Dead Horsemeat

Tuesday 19 September 1989

Destination La Défense. Romero is at the wheel, as always. Daquin doesn’t like driving. Leaning against the door, he maintains an aggressive silence.

‘What’s up, chief? Things not looking good?’

‘I don’t know. We’ll see.’ After a lengthy silence: ‘I hate La Défense. It depresses me.’ They turn onto the ring road. ‘Look. The tower blocks have their backs to us in an untidy sprawl. The whole district is designed to look at Paris, and be seen by Paris. It’s a theatre, not a city, and we have to enter from the wings.’

‘I’m here, I won’t abandon you in the concrete jungle.’

Romero misses the car park entrance and is off on another lap of the ring road.

‘Great, take me on a tour of the area. We’re in no hurry. It won’t do any harm to keep Madame Renouard waiting.’

Sitting at her desk, her chair facing the bay window, Annick gazes at the blue sky, the glittering Arche, Paris in the distance. She chain smokes. What the hell does this cop want? Angst. A familiar chill, she finds it hard to breathe or move. She can hear them in the woods, she’s fallen into the ditch, sprained ankle. They arrive, kick her to her feet, shove and drag her to the police van. She’s shivering with fear. The police station stinks. A poky office, two chairs, a strapping inspector in his forties. Threats. Tied to the radiator, sit, stand, sit, stand. Slaps. The taste of blood in her mouth. Stripped, searched. Promises. How long does it go on… She gave the names of all her friends. He strokes her hair, offers a coffee, a handkerchief. And the inspector wrote everything down, smiling at her. Then, he came over to her. I’m going to fuck you then let you go. You were never here, you never told me anything. If you refuse, statement, court case and I’ll tell everyone that you grassed on your friends. Understood? Say you want me to fuck you… She said it. The next day, she left Rennes for good. Twenty years later, all it takes is for a cop to come near her to rekindle the memory of her humiliation, and, worst of all, she can still hear the sound of her own voice… Hands trembling, a quick line, using the steel surface of the desk.

The secretary shows Daquin and Romero into the office. They take in the black and white décor, black carpet, white walls. More black above the bare matt grey steel desk, the Soulages triptych lit by a row of ceiling spotlights to show it off to advantage. Fascinated, Romero walks over to the vast bay window. The feeling of being suspended in a cradle at the fulcrum of La Défense. Daquin slowly walks around the Soulages to catch the play of light. Intense pleasure.

Annick, smiling, sophisticated, leads them over to the sofa in the lounge area. Elegant, beige suit over a green blouse, her thick hair in an impeccable chignon, softened by a few wisps framing her face, a hint of make-up, no jewellery, just a discreet gold Omega watch bracelet. A carefully contrived image, but static, it lacks a sense of mood. This woman has a real talent for setting the stage. Above all, be careful. And Daquin imperceptibly plays up his image of oafish, clumsy cop in jeans and trainers.

Annick stands facing them, leaning against the desk, mesmerised by Daquin. Similar build to the one who raped her, a fairly ordinary man, tall, square set, forty-something, but more muscular and no beer gut. The secretary brings in coffee. Daquin picks up his cup. Not the same hands either. The other guy’s were thick and stubby, these are long, broad and bony. She must stop this stupid memory game, it’s dangerous.

‘What can I do for you, Superintendent?’

Daquin looks at her. That beautiful low, slightly husky voice…

‘Did you know Nicolas Berger well?’

‘Very well, yes, he was a childhood friend, and we work closely together.’

‘He’s dead.’

‘What?’ She straightens up. ‘Is this a joke?’

‘Not at all. He was murdered on Sunday morning.’

‘Murdered…’

Daquin tells her about the car explosion, with precision and detachment.

Annick feels dazed. A deafening buzzing in her ears, again that cold clammy feeling of suffocation. She walks over to a cupboard, pours herself a double whisky, which she downs in one go, and comes back and leans against her desk, once again perfectly in control. Daquin continues in a neutral voice:

‘Can you tell me what his work at Pama consisted of?’

‘He was head of Pama communications department’s image division, i.e. he selected the consultancies we work with and supervised production.’ The past tense, so quickly, so naturally….

‘You were his line manager?’

‘Yes. He was a wonderful colleague, very knowledgeable about all the new technologies, with lots of ideas for applying them to corporate communications.’

Grotesque talking about Nicolas in this way. She goes over to the video and switches it on.

‘His most recent project. It’s still at draft stage.’

