, the Americans can make as much fuss as they like, but actually, when it comes down to it, they are the chief beneficiaries of the narcodollars. So, don’t be naïve. And above all, above all don’t interfere with banking secrecy on the pretext of fighting against dirty money, or the tax havens, which all businesses badly need. A section of the business community is worried about these two issues, seriously worried, and wants assurances. Message received, it’ll be passed on to the necessary quarters who will act on it as they see fit.

When they rise to move on to coffee and liqueurs, the conversation switches to international politics.

Deluc embarks on a defence of Gorbachev, which amuses Annick. A few years ago, Deluc refused to shake a Communist’s hand…Age, probably. And Jubelin is clearly sceptical.

‘You know, we have associates in Munich who already have bridgeheads in the Communist countries…’

‘The Munich correspondents of the Mori group who we met at Perrot’s?’

‘That’s right. I guarantee that their contacts never go through official state channels, but through direct relations with very diverse and often rival interest groups. And our associates are banking on the implosion of the USSR and its satellites, not on the success of Gorbachev. I see it as a very tempting opportunity for Pama. The gambler and hunter in me, presumably.’

‘But as for us, we have other concerns: European stability…’

They fix a date for an informal exchange of information between a few handpicked individuals.

Once they’ve left, Annick and Michel have one last drink, sitting side by side on the sofa.

‘I’m getting old, Michel. Sometimes I feel as though I can’t stand them any more, or perhaps I can’t stand myself.’

‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I like you indomitable.’