Dead Horsemeat

Friday 29 September 1989

When Le Dem turns up at Thirard’s looking for a job, at around 7 a.m., Thirard is already on horseback. Le Dem stops beside the outdoor riding school and watches, waiting for him to finish work. Not very tall, slim, expensive riding habit, beige jodhpurs, fauve leather jacket and matching boots, with a sharp profile, clearly defined lips, a ruddy complexion and stubby, rough hands. Hands that Le Dem knows well, a farmer’s hands. A good seat, supple, sparing in his movements, Thirard exercises unquestionable, non-negotiable authority over his horse, an absolute power in a world of its own. Le Dem knows that feeling well. With a pang of nostalgia he remembers riding the bay horse early in the morning in La Courneuve, before the park opened. They would jump the picnic tables and pirouette on the lawns, at the foot of the seedy tower blocks. The horse submissive, the rider powerful, a harmonious couple. A sudden insight: that is real togetherness. Because even when I’m in bed with a woman, until now I’ve always felt somehow alone. Embarrassing. Le Dem feels his cheeks flushing and hastily switches his attention to Thirard.

They’ve finished. Long reins, walking back to the stables. Thirard stops his horse a few paces from Le Dem and murmurs, still in his own world: ‘Lousy motion, pity…’

‘Perhaps it’s a pulled ligament on the left patella,’ says Le Dem softly in an apologetic tone.

Thirard suddenly becomes aware of him, and eyes him suspiciously.

‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’

Le Dem looks down.

‘I’m looking for work as a groom…’

Before he can finish his sentence, two uniformed gendarmes appear, making their way over towards Thirard, who freezes, his eyes glazing over and his face inscrutable.

‘Are you the owner of the Val-Fourré stables?’

‘Yes. It’s under management, but I am still the owner.’

‘It burned down last night.’ Thirard shows no emotion whatsoever. ‘And my men suspect it was arson. The third case since July, all in the Chantilly region, and the second in a stables owned by you.’

‘I’m not convinced it was arson this time. My manager installed an electrical system himself, which was unsafe in my view. I wrote to him about it a couple of weeks ago, and I sent a copy of my letter to my insurance company. Their assessor will of course contact you.’

‘In the meantime, if you could accompany us to the scene…’

Thirard turns to Le Dem:

‘What’s your name?’

‘Jean Le Dem.’

‘Here, take the keys and go and fetch the four-wheel-drive over there in the courtyard. You can drive me and we’ll talk in the car. I’ll follow you, gentlemen.’

In the car:

‘Where did you learn so much about horses?’

‘My grandfather bred and trained Breton draught horses on the farms in north Finistère. I lived with him as a child and I helped him as much as I could.’

‘And did your grandfather retrain as a tractor mechanic?’

‘When the draught horses all disappeared, he more or less let himself die of boredom.’

A silence, then Thirard continues:

‘Turn right, we’re here. One of my grooms had an accident last night, he’ll be off work for at least three months. The job’s yours. After that, we’ll see.’

Rounding a bend in the dirt track, a field of charred ruins. Two sides of the quadrangle are reduced to a mound of black ashes. On the other two sides, the roofs and sections of the wall have caved in. Set slightly back, a long, low stone house looks more or less intact. Not a horse in sight, they all bolted into the forest, not a man in sight, they’re all out looking for the horses and will try and find them shelter in neighbouring stables. Only a few gendarmes and firemen sifting through the debris.

Thirard still seems unemotional. He gets out of the car, removes his fine leather boots, slips into a pair of Wellingtons lying in the back of the vehicle, and sets off to talk to the captain of the gendarmerie. Le Dem watches him wade through the black mud, upright and rigid in his beige jodhpurs, jacket and green Wellies gaping around the calves.

After dropping into A amp;E to get treatment for his few burns, which turn out to be only superficial, Romero is sprawled in an armchair in Daquin’s office while the Superintendent makes him a coffee.

‘I’ve never seen you in this state. Under the circumstances, a double coffee and a dash of brandy, for balance.’ After a silence, while Romero sips the coffee. ‘I’ve called Chantilly gendarmerie. A fire broke out at a riding centre this evening, not far from where the accident took place. The horses bolted, and some of them were burned to death.’ A pause. ‘Arson apparently. It wasn’t you, at least?’

Romero groans, his eyes dark under his eyebrows.

‘As Lavorel says, that’s not funny.’

‘By the way, Le Dem’s got a job with Thirard.’

‘Chief, don’t you find life in the horse world a bit too hectic for us?’

As soon as Romero’s left his office, Daquin immerses himself in the fat press file he’s had compiled on Pama. Few cuttings before last June. But since the AGM when Jubelin took power, a positive avalanche.

Jubelin’s personality gives scope for some lovely purple prose: the self-made man, the adventurer, hostile to the establishment and the educational elite. Daquin moves swiftly on.

More interesting is the presentation of the major strategic decisions that Jubelin has forced Pama to take. Refocusing on property, now that’s a wise decision, according to the press, just when the price per square metre in Paris has doubled in two years and is forecast to continue rising. If the experts say so… On that point, they can perhaps be trusted… Daquin notes in passing, with a great deal of interest, that in July, Pama acquired a 20 per cent stake in Perrot’s property development company. Well, well. Another reason to take an interest in Pama. And Perrot.

Jubelin is ensuring that Pama has a discreet presence in all the current major financial restructures. Discreet, but effective. The press make a great deal of Jubelin’s past as a man of the right – some even suggest the far right – and now he has no qualms about being involved in operations that are remote-controlled by the socialist government. And his sole aim, claims the press, is to beat off international competition, in anticipation of the liberalisation of the insurance markets on 1^st October. Which proves, they say, that in French society, now in its maturity, national economic interests transcend political divisions. Daquin rubs his thumb over his lips several times. I’m curious to know who he’s working with in the government. That would surely be a lot more useful.

Pama’s European ambitions are all the more evident from the strategic alliance between Jubelin and Mori’s consortium, Italy’s second biggest firm in terms of share value, and going from strength to strength. Italians. I note. You never know. I’m going to ask Lavorel to put together a dossier on Mori and his bunch.

Logical conclusion, Pama’s shares are soaring. They’ve gone up 30 per cent in one month, and are part of the Paris Bourse’s current boom. And the press, unanimously crowns Jubelin 1989 businessman of the year. Now I know.

On the subject of Annick, the press is more restrained. From a provincial family of pharmacists, law degree, worked her way up, recognised professional competence. Add to which subtle misogyny: rising in the shadow of the great man with whom she has a very special working relationship. In short, she’s successful because he’s screwing her. From what I’ve seen, that’s rather a reductive point of view.

Finally, the last cutting is from the previous day. Pama has just made a takeover bid for A.A. Bayern, a medium-sized German insurance company, solidly established at regional level, a move that has to be seen in the context of its European strategy. For the moment, that doesn’t mean anything to me. Put it aside.