‘How? Just a name and an address, or a bit more detail?’
‘More detail. Moulin had sold a horse in Italy for two hundred and fifty thousand francs and had only declared fifty thousand. I was to find the remaining two hundred thousand.’ Puffing with pride. ‘And I did.’
‘Well informed, the minister’s office. That’s reassuring. I feel as if we’re in good hands.’
Tuesday 26 September 1989
‘Gentlemen, now it’s all hands on deck. No more leave, no weekends, until we’ve cracked this case. Let’s begin with the easy bit: Rouma. The autopsy report confirms Le Dem’s account. Rouma was indeed murdered. We even have a lead. We’ve identified the murderers’ Mercedes. It belongs to the Vincennes racecourse operating company. We checked it out and the company states that the Mercedes didn’t leave the car park last Monday. But the new boys have established that the car park is unsupervised and that any smart employee of the racecourse could have taken the car. Conclusion: the first place to look for the killers is among the racecourse personnel. Any suggestions? Yes, Romero?’
‘I know someone who’s a regular at Vincennes who I could ask to be a grass. At least he’ll be able to tell us how the racecourse operates.’
‘Very good. Go ahead. Let’s move on. Why was the farrier killed? We have no idea. But our theory is of course that the murder is linked to cocaine smuggling. Perhaps his supplier panicked after he heard about last Thursday’s search. I shall put that in my report, and I’m going to ask for an investigation to be opened – investigating magistrate, search warrants, the usual routine, we’re soon going to need them. There’s still one little problem. I have to explain how we got onto the Mercedes. We can’t mention Le Dem’s ghost kid. I need someone who will state they saw the registration number. That’ll be you, Lavorel. Any objections, Le Dem?’
‘Yes, Superintendent. I’d rather it was me.’
‘Why?’
‘Lavorel was by the forge the whole time, and a lot of people can testify to that. From there, he couldn’t have seen a car on the road. But I could.’
‘Are you aware that would be giving false evidence?’
‘That’s not how I see it. I owe it to the boy.’
‘As you wish. Let’s move on to the next point: the murder of Berger and Moulin. Much more complicated.’ A pause. ‘Three deaths in ten days, right under your nose. Lavorel, you bring bad luck.’
‘That’s not funny.’
‘No, all things considered, perhaps not. Let’s recap. Berger and Moulin were murdered. Indisputable, according to the gendarmes’ report. A powerful explosive… Detonator wired to the ignition. They had no chance of survival. Apart from that, nothing is certain. The car could have been sabotaged between eight o’clock, when it was left in the car park, and midday, the time of the explosion. A lot of comings and goings in the car park, people very busy with their horses. Or sleeping. Don’t get mad, Lavorel, I couldn’t resist that one. Result: no description and no prints. Worse: we don’t know who the target was or why.’
‘Let’s take Nicolas Berger. Two possibilities. One: he’s eliminated because of some cocaine trafficking mix-up, which links his murder to that of Rouma who was involved in the same network. Two: he was blackmailing Thirard with that list of horses which seems to point to an insurance fiddle which Pama was the victim of, and Thirard gets rid of him.’
‘That seems rather drastic by way of response.’
‘Maybe Thirard is hot-tempered.’
Scepticism.
‘Or else it’s Moulin who was the target.’ Daquin turns towards Le Dem. ‘Who could have known that Moulin had sold a horse in Italy for two hundred and fifty thousand francs?’
‘Thirard most definitely. Horses are often paid for in cash, on the basis of a simple verbal agreement between the parties. So, to find out the price, you have to ask the buyer or the seller. The buyer is Italian. Thirard virtually has a monopoly on the sale of French horses in Italy. So he has the contacts to find out how much Moulin had sold his horse for. And a good reason from wanting to stop him from competing with him in the Italian market.’
‘Good enough to kill him?’
‘Not necessarily. The tax inspection should have been sufficient.’
A silence.
