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.
Wednesday 20 September 1989
The sun is already up, but to the west, the sky is still tinged pink and pale blue. Le Dem is driving, calmly and skilfully. Daquin, beside him, is daydreaming. I don’t like driving, I hate the countryside. Not a good start to the day.
‘I paid a visit to Madame Moulin after the gendarmes had informed her of her husband’s death.’ Daquin suddenly perks up. ‘She’s landed with a riding stables to run, and has never worked in the place. She’s a nurse at Saint Germain hospital. Naturally she feels out of her depth. We toured the stables together and discussed the options for selling some of the horses.’
‘Interesting.’
Le Dem glances at Daquin, who remains impassive. He continues:
‘Berger’s two horses are in livery at Moulin’s. He often used to bring them to the shows and meet Berger directly at the showground, like last Sunday.’
‘What was Moulin doing in Berger’s car?’
‘Madame Moulin has no idea. It was around twelve noon. Perhaps they were going to have lunch together and then return to the show in the afternoon?’
‘Did you talk to her about Madame Gramont?’
‘Yes. Berger bought her horses and was a friend of hers. That’s all she knows.’
Daquin glances distractedly at the countryside flying past.
‘Romero told me how he got Blascos to squeal. Did that shock you?’
Le Dem thinks for a while, intense and earnest.
‘I don’t know. I think ultimately the kid was closer to Romero than he was to me.’ He pauses. ‘To be honest, I know this’ll sound odd to you, what shocked me the most was that an extremely professional craftsman like the farrier is selling drugs. I find that really hard to swallow.’
Daquin gazes at him in silence. He’s from another planet, but he’s not stupid.
Madame Gramont’s stud farm is in the middle of nowhere, at the end of a dirt track, in a dip deep in the Orne hills. Le Dem drove around in circles for a while before he found it. Three nondescript farm buildings, erected at random around a courtyard full of potholes, a huge truck parked in one corner, meadows marked off with grubby white ribbons, horses in the paddocks and, to one side, set slightly back, a vast corrugated iron hangar. Daquin pulls a face. It’s ugly, and it looks deserted. They sound the horn and get out of the car. A man comes out of the stables, and a woman from the house. The woman in the photo. Late thirties, not tall, muscular, vivacious. Short, curly almost flaxen hair, very pretty grey-green eyes and a warm smile. They shake hands. Le Dem wanders off to talk to the groom. Daquin reserves Madame Gramont for himself.
‘Call me Amélie.’ Faintly mocking: ‘Shall I show you around the place?’
Daquin, resigned: ‘Fine, let’s go.’
First of all she leads him towards the hangar. Once through the door, in the half-dark, books, magazines, newspapers, thousands of them, piled ceiling-high on the shelves. He doesn’t attempt to disguise his surprise. She’s delighted.
‘It’s my job, you know. I comb France buying odd magazines and newspapers. And I sell them to libraries all over the world seeking to complete their collections. I love horses, but I couldn’t make a living out of them.’
Daquin starts seeing her differently. In such a godforsaken place. Who would have thought it?
‘Shall I show you Nicolas’s horses?’
‘Lead the way.’
They walk over to one of the paddocks. She lifts the barrier and whistles. Two palomino horses canter towards them, heads high, and stop beside her, sniffing her pocket. She gives them sugar lumps.
‘Are they race horses?’
‘No, not at all. You really don’t know anything about horses.’
She speaks to them softly, almost crooning, scratches their noses, stroking their breasts. They nudge her sides, playful flirtation. Amélie cocks her head to one side and looks at Daquin with a smile. One of the horses, his golden coat tinged with auburn, nuzzles Amélie’s neck. His velvety lips are grey with white specks. He nibbles her blonde curls, breathes gently on her neck. She shivers. Incredulous, Daquin feels a surge of desire.
‘I’m not interested in horses, but I am interested in you.’
She smiles again.
‘Would you like a coffee?’
The ground floor of the house is all one room. In the centre, a square kitchen built around a vast range, very modern. To the left, the office area, two tables cluttered with computers, printers, telephones, Minitel terminal and fax machine.
‘My best customers are Japanese universities,’ she volunteers.
To the right, in front of a hearth, empty at this time of year, are three mismatched sofas covered with old blankets arranged around a makeshift coffee table. No television, but a hi-fi system and a collection of CDs. She sets the coffeepot and cups down on the table. They sit down.
‘You know that Nicolas Berger has been murdered?’
‘Yes, Moulin’s wife phoned me after your detective went to visit her.’
‘What was your relationship to him?’
‘Superintendent, I didn’t kill him. I can’t even imagine who would want to.’ Tears start in her eyes. ‘I’m very upset by his death. So what’s the point of talking about it?’
‘To help me find his murderer would be the most conventional reply, but hardly convincing. You’re going to talk to me because it will help you, it will help the grieving process. It’s never easy, and here, alone like this, it must be even harder.’