Standing outside the bar, which is closed at this hour of the morning, Daquin replays their movements one by one, the movements captured in the photos. Of course, it’s obvious. Those photos were taken from behind the bar, some way from where he and Michel were. The barman. Goes over the entire early part of the evening in his mind. And only the barman. A glance around: the street is almost empty. No iron shutters, a simple wooden door and yellow and brown tiles. Not very sturdy. Walks up to it, touches it with his fingertips. It’s locked. Behind the door, there’s the sound of someone moving around, probably the cleaner. Visualise the place. The bar on your left as you go in. The big, dark room with tables, curtained off booths. And to the right, the toilets, three separate little rooms, spacious, all tiled in red and white, decorated with magnificent posters of naked men. A smile as he recalls the big mirror in a wooden frame next to the toilet bowl. And in each one, a huge washbasin. Daquin gives the door a sharp, powerful shove, the bolt pulls away from the frame and the door opens. Daquin goes in and closes it behind him. The barman from the other evening is there in jeans and shirt sleeves, a black apron around his waist, mopping the floor between the tables. He straightens up. Backache, Daquin notes automatically.
‘What do you want? Can’t you see we’re closed?’
A step forward. With one hand, Daquin grabs his arm and raises him, clamping his other hand over the barman’s mouth. He catches him completely off guard. Drags him into the toilets. Muffled protests. He’s probably recognised me. Flings him into one of the toilets and locks the door. Grabs his hair, jams him up against the washbasin with all his weight, turns the tap full on and shoves his head under it. Holds him there for two long minutes. The best way to stop him from yelling once the conversation gets under way. Pulls his head up out of the basin. The man’s knees are wobbly, he’s dripping wet, and half choking. Not really in a position of strength. Daquin vigorously shakes his head.
‘To wake you up a bit. Do you remember the photos you took on Saturday night?’
Dunks him again. Someone’s moving around in the bar. Daquin, ears pricked, goes into the next toilet. Another long minute. The barman’s racked with spasms. A couple more minutes. Then Daquin returns. The hardest thing in these circumstances is to be patient. He lets the barman breathe. The man retches violently and vomits water and the remains of his last meal into the washbasin. Daquin barks:
‘Next time will be even worse. Who were you working for the other evening? Quick or you go under again.’
‘A cop, Rostang.’ A barely audible croak.
‘Has he got a hold on you?’
‘Yes.’
Daquin lets him go. The barman slumps onto the floor, glancing at his reflection as he slides down and ends up wedged between the toilet bowl and the big mirror.
‘Fancy yourself, do you?’ He grabs him by the hair and twists his face round towards the mirror. ‘Take a good look at yourself.’ Without letting go, a kick, not too hard, in the lower back, as a warning. ‘Tell me about this Rostang.’
‘He’s a cop in Intelligence.’
He tries to look away. Daquin forces him to face the mirror.
‘Go on.’
‘He knows a lot of people around here.’
‘What about Saturday evening?’
‘He followed you. He asked me to photograph you. I couldn’t say no.’
‘You know what you’re doing, it’s not the first time you’ve done this for him.’ The barman says nothing. ‘This time, you’d better take a few days’ holiday until all this blows over.’
And he lets him go.
‘Martinot? Hello, Daquin here. Do me a favour. You know everyone. A colleague of yours in Intelligence, a guy called Rostang, does the name mean anything to you?’
‘Not much. There’s always been something odd about him, though there have never been any specific complaints about him. Ex Crime Squad apparently. In 1986, he was attached directly to the Ministry of the Interior.’
‘Didn’t he return in ’88?’
‘No.’ Laughs. ‘He must have worked miracles, he was moved to the Élysée.’
‘Martinot, I owe you one. Any time.’
An Élysée usher leads Daquin through a maze of corridors to a small apartment located on the corner of Avenue Matignon for the use of the advisor on duty. Deluc, informed of his arrival by security, is waiting for him on the threshold. Daquin sums him up at a glance. Tall, slim, rigid, very rigid, glasses with delicate frames, thin almost non-existent lips, and on his face, a permanent sort of ironic smile. Remember, an uptight pervert. He stares lengthily at Daquin. Is he trying to find a resemblance to the photos? Not just that… An unhealthy curiosity. So here he is, the cop who goes cruising in gay bars… Daquin puts on a suave, solid and impassive front.
‘Thank you for agreeing to come here. I didn’t want to delay meeting you.’
More than friendly, almost charming. Why? He doesn’t need to be.
Deluc takes his elbow and stands aside to let him into the apartment. Small, antique furniture, low ceilings, comfortable, intimate. A drawing room, dining room, the table is laid for two. A manservant, white jacket, black bow tie, perfectly trained without being unctuous, serves aperitifs. Champagne for Daquin, whisky for Deluc.
‘I waited until you’d finished your investigation. Brilliantly, so your director tells me. You have completely smashed a cocaine trafficking ring…’
Completely… Is that his sense of humour?
The phone rings. Deluc replies, takes notes, makes a phone call, returns. Busy, important. He’s showing off.
‘Let us eat. A simple meal, I hope you won’t hold it against me.’
The manservant again. Attentive, discreet service. Warm oysters washed down with a Coulée de Serrant.
‘I waited for this case to be closed so that my contacting you would not be misinterpreted. I wanted to thank you personally for the way you acted concerning my son.’ Daquin raises his eyebrows. ‘The Superintendent of the 16th arrondissement informed me what happened on that unfortunate occasion. I’m grateful to you for sparing him the whole judicial process. You can now count on my support if you need it.’
So this is what it’s about. Not very subtle. Does he think I’m finished and not capable of tracing things back to him? More likely, he simply doesn’t give a damn. He thinks he’s in a position of strength. Too sure of his power, this guy. Another phone call, fax, it’s Georges, for François. Deluc casually leaves the fax lying on the table, next to Daquin’s plate, while he calls the general secretary of the Élysée. He comes back to the table, puffed up, happy. Throughout this dinner at the Élysée, Deluc was putting on a performance, it was rather pathetic. This guy, take away his office and his chauffeur-driven car, and he’s lost.
After the oysters, rack of lamb, baby vegetables, accompanied by a Château-Carbonnieux 1983. That at least, absolutely perfect. The meat, impeccably cooked, a masterpiece. In all, with Deluc’s play-acting, a memorable meal.
Deluc in a confidential tone: