marks, Massillon had used it with less enthusiasm than at the finishing line of the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe, remaining within the bounds of decorum.
Daquin stifles an urge to laugh, you have to respect people’s vocations, grabs the man under the armpits, hikes him up, carries him to the bathroom and dunks his head under the shower. The girl has woken up and is curled at the foot of the bed, her eyes dilated, trying to cover herself with a sheet, which isn’t easy without hands. Daquin returns, dragging the soaking man at arm’s length, and plonks him on the bed.
‘Police. I want to ask you a few questions. Are you awake enough to understand what I’m saying?’
He nods, his teeth chattering. A damp patch slowly spreads on the silk around him.
‘Your friend Berger was murdered when he left here yesterday morning. His car was booby-trapped, and it exploded. Killed outright.’
Massillon, stunned, gapes at him open-mouthed. Daquin turns to the girl.
‘Is your master always as lively as this, miss?’ She gives a little squeak. ‘Le Dem, go downstairs and get me two glasses of something, the strongest drink you can find, I think it’s the only way to wake them up.’
It takes a little while until it’s finally possible to get some sense out of them. While Daquin ferrets around upstairs, Le Dem calmly explains the situation to Massillon, who’s beginning to dry off.
‘If you’re nicked for cocaine trafficking and you cop more than three months inside, which is highly likely, you’ll lose your jockey’s licence, and there’ll be no more parties, girls or the Porsche. Back to being a stable lad. It’ll be tough.’
Everyone has forgotten the girl, still chained to the foot of the bed. Daquin comes back from his little stroll, having found nothing of interest.
‘What do you want?’ asks Massillon.
‘The name of your dealer.’
‘Senanche. He works at Meirens.’
A pushover. Le Dem had told him, jockeys are used to obeying. The owners, the trainers, why not the cops too?
‘And Berger’s?’
‘Nicolas also bought from him, fairly often.’
‘Yesterday, Berger came here with a large amount of cocaine.’ Massillon looks panic-stricken. How do they know? Tries to recall who was at the party but his mind’s a blank. ‘Did Senanche supply it?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Actually, yesterday was a treat. Nicolas was celebrating an unexpected windfall. A company gave him a huge commission for getting them an advertising account. He brought coke the way anyone else would bring a bottle of champagne, you know?’
‘Did he often do that?’
‘No, it was the second time.’
‘And where did he get his “treats” from?’
‘I think it was probably at work. A big insurance company, Pama, where he was head of advertising.’ Massillon looks up at Daquin. ‘Will I be OK?’
‘It’s not up to me. I’m going to hand you over to the gendarmes, but I’m giving you a twenty-four hour headstart. You can finish off your girlfriend at your leisure, if you have the heart for it, and then it’s up to you to find some way of protecting yourself because you’re in for a rough ride.’
Tuesday 19 September 1989
Destination La Défense. Romero is at the wheel, as always. Daquin doesn’t like driving. Leaning against the door, he maintains an aggressive silence.
‘What’s up, chief? Things not looking good?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll see.’ After a lengthy silence: ‘I hate La Défense. It depresses me.’ They turn onto the ring road. ‘Look. The tower blocks have their backs to us in an untidy sprawl. The whole district is designed to look at Paris, and be seen by Paris. It’s a theatre, not a city, and we have to enter from the wings.’
‘I’m here, I won’t abandon you in the concrete jungle.’
Romero misses the car park entrance and is off on another lap of the ring road.
‘Great, take me on a tour of the area. We’re in no hurry. It won’t do any harm to keep Madame
Daquin stifles an urge to laugh, you have to respect people’s vocations, grabs the man under the armpits, hikes him up, carries him to the bathroom and dunks his head under the shower. The girl has woken up and is curled at the foot of the bed, her eyes dilated, trying to cover herself with a sheet, which isn’t easy without hands. Daquin returns, dragging the soaking man at arm’s length, and plonks him on the bed.
‘Police. I want to ask you a few questions. Are you awake enough to understand what I’m saying?’
He nods, his teeth chattering. A damp patch slowly spreads on the silk around him.
‘Your friend Berger was murdered when he left here yesterday morning. His car was booby-trapped, and it exploded. Killed outright.’
Massillon, stunned, gapes at him open-mouthed. Daquin turns to the girl.
‘Is your master always as lively as this, miss?’ She gives a little squeak. ‘Le Dem, go downstairs and get me two glasses of something, the strongest drink you can find, I think it’s the only way to wake them up.’
It takes a little while until it’s finally possible to get some sense out of them. While Daquin ferrets around upstairs, Le Dem calmly explains the situation to Massillon, who’s beginning to dry off.
‘If you’re nicked for cocaine trafficking and you cop more than three months inside, which is highly likely, you’ll lose your jockey’s licence, and there’ll be no more parties, girls or the Porsche. Back to being a stable lad. It’ll be tough.’
Everyone has forgotten the girl, still chained to the foot of the bed. Daquin comes back from his little stroll, having found nothing of interest.
‘What do you want?’ asks Massillon.
‘The name of your dealer.’
‘Senanche. He works at Meirens.’
A pushover. Le Dem had told him, jockeys are used to obeying. The owners, the trainers, why not the cops too?
‘And Berger’s?’
‘Nicolas also bought from him, fairly often.’
‘Yesterday, Berger came here with a large amount of cocaine.’ Massillon looks panic-stricken. How do they know? Tries to recall who was at the party but his mind’s a blank. ‘Did Senanche supply it?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Actually, yesterday was a treat. Nicolas was celebrating an unexpected windfall. A company gave him a huge commission for getting them an advertising account. He brought coke the way anyone else would bring a bottle of champagne, you know?’
‘Did he often do that?’
‘No, it was the second time.’
‘And where did he get his “treats” from?’
‘I think it was probably at work. A big insurance company, Pama, where he was head of advertising.’ Massillon looks up at Daquin. ‘Will I be OK?’
‘It’s not up to me. I’m going to hand you over to the gendarmes, but I’m giving you a twenty-four hour headstart. You can finish off your girlfriend at your leisure, if you have the heart for it, and then it’s up to you to find some way of protecting yourself because you’re in for a rough ride.’
Tuesday 19 September 1989
Destination La Défense. Romero is at the wheel, as always. Daquin doesn’t like driving. Leaning against the door, he maintains an aggressive silence.
‘What’s up, chief? Things not looking good?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll see.’ After a lengthy silence: ‘I hate La Défense. It depresses me.’ They turn onto the ring road. ‘Look. The tower blocks have their backs to us in an untidy sprawl. The whole district is designed to look at Paris, and be seen by Paris. It’s a theatre, not a city, and we have to enter from the wings.’
‘I’m here, I won’t abandon you in the concrete jungle.’
Romero misses the car park entrance and is off on another lap of the ring road.
‘Great, take me on a tour of the area. We’re in no hurry. It won’t do any harm to keep Madame
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