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 smuggling. Does it make sense
to you for Astagno to take an interest in an ageing Colombian mule? And manages to get her out in three days?’
‘No, of course not. Chief, I admit anything you want. I was careless, I trusted a pretty girl. I was slow, and I’m partly to blame for her death. Now what do we do?’
‘We drop it as quickly as we can. This case stinks. Probably a coup organised by the Americans, a publicity stunt before the Arche summit which is supposed to be a landmark occasion in the international drugs war. Paola brings in a sample to bait the buyers. For some mysterious reason, the operation goes pear-shaped. She’s arrested, perhaps on a tip-off from the Americans themselves, seeing as Larivière refused to get involved. When you put her back in circulation, the prospective buyers talk to the mother, and kill the girl. And to cap it all, there are probably a few French cops mixed up in it. So tread carefully. You open a case and it turns out to be a can of worms.’
Annick, Jubelin and Nicolas arrive together at the private Maréchaux mansion bordering on Place de l’Étoile. They had to walk, for the whole district is in a state of siege. In less than half an hour, the 14
th
July parade will begin, a special extravaganza to celebrate the bicentenary of the French Revolution of 1789. A beaming Perrot greets them on the steps. In the hall, Domenico Mori, elegant as ever, accompanied by three Italians. Perrot makes the introductions: Enzo Ballestrino, Mori’s financial advisor, Michele Galliano and Giuseppe Renta, Munich-based directors of subsidiaries of Mori’s consortium.
Then he takes them all on a guided tour of the mansion. The
first-floor
rooms, high ceilings, white oak Versailles floors, huge curved bay windows overlooking Place de l’Étoile, sumptuous walls and ceilings decorated with panelling and plasterwork. No furniture, just several buffet tables laden with food, drink and floral arrangements facing the bay windows. Between the tables are the TV monitors that will relay the procession. On the second floor, more empty rooms with a view of Place de l’Étoile, groaning buffet tables and TV screens.
Perrot turns to the Italians:
‘It’s thanks to my friend Jubelin and to Pama that I was able to buy this residence a month ago. It has already been sold to a Japanese insurance
company, at the highest price per square metre of the entire Golden Triangle. In three months, I’ve made a net profit of fifteen per cent.’
‘And by underwriting the operation,’ continues Jubelin, ‘Pama gains a foothold in Japan, without spending a cent. Give me plenty of business like that, and we’ll remain good friends.’ Laughter.
The guests arrive in small clusters. When the parade starts, at around 10 p.m., there are about a hundred people there, businessmen, members of ministerial cabinets, ‘and their spouses’, jostling at the windows on the two floors. The procession formed in Avenue Foch winds round the Arc de Triomphe, passing beneath the windows of the mansion, then turns into the Champs Élysées to the continuous boom of drums and, from time to time, the whine of bagpipes.
At the head of the procession, under a vast banner ‘We fight on’, a grey, silent crowd and a float swathed in black symbolise the death of hope in Tiananmen Square.
Deluc throws an arm around Annick and Nicolas.
‘The sight of the defeated is always tedious.’
‘I can’t share your cynicism.’
‘I’m not cynical, my friend. Just realistic. And I don’t mix entertainment with politics.’ He steers them towards the buffet. ‘Champagne all round. This magnificent parade to celebrate our anniversary. Do you remember? It’s exactly twenty years since we three left Rennes to come to Paris. Something worth celebrating.’
Annick’s mind darts back to that last evening in Rennes. Deluc, running away, her stumbling, caught by the cops, dragged to the police station, fucked by a detective inspector… Were they supposed to be toasting that unforgettable night? She glances around the room. Let bygones be bygones, and any excuse to drink champagne is a good one.
The guests amble between the buffet and the windows, up and down the stairs. In the heavily soundproofed rear rooms, a hi-fi plays music and a few couples are dancing.
On the Place de l’Étoile, after the French regions come the Americans, Russians and Scots, parading to the sound of hurdy-gurdies, fifes, bagpipes and the persistent rumble of the drums.
Annick has joined Jubelin and his Italian buddies. Ballestrino touches Renta’s arm, and exchanges a look with him. Silent dialogue. Renta bows ceremoniously to Annick:
‘May I ask you to dance?’