An airborne black horse jumps, turns, dances. The image continually morphs from the freely moving horse to the same animal with a rider on its back. Images, no sound. Slow motion, suspended movements stretching to infinity, fluid harmony, horse and rider as one, their movement pure ballet in space. Still on her feet, Annick watches.

‘This is the visual for our new advertising campaign. As he loved horses and was a good rider, he was particularly committed to this video promo. More than usual.’

‘Do you know if he had any enemies at work? Any ongoing conflicts?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. He was really a likeable person, immensely charming.’ A pause. ‘And not ambitious. I’ve never seen him fall out with anyone.’

‘Money worries?’

With a smile: ‘He was on a good salary here.’ Thinks for a moment. ‘No, I think if he’d had any, he’d have talked to me about them.’

‘Did you know he had a coke habit?’

A silence. Annick turns her back to them and walks over to the bay window, comes back and leans against the desk again.

‘It’s fairly common in advertising circles. Let’s say I’m not entirely surprised.’

‘Had be been having trouble with his dealers recently?’

Curtly: ‘I know nothing about his dealers, Superintendent.’

‘I find that hard to believe. Because on at least one occasion, you contacted his regular dealer, on his recommendation.’ Turning to Romero: ‘We have the tape.’

Romero is torn between admiration and irritation. How could I have missed that, I’m the one who made the tape…

Annick is caught completely off-guard. She quickly regains her composure. She leans forward, winning smile, the body of a Sèvres china doll and the voice of a blues singer:

‘What have you come here for, Superintendent? To arrest me for using cocaine?’

‘Not exactly Madame Renouard. Do you know if Nicolas Berger himself was dealing coke?’

‘No.’ Emphatic. ‘I’m certain he wasn’t.’

She stops. Over-reaction. Careful. Danger.

‘The day before he died, he bought and re-sold around fifty grams of cocaine, which undeniably makes him a dealer. According to a witness, he allegedly acquired it here.’

‘Superintendent, I know nothing about it and I don’t want to answer any more questions on the subject.’

‘As you wish.’ Smile. ‘You’re not under any obligation. Could we have a look around his office? In your presence, of course.’

‘Follow me.’

‘Romero, in the meantime would you go and have a chat with Nicolas Berger’s colleagues and ask a few questions? Discreetly, of course, as usual.’

In Nicolas Berger’s office, much smaller and more ordinary that Annick’s, a large framed photo: two horses led by a tanned, smiling young woman with fair hair.

‘I think those are his horses,’ says Annick. ‘He rode a lot. The woman is Amélie Gramont, a friend of his. She’s a breeder.’

‘His mistress?’

‘I have no idea. Nicolas had a lot of affairs, but no long-term relationship, as far as I know.’

On the desk, the video project. Daquin flicks through the folder. A lot of names and addresses. Notes, appointments. He opens the drawers. A diary.

‘May I take the folder and the diary away? I’ll have them brought back tomorrow. And I’ll also take the photo.’

‘As you wish.’

Lift, car park, gloomily lit. Guaranteed claustrophobia. Then back onto the ring road, hemmed in by tower blocks, and busy now, it’s the lunch hour. Daquin relaxes once the car crosses the Seine.

‘Are you mad at me for having identified the female voice on your tape?’

‘A bit. You always make me feel I’m not a proper grown-up, it’s exasperating.’

‘What did you find out from Berger’s colleagues?’

‘Not a lot. The staff more or less confirmed what Annick Renouard told us. A charming guy, very professional, a bit of a dilettante. Everyone knows he did coke, and nobody seems to give a shit. It’s a different story with the beautiful blonde. She’s not really liked, too ambitious, but she’s respected for her competence and capacity for work. She’s rumoured to have been having an affair with Jubelin, the new CEO, for years. No other lovers on the scene. Apparently she’s a woman who sleeps her way to the top. No conflict with Berger, he was her protégé. And she managed to pass on nearly all her weaknesses to him.’

‘And what do you think of this woman?’

‘None too emotional. It didn’t take her long to get a grip on herself after the initial shock. Gorgeous looking. And she is a real blonde.’

Anxious look. ‘Let me know if you’re planning to fall in love with her.’

‘No chance. She scares me.’

Daquin surprised. Flashback: in the main street of Perugia, suffocating heat, that cultured, voluble Italian friend, slightly grating accent: ‘We should be afraid, Theo, women are so much stronger than we are’. With a touch of humour and a great deal of sincerity. Daquin turns to Romero:

‘But she’s vulnerable too. She drinks, she snorts, never sits down, can’t keep still. And she’s trying to protect herself in every way she can, the way she dresses, the way her office is done up… If I can find her Achilles heel, I’ll have her where I want her.’

