Doorbell. Michel opens the door, and Jubelin enters stiffly. He can’t bring himself to feel at ease with him.
‘Annick’s waiting for you on the balcony.’
The table is set, and Michel has prepared some food and left it on the sideboard: a platter of cold meats, cheeses and fruit. Annick comes to greet Jubelin.
‘There’s not much for dinner. You hardly gave me any warning…’
‘It’s perfect. Most importantly, I want to talk to you undisturbed.’
From the living room, Michel indicates that he’s leaving. Annick smiles at him.
‘See you tomorrow, Michel.’
Annick pours aperitifs. Jubelin wastes no time.
‘Thirard was arrested four or five days ago, in a sting on a cocaine trafficking network that he was at the centre of…’
Now, it’s a certainty. The slush fund is definitely drugs money… So Nicolas’s murder… of course Jubelin knew. And I’m becoming a nuisance to him. This is no time to lose my grip.
‘… and I wanted to talk to you about it.’
‘How does it affect us, Xavier?’
‘We have a promotional campaign coming up, don’t forget. Some of it was shot at Thirard’s place, and we sponsor him too. Doesn’t look good.’
‘True. I think I can sort that out before the launch of the campaign. Thirard’s name won’t get out.’
‘That’s not all. From what I’ve heard about the investigation, Nicolas is thought to have been involved in the drugs trafficking.’ Annick raises an incredulous eyebrow.
‘Do you think that’s possible?’
‘Actually, I do. He knew Thirard, and that would explain why he was killed.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Whether you believe it or not, is irrelevant.’ Stifled anger. ‘What matters is what our clients think. One of our executives murdered over a drugs trafficking matter is pretty disastrous for our corporate image.’
Annick remains silent. I see what you’re driving at. Don’t count on me to make this easier for you.
‘Not to mention that the investigation won’t stop there.’ Jubelin’s expression becomes serious. ‘To be absolutely honest, Annick, the police know that you snort coke too.’
‘I’m not the first person to do so in the circles we move in. Nobody gives a damn. Including the police.’
Jubelin leans across the table and gently grabs her wrist.
‘You must look after yourself, Annick.’ In a caring, gentle voice: ‘Your name may be cited in an investigation into drugs trafficking and a murder. We need to protect you.’
‘And protect Pama.’
‘Of course. You are the company’s public face, you alone. But that’s not what I’m worried about. You must take a holiday. A long rest. In an establishment where they’ll help you get over your addiction. I’ll find you the best there is. If you take care of yourself, I have assurances that the police will leave you out of any proceedings.’
Annick looks at him. Nice try. An acute instinct for opportunity, speedy action, long-term strategy, and a hell of a nerve. No wonder you’re CEO, and I’ll have a job finding someone of your calibre. But you don’t know what cards I’m holding.
‘Do you want my resignation? Right away?’
‘There’s no question of you resigning. I was talking about a holiday. Think about it, and we’ll talk again at the end of the week, before the police come to see you for the third time.’
‘Coffee? Or a liqueur?’
Wednesday 25 October 1989
Daquin arrives at the scene of the crime, Boulevard Maillot, accompanied by Romero. They go up to the seventh floor where Inspector Bourdier is waiting for them.
‘A gruesome murder, Superintendent, discovered by Madame Renouard when she returned home less than an hour ago. On questioning her, I gather, amid a number of inconsistencies – as you’ll see, she’s pretty shaken up – that she’s implicated in some way in your investigation into cocaine trafficking…’
‘That’s correct, she is mixed up in it. As a witness for the moment.’
‘I thought it best to inform you.’
‘You did the right thing, thank you. Is she a suspect in this murder?’
‘It’s highly unlikely. At the estimated time of the crime, she was at her office, several people have confirmed it. The victim, a man called Nolant, was an illustrator, something arty. And had a strange relationship with Madame Renouard according to the concierge. Separate apartments on the same landing but constantly together. He did the shopping, the cooking, the housework. Joint bank account. They got on wonderfully, again according to the concierge, but didn’t sleep together because he was as queer as a coot. Come and see the carnage.’
The inspector pushes open the front door. Small hallway. To the right, a huge room used as a studio. Two large drawing boards in the corners, professional lighting, shelves for storing rolls and sheets of paper. Two big armchairs in the centre of the room. A kitchenette behind a counter. Everything is immaculately clean and neat. Daquin goes over to one of the drawing boards. A sheet covered in pencil-drawings of silhouettes, a lot of movement but no faces. Rather good.
‘This way,’ says Bourdier.
Daquin and Romero follow him. Door to the left of the hall. Two men are already at work in the bedroom which has been ransacked. Television, hi-fi, lights, telephone and Minitel smashed, books and records strewn over the floor, the bed bare, the sheets pulled off, and, at the foot of the bed, on the carpet, face down, surrounded by a dark stain, the naked body of a man.
That long, slim, fair-haired body. The light, curly down on the legs. Daquin walks over to him. His skull has been smashed. Kneels down. A painful wrench in the gut. With his thumb, he traces the line of the nose, the half open lips (memory of fresh lips), cold, stiff. Michel that night, blond, sensual, tender, attentive, smiling…What a waste to destroy that life. Daquin stands up, a shattered expression on his face.
Bourdier shows him a cast-iron lampstand with dried bloodstains on it.
‘The crime weapon, most likely. Forensics haven’t confirmed yet. Looks like a gay pick-up that turned nasty. What do you think?’
‘Looks like it.’ Terse. ‘Unless it’s been made to look like that. Can I talk to Madame Renouard?’
‘Of course. She’s in her bedroom. I asked a woman police officer to stay with her, as a precaution.’
‘Come on, Romero.’ Then, turning to Bourdier. ‘Inspector, don’t leave here before I’ve had a word with you.’
On entering the vast main room of Annick’s apartment, Daquin stops, amazed. On the walls, a pale tobacco-coloured Japanese wallpaper, white oak parquet floors, to the left, a huge sofa in front of a stone and timber fireplace with a fire laid in the grate. In one corner, facing the door, a forest of bamboo and plants, and sitting in a wicker armchair amid the plant containers, a golliwog in a red bowler hat and suit stares at the visitor. Several Eames chairs, two Regency wing chairs covered in duck-egg blue velvet. And on the right-hand wall, a mosaic of tastefully framed drawings. Daquin walks over to it. Works from very different periods, of varying quality and techniques, but the overall effect has tremendous charm, Michel’s charm, his desire to seduce. And in the bottom left-hand corner, an Indian-ink silhouette of Annick portrayed as a heroine of a spaghetti western, advancing towards him. Not hard to recognise Michel’s style, and, beneath the irony, tremendous affection. Beyond the room, a vast flower-filled balcony overlooking Paris. But who is this woman? I’d never have pictured her in an apartment like this, nor living with a man like Michel.