‘The grieving process has begun. Slowly.’ A smile. ‘And I don’t know what to think about it.’
Grief. Daquin pictures Lenglet on his deathbed. Not now, above all, not now. He takes from his pocket a piece of paper folded into four and carefully opens it out.
‘May I show you something?’
He hands her a photocopy of the list given to Le Dem. Amélie leans forward, her tanned neck exposed beneath the blonde curls, and reads.
‘They’re the names of horses. I know some of them. Famous show jumpers. And that one, Khulna du Viveret, the last one on the list, is the one Nicolas filmed for Pama.’
Night has completely enveloped the farm, and it’s very chilly. Amélie rises.
‘Let’s sit down and eat.’
She has cleared one of the tables in the office area, white cloth, pastel crockery and a cluster of candles. On the table, a selection of cold meats, a local speciality, breads, a red Loire wine, well chilled. Then she brings a chicken in a salt crust, accompanied by creamed mushroom purée. She deftly breaks open the salt crust and carves the chicken. Daquin concentrates on savouring the firm, tender meat that has a tang of the sea. A little taste of happiness. Amélie watches him, her elbows on the table and her chin cupped in her hands. I like men who enjoy their food. Out loud:
‘After your visit, my groom talked to me about Thirard and his row with Nicolas. I happened to mention Moulin’s name.’ Daquin stops eating. ‘Moulin went to see Thirard two or three months ago. He was drunk and in a furious rage. He shouted abuse at Thirard in front of everyone, accused him of having sent the tax inspectors to ruin him and swore he’d get his revenge by destroying Thirard’s filthy trade. Those were his words. Thirard didn’t seem to think it was very funny.’
Daquin gets up, walk over to the window, gazes out at the dark courtyard. Is it possible that we have the wrong victim? His car, him at the wheel, the coke, under the nose of Lavorel who was tailing him to boot, no wonder we assumed it was Berger. It didn’t even cross our minds that maybe the murderer might have been after Moulin. Or both of them? Even if it’s unlikely. A beginner’s mistake. In any case, the trail leads back to Thirard. Obviously.
Amélie comes over to him by the window.
‘Finish your meal anyway. You’ll have time to think about all that tomorrow.’
A creamy Livarot cheese. An apricot tart that sets his teeth on edge.
‘I didn’t have time to do anything more complicated,’ says Amélie.
‘Do you know this Thirard?’
‘Everyone does. He’s famous in show-jumping circles.’
Daquin gets up. Coffee is waiting on the low table. He sits down on one of the battered sofas.
‘A joint, Superintendent?’
Smile. ‘No, thank you, I don’t smoke. I’d rather have a brandy.’
‘No brandy, but I’ve got an old Martinican rum that’s rather good.’
She brings him a bottle and a beautiful balloon glass that you warm between your palms, and pours him a generous amount.
Music. Monteverdi’s Madrigals of War and of Love. Amélie opens the window, the horses love music. The chill night air blows in, nippy. She puts out the light, the night wafts into the room carrying the smell of the stables. Daquin, cautious, tastes the rum. Not much body but very fruity, in perfect harmony with the chicken and the apricot tart. Closes his eyes with pleasure. Amélie comes and leans against him, her head on his shoulder, and rolls herself a joint with great concentration. Daquin watches her.
‘What were you doing in May ’68, Superintendent?’
‘I was abroad.’
‘So you missed out on a whole chapter of French history.’
‘It’s very possible.’
‘In a way our generation is slightly crazy.’
‘Maybe.’ He caresses the nape of her neck with his fingertips, then leans over, kisses her golden curls and nibbles them. ‘Right now, I don’t give a shit.’
Amélie shivers and laughs.
‘It’s said that a horse that submits to its rider “bends its neck”.’
Monday 25 September 1989
After the fiasco of the search, they have to tail the farrier again, if that’s still possible. But first of all, to find him. Lavorel and Le Dem have been driving around the Chantilly stables area for over an hour, looking for the white van. Suddenly, as they cruise past one of the stables, they see some of the lads shouting and waving their arms. People come out of the tack room, the office, and run over to a corner of the courtyard where the white van, in fact… Lavorel abandons the car by the roadside and races over to the van, followed by Le Dem. On the concrete floor of the forge, surrounded by a dozen horrified people, is a dead horse lying on its side, hanging by its halter from the forge’s metal ring, its neck broken. And beneath the horse, the body of a man, three-quarters hidden from view, a corner of his leather apron and heavy shoes just visible. It could well be the farrier.
‘Shit,’ says Le Dem.
‘Police. Make way.’
Lavorel breaks through the circle and leans over the body. Warm. They have to hoist the horse’s body. After cutting the halter rope, several men set about moving it, tethers tied to its legs, bars slipped under its flank.
Avoid touching the man. A horse is incredibly heavy. The body slides a metre. And discloses the remains of what appears to have been the farrier. His face crushed, a few shards of bone in a bloody pink pulp. Not much blood. Horse hairs are stuck to the amorphous mess. The same colour as the few hairs that are still identifiable. A shattered hand. Very few injuries on the rest of the body, the leather apron seems to have protected him. The onlookers stand in horrified silence. He was dead all right.
‘It’s an appalling accident,’ says the stables manager in hushed tones. The horse must have kicked the farrier, goodness knows why, perhaps because he drove a nail into its foot, he fell, the horse took fright, trampled him and broke its neck pulling on the tether. It’s rare, but it happens.’
Lavorel straightens up, catches Le Dem’s eye. He’s not there any more. Unbelievable! The expert… He’s probably gone off to throw up. Give me back Romero, I’m prepared to forget the blonde… Then he swings into the routine, call the gendarmes, tell them to bring a doctor to certify the death, take down the names of everyone present in the stable, start questioning the witnesses to establish the circumstances of the accident…
Le Dem had discreetly slipped away when everybody’s attention was focused on the corpse. He walked down a line of stalls, carefully checking the bolts on all the doors, top and bottom. A precaution that ensured the door remains closed even if the horse manages to open the top one by playing with it. On stopping in front of the stall of an iron grey horse, Le Dem opens the door, goes in and closes it behind him. Against the wall, sitting in the straw, is the terrified farrier’s assistant. Le Dem sits down beside him, without saying a word. He can hear the kid’s heart pounding. A few long minutes go by. The horse munches straw, and comes over and gently sniffs them from time to time. Le Dem strokes its nostrils, its nose, and talks to it softly. He can sense that the boy is gradually calming down.
Le Dem still says nothing. It’s the boy who speaks first.
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘I know that Rouma works with an assistant. I looked for you when I arrived at the forge, but you weren’t there. Where could you hide? In a stall, of course. The bottom bolt on the outside of the door is open, so I could tell the stall had been closed from the inside and that it was highly likely that there was someone in here. And if you’re hiding, it’s because you saw something. And you’re afraid.’
‘Are you a… policeman?’
‘Yes. Tell me what you saw.’
‘My people don’t talk to the cops. We don’t talk to the others either. We sort things out among ourselves.’