Dead Horsemeat

Monday 25 September 1989

After the fiasco of the search, they have to tail the farrier again, if that’s still possible. But first of all, to find him. Lavorel and Le Dem have been driving around the Chantilly stables area for over an hour, looking for the white van. Suddenly, as they cruise past one of the stables, they see some of the lads shouting and waving their arms. People come out of the tack room, the office, and run over to a corner of the courtyard where the white van, in fact… Lavorel abandons the car by the roadside and races over to the van, followed by Le Dem. On the concrete floor of the forge, surrounded by a dozen horrified people, is a dead horse lying on its side, hanging by its halter from the forge’s metal ring, its neck broken. And beneath the horse, the body of a man, three-quarters hidden from view, a corner of his leather apron and heavy shoes just visible. It could well be the farrier.

‘Shit,’ says Le Dem.

‘Police. Make way.’

Lavorel breaks through the circle and leans over the body. Warm. They have to hoist the horse’s body. After cutting the halter rope, several men set about moving it, tethers tied to its legs, bars slipped under its flank.

Avoid touching the man. A horse is incredibly heavy. The body slides a metre. And discloses the remains of what appears to have been the farrier. His face crushed, a few shards of bone in a bloody pink pulp. Not much blood. Horse hairs are stuck to the amorphous mess. The same colour as the few hairs that are still identifiable. A shattered hand. Very few injuries on the rest of the body, the leather apron seems to have protected him. The onlookers stand in horrified silence. He was dead all right.

‘It’s an appalling accident,’ says the stables manager in hushed tones. The horse must have kicked the farrier, goodness knows why, perhaps because he drove a nail into its foot, he fell, the horse took fright, trampled him and broke its neck pulling on the tether. It’s rare, but it happens.’

Lavorel straightens up, catches Le Dem’s eye. He’s not there any more. Unbelievable! The expert… He’s probably gone off to throw up. Give me back Romero, I’m prepared to forget the blonde… Then he swings into the routine, call the gendarmes, tell them to bring a doctor to certify the death, take down the names of everyone present in the stable, start questioning the witnesses to establish the circumstances of the accident…

Le Dem had discreetly slipped away when everybody’s attention was focused on the corpse. He walked down a line of stalls, carefully checking the bolts on all the doors, top and bottom. A precaution that ensured the door remains closed even if the horse manages to open the top one by playing with it. On stopping in front of the stall of an iron grey horse, Le Dem opens the door, goes in and closes it behind him. Against the wall, sitting in the straw, is the terrified farrier’s assistant. Le Dem sits down beside him, without saying a word. He can hear the kid’s heart pounding. A few long minutes go by. The horse munches straw, and comes over and gently sniffs them from time to time. Le Dem strokes its nostrils, its nose, and talks to it softly. He can sense that the boy is gradually calming down.

Le Dem still says nothing. It’s the boy who speaks first.

‘How did you know I was here?’

‘I know that Rouma works with an assistant. I looked for you when I arrived at the forge, but you weren’t there. Where could you hide? In a stall, of course. The bottom bolt on the outside of the door is open, so I could tell the stall had been closed from the inside and that it was highly likely that there was someone in here. And if you’re hiding, it’s because you saw something. And you’re afraid.’

‘Are you a… policeman?’

‘Yes. Tell me what you saw.’

‘My people don’t talk to the cops. We don’t talk to the others either. We sort things out among ourselves.’

Le Dem strokes one of the grey horse’s legs, takes a sugar lump out of his pocket. The horse lowers its head, takes the sugar and creases its lips with contentment.

‘Even when it comes to finding Rouma’s murderer?’

‘How do you know it’s not an accident? They’re all saying it’s an accident.’

‘The horse hanged itself on its halter. The knot tethering the halter to the ring on the wall of the forge couldn’t have been tied by a farrier like Rouma.’

The kid stares at him. A certain respect. He repeats:

‘My people don’t talk to the cops.’ His tone is less confident. ‘Besides, what do you care who killed him?’

‘I know that Rouma did some stupid things, but he was a very good farrier. We at least owe it to him to find his killer. So let’s make a deal. You tell me. I won’t take any notes. I won’t ask your name. I won’t tell anyone I met you. I’ll even help you get out of here without anyone seeing you, and you can go home. But at least you’ll give me a chance of finding the murderer.’

‘You swear I’ll be able to go? That no one will know?’

‘I swear.’ Le Dem smiles. ‘I swear on the head of this grey horse.’

‘There were two of them. I was putting a halter on the grey. Dimitri was working on a horse’s rear left hoof. He was leaning over. They came up from behind.’ The boy stops, looks at Le Dem, his eyes wide. ‘The amazing thing is that Dimitri didn’t hear them coming.’ He continues. ‘One of them hit him hard on the back of the neck, with a sort of short cosh. He fell immediately. I was frightened. I hid in the stall and peeped over the top of the door. Then, one of them pushed Dimitri under the horse while the other re-tied the knot, like you said. And he did something to the horse’s neck too. I couldn’t see very well. They went off through the woods, and almost at once, the horse went crazy, it trampled Dimitri before collapsing. Then the others began to arrive. I didn’t dare come out.’

The boy sobs noiselessly.

‘What did the two men look like?’

‘Tall, dark hair and dark suits.’

‘You didn’t see anything else?’

‘Yes. When everyone began yelling and running, I saw a black Mercedes driving past slowly on the road, past the stables. I’m sure they were inside it. The registration number ended in XY 75.’

Le Dem helps him to his feet.

‘Come on, I’ll get you out of here.’

The boy slips his hand under the grey’s front and caresses the inside leg where the skin is softest, his head resting against the neck, and lets himself go for a moment.’

‘Goodbye horses.’

Le Dem returns to the forge, where the doctor is examining the body.

‘There you are,’ says Lavorel. ‘About time too.’

Le Dem draws him to one side.

‘It’s a murder. Have an autopsy done on the body. A blow on the back of the neck. And while you’re about it, an autopsy on the horse. And a photo of the knot tethering the horse to the ring on the wall of the forge.’

Lavorel looks at him in amazement. Le Dem seems sure of himself, and calm.

‘Fine. Will do.’

Amelot and Berry are sitting in the detectives’ office, the list of horses found among Berger’s papers in front of them, and are routinely phoning all the vets in the Chantilly area, and there are a lot of them. Fifth phone call.

‘I’m a reporter for Horse Magazine, and I’m doing a piece on Khulna de Viveret, who’s just died. I’ve been told you treated him, a couple of months or so ago…’

‘Let me check… I didn’t treat him, I simply certified the death. Heart attack.’

‘Can you tell me what happened, for my article? Our readers like touching little details. The groom in tears, that sort of thing.’

‘You can write what you like. The truth is that he died alone in the middle of the night. I was called the next morning to sign the insurance forms. The body was removed by the knacker, and I can guarantee that no one in the stables was crying.’

‘He’d just been filmed for a promotional video for an insurance company, Pama.’

‘What a coincidence, I do believe it was for Pama that I signed the death certificate.’

A few more phone calls and Amelot and Berry manage to establish that Java des Lauges, the last but one on the list, also died of a heart attack in the night, and was also insured by Pama.

The veterinary college of Maisons-Alfort:

‘Yes, of course, horses can die of a heart attack, although it is a rare cause of death. Provoke a heart attack? Possible… No, the vet can’t detect it, if he has no reason to suspect…’

After having identified the owner of Le Chambellan restaurant, a certain Perrot, Romero spends hours wandering from one Ministry of Defence department to another to find out whether the aforesaid Perrot had indeed served in the army in Beirut between 1972 and 1973. Daquin’s orders, no explanation, do as I tell you. And he eventually obtains the answer: Perrot was enlisted in the marines and served in the security service of the French embassy from 1972 to 1975. Where does the chief get his tip-offs from? Annoying.

The tax office has been on strike for two months and all leave has been suspended. So Duroselle has not been able to get out of the meeting Daquin has requested. Since hearing of Moulin’s death, he’s been expecting this summons, and he feels vaguely guilty. A simple exchange of views on a case you dealt with, says the superintendent. Moulin, does that name ring any bells? What should he do? Answer the questions, after all, it’s the police, and there’s been a murder, or remind Daquin of his duty of confidentiality and refer him to his superiors? He discussed it with his wife who advised him not to say anything at all. It was the only way not to say too much. Treat him with disdain, a tax inspector was just as important as a police superintendent, and refer it to his chief. As it happened, it was absolutely impossible to get hold of his chief.

There’s a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ says Duroselle, entrenched behind his desk.

Daquin enters, a brawny one metre eighty-five, square jaw, thick neck as wide as his jaw, dark brown gimlet eyes, well-cut suede jacket, beige chino trousers, fauve leather English shoes. Duroselle feels ill at ease in his clothes. Daquin’s cold gaze sweeps the room, then settles on him. Duroselle stands up to shake his hand across the desk. Countless stories of police brutality jostle inside his head.

Daquin sits down opposite him, without waiting to be asked. Duroselle finds himself standing up, his arms dangling by his sides. He hurriedly sits down, breaking into a sweat.

‘You know that Moulin is dead, and that he was murdered?’ Duroselle nods. ‘To assist my investigation, I need to know who was behind the tax inspection you carried out.’

Duroselle feigns anger. Nobody had put them under any pressure. Suspecting the tax officials to be at the service of private or personal interests was unacceptable. As far as we’re concerned, all tax-payers are equal…

Daquin lets him have his say, with an amused smile. Then:

‘We’re not going to go on playing cat and mouse. I’m not going to lean on you, whatever you thought when you saw me come in. As a matter of principle, I never hit a striking worker. But if you don’t answer my question, your wife will find out who you left Moulin’s riding school with on the evening of 13^th June and what you did that same day between five and seven.’

Duroselle outraged: ‘That’s blackmail.’

‘Quite.’ Dazzling smile. ‘Good detective work needs good informers, and how, in your opinion, do you find good informers?’ Duroselle is sweating heavily. ‘Of course, if you answer my question, I shan’t mention my sources, your bosses won’t know a thing. Nor will your wife.’ Duroselle breathes more easily. ‘I want an answer right away.’

Daquin ensconces himself in his chair, his hands crossed, and waits. Duroselle remains silent for a moment or two. Is already thinking what to tell his wife. Sober, icy, the honour of the tax office is intact.

‘It came directly from the Minister’s office. They called my chief, who passed it on to me.’

‘How? Just a name and an address, or a bit more detail?’

‘More detail. Moulin had sold a horse in Italy for two hundred and fifty thousand francs and had only declared fifty thousand. I was to find the remaining two hundred thousand.’ Puffing with pride. ‘And I did.’

‘Well informed, the minister’s office. That’s reassuring. I feel as if we’re in good hands.’