Dead Horsemeat

Tuesday 7 November 1989

The chief is livid. He paces up and down in front of the window. Lying on his desk is the report signed by Lavorel, while Daquin, sitting in an armchair, watches him with a completely blank expression.

‘It’s unspeakable. I’m going to clean up the department, and I’m going to start now. With you…’

‘I was on leave, Sir, remember, I haven’t set foot in the place for a week.’

‘… and your inspectors, who are nowhere to be found, by the way, vanished into thin air after their antics last night…’

‘They called me in the night and I advised them to make themselves scarce for the next twenty-four hours. Let time do its work, as the saying goes.’

The chief was speechless.

‘How can you…?’ Daquin is so laid back that the chief is thrown. He sits down at his desk. ‘What do you have to say in your defence?’

‘In my defence, nothing. In my inspectors’ defence, I can tell you that they carried out a sting, you’ve had the reports and so has the investigating magistrate. They had a search warrant and were working in cooperation with Superintendent Dubanchet’s team. Dubanchet is delighted with the success of the operation. Regular deliveries of heroin from Holland, that’s quite something.’

The chief takes this in. He’s furious that he attacked Daquin without thinking of obtaining Dubanchet’s support first. Embarrassing.

‘Don’t imagine for one second that I’m going to believe this was a coincidence. In this office, I asked you to lay off Perrot. One week later, your inspectors arrest his chauffeur on a minor dealing offence and he makes a whole series of accusations against his boss, spontaneously of course…’

‘I haven’t seen his statement.’

‘Well I have. Bravo. That’s devious.’

Lavorel, devious…

‘The main thing seems to me not what you believe, Sir, but how you are going to handle the situation. Perrot is up to his ears in compromising deals, closer to the world of crime than that of big business, and people are beginning to talk. He’s vulnerable, because he rose very fast, but he hasn’t protected his rear. In other words, he’s a danger, especially to his friends. It seems to me you need at least twenty-four hours to be able to cover the situation from every angle.’

At dawn, after a night on the road taking turns at the wheel with Lavorel, Romero parks the car two streets away from the Eroscenter and Lavorel goes over the plan they worked out during the night once again. A little stroll to the grand, classical-style apartment building. Tall carriage entrance, monumental staircase, red carpet and elevator. The Eroscenter occupies the entire first floor. You have to ring a buzzer to gain entry. On the upper floors, opulent apartments, two to each landing. On the ground floor next to the entrance, a pizzeria, closed at this early hour.

‘We can’t do anything until early afternoon. Let’s go and have a slap-up breakfast. That’ll keep us awake.’

4 p.m., Romero goes up, rings the buzzer, smiles at the surveillance camera. The door opens and he walks in with just the right sway in his gait. Nobody in the vast reception lounge other than a pretty hostess leafing through a magazine behind an airport-style desk.

‘Si parla italiano?’

‘No.

Relief. ‘Français?’

‘Of course. It’s very early, Sir. We’re not open yet.’

‘I’m a cousin of Signor Renta’s. I’m passing through Munich and I have to leave in an hour.’

‘Signor Renta, that’s different.’ I should have guessed, there’s a family likeness. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Renta told me about a French transvestite who’s just arrived…’

The hostess leans towards an intercom.

‘Evita, a client for you.’ A frantic whispered exchange follows. Go in, Sir, third door on the left.’

Big smile. No need to show the colour of your money. A cousin of Renta’s doesn’t pay. Romero walks down the corridor, third door on the left, opens it and finds himself face to face with Evita. She towers above him in her high heels. Very beautiful, and angry, that’s for sure. Romero, a finger on his lips, signals her to follow him into the adjacent shower room. He turns the taps full on and says:

‘In case there are any hidden mikes.’

She laughs.

‘Are we shooting a spy film?’

Romero, irritated, feels a bit silly.

‘It’s no joke.’

‘It doesn’t look like one.’

‘Did you see or hear anything in Paris that’s dangerous for your employer, Perrot, or for his client, Deluc? Perrot sent you here. I don’t know why you agreed to come.’

‘Good money.’

‘You have no idea. All Perrot wants to do is get rid of you. He and his buddy Renta are about to sell you off to Saudi Arabia and they’re planning to send you there in two days’ time.’

‘To Saudi Arabia!’

Her initial reaction is to burst out laughing. Romero looks miffed. The second is to say to herself that after all she’s here with no ID papers, her every movement is watched and it’s beginning seriously to get on her nerves.

‘Who are you, tall dark stranger and what do you suggest?’

Romero, bare-chested, wearing only his trousers, bursts into the corridor looking completely panic-stricken, just as Le Dem rings the buzzer and sprints into the reception lounge.

‘Help, a doctor…’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Come and see.’

The hostess races after him into the room where Evita is writhing on the ground half naked, groaning, foaming at the mouth, white froth covering her cheeks, filling her nostrils and streaming down her neck where the veins are swollen. Her eyes are slightly bulging, her wig askew and her make-up streaked.

Romero, frantic:

‘I’m afraid it’s rabies, I saw a rabid dog in Italy once, it was foaming like that.’

The hostess is trembling from head to foot.

‘Rabies is dangerous.’

‘Very, but I think we have a little time before she bites us. Help me with this sheet.’

He takes the sheet from the bed, wraps Evita in it, still frothing at the mouth, tight so that she is unable to move, sits her up in an armchair, hoists her up onto his shoulder and grabs his jacket on the way, forget the shirt.

‘I’m taking her to the hospital.’

Strides across the lounge. Dumbfounded, the hostess trails behind. Le Dem holds the front door open. The two of them head down the stairs holding Evita’s shoulders and legs. The girl upstairs starts yelling:

‘Wait, where are you going…?’

Outside the building, Lavorel in the car, engine ticking over, everyone in, they shoot off at top speed. In the driving mirror, Lavorel sees two men rush out of the pizzeria.

Evita wriggles an arm out of the sheet. Lavorel hands her a bottle of mineral water. She drinks, rinses out her mouth, spits out of the window, wipes her mouth and straightens her wig. Lavorel takes numerous detours, there’s not much traffic at this hour.

‘We’re going back to Paris, but not by the motorway.’

‘Clever trick.’

‘It’s an effervescent powder for stomach ache, you’re meant to put a little in a big glass of water. If you put a lot with just your saliva, it froths all over the place. When I was a kid, we would do that just before taking the métro in rush hour. We always got a seat and plenty of space around us.’