Blascos, standing next to Lavorel, his eyes wide, says in an undertone ‘Some cop, huh?’
Tarzan-Romero sweeps the blonde, now bra-less, into his arms, jumps down but misses his footing, crashes heavily onto the table, breaks a few plates, one or two bottles and gives himself a deep gash in his left buttock. Blood spurts everywhere.
Lavorel grabs Blascos by the shoulder.
‘Help me.’
They each grab Romero under one armpit, drag him out to the car parked outside and lay him on his stomach on the back seat. Head for the hospital. Blascos laughs uncontrollably.
‘I haven’t laughed like this for years. Come back guys. Whenever you like.’
Once Romero’s been taken care of and sent home in a taxi, Blascos and Lavorel return to the party, which is still in full swing.
‘Tell me, who’s the guy who’s so generous with the coke?’
‘A friend of Massillon’s. He’s called Nicolas Berger, and that’s all I know about him.’
Blascos waits until the end of the party to sell to the guests who want to stock up before going home. And Lavorel waits for Nicolas Berger to find out a little more about him.
Sunday 17 September 1989
Nicolas Berger leaves Massillon’s villa at around 7 a.m., seemingly on good form, with Lavorel trailing behind, rather the worse for wear. After about thirty kilometres, they approach a large farm, still in the Ile de France. It is an imposing stone-built, partially fortified construction. Some large trucks are parked in a field in front of the farm, their ramps lowered, and horses everywhere, tethered to the trucks, being led or ridden by young people wearing jeans, and competitors in white jodhpurs, black boots and tailored red or black jackets.
Nicolas cruises slowly around the thronging field, and Lavorel concentrates on tailing him without knocking anyone over. Then Nicolas pulls up beside a large green and white truck and Lavorel drives past and parks his car twenty metres further on, under a tree. Nicolas goes over to the truck driver. After changing his clothes, he leads a horse out of the truck, mounts it, rides around the farmhouse and disappears.
Lavorel picks his way across the field on foot. People are rushing busily all over the place, calling out; they all seem to know each other. The atmosphere is that of a cheerful gathering of old friends and there’s a powerful smell of horses. Lavorel feels very out of place in his blue blazer, by now slightly grubby, and his smart shoes.
Behind the farm, a vast grassy field surrounded by white fences, with brightly coloured jumps and flower beds everywhere. Along one side of the field a bank has been made into a stand for the spectators and across the far end drinks are being served in a white canvas marquee. At first glance, it’s tempting. Lavorel sits down and knocks back three disgusting cups of coffee. Behind him, a group of riders are talking about horses and business, thumping each other and joking, and drinking red wine. Lavorel consults his watch: 9 a.m. They’re certainly not wasting any time. The first competitors arrive. Lavorel glances at them. His first impression is that horses and riders are all doing exactly the same thing, and that the bars fall at random. Then twice, a horse and its rider in fluid harmony jump with graceful ease, and the bars remain in place. But it soon becomes tedious to watch.
Snatches of conversation, behind Lavoreclass="underline" ‘Who’s this gorgeous girl with you? Will you introduce me?’ ‘Come on, you’re kidding, don’t you recognise her? You slept with her last night…’ ‘I was pissed…’ ‘And you aren’t now?’ ‘Of course I am! I’m riding in five minutes.’ He raises his glass. ‘To our horses and all who mount them!’
What the fuck am I doing here, in the middle of the field, surrounded by idiots? Lavorel stands up and wanders about aimlessly. He spots Nicolas Berger in a field on his own, cantering his horse, looking very focused on the task. Reserves of strength, this guy, after partying all night… Cop’s hunch, nothing doing here. No whiff of coke. Wine for sure, but not coke. Keep an eye on the truck, rather. Lavorel goes back to the car park, settles inside his car in the shade, it’s getting hotter and hotter, and falls asleep.
A resounding explosion. Lavorel wakes with a jump, and gazes horrified at Berger’s blazing car, a single orange flame leaps several metres into the air. The car park’s full of stampeding horses and screaming people. Just beside the inferno, hanging on to the green and white truck, in a sort of tragic bubble of motionless silence, a horse, its foreleg blown off, its head lowered, blood spurting everywhere. The animal crumples in slow motion. The emergency services arrive with an ambulance. Lavorel, in a state of shock, extricates himself from his car, walks over and watches two human silhouettes on fire.
Monday 18 September 1989
Nearly every morning, Daquin walks from Avenue Jean-Moulin to Quai des Orfèvres via Montparnasse and Boulevard Saint Michel, which takes him just under an hour at a brisk pace. But today, the weather’s cool and fine, and Daquin is in no hurry. A detour to buy a kilo of Brazilian coffee from a coffee roasting shop in Rue Mouffetard, to try it out. Then he carries on via Place Maubert and a maze of back streets down to the Seine. He pauses and leans on the parapet. He always experiences the same thrill at the sight of the immense sky right in the heart of the city, today a very pale blue, and around him, every shade of grey. The Seine, grey-green, the stones of the embankment and the arched bridges yellowy-grey, and the grey-white bulk of Notre Dame standing out against the dark mass of a clump of trees. Daquin inhales deeply two or three times and goes up to his office, where his detectives are waiting for him.
Lavorel mechanically wipes his glasses and blinks. Romero is sitting awkwardly, one buttock resting on the edge of a chair. The other three are standing, trying to look inconspicuous. Daquin scrutinises them for a moment, sits down in his chair and prepares himself for the worst.
‘Go on, I’m listening.’
Romero starts.
‘We’ve identified the supplier. He’s a certain Dimitri Rouma, farrier, a gypsy, residing in Vallangoujard in the Val-d’Oise.’
Surprised. ‘Bravo.’
‘Lavorel and I went to a cocaine-fuelled party in Chantilly on Saturday night, at the house of a jockey called Massillon. Several of Senanche’s customers there, others unknown. We took a note of all the vehicle registration numbers, and there was a guy called Nicolas Berger dishing out coke to everyone.’
‘Excellent. What next?’
Lavorel picked up:
‘I tailed Berger from the party to a horse show he was competing in. And there, he was murdered. His car was booby-trapped and blew up twenty metres away from me. He was killed instantly, along with one of his friends who was sitting in the car next to him. Guy named Moulin. And I didn’t see a thing, I was asleep.’
‘Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.’ False innocence: ‘Were you alone? Where were you, Romero?’
With as much dignity as he could muster. ‘At the party, I accidentally sat on a plate and injured myself. I went home.’
‘Don’t feel bad Romero, it happens to all of us, more often than you’d imagine. Berry, your turn to make the coffee. We’re going to try this one.’ Hands him the packet of Brazilian coffee. ‘Do a good job, it’s an honour and a step up. And don’t forget, a weak one for Le Dem. And then, to work.’ Daquin smiles. ‘Now we’re finally getting to the heart of the matter.’