Romero, downright sceptical, chooses to say nothing until they’re back at Quai des Orfèvres.

Annick sits absolutely still, breathing slowly. I’ve got to get myself together. Nicolas… no point thinking about it now… Daquin’s gaze, hazel eyes, ironic, dominant. I find that hard to believe. Shudder. Strongly tempted to have a little line. Not before I’ve pulled myself together, I’m not a junkie. I’m going to have to tell Jubelin the news.

Jubelin’s secretary tells her that he’s been shut in his office all day, having cancelled all his appointments and given orders that nobody is to disturb him.

‘Is he shut up in there with some gorgeous female?’

‘No, not this time. He’s alone and he’s working.’

‘Well I’ll take it upon myself to go in. It’s an emergency.’

‘It’s up to you.’

When Annick pushes open the door, Jubelin looks up from his computer.

‘I said I didn’t want to be disturbed.’

‘I know. Nicolas has been murdered.’

Jubelin stares at her, stunned.

‘Here?’

‘No, yesterday morning, at a horse show.’

She tells him about the visit from the two police officers, leaving out the references to cocaine.

‘Who are these cops, which department are they from?’

‘One is Superintendent Daquin. I don’t know where they’re from. I didn’t ask them.’

‘Do they think the murder has anything to do with Pama?’

‘I got the impression that they think that’s only one possibility.’ A silence. ‘They took away some of Nicolas’s files.’

Jubelin reacts.

‘And you let them? Without a warrant? Get those files back right away, Annick. Believe me, the less the police stick their noses in our business, the better. Do I have to spell it out?’

He gets up, plants a kiss on her forehead, and steers her towards the door.

Back in her vast office. Cigarette, inhales deeply. Persistent feeling of uneasiness. The memories surfacing, of course. But not only. Beware of the cops, Jubelin said. He’s not wrong. Slush funds, backhanders, cash transfers and regular killings on the stock exchange… I know about all that. But that’s not what it’s about. Nicolas has been murdered, and Jubelin didn’t even seem surprised, as if he were expecting it in a way. Flashback to the party on 14^th July at Perrot’s, Nicolas deep in conversation with Jubelin. They’d both stopped talking when she joined them: We’ll talk about it in my office. What does he know that I don’t?

A line… Not yet. Annick calls home. The familiar voice on the other end.

‘Michel, is that you?’

Michel, who does everything, the shopping, the cleaning, who looks after her when she’s ill and is her constant support. Michel, her entire family.

‘I need you, right away. Can we have lunch together?’

Annick parks her little red Austin Mini outside her apartment building, Boulevard Maillot, in Neuilly, on the edge of the Bois de Boulogne. Michel is waiting for her. Tall, slim, fair-haired, around thirty-five, beige linen trousers and leather jacket. He leans over and opens her door, helps her out.

I hadn’t planned anything for lunch at home, so I booked a table at Sébillon’s.’

‘That’s perfect by me.’ She takes his arm. ‘Let’s go.’

A few paces in silence, in the opulent deserted streets of this little corner of Neuilly. Then:

‘Nicolas was murdered on Sunday morning.’

Michel stares at her speechless. He’s shocked.

At Sébillon’s, a quiet table at the back. The head waiter comes over, and Michel orders a whisky for Madame.

‘Which does Madame prefer, Chivas, Glenlivet…?’

Annick gives her most charming smile and, in a slightly slurred voice, says:

‘Anything, as long as it’s more than forty per cent proof.’ The head waiter looks disapproving. Michel continues:

‘And I’ll have a glass of champagne. Then we’ll both have the leg of lamb, pink.’

The head waiter moves away. ‘Now, what’s going on?’

Annick tells him about the visit from the two cops, the booby-trapped car at the horse show yesterday. Her voice is slightly off key, as if she is surprised to hear what she is saying.

‘Nicolas, a childhood friend. And up there,’ she gestures in the direction of La Défense, ‘entertaining, considerate… I scare myself sometimes. I should be in tears. Well I’m not. After the initial shock, nothing. I’m an emotional cripple.’

‘No, it’s not even that. You’re no good at lying to yourself, that’s all. You’ve always found Nicolas sweet but of no interest.’

‘The cops think he was involved in cocaine trafficking.’

Michel’s ears suddenly prick up.

‘Was he?’

‘How should I know? In any case, he supplied me. And the cops already know.’

‘Shit.’ A silence. ‘Have you talked to Jubelin about it?’

