Annick bashes away at her computer, goes straight into the accounts of Sotopa, a financial company registered in Guernsey managed by one of Jubelin’s former chartered accountants, Anglerot, whose sole job is to manage the secret funds which Jubelin devotes to promoting his own career. Anglerot, Annick and he are the only people who know of its existence.
Annick works for a while, takes notes, then stops, intrigued. She hunts for the list Daquin left her. Third column, the dates of payments. She checks Sotopa’s accounts. The day after each payment to Thirard, a cheque equivalent to exactly 90 per cent of the sum is paid into the slush fund. Origin: a financial company in Luxembourg.
She sinks back in her chair. She needs to think about this. It seems as if Jubelin has been running an insurance scam with Thirard for two years, and is using it to sustain his secret fund. What difference does this make? Probably not a lot. A secret fund is always financed from rather dubious sources. And yet… in agreeing to this kind of a swindle, Jubelin is putting himself at the mercy of this Thirard. A horse dealer. Another world. It’s dangerous. Why has he never told me about it? A memory, the other evening: do you know Thirard?… A bit… He’s wary of me. If he’s keeping Thirard from me, what else is he hiding? Come on, wake up, it’s looking more and more as if Jubelin is connected to Nicolas’s murder in some way. Hard to swallow, even so.
Back at her apartment, Annick crosses the vast living room decorated in subtle browns, leather, lots of plants. Gazes at the right wall which is covered from floor to ceiling in drawings in every different style, ranging from French eighteenth-century red-chalk sketches to contemporary works, all tastefully framed. Deliberate disorder. Michel’s wonderful way of choosing, sure of himself: I like this, I don’t like that, this must go here. Whereas I haven’t a clue what I like, I have no taste. But what Michel does is perfect, and I feel good in this room. In the bottom left-hand corner is an Indian ink drawing: a full frontal picture of Annick, walking, relaxed, her hair streaming in the wind, a long duster coat, tight trousers, cowboy boots, and two big colts hanging from her belt. Michel did it a couple of years ago, when Jubelin and she had just decided to team up with the Italians to take Pama by storm. A wink at her image. ‘Onwards and upwards!’
For the moment, Michel is on the patio, weeding and dead-heading the flowers. The French window is wide open.
‘Come back in, Michel, I’m cold.’
Annick pours two whiskies. They sit side by side on the sofa. After a while, Annick says, in a neutral voice:
‘Unfortunately, there’s a possibility that Jubelin might be mixed up in Nicolas’s murder.’
‘Indeed.’ Michel takes two slow slugs of whisky. ‘Don’t you feel like taking a holiday? I’ll finish off my commission and we’ll go to New York. There’s a wonderful photo exhibition at MoMA, and we’ll mooch around the art galleries and second-hand shops. It’s just the place for you, you know.’
‘I can’t go away.’
‘Actually, nor can I.’ A silence. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘First of all, I’m going to tell Jubelin how I booted the cops out of my office. That’ll reassure him, and it’ll give me time to think how to handle this. And then I’ll discreetly start looking for a potential successor. The cops already know a lot about him, in my opinion, and he’s got himself mixed up in some nasty business. It won’t be long before he jumps. I don’t want to jump with him.’
‘Remind me who that crazy fool was who claimed that women were fragile creatures?’
Annick smiles, sprawled on the sofa, her head on Michel’s shoulder, her eyes half closed, letting herself drift as she finishes her whisky. A delicious moment of floating.
‘Go and have your bath. When you come out, dinner will be ready.’
Wednesday 11 October 1989
Thirard’s lorry left in the night for Italy with eight horses on board and a bug under the chassis. It’s Le Dem’s day off, and he and Daquin are waiting in the office for news.
‘Any trouble fitting the bug?’
‘Not really.’ A broad grin. ‘I hid and had to fumble around in the dark. It was like playing hide and seek when I was a kid. Back in Brittany. It wasn’t at all what I imagined a police officer’s job to be. I’d anticipated something more… dignified.’
Daquin leans back in his chair, his feet resting on the edge of the desk.
‘You are very dignified, Le Dem, I assure you.’
Then he becomes absorbed in a fat dossier he’s had compiled on Pierre Aubert. Press cuttings, the book on horse doping, a few articles in the racing press when he was struck off. The thrill of the chase.
Le Dem is ensconced in an armchair, snoozing.
Telephone. Daquin picks it up. The lorry has entered Italy via the Mont Blanc tunnel. Now it’s over to the Italian police.
‘Let’s have lunch.’
Mariani arrives at Transitex’s office at 9 a.m. and shows the secretary his ID: under Article 65 of the Customs Regulations, I have come to inspect your company’s accounts.
The secretary panics slightly:
‘Have I made a mistake?’
‘Not at all, Mademoiselle. It’s just a routine check. Customs are carrying out a concerted operation on all the meat import-export companies in the Rungis area. As I’m sure you’ll understand, at present, with the new EU regulations, hormones in meat… just let us use a quiet little office and my colleague and I won’t disturb you at all.’
‘There’s only one office here, and that’s mine.’
‘What about that one?’ Mariani points to a door at the back of the room.
‘That’s a little laboratory where our manager, who’s a vet, regularly comes to do quality controls.’
‘I see. Well, my assistant and I will work at this little table and we’ll be as discreet as possible.’
Mariani and Lavorel sit down opposite each other.
‘First of all, give me your correspondence with Irexport, your supplier. I already have the customs clearance certificates. I’d also like your drivers’ delivery permit books and bills of loading. And your customer orders. We’ll look at the accounts another time.’
They work quietly, passing the documents back and forth. In the same room, the secretary carries on with her day-to-day work without showing any visible anxiety.
Lavorel works in silence. He soon becomes excited when he comes across deliveries made in Vallangoujard, to a certain Amedeo. The name doesn’t matter. Roughly once a week. Suddenly, an image. The cold store in the ruined farm. A glance inside, two half carcases of beef hanging…Not very efficient on that occasion. I’m not necessarily going to tell the chief about it.
‘You wouldn’t happen to have any reports of checks carried out by your vet, would you?’
‘No. Should I?’
‘It’s not compulsory. Does the vet come often?’
‘Around once a week.’
I’ll make do with hypotheses for the time being. To sum up: it’s not always the same driver who delivers to Vallangoujard. The drivers’ rotas seem regular, and unconnected to the delivery destinations, which would seem to exonerate them if there is some sort of trafficking going on. Vallangoujard disappeared from delivery records three weeks ago. That figures. Check all the deliveries made by the same lorry on the same day as Vallangoujard, over the last year. Eliminate the regular customers, those who receive other deliveries. Appearance of a destination that only receives one delivery a week, at the same time as Vallangoujard: a certain Roland, at Chantilly, same address as Thirard. Moments like this make a cop’s life worth living. The next delivery should take place next week. A note to Mariani: I’ve got what I need.