He’s about thirty-five, average height, slicked-back dark hair, dark eyes, and an elegance that is just a little overstated. A close-fitting grey alpaca suit, light grey silk shirt, and a wide, brightly coloured tie. Annick finds there is something slightly vulgar about him. Amused, she takes his arm and they make their way towards the back rooms.
The minute they leave, Mori steers Ballestrino, Galliano and Jubelin over to a slightly isolated corner of the buffet. They attack the cold meats and talk business. A few remarks about the recent AGM. And Pama’s future growth prospects. Quick review. They soon come back to Japan. This Maréchaux mansion deal, the first contact with the Pacific region. But they must consolidate in Europe before embarking on strategic interventions in the Far East. Mori agrees.
‘By the way,’ says Ballestrino, ‘my friend Galliano told me about a nice little opportunity in Munich.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A.A. Bayern, a medium-sized insurance company, solid family business, well established in the region. Has business relations with certain East German circles, useful just at the moment with things starting to stir behind the Iron Curtain.’
‘Even in East Germany?’
‘Much more than they’re saying here. Right now, A.A.’s shares are fairly high, but they could plummet in the coming months, if we so wish. And pave the way for a takeover bid that will be both easy and very profitable.’ Ambivalent smile. ‘It’s not a business proposition, it’s a favour.’
‘Why don’t you keep it for yourself, Mori?’
‘My group concentrates on industry. Where insurance is concerned, my stake in Pama is enough for me.’
Taking out his diary, Jubelin turns to Galliano:
‘Shall we have a meeting before you leave for Munich?’
They move back towards the windows. Jubelin greets an official from the Ministry of Finance, who pumps his hand warmly. Congratulations. A huge float trundles past carrying a 30-metre steam engine, surrounded by the deafening Drums of the Bronx going wild, to the indifference of the crowd.
Annick dances with Renta. Lots of Latino and West Coast beats. He dances well, and flirts a little, as etiquette requires. His tie is Yves Saint Laurent.
Actually more of a bore than a hoodlum. A pirouette and a smile. Annick escapes, dives into the toilet, a quick snort, and returns, ravishing, to the windows and the spectacle below.
She bumps into Deluc, cigarette dangling from his mouth, one of those horrid smelly Indian cigarettes he got into the habit of smoking when he was in Beirut, deep in an argument with an opposition deputy about the soaring share prices and rising Paris property values. The deputy ceremoniously kisses Annick’s hand and starts explaining what’s happening at Pama to her. He’s clearly had one too many. Deluc takes advantage to make himself scarce, the bastard.
Jubelin, Nicolas and Ballestrino are sitting in front of one of the TV screens watching Jessye Norman launch into the ‘Marseillaise’ at Place de la Concorde. Nicolas turns to Ballestrino.
‘I’ve heard you own a stud farm outside Milan.’
He sounds delighted. ‘I do. I’ve raised a few flat racing champions. Two of my colts ran at Longchamp last Sunday.’
Jubelin adds:
‘What a coincidence. I’m a great horse lover. I have several in training.’
‘Who with?’
‘Meirens, at Chantilly.’
‘I know him. If you’re ever in Milan, I’d be delighted to show you around my stables.’
Having rid herself, not without difficulty, of the inebriated deputy, Annick spots Nicolas and Jubelin in a heated conversation in a corner, slightly away from the others. She makes her way over to them, and they abruptly stop talking. Jubelin, on edge, turns to Nicolas.
‘We’ll talk about it in my office.’
Nicolas takes Annick’s arm.
‘Let’s go upstairs and watch the end of the procession.’
Now it’s the high point of the whole event. Women balanced on pedestals move forward with mechanical movements, revolving to the strains of a waltz. They are high above the ground, wearing huge
wide-brimmed
hats, crinolines with skirts several metres wide cascading down to the ground, each cradling a baby. Annick gazes at these stylised giants, which she finds threatening. Inexplicable feeling of discomfort.
The procession is winding up. Perrot moves from group to group. The single men are invited to round off the evening in the restaurant he owns,
Rue Balzac, with some lady friends. Nicolas accepts, Jubelin, ever cautious, declines.
Shortly before midnight, a slender crescent moon, clouds, strong winds. The stables are dark, nearly a hundred stalls around a huge square yard, on the edge of the forest. The trees groan in chorus, the buildings creak, the horses are a little restless. A hoof strikes the floor from time to time. On one side of the quadrangle are the grooms’ sleeping quarters, just above the horses’ stalls. Two windows are still lit.