‘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 14th 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.