‘Right,’ says Mariani, ‘it’s time for a drink.’ The secretary glances at her watch: eleven o’clock. I don’t know, public employees…‘Thank you again for your cooperation. Everything is in order for the moment. I’m not able to say when we’ll be back to go through the accounts.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Smile of relief. ‘I’m here every morning.’
Outside, Mariani taps Lavorel on the shoulder:
‘Let’s go and have that drink, and you can tell me all.’
A glass of white wine for Mariani. A tomato juice for Lavorel, under Mariani’s reproachful eye.
‘Well?’
‘I’ve found evidence of regular deliveries to the middle man we’ve already identified. I’ll have to talk to the chief, but I think we’re onto them.’
‘I’ve stuck my neck out, Lavorel.’
‘I owe you one. I’ll return the favour whenever you want.’
In Annecy, Berry’s having a drink in the garden of a canalside bar with Montier, a short, rather tubby man with a round, open face.
‘Yes, I sold Transitex, and believe me, I have no regrets. My life in Paris had become a nightmare. The business wasn’t going too well. I was working myself into the ground to keep it afloat and living in a perpetual state of anxiety. On top of that, some friends took me to the races and I had the odd flutter, out of jitteriness perhaps. I met Aubert at Vincennes. And then one thing led to another and I began to gamble larger sums. Aubert lent me money several times. To thank him, I gave him a bit of space at Transitex. A classic story, one day I had a dead-cert tip, I borrowed quite a large sum of money from Aubert, among others, and of course the horse didn’t win. Total disaster. I received threats, I didn’t dare go home, I was on the verge of killing myself, I’ll spare you the details. In the end, I told my wife everything, and she took charge of things. We sold Transitex, Aubert found us a buyer within a few days, a man called Perrot – an estate agent I think -, who was interested in the factory land. I was able to pay off my debts and we moved here. A very pleasant lifestyle, fishing, hunting, a bit of swimming and skiing in winter. And my wife won’t let me out of her sight. Bliss, you see. I wouldn’t dream of pressing charges or anything like that.’
Romero arrives quite early in the Paris city hall canteen where the planning permissions personnel eat. He sweet-talks the waitresses and is allowed to wait by the cash desk. One of them promises to point out Mademoiselle Sainteny, who is well-known for her affability. Lavorel has lent him a blue blazer that’s a bit too tight for him, a white shirt and a tie that makes him look very rigid but allows him to avoid suspicion skulking behind the cash desk with his sensibly laden tray (a little luxury, a half-bottle of Bordeaux, just in case).
Mademoiselle Sainteny arrives with three of her friends. She helps herself – a simple meal, mixed salad, yoghurt and fruit – pays and heads towards the tables. Romero follows and speaks to her softly before she sits down:
‘I’d like to have a quiet word with you, can we eat together?’
She stares at him, apologises to her colleagues, and they go and sit in a far corner. Mademoiselle Sainteny is a little tense and anxious. She is in her own little happy bubble, and has the vague feeling that anything out of the ordinary could be a threat. Romero immediately sets about putting her at ease. He smiles at her, flings his tie over his shoulder so as not to get food on it, and says in a confidential tone:
‘I am a journalist…’
He waits a moment. As Mademoiselle Sainteny shows no interests, he goes on:
‘I’m doing a big feature on Monsieur Perrot. He doesn’t like talking about himself very much, out of modesty no doubt. But he told me to come and talk to you. According to him, you’ve helped his career enormously. He’s very fond of you, too.’
Mademoiselle Sainteny blushes with pleasure, her head bent over her plate. Romero pours her a drop of Bordeaux and she does not protest.
‘You see, with this article on Perrot, I’d like to show how in a liberal society, it is always possible to grow rich through hard graft and thrift.’
Mademoiselle Sainteny looks up at Romero. The touching gaze of the short-sighted. No glasses. Vanity?
‘That’s exactly what I think.’ Romero inwardly berates himself with ‘you bastard’. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘I know about Perrot’s childhood, father a farm labourer, he was one of ten children. Sent out to work at the age of thirteen, enlisted in the army at eighteen.’
He pauses for breath, a little worried all the same.
‘I had no idea.’ Full of admiration.
Relieved. ‘He’s a man of great reticence. Now he’s one of the biggest property developers in Paris. He’s known as the Emperor of the Golden Triangle…’
‘That suits him very well, the Emperor of the Golden Triangle…’
‘Doesn’t it?’ A knowing smile. ‘What I don’t know, is how he obtains the authorisations for the major conversion schemes that have enabled him to own so many office buildings in the 8th arrondissement. When I asked him, he told me to come and talk to you.’ Another drop of Bordeaux.
‘Well it’s quite simple. A real stroke of luck. In 1981, the Bastille district was not much in demand. And the furniture makers of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine were having a very tough time. They sold off their workshops cheaply, and not many people were interested. He bought up a lot of those workshops during the summer of ’81, to renovate them. And then, in the autumn, President Mitterrand launched the Bastille Opera scheme. The price per square metre more than quadrupled within a few months. So Monsieur Perrot converted his workshops into apartments, sold them and transferred his planning authorisations to the 8th arrondissement.
‘And it’s still going on, eight years later?’
‘You know, with a good architect and a good lawyer, you can multiply an area almost infinitely.’
Romero looks at her, suddenly baffled. Is the old dear naïve? Not to that extent…As Daquin says, never underestimate women… Even spinsters.
She blushes again.
‘Everybody knows that. By the way, you didn’t tell me what paper you work for?
‘Le Pèlerin Magazine.’
At five o’clock in the afternoon, almost every member of Daquin’s team is there to report back on the day’s activities when the Italian police telephone. The horses have been delivered to a stud farm outside Milan. One of the best race horse breeding centres in Italy. Which belongs to Ballestrino, a wealthy Milanese owner and breeder.
‘Known and respected, this Ballestrino?’
‘Of course. Financial advisor to some of our biggest companies…’
‘Like the Mori group?’
‘Yes, among others. And we have nothing in our files about him.’
There is a clear note of reprimand in his voice. Daquin thanks the Italians, promises to stay in touch and hangs up. He turns to Le Dem:
‘You swear that Thirard’s horses aren’t highly valuable star horses?’
‘Listen, Superintendent, I know something about horses. These are mediocre. Besides, I had a look at their documentation when they were being loaded onto the lorry. More than humble origins. Of no interest to a breeder of thoroughbred racehorses.’
Amelot clears his throat. Daquin looks at him, amused.
‘Be brave, you can speak, nobody’s going to bite your head off.’
‘While I was cross-checking all the names in the files… Ballestrino had two horses running at Longchamp on 9th July when Paola Jiménez was murdered.’
A thrill. It takes a moment for the information to sink in.
‘We’re going to have to bust a gut.’
Thursday 12 October 1989
‘The dates of Transitex deliveries to Chantilly tally with the departure dates of Thirard’s lorry for Italy. We’re going to bring Transitex down, taking a few precautions in case things go wrong, of course.’