‘Odd character, this Thirard. He could pull enough strings to influence someone in the Ministry of Finance. That must be rather unusual for a horse dealer. Moving on: according to Madame Moulin, her husband had made several trips to Italy to drum up business and had come back more than a little intrigued by Thirard’s activities there. He didn’t tell her much, but he had talked at length to Berger. Then he’d let it drop, until this tax inspection business that had infuriated him. The most likely theory is that Berger and Moulin were both blackmailing Thirard who did away with the pair of them in one go.’
More scepticism.
‘I’m obviously not getting anywhere today. Too bad. I shan’t report on this aspect of our investigation at this stage. Too vague, too muddled. But my idea, Le Dem, is for you to go and get a job with Thirard, so you can tell us what goes on there.’
Le Dem turns pink with pleasure.
‘I’d love to, but it’s not easy to get taken on by a posh livery stables.’
‘Leave Romero and me to take care of that side of things. There’s still Pama. Berger and Annick Renouard who work there are both coke addicts. Thirard’s swindling the company. I’ll take that piece of action on myself.’
Thursday 28 September 1989
It’s not yet dark when Fromentin stops for a drink at the café de Chantilly on his way home, as he does every evening. He lives alone and he’s in no rush to get back. He leans his bicycle against the window, pushes open the door, greets everyone and goes up to the bar. The owner automatically serves him a glass of red. There’s a guy standing next to him drinking white, a good-looking guy incidentally, looks like an Eyetie. Starts going on about horses in a very assured tone, he’s talking a load of crap. Fromentin politely corrects him. He knows a thing or two about horses, he does. He was an apprentice jockey in his youth, and now he’s been a groom for thirty years, ten at Thirard’s stables. He’s practically the only one who’s lasted so long with such a difficult boss. The guy’s OK. He admits he can be wrong, asks Fromentin’s opinion, buys him a drink. Fromentin feels good. He starts talking, elated, it’s so rare that anyone listens to him… Several hours and many drinks later, the café’s about to close, the two men are the last customers. They shake hands, promise to meet up again, and leave.
Romero hurries to his car, parked a hundred metres or so from the café, drives off and hides a couple kilometres down the road along Fromentin’s route home, in a spot that’s deserted at this hour. Drunk as Fromentin is, Romero won’t need to give him much of a push for him to end up in the ditch. Daquin said: Careful. One or two broken bones, no more.
Romero waits, the engine ticking over. Nobody. Looks at his watch. A quarter of an hour. Even if he’s drunk, he should have come past by now. Does a U-turn and drives slowly back to the café. Closed. No trace of Fromentin. Romero wonders what went wrong. Maybe he got him too drunk and Fromentin’s gone the wrong way and is heading in the other direction, towards Paris? Romero belts along in the direction of Paris. He soon spots the bicycle’s rear light zigzagging madly along the road. Hurry up and shove him into the ditch before he gets mown down by a car. At night, cars tend to speed along this road. The remote forest spot is ideal. Romero drives up behind him, he’s a few metres away. Just then, from his left, a flaming horse gallops wildly into view. A living torch. Thundering of hooves. Romero slams on the brake. A car coming the other way hits the animal full on, and immediately bursts into flames. Fromentin swerves violently and plunges into the ditch. Romero rubs his eyes and pinches himself two or three times. Then he gets out of his car and rushes towards the inferno. The horse was killed on impact and its body has smashed through the windscreen and is half inside the car, still burning. Inside, crushed beneath the horse, two bodies are also on fire. The smell of petrol and burning flesh is overwhelming. Romero tears off his jacket, wraps it around his hands and tries to open the door…Warped, stuck. The fire spreads to the back of the car, crackling. Intuition tells Romero that the whole thing’s about to explode, get out quick, no way of knowing whether the occupants are dead or alive. The fire reaches the petrol tank. Romero flings himself into the ditch, puts out a few incipient flames on his clothes. The whole car is ablaze. He begins to feel the burns on his arms. Hears the wail of the fire engines. A little further, in the ditch, Fromentin is lying on his back with a knee at right angles. Fracture guaranteed, maybe more. He doesn’t seem to be in pain, the alcohol probably, but he has a wild look and is mumbling: ‘It’s the wrath of God, the wrath of God.’