A red light on the radio blinks, the owner discreetly leaves. A muffled, anxious female voice:
‘I’m coming, I’m opening the door.’ Louder. ‘Come up.’ A door closes. ‘Sit down.’ Chairs scraping. ‘Have you brought the bedspread?’
The voice of another, very young, woman. The rustle of paper: ‘Here it is. And have you got the money?’
‘Yes. But tell me again nice and slowly. So that I remember everything. This bedspread…’
‘Last year I took it on the pilgrimage to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Our gypsy pilgrimage. I touched the statue of the Black Sarah with it, while she was in the sea. You understand?’
‘Yes. So far.’
‘And I prayed to the saint, who has magic powers. She brings back unfaithful husbands. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. But I already bought a bedside rug that had touched Saint Sarah from you, and my husband didn’t come back.’
‘A bedside rug has less power than a bedspread, because you stay under the bedspread all night.’
‘I do, for sure, but he doesn’t, because he’s not there.’
‘The bedspread will make your wish come true. If you think about your husband very hard when you’re under the bedspread, the first night, you’ll dream of him, and he’ll be back within the week.’
‘Right. How much did we say?’
‘Come off it? Have you got the money or not?’
‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it. But I don’t remember exactly how much we said.’
‘Twenty thousand francs.’
Lavorel downs a second glass of white wine, in surprise. One of the two gendarmes leans towards him and murmurs:
‘She works on the checkout at Mammouth, on the minimum wage, and she’s already forked out ten thousand francs for the rug.’
‘I want to see the money.’ Sound of a drawer opening. They must be counting the notes. ‘It’s all there, take the bedspread.’
‘I’ll see you out.’
The gendarmes pack away their equipment, triumphant.
‘There. We managed to convince this woman to press charges, and now, at last we’ve caught her red-handed. You’ll see, once our devotee of Saint Sarah’s banged up, complaints will pour in, that’s what always happens.’
Gendarmes are waiting for the two girls in the street. They march them off to the gendarmerie, it’s in the bag. And now they’re in their stride, a search of the gypsies’ farm.
Lavorel follows, resigned.
At the village exit, two blue cars are parked near an ancient fortified farmhouse, four stone buildings in a square without an exit between them, all facing inwards, a huge timber carriage entrance, closed. That’s where the girl they’ve just arrested lives, with Rouma, the farrier, and a few other gypsy families.
First warnings.
‘Open up.’
Voices on the other side of the door.
‘There aren’t any men here. Only women and children. We’re not opening the door.’
After ten minutes of fruitless argument, the gendarmes break down the door and force their way in, brandishing their guns. Lavorel hangs back, his hands in his pockets, convinced that this is a sinister venture. Five caravans are drawn up in a circle in the beaten earth courtyard. In the centre, thirty or so women and children huddle together. The buildings looking onto the courtyard seem to be pretty much reduced to ruins. The gendarmes assemble the women and children in an empty room, place them under heavy guard, and the search begins.
While they gather up the bedspreads in their packaging, along with the cheap jewellery, two stolen cars, motorbike parts and other odds and ends, Lavorel goes through the caravans and all the buildings looking for a possible stash of drugs, without much conviction. The forge, the workshops, the garage, a large collective kitchen with all mod cons, there’s even a cold store. Nothing. It’s frustrating, all the same.
Lavorel leaves the gendarmes drawing up impressive reports. For them, the prospect of days and days of thankless graft. And I’m leaving empty handed.
Friday 22 September 1989
Next day, the atmosphere in Daquin’s office is tense. Lavorel gives an account of the storming of the farm, without embellishment or local colour. His reports never have Romero’s panache, but he’s not bothered.
‘As far as we’re concerned, in any case, it’s a bad move, which is likely to prompt Rouma to stop his deliveries for a while. But the gendarmes had been planning it for nearly six months. They’d never have agreed to delay it. So I jumped on the bandwagon. They simply promised not to arrest the farrier, since he has a legal professional activity.’
‘On the Berger front, it’s not much better,’ continues Daquin. ‘Two women as different as you can imagine give an almost identical portrait of him. A nice boy, loaded, without passion, without ambition and with a degree of talent. A clean-cut, socially adept coke addict. At first sight, there is no obvious reason why anyone would want to kill him. Nor was he a dealer, and never had been. He generously shared his twenty measly grams of cocaine with his friends, that’s all. At least, I hope so. Romero, you didn’t pay for your dose, did you?’
‘No, Superintendent. You know very well that it’s against the rules.’
Lavorel grows impatient.
‘But all the same, he was murdered.’
‘The only little blip was an argument with a horse dealer by the name of Thirard.’
Le Dem interrupts him. The Martian’s growing bolder.
‘Actually, on the subject of Thirard, that list you gave me was indeed to do with horses. They all belonged to Thirard, or were in livery at his stables. And they all died on the date opposite each name in the first column. I haven’t found out what the figures in the other two columns mean yet.’
‘Right.’ A long pause for thought. Then Daquin gets up. ‘Today’s Friday. Over the weekend, the gendarmes will be working. We’re going to rest. And on Monday, we’ll review the whole case with a fresh eye.’
Daquin makes himself a coffee then leans back in his chair with his feet up on the desk and allows his thoughts to wander. Lenglet. Don’t want to let his death to get me down. I’m alive. Rudi, a certain weariness. The investigation’s dragging its feet, but there’s progress. Starting from almost nothing, two corpses already, possibly three, if we can link Paola Jiménez to our case. Daquin rises, straightens up, stretches, makes himself another coffee, and sits down again. A series of images. The farrier at his forge, the burning car, the gypsies’ farm being stormed. And Amélie. Amélie living in the back of beyond among her books and horses. A persistent image of the golden horse with grey lips nibbling the blonde curls against the delicate nape of her neck. An urgent need to brush his lips against that neck, kiss that hair. He picks up the telephone.
‘Madame Gramont, Superintendent Daquin. I’d like to invite you to dinner this evening, at a restaurant in your neck of the woods.’
‘That’s a good idea, Superintendent. It’ll take my mind off my work. But let me invite you to dinner at my place. My groom’s gone away for two days and I can’t leave the horses.’
‘I’ll be there in around three hours.’
‘I’ll be expecting you.’
He hangs up. Hesitates for a moment. Shall I go home and get changed? Desire creates a certain sense of urgency, so no.
When Daquin arrives, it is still daylight. A flame sunset on the horizon, over the hills, but the farm is already in the shade. Amélie comes out of the house to greet him. Tight-fitting pale blue jeans and a green T-shirt. She exudes the warm smell of cooking. Even more attractive than he remembered.
‘I’ve brought you a photo. It was on Berger’s desk.’
Visible emotion.
They sit down side by side on a stone bench against the side of the house. Champagne, as they watch night spread from the bottom of the valley. Gentle sounds from the stables, the rustle of straw, the horses’ breathing, a busy, cosy silence. It is Amélie who breaks it. She says, as if to herself: