Dead Horsemeat

by Dominique Manotti

Genres: International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

Another exhilarating crime novel by the best-selling author of "Rough Trade", chosen Book of the Year in the "Independent" by Amanda Hopkinson and Joan Smith. A group of school friends who campaigned together at Rennes in the heydey of 1968: Agathe Renourd and her protege Nicolas Berger are in charge of the communications network of a major insurance consortium; Christian Deluc has become a council member at the Elysee Palace; Amelie raises thoroughbreds. Now, in 1989, the paths of these former students are due to cross in an entirely unexpected fashion as they start playing with fire, carried along by the euphoria born of power. Events begin to take off: race horses die under mysterious circumstances; unimaginable quantities of cocaine appear at Parisian parties and dashing Nicolas Berger meets a violent end when a bomb explodes in his car.

Release date: July 25, 2013

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 192

Sample

A slack sea on a grey day. Annick surveys the little auditorium where Pama’s Annual General Meeting is taking place, a windowless room with grey walls and grey seats. Three or four hundred shareholders in dark suits, the soft hum of murmured conversations. Pama handles billions, it is one of France’s biggest corporations. But from the shareholders’ demeanour, anyone would think that that the slightest splash of colour, the hint of a raised voice would jeopardise the entire edifice.

Pama’s communications director for two years, Annick is sitting high up in the auditorium, every nerve taut. Beside her, Nicolas Berger, her childhood friend and loyal assistant, is already bored stiff.

The board of directors enters en masse. A hush falls over the room.

‘I always expect the shareholders to stand up at the entrance of the captain and his crew, like we used to do for our teachers at school,’ says Nicolas.

No reply. Annick fishes in her bag, sneaks out a cigarette, takes cover behind the row of seats in front, lights it, takes three puffs, then crushes it out on the sole of her shoe.

The directors have taken their seats on the platform. The Chairman’s gaze sweeps the room. An elderly, cold and austere man. A lone wolf in the financial tundra. He attempts to smile and his face cracks. He taps his mike and declares the AGM open in an amicable tone, a role that goes against the grain. Then he summarises the Annual Report in a droning voice. Pama is a conglomerate active in nearly every economic sector, and this diversity allows it to limit the risks and ensure the company’s stability. The firm has long been part of the French financial establishment, and the Chairman makes no effort to win over or convince. He has no idea, thinks Annick, her hands folded in her lap. She closes her eyes and forces herself to breathe slowly. Nicolas sits lost in thought, his mind freewheeling.


Xavier Jubelin is at one end of the platform, sitting slightly aloof. He listens intently, and even takes notes from time to time. Two years ago, he was at the helm of a thriving, medium-sized insurance company that was taken over by Pama, of which he is now a respected director. Sporty-looking, with a square jaw and astonishingly mobile eyes, he’s twenty years younger than the Chairman, who, rumour has it, is grooming Jubelin to be his successor. It is his turn to speak. Annick, her heart in her mouth, feels as if she’s leaping into the void. First of all, an even-toned statement of fact. Pama is a holding company, mired by an excessive number of financial interests in an ill-assorted mix of companies. It should gradually shed its investments in industry and refocus on its core business – insurance and property – to revive its flagging energies. In short, contrary to what some people believe and say, the company needs a radical change of direction.


Nicolas jumps and sits bolt upright.

‘Did I hear right? Jubelin’s declaring war on the Chairman?’

Annick makes no reply. Her eyes still shut, she is listening to her heart pounding. Jubelin continues, a ruthless edge to his voice.

‘We have put several motions to this effect to the Board, which has refused to consider them. This is unacceptable. That is why today, we are appealing to the AGM.’

The tension in the auditorium is palpable. Not a sound, all eyes on Jubelin. Nicolas touches Annick’s arm.

‘Don’t fall asleep, things are hotting up.’

Still no reaction.

On the platform, the directors lean towards each other muttering, their hands over their microphones. One of them, Domenico Mori, an Italian, an elegant figure with romantic silver hair, takes the floor. He heads an Italian industrial metallurgy consortium which he built up himself from a family business. His group is Pama’s main shareholder, the linchpin on which the Chairman’s power relies. And Mori is an old personal friend of the Chairman’s, they go pheasant shooting together in Czechoslovakia. The audience listens in silence, in deference to the millions he carries on his shoulders, and there is a sense of relief on the platform: order will be restored.


‘We have no reason to oppose Monsieur Jubelin’s suggestions.’ Hint of an Italian accent.

A tremor runs through the gathering. Pale and drawn, the Chairman murmurs, forgetting to cover the mike: ‘Traitor… disgraceful behaviour from an old friend…’. Annick opens her eyes and gnaws her thumb. The platform goes into a huddle, panic is setting in and the audience can clearly sense it. They can’t let matters rest there. Counter the attack before rebellion spreads through the ranks. The Chairman proposes an immediate vote by show of hands between the two opposing strategies, his and Jubelin’s. The ensuing discussion will depend on the outcome.

Hands raised, a careful count, Jubelin carries the vote. Whistles echo around the room, it’s like a football match. The directors get to their feet and talk among themselves. The mike picks up a voice distinctly saying: ‘It’s a coup d’état’. At opposite ends of the platform are Jubelin and Mori, the only ones still seated, seemingly oblivious to the pandemonium.

Nicolas turns to Annick.

‘You knew, and you didn’t breathe a word?’

Annick says nothing and brushes his cheek with her fingertips, smiling.

Then things move fast. From the floor, Perrot, a property developer whose business is booming supports Jubelin and requests a proxy vote. They all feverishly do their sums on scraps of paper. Jubelin controls ten per cent of the proxies, the Italian twenty-five. Perrot is a negligible quantity. Who completes the picture? The Parillaud bank representative seconds Perrot’s proposal.

Sitting next to Annick is Deluc, a presidential advisor and small shareholder in Pama. He leans towards her:

‘The Mass is ended, go forth in peace, sister.’

Annick takes a deep breath and de-stresses.

The directors who are with the Chairman leave the platform, cross the auditorium and exit in silence. The scions of the oldest established French industrial and banking families leave without a word of thanks, like flunkeys.

‘They’re off to the elephants’ graveyard,’ mutters Nicolas.

The Chairman, Jubelin and Mori remain alone on the platform. Jubelin wins with seventy per cent of the votes. The choreography of victory. The Chairman frantically gathers his scattered papers, his face grim. The lone wolf is cornered. This is the end.


Annick rises. She thinks she sees patches of congealed blood on the grey wall fabric. I’ve been waiting for this moment for two years, and now it’s happened, but I’m not over the moon as I expected. What I want more than anything else is a hot bath. And now, to work.

Dive into the loo. A quick snort of coke. Check make-up, retouch it slightly. Then Annick steps into the lift and goes up to the twentieth floor. Her secretary greets her with a big smile. News travels fast.

She opens the door to her office. Spacious, black wall-to-wall carpet, white walls. To the left, a matt steel desk, and on the wall, a triptych by Soulages. To the right, a lounge area, two low tables, black leather sofas and armchairs. And facing the door, a vast bay window looking out over the concrete panorama of La Défense and the Grande Arche.

A dozen journalists are sipping fruit juice, whisky and wine, waiting for her. A perfectly informal meeting between friends prior to tomorrow morning’s press conference when Jubelin will report on Pama’s AGM. When she walks in, they all raise their glasses, and the room echoes with congratulations.

She pours herself a whisky, perches on the corner of the desk, and gazes at them, radiating confidence and glamour in her tailored bright red dress perfectly suited to her blonde hair, immaculate make-up, golden chignon, kiss curls. And she’s in the winning camp.

‘Gentlemen, 1989 is an important year for the French economy. Share values are at a peak, the property market is booming, and there’s a great future ahead for the new generation of managers.’

Low voice, slightly husky, offbeat. Very seductive. She’s on top of her subject and her audience. She raises her glass towards them, and drains it in one gulp. Now, the Q&A game. About Jubelin, who’s still a virtual unknown.

‘Young, sporty, a self-made man. An excellent huntsman and experienced rider. And extremely skilled at his job. Background in insurance.’

And then about Pama’s policy.

‘Is Pama really going to sell off its industrial assets, as Jubelin announced at the AGM?’


‘Industrial investments are always riskier and less profitable than property investments. If we refocus our activities on property, it is first and foremost to guarantee our insurance customers better returns. But the transition will be smooth.’

Competent. Relaxed. A journalist talks of a ‘coup’. Sharp response.

‘How can you say that? It all happened at the shareholders’ meeting with absolute transparency. Our company is a model of democracy.’

‘Apparently you’ve known the new CEO for a long time…’

Annick leans forward with a radiant smile, her voice heavily ironic:

‘I’m perfectly aware of what people are saying, and I couldn’t care less.’

‘She’s brilliant, this communications director,’ a journalist whispers to his neighbour.

The free-ranging discussion goes on for another half hour, the audience is entranced. Then it’s late, and the journalists leave. Tomorrow, there won’t be any awkward questions at the press conference. And no hostile articles on Jubelin in the coming days.

Annick moves over to the window. It’s done. The pressure’s off. A painfully hollow feeling in her chest. The sun is setting. The occasional patch of light on the facades of the tower blocks. Paris to the left, the first lights glowing in the distance. The Grande Arche, to the right, floodlights, they’re working round the clock to finish it for the 14th July. Thick glass panes, not a sound. At last, a kind of peace. At this height, nothing can get to me.


Full moon over the stables and the surrounding forest, a coolness rises from the trees. The horses are asleep in their stalls, top barn doors open, some lying down, some standing. Others are idly chewing straw. Little noise, a light rustling. And a few sighs.

A man in white overalls and green Wellingtons gaping around his calves walks the length of a row of stalls. He is carrying a heavy iron cube in one hand, and two reels of cable. He stops in front of one of the loose boxes, puts down his load, and opens the door. A frisky little black horse pushes forward its nostrils and sniffs his hand. The man strokes its neck, scratches the base of its ears, inspects the horse. Then he shuts the door and busies himself with the metal cube. Plugs a cable into an electricity socket, two other cables, one red, one blue, connected to two metal clips. Holding the clips, he goes back into the stall. The horse raises its head. He caresses the animal’s neck, talking to it softly. Trusting, the horse lowers its head again and carries on munching straw. A clip inside its ear. It tickles, and the horse tosses its head.


‘Easy boy, easy does it.’

The horse quietens down. A clip under the tail, the animal jumps, turns its head, curious now, to stare at the man who checks that the clip is firmly attached, then goes out again. He pulls a lever on the transformer. A giant shudder racks the horse, lifting it off the ground. Its eyes rolling, its entire body desperately tensed is suddenly drenched in sweat, then it sinks noiselessly to the ground, its eyes staring, vacant. The man walks over to the animal, checks that it is dead, removes the clips, neatly rolls up the cables then leaves, taking his paraphernalia with him.

It is nearly 2 p.m. this Sunday afternoon, and Romero has just woken up. He is sitting on the floor of his one-bedroom, eighth-floor apartment, gazing out of the bay window overlooking the Quai de la Loire, with a clear view over Montmartre and the northern suburbs of Paris. He is bare-chested, wearing tight, black-and-white boxer shorts. Sitting beside him is a young woman in a baggy T-shirt, her face lost in a mass of chestnut curls. They’re nibbling biscuits and eating coffee ice-cream floating in iced coffee in tall glasses. From time to time, Romero dips a finger in his glass and draws coffee ice-cream lines on the young woman’s face, which he then meticulously licks off, and that makes her giggle.

‘Take your T-shirt off.’

She does so. Romero draws ice-cream circles on her breasts, then leans towards the taut cool pink nipples. The phone rings. He gets up, cursing.

A woman’s voice with a trace of a Spanish accent.

‘Detective Inspector Romero?’

Romero pulls a face and turns his back to the girl to concentrate on the conversation.

‘Yes, it’s me, Paola. Go on.’

‘Please come, I have to point out someone to you, it’s important.’ Romero hears the murmur of a crowd in the background. ‘I’m at Longchamp racecourse, in the betting hall. Window 10.’


‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

‘Hurry up. It’s really urgent.’

He hangs up, turns round. The young woman, still sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, is playing with her nipples, squeezing them between her fingers.

‘You’re not rushing off now, are you?’

He goes down on all fours and licks the salty beads of perspiration between her lavender-scented breasts.

‘Those are my breasts.’

He yanks her down onto the carpet, no time for preliminaries, and anyway, that’s how he likes it, fast and furious, then to collapse feeling utterly spent.

Quick shower, runs a comb through his hair, hesitates, looks at his watch, already 2.45, no time to shave, T-shirt, jeans, trainers. Don’t forget the revolver, ID. A linen jacket. Glance in the mirror, tall, slim, dark hair, a handsome fellow, pleased with himself. Everything’s just fine.

The girl hasn’t moved. Lying on her stomach in a pool of sunshine, she dozes in front of the bay window. He caresses the small of her back.

‘I shan’t be long. Will you wait for me?’

No reply.

Romero arrives at Longchamp. It is 3.30 when he enters the betting hall. Concrete, grey, the floor strewn with slips of paper. For the time being, it’s not crowded, the public is roaring on the stands. A few loners prefer to hang around in front of the TV screens, exchanging dejected comments. Nobody by window 10.