‘No. I don’t like talking cocaine with Jubelin. My position’s complicated enough as it is. He’s the CEO, remember. And besides, this time, I can tell he’s worried.’ She hesitates, and then: ‘I’m going to have to find a new dealer. At the moment, I can’t cope without it. And with the cops on our backs, Jubelin cornered…’

‘I’ll deal with it, don’t worry.’

She checks her watch.

‘No time for dessert, I’ve got to get back. Can I leave you to pay?’

‘No problem, I’ve got your cheque book.’

‘I’ll be back late this evening, and I’ll be dining alone.’

‘That’s convenient. I’ve got a meeting with a publisher, a new comic strip album. It might go on into the evening. I’ll leave you a cold dinner in the kitchen.’

I’m allowed a quick line now, and Annick works frenziedly all afternoon. Got to go through the proposal from the ad agency for the autumn promotional campaign which is based entirely on a sports metaphor. The Pama team, united, fights to win, to ensure its policyholders win. At Pama, as in sport, ready, steady, go and let the best player win, a democratic, egalitarian company. Flashback: Michel smiles at her, you’re no good at lying to yourself… Even… But people keep disturbing her, no time to stop for breath. Phone calls. A departmental head wants to know… You have an appointment… A journalist on the line…

Annick isn’t able to get back to work on her campaign until 7 p.m.

When she looks up, much later, it’s dark outside. On her floor, there’s total silence. Everyone must have left without her noticing. She walks over to the window. A luminous evening, the Arche illuminated and the lights of Paris in the distance, beyond the office blocks. Tired, an emptiness in her heart. She smokes a cigarette, has a whisky, thinks of Jubelin… Unease. Think carefully about my relationship with him. We’re a team, but there’s never been equality. Those are the rules of the game, and I accepted them. It was that, or don’t play at all. But until now, we’ve had no secrets from each other. And now, a rift. I’m losing ground, I don’t know why. No way am I going to accept that. And if the investigation concentrates on coke trafficking, I’m in big trouble. Another whisky. I need some security. For example, find out what he was working on this afternoon, that was so top secret. Maybe something connected to Nicolas’s murder?

There’s a communicating door between the two offices, which they rarely use, and never in the other’s absence. Annick rummages in her desk drawer and finds the key lying among the paper clips and pens. She sits at Jubelin’s desk and turns on the computer. It says hello then asks for the password. Surprise. She hesitates. Unable to hack into the computer. But finding out Jubelin’s password is an exciting challenge. Do I know him as well as I thought? What kind of password would he choose? A name? She tries her own, Jubelin’s, that of his wife, his children. Rejected. The names of the companies he ran before the merger with Pama. Rejected. Outside the family and his business, who was important to him? The names of his horses. Rejected. She tries another ten words or so, unsuccessfully. This is getting really interesting. Tries to remember what might have been significant in the years she’s known him. One outstanding memory, their trip to Granada. She tries Granada. Rejected. The night at the Parador hotel, the open windows overlooking the fragrant gardens of the Alhambra. Jubelin murmuring ‘we’re going to devour the whole world, you and I.’ Champagne. Drinking out of each other’s glasses, laughing, in front of the window. Alhambra. The computer says welcome… Stop. Difficult to move on. The memory of their bodies perfectly attuned to each other. Well nearly… For a long time now, fucking Jubelin has been a tacit renewal of their alliance, without pleasure. I remember more clearly how he negotiated his way into Pama than the shape of his buttocks. An effort to visualise the said buttocks. Nothing doing. Men are hopeless romantics. Never mind the Alhambra. I’m going in.

Jubelin had been following share prices on the Frankfurt stock exchange. He had selected the company A.A. Bayern and had been monitoring the share prices in real time. Annick has never heard of this company. The shares had opened at a hundred and twenty marks, remained steady for a few hours and then fell heavily. At 4 p.m., they were at fifty marks. Then, Jubelin began instructing a Luxembourg-based financial consultancy that Annick had never heard of to purchase large numbers of shares. No way of knowing what he was up to exactly. But it didn’t seem to be vital to Pama, nor to be connected to Nicolas’s murder. Probably a tip-off Jubelin had acted on to make a fast buck. He’s always loved money. Money and women. Any women, anywhere, as long as they’re easy and it’s quick. A half smile. You have to forgive him his little weaknesses. Reassuring feeling of superiority. For the time being, I haven’t found any real reason to worry.

Just in case, she copies all the data onto a floppy disk, puts it in her pocket and switches off the computer, mentally muttering a few words of apology for the Alhambra. All she has to do now is lock the communicating door, put away the key and go home. Michel won’t be there this evening.