‘We’ll tap Transitex’s phones, no problem. As far as Aubert’s personal residence is concerned, we’ll have to wait until we’ve got a bit more to go on. As for the rest, Lavorel, you are just the man to answer your own question.’
Eight horses to feed, muck out, groom and look after. Le Dem, in a check shirt, linen trousers and heavy shoes sets to work at six thirty in the morning. The best moment of the day. It’s cool, the horses are calm, the work organised, methodical, no panics or arguments yet, and it’s not too tiring.
At eight o’clock, Thirard comes to the outdoor school, a few metres away from Le Dem’s loose boxes, with two breeders who show him some horses. Gimlet eyes, always on the alert, he watches a professional rider put the horses through their paces, at a walk, a trot and a canter, then taking the low jumps, without saying a word. Out of around a dozen horses, only one interests him, a slightly heavy iron grey, and he tries it on a higher jump. A fine performance. Thirard invites the breeders into the house to talk business over a bottle of wine.
At eleven o’clock, stable inspection. Thirard doesn’t have a stables manager, he keeps an eye on everything himself, examines every stall and every horse with the groom in charge of it, runs a hand the wrong way over the croup to check it is clean, inspects the fetlocks and dispenses criticism and advice with the same authority he displays in the saddle. He is happy to listen to the groom’s comments on the condition of this horse or that, and he is attentive to the reactions of his mounts, as long as they obey him. Nobody argues with Thirard’s opinions or orders. Le Dem watches him at it. Ten years ago, if I could have really learned the
profession properly, would I have ended up in the police? Almost certainly not. Better change the subject.
On reaching Le Dem’s stalls, Thirard relaxes a little. After