End of the race, the crowds suddenly surge into the hall heading for the windows. Shouts, crumpled newspapers, the clink of bottles and glasses from the bar. Romero recognises the noise that he’d heard in the background when Paola had phoned him earlier.

But still no Paola at window 10. He wandered around the hall a bit, vaguely worried. A trap? Unlikely. Lean up against a wall to protect his rear, keep his jacket open, glance around the room. The bell, betting’s closed. The crowds make their way back to the stands. Still nobody at window 10. Flashback to the face streaked with coffee ice-cream, to the erect pink nipples. And a sense of unease. Glance at his watch, 3.40. And at that moment, a woman rushes screaming from the toilets at the far end of the hall.


Superintendent Daquin contemplates the corpse of a young woman, sitting on the toilet seat, propped up against the cistern, leaning slightly to the left. Her throat has been slit, the carotid artery slashed, a gaping fresh red wound, the trachea severed, cartilage ruptured, white against deep red, a gold cross on a chain on the rim of the wound. Her blood has spurted out, splattering the walls. Her summer dress is stiff, sticky, rust red. And above the mess of flesh and blood, her face, tilted right back, is calm, eyes closed, mouth half-open. A beautiful Amerindian face, high cheekbones, very dark skin, thick mass of black hair brushing the floor. The pool of blood on the tiles seeps under the toilet door.

The Crime Squad is at work. Forensic doctor, photographer, experts. Just one witness, a woman touching up her make-up saw the blood oozing under the toilet door and ran out screaming. It was 3.40 p.m.

Daquin is tall, well over six foot, burly shoulders, powerfully built, possibly on the heavy side. Square, regular face, not particularly good-looking, alert brown eyes that take in every detail of his surroundings, a powerful physical presence. Since the arrival of his chief, Romero has felt more relaxed. Daquin turns to him:


‘Well?’

‘One of my snouts. She called me at home…’, slight hesitation, ‘…around two thirty, and asked me to meet her here, by window 10. She wanted to point someone out to me. She said it was important and urgent. She was killed before I got here.’

‘Where did you come across her?’

‘Jail. Fleury-Mérogis. When there was a big to-do about Colombian cocaine, I went in there to do a deal. She was inside, so was her mother. Mules. They were nabbed bringing in a hundred grams of coke each. She spoke French, seemed smart.’

‘Extremely pretty too.’

‘Yes.’ Annoyed. ‘I arranged for her to be released, and I promised I’d get her mother out if she tipped me off on the Colombian ring in Paris.’ Flashback to the girl’s body, lying in the sun in his apartment. He was wasting time. ‘I’m not proud of myself.’

Daquin stares at him for a moment.


‘So I see.’

Then he goes back to the body and examines it. The dress’s right sleeve has remained intact. Daquin leans over and pinches the fabric. Luxurious silk. Gently tugs the collar. Label: Sonia Rykiel. With the tip of his shoe he turns over a sandal lying by the toilet bowl. Two exotic leather straps signed Charles Jourdan.

‘And she spoke good French?’

‘Yes, fluently, just a hint of an accent.’

‘There’s something strange about this little mule of yours. Too well dressed for a poor Colombian girl. Romero, you’re hopeless. A cop can learn more about a woman from her clothes than from staring at her tits.’

‘Nobody’s perfect, chief.’

Silence.

‘In my opinion, we should go and see her mother. Now, before someone else does.’

When they reach Fleury-Mérogis, Daquin and Romero are told that Madame Jiménez was released yesterday, on judge’s orders.

‘May we see Paola Jiménez and her mother’s files?’

The minute she was arrested, Paola Jiménez had asked for lawyer Maître Larivière to be contacted.

‘I’ve known Larivière for twenty years. He was already wheeling and dealing with the CIA when I was working with the FBI. A mule who dresses in Sonia Rykiel and has the address of a pal of the CIA… But apparently Larivière refused to take the case. That was before your visit, Romero… Let’s check out the mother.’ Daquin skims two pages. ‘Not bad either. A week ago, she received a visit from Maître Astagno, who stated he was her lawyer. Have you heard of Astagno?’

‘Of course.’

Romero is distinctly uncomfortable.

‘High-flying lawyer, regular defender of the big drug traffickers we sometimes manage to arrest in France. Last year, he got a Medellín cartel treasurer off. The guy was handling huge sums of money placed in nine accounts registered in Luxembourg. It seems it wasn’t possible to prove that the money derived directly from drug s. . .