Dead Horsemeat

Sunday 29 October 1989

It is very early in the morning when Daquin’s phone rings. Annick’s voice.

‘Come to my place right away.’

An hour later, on the landing of the seventh floor, a glance at the closed door of Michel’s apartment and Daquin rings the bell. The door opens. She’s waiting for him.

In the main living room (a glance around, nothing’s changed since the other evening, the feeling of being back in familiar surroundings), Annick, wearing navy blue slacks and pullover, very prim, leads the way and sits in one of the wing chairs, her arms on the armrests, upright, slow, an air of suspense created with minimal effort.

Daquin sits in an armchair next to her, and waits. When unsure, do as little as possible.

‘I know who killed Michel.’

Ears pricked. ‘I’m listening.’

‘I want you to help me nail his killer.’

Daquin’s antennae sense danger. Things are moving a bit too fast, the situation is out of control. Flashback: internal investigation, being sent on leave. Lavorel and Romero. I don’t really have any choice.

‘To do that, I need proof.’

She stares at him for a moment. Stock-still. No coke for several days, probably on medication.

‘The murderer is a friend of mine called Christian Deluc…’

Daquin sinks back in his armchair. He feels slightly giddy. Runs his hand over his face. Me too, I thought Deluc could have had Michel killed. So what she has to say interests me. But it’s no more than speculation. And as for killing Michel himself…What is she trying to drag me into?

‘Apparently you know him?’

‘A little. I met him once. Tell me how you reached this conclusion.’

‘I came home this morning. And on the coffee table I found this cigarette case.’

Lying in front of Daquin is a metal case, strawberries-crushed-in-cream pink, beedies – Indian cigarettes. Those are the cigarettes Deluc smokes. Unusual. You don’t find them in that packaging in France. They come from Davidoff, in Geneva. This case wasn’t here when I left. I found it when I came home this morning. I called the concierge who did the cleaning here while I was away, and asked here where she had found it. It was there, under the cushion of the wing chair.

Daquin opens the case. Half a dozen slim cigarettes, dark brown, carefully laid out, a cloying smell.

‘Is Deluc a friend of yours?’

‘Yes, you could say so.’

‘So he’s been here before?’ She nods. ‘Even if this case is his, he could have lost it at any time.’

‘No. No way. Michel and I liked to keep the place neat and tidy, with everything is in its place.’ Daquin remembers the meticulously organised studio. ‘Michel cleaned the place thoroughly every day. If the case had been in the wing chair before Michel’s death he would have found it and thrown it away. Or put it away. But it wasn’t put away.’ After a pause, she continues: ‘Deluc came here last Wednesday. Not Tuesday, otherwise the case would have disappeared on Wednesday morning. Not Thursday, as nobody except the concierge came into the apartment after the police left. Deluc came on Wednesday afternoon, rang the bell, and Michel opened the door. Deluc sat in the wing chair. They had a drink, Christian smoked a cigarette. The concierge found two dirty glasses and an ash tray in the sink. They went into Michel’s studio, and there, Christian killed him.

Daquin listens carefully. A memory is struggling to the surface. The murder was on Wednesday. Thursday evening, at the Élysée, rack of lamb, Château Carbonnieux, Deluc puts down his glass. ‘Yesterday afternoon, a meeting of our working party to crack down on drugs’ And he repeated: ‘Wednesday afternoon.’ Was he stating his alibi?

‘Help me to understand. Did Deluc know Michel?’

‘Of course. When I entertained, Michel did the cooking. All my friends knew him.’ Abruptly, she leans towards him, grows animated, smiling provocatively. ‘Michel and I made an odd couple, didn’t we? We were very happy together, for more than ten years. Affection without sex. Happiness. Can you understand that, Superintendent?’

‘From your point of view I can, but what did he get out of it?’

‘I was his anchor. I made every conceivable freedom and pleasure possible in his life.’ Her smile becomes more insistent. ‘Don’t tell me nobody’s ever loved you for your dependability rather than for sex. Usually, in these cases, you take the sex too. We didn’t have sex, and that suited Michel perfectly.’

Daquin sinks deeper into his chair with a half-smile.

‘I’ve experienced that too, but it hurt. Let’s get back to Deluc. Why would he have wanted to kill Michel?’

Now she’s sitting upright again, remaining stock still in her armchair.

‘I know Christian. I see him as disturbed, repressed and capable of anything. The type of person I wouldn’t be surprised to learn one day turns round and shoots his entire family and then commits suicide.’

Lenglet’s breathless voice echoes in Daquin’s ears: ‘a repressed lech, made you think of a fundamentalist Protestant paedophile.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Complicated relationships with women. He remarries at each stage of his career. First wife, on arrival in Paris. Second, on his return from Lebanon, and third on entering the Élysée.’

‘Do you mind if I say that he’s not the only person who sleeps his way to the top? And that it’s not a crime?’

Another broad smile. ‘I see what you mean, Superintendent, and you’re right. But Christian doesn’t sleep with his women.’ Daquin raises an eyebrow. ‘They’ve never made a secret of it. He’s a laughing stock among the Paris chattering classes…’

‘Charming. What about his son?’

‘He’s not the father. And it’s public knowledge that he only gets pleasure from Perrot’s girls.’

‘Just because a man sleeps with whores, it doesn’t mean he kills queers. Let’s change the subject. Last Wednesday, why did you accuse Jubelin of having killed Michel?’

‘I wasn’t myself.’

‘That’s not a good enough answer, and you know it.’

‘Jubelin and I have fallen out. We’ve crossed swords at Pama. The day before the murder, he asked me to hand in my notice. As he hated Michel and the life we lived – I think he was ashamed of it -, I was in shock, I didn’t know what I was saying. I don’t seriously think that Jubelin had Michel killed. I’m not being devious, if that’s what you want to know.’

‘If I find Michel’s killer, whether it’s Deluc or someone else, you’ll tell me what you know about Jubelin.’

Again, she leans forward, the smile, turns on the charm.

‘Our interests might well converge there.’ A silence. ‘I’ve already found his successor. Young, assistant manager of Pama’s insurance arm for ten years, a graduate of the École Polytechnique and a Protestant. After Jubelin, an ambitious, unscrupulous self-made man, he’s someone who’ll offer a reassuring image and steer a steady course.’

Sincerity in her voice. It’s probably safe to assume that she’s not trying to protect Jubelin by giving me Deluc. Daquin runs his thumb over his lips.

‘You have no proof against Deluc. But for reasons of my own, I’m going to pursue this line of inquiry.’ He rises. ‘It would probably be best if nobody knows you’re back home. You never know. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have anything.’

Take a walk through Paris, to think. Taxi down to the Seine, then Daquin walks home from the Pont du Carrousel via Saint-Germain-des-Prés and Boulevard Raspail. First point: my trump card is still Perrot’s chauffeur. To be played first. Second point: I have no means of putting pressure on Annick Renouard, I simply benefit from a bit of sympathy for having briefly been Michel’s lover. But is she really trying to find his killer, or is she using this murder to play some complicated game at Pama? There’s nothing of the naïve young girl about her. He walks for a kilometre mulling over the question and concludes that she’s probably in earnest. Third point: in any case, I have no choice, I have to play her game because, whatever happens, she’ll give me Jubelin who may be as important to me as Perrot. I’ll have to improvise as I go along.

He enters the Villa des Artistes. A shock. Rudi’s there, sitting on a low wall, waiting for him. Stunning: black trousers, black leather jacket, belted, round neck buttoned up to the chin. Only a month. Another era. Rudi smiles at him.

‘I’ve come to lock up my apartment and move out my things. I wouldn’t dream of coming to Paris without dropping in to say hello. You’re usually in at this hour on a Sunday.’

Daquin opens the door and they go into the house. Rudi, very much at home, takes off his jacket to show a beautiful orange-yellow shirt, and sits down on the sofa. Daquin disappears behind the counter, mixes two margaritas and waits to find out what this visit is about. They chat about this and that. Hundreds of thousands of demonstrators, Honecker’s resigned, the Politburo’s in tatters. Daquin admits he’s been wrong about the GDR. Rudi tells him about his day-to-day life in Berlin, two trips to the GDR with a false passport, the excitement.

‘And it’s not over. The Communist world is falling apart and we are the ones who are burying it.’ Daquin is still waiting. ‘Mitterrand is leaving in two days for an official visit to the Federal Republic of Germany. And he’s planning to go to the GDR in November.’ Silence. ‘The opposition in my country takes a dim view of this trip.’ Still no reaction. ‘Could you introduce me to a few people I could discuss it with? Purely to exchange information, of course. Friends of Lenglet’s, for example?’

Sigh of relief from Daquin. Situation clarified, defined.

‘I can.’ Glances at his watch. It’s already after one, appointment at the stadium at three. ‘Tomorrow. But fair’s fair. One of my inspectors is leaving for Munich tonight, on unofficial business. He doesn’t speak German. Can you find a crash pad there for him?’