Dead Horsemeat

Wednesday 25 October 1989

Daquin arrives at the scene of the crime, Boulevard Maillot, accompanied by Romero. They go up to the seventh floor where Inspector Bourdier is waiting for them.

‘A gruesome murder, Superintendent, discovered by Madame Renouard when she returned home less than an hour ago. On questioning her, I gather, amid a number of inconsistencies – as you’ll see, she’s pretty shaken up – that she’s implicated in some way in your investigation into cocaine trafficking…’

‘That’s correct, she is mixed up in it. As a witness for the moment.’

‘I thought it best to inform you.’

‘You did the right thing, thank you. Is she a suspect in this murder?’

‘It’s highly unlikely. At the estimated time of the crime, she was at her office, several people have confirmed it. The victim, a man called Nolant, was an illustrator, something arty. And had a strange relationship with Madame Renouard according to the concierge. Separate apartments on the same landing but constantly together. He did the shopping, the cooking, the housework. Joint bank account. They got on wonderfully, again according to the concierge, but didn’t sleep together because he was as queer as a coot. Come and see the carnage.’

The inspector pushes open the front door. Small hallway. To the right, a huge room used as a studio. Two large drawing boards in the corners, professional lighting, shelves for storing rolls and sheets of paper. Two big armchairs in the centre of the room. A kitchenette behind a counter. Everything is immaculately clean and neat. Daquin goes over to one of the drawing boards. A sheet covered in pencil-drawings of silhouettes, a lot of movement but no faces. Rather good.

‘This way,’ says Bourdier.

Daquin and Romero follow him. Door to the left of the hall. Two men are already at work in the bedroom which has been ransacked. Television, hi-fi, lights, telephone and Minitel smashed, books and records strewn over the floor, the bed bare, the sheets pulled off, and, at the foot of the bed, on the carpet, face down, surrounded by a dark stain, the naked body of a man.

That long, slim, fair-haired body. The light, curly down on the legs. Daquin walks over to him. His skull has been smashed. Kneels down. A painful wrench in the gut. With his thumb, he traces the line of the nose, the half open lips (memory of fresh lips), cold, stiff. Michel that night, blond, sensual, tender, attentive, smiling…What a waste to destroy that life. Daquin stands up, a shattered expression on his face.

Bourdier shows him a cast-iron lampstand with dried bloodstains on it.

‘The crime weapon, most likely. Forensics haven’t confirmed yet. Looks like a gay pick-up that turned nasty. What do you think?’

‘Looks like it.’ Terse. ‘Unless it’s been made to look like that. Can I talk to Madame Renouard?’

‘Of course. She’s in her bedroom. I asked a woman police officer to stay with her, as a precaution.’

‘Come on, Romero.’ Then, turning to Bourdier. ‘Inspector, don’t leave here before I’ve had a word with you.’

On entering the vast main room of Annick’s apartment, Daquin stops, amazed. On the walls, a pale tobacco-coloured Japanese wallpaper, white oak parquet floors, to the left, a huge sofa in front of a stone and timber fireplace with a fire laid in the grate. In one corner, facing the door, a forest of bamboo and plants, and sitting in a wicker armchair amid the plant containers, a golliwog in a red bowler hat and suit stares at the visitor. Several Eames chairs, two Regency wing chairs covered in duck-egg blue velvet. And on the right-hand wall, a mosaic of tastefully framed drawings. Daquin walks over to it. Works from very different periods, of varying quality and techniques, but the overall effect has tremendous charm, Michel’s charm, his desire to seduce. And in the bottom left-hand corner, an Indian-ink silhouette of Annick portrayed as a heroine of a spaghetti western, advancing towards him. Not hard to recognise Michel’s style, and, beneath the irony, tremendous affection. Beyond the room, a vast flower-filled balcony overlooking Paris. But who is this woman? I’d never have pictured her in an apartment like this, nor living with a man like Michel.

He heads for the bedroom door. Just before entering, he turns to Romero:

‘Here we are on the threshold of the dark continent. Not too scared?’

Baffled, Romero gazes at the golliwog.

Daquin signals to the woman police officer to leave. Annick is sitting on the bed, whey-faced, puffy-eyed, staring vacantly, her nose pinched, shivering. She stares at them blankly. Then she gets up, her body tense to breaking point, her hands clenched, knuckles white, and with explosive energy grabs a crystal ash tray from the bedside table and hurls it with all her strength at Daquin’s head. He manages to duck just in time, and the ash tray shatters against the wall sounding like an explosion.

‘Filthy rapist, I’ve been waiting for this for years, bastard, I’m going to cut your balls off.’ Laughs. ‘At last it’ll be over. No more nightmares.’

She moves towards Daquin, who frankly feels more intrigued than afraid.

Romero, who always tends to take this kind of threat very seriously, edges towards her and tries to seize her bodily. She breaks away with surprising strength, gives him a resounding slap on the left ear, pain in the eardrum, and screeches shrilly:

‘Don’t you touch me, you filthy Eyetie, you’re all the same, garbage…’

Daquin encircles her waist from behind, and sits her on the bed. Her body rigid, arched, resisting all the way, she tries to free herself, twists, kicks out, smashes the bedside light.

‘Did Jubelin send you? I hate Jubelin, he killed Michel.’

Her voice is already less shrill. Then, suddenly, she sinks into apathy, her eyes vacant. Daquin lays her on the bed, without relaxing his hold, and talks to her very softly, almost in a whisper:

‘What’s this got to do with Jubelin?’

‘I don’t want to talk to you. Leave me alone.’

Daquin gradually loosens his grip. Lying on the bed, she begins to sob tearlessly, in fitful spasms.

‘Romero, get me a damp towel from the bathroom, a glass of water, and some tranquillisers – there are bound to be some.’

While Romero coaxes her to drink, Daquin inspects the room, opens the drawers and cupboards. Inside the bedside table drawer is a diskette. He picks it up. You never know.

Ten minutes or so later, Annick, still lying on the bed, is breathing more calmly, her eyes closed.

‘We’re not going to get any sense out of her. Get the car and take Madame Renouard to Doctor Senik’s clinic at Le Vésinet. Tell him I sent you and explain the situation. Cocaine, terrible shock, no way can she get out of this by cutting out and telling us to go to Hell. He’s used to dealing with this type of case. Tell him to register her under a false name, and take some precautions. After all, she may be in danger. We’ll meet up tomorrow. I’m staying here. I’ve got to have a word with Bourdier.’