Dead Horsemeat

Wednesday 4 October 1989

Perrot is a man of punctilious habits. He lives in the penthouse apartment of the building he owns in Rue Balzac. A hundred square metres, Slavik-style interiors, done by Slavik, plus a fifty square-metre terrace with a view over the Arc de Triomphe, the Bois de Boulogne and La Défense, maintained by a landscape gardener. Every morning, at eight o’clock, his housekeeper brings him eggs, processed cheese, bread and his newspaper, Le Figaro. By this time, he is already up, she hears him showering in the bathroom. She brings him his breakfast in the living room or out on the terrace if the weather is warm enough. He has soft-boiled eggs with soldiers, the juice of two freshly squeezed oranges, and the cheese spread on the baguette. He drinks a lot of coffee. This is the only meal he eats at home, the routine never varies. There are no bookshelves in the apartment, he doesn’t appear ever to read books, nor is there a desk, never any work documents. In the bedroom, a big radio, which he probably listens to before eight o’clock. A huge bathroom, with a round bath tub. And a living room dominated by television: two TV sets, several video players and a whole cupboard full of cassettes, which is kept carefully locked. He never invites anybody home.

Every weekday at nine o’clock, he goes down to the car park where his chauffeur is waiting for him.

After he has left, the housekeeper tidies up, does the washing (Perrot changes his clothes during the day), cleans the apartment and leaves at the end of the morning. For this work, six days a week, she is paid a full salary, which is why she says it’s a good job, even though he generally tends to be rather rude: never so much as a good morning or a goodbye, as though she didn’t exist. It’s hard to take, day in and day out.

(Source: the housekeeper.)

At nine o’clock, Perrot gets into his car, a black BMW, the only car he owns, and is driven to his office in Rue de l’Université, a small private mansion set between a courtyard and garden, surrounded by high walls with a wide carriage entrance.

(Source: the chauffeur.)

His entire operation is in this building. He himself occupies a rather austere, medium-sized office on the top floor overlooking the garden. He never has any contact with the lawyers, architects, surveyors, designers and accountants who make up his staff. But he begins his day with a conversation with Dumas, his right-hand man, with whom he discusses everything, and who passes on his orders and ensures they are executed. The length of this conversation varies from one day to the next. For the rest of the day, Perrot works on his company’s financial dossiers. It is always he, and he alone, who deals with the financial arrangements for his various business ventures. When he hands the dossiers over to the various departments, they are finalised. He receives a lot of telephone calls, vetted by his secretary, or on a personal direct line. Or on his car phone. He never holds meetings in his office, to which only Dumas and his secretary have access. His secretary believes he is the most powerful property developer in Paris. He specialises in renovating old houses and converting them into office buildings, mainly in Paris’s 8^th arrondissement. With residential space in this district worth about 20,000 francs per square metre, and office space around 80,000 francs per square metre, it’s not hard to imagine the profits Perrot reaps from the dozen or so conversions he always has on the go. (Given that my personal office space is five square metres, if I sold it at that price, I could contemplate retiring in two years.) Furthermore, property prices in general have doubled in two years, which boosts his profits even further. At six o’clock, Perrot leaves his office.

There are only two exceptions to this strict schedule: from time to time, his chauffeur drives him to visit a building site with Dumas. And once a week, he has lunch in town. That is all. His secretary, a woman in her forties, rather unprepossessing, admits that her boss is authoritarian and rude, but he is also well-organised and not temperamental. She considers herself very well paid, and feels that all things considered, it’s a very good job.

(Source: the secretary.)

Once a week, Perrot has lunch at Le Pactole, a classy restaurant on Boulevard St Germain.

(Source: the chauffeur.)

At Le Pactole, he has a table for two reserved. And there he meets a modest-looking woman, well into her fifties. He is attentive, pulls out her chair, chooses the menus himself (that day, fresh foie gras, a tureen of steamed scallops, cheese, pears cooked in wine). Their conversation is lively, he gives her the latest society gossip, she talks to him about the shows she’s seen: lengthy account of the opening night of a concert at the Bastille Opera.

(Source: Inspector Romero, sitting at the next table, expenses attached.)

On leaving the restaurant, Perrot drives his companion back to her office. She works at the Paris City Hall planning applications department.

(Source: the chauffeur.)

This department deals with applications for change of use, for converting residential property to offices. In central Paris, developing office space at the expense of housing is prohibited. If you want to convert housing in one part of Paris, you have to obtain authorisation and compensate for it by converting office or industrial sites into housing elsewhere in the capital. And obtain permission from the Mayor of Paris for the entire operation. Mademoiselle Sainteny (Perrot’s guest) is a lowly employee in this department: she registers applications, checks that they are in order, and passes them on to the appropriate department which makes the decisions. It normally takes six or seven months to obtain a reply. Which represents a major lost opportunity at a time when the price per square metre is doubling every two years. Thanks to Mademoiselle Sainteny, Perrot’s applications are always on the top of the pile, and he receives a reply within two weeks. She is a sort of “application pusher”, which has little risk attached, for there is no actual fraud involved, and which brings pleasant rewards: she, a low-down official on a paltry salary, a rather lonely spinster, has lunch once a week in an excellent restaurant, receives regular invitations to the opening nights of prestigious Paris shows, and, from time to time, little gifts – perfume, or leather gloves – which she shows off to her colleagues. Once, a rather smart suit. But never any money. Mademoiselle Sainteny therefore has a clear conscience and is perfectly happy.

(Source: Mademoiselle Sainteny’s colleague.)

Every evening at six o’clock, the chauffeur drives Perrot from his office back home to Rue Balzac. There, the chauffeur parks the BMW in the car park, and awaits instructions. Perrot then goes up to the apartment on the first floor, where he has installed Madame Paulette who runs a call-girl network. There, for an hour or an hour and half, he has sex with one of the girls, the way other people go for a quick workout at the gym. And he always uses a condom. He asks them with whom and in what positions they had sex the night before, and gives them advice for the night to come. The girls, who often come down to chat with the chauffeur in the car park, don’t complain about his ways because they are very well paid: a combination of a fixed wage and a fee for each trick. They often end the night in exclusive night clubs with Perrot’s friends.

At eight o’clock, Perrot informs his chauffeur whether he’s giving him the evening off or whether he wants to be driven into town for dinner. Dinners that are always in the expensive areas of Paris, and sometimes even at the Élysée. The chauffeur’s job is therefore very demanding, but it will very likely enable him to open a bar-cum-tobacconists in his home town of Lyon within the next five years.

(Source: the chauffeur.)

After eight o’clock, if he’s not dining in town, Perrot goes down to his restaurant, Le Chambellan, where a private dining room is reserved for him and his friends, sometimes one or two, often around twenty. He’s a well-liked host, entertaining, elegant, excellent food and fine wines and spirits. He only invites men, and talks a lot of business. The guests shower the staff with tips. Aubert is a regular at these dinners, to which Jubelin is sometimes invited, along with many others whose names do not seem to have appeared in our files before.

(Source: the barman at Le Chambellan.)

Daquin closes the report on Perrot, signed by Romero who is sitting in the armchair facing him, waiting.

‘Is this what’s called a detective story?’

‘I can copy out my notebooks if you prefer.’

‘Don’t get mad.’ Smile. ‘This report is perfectly satisfactory.’ Glance at Romero’s expenses form. ‘I don’t know Le Pactole. I’ll check it out some time. Quite a character, this Perrot.’

Daquin falls silent and starts tinkering around on his computer. Romero gets up, goes and makes two coffees and sits down again. Daquin drinks his coffee, then:

‘There are several points to be followed up.’ Romero produces his notebook and takes notes. ‘If I’ve understood correctly, Perrot’s allowed to build new offices because he has previously converted industrial sites or offices into residential property. Is that right?’

‘Right.’

‘Where do these industrial sites come from? That’s what you have to find out. And for that, it seems to me that it’s essential to talk to either Mademoiselle Sainteny or her colleague. As for the office in Rue de l’Université, what goes on there is probably no more illegal than what goes on among all property developers. It’s not within the remit of the Drugs Squad, and we won’t nail him for that. What does interest us is of course Le Chambellan and its associated brothel, and the chauffeur is definitely a key person. Businessmen are always very talkative in their cars, they probably feel safe there. One of you must get as much gen on this chauffeur as possible. And I’d also like to know what he’s up to with the girls who come down and see him in the car park.’

‘Why? A man and one or several girls, doesn’t that seem quite normal to you?’

‘No.’ Smile. ‘Hopeless, you’re a naïve guy, Romero. I want you to get inside that car park and see what goes one between six thirty and eight o’clock. Is that too much to ask?’

‘Of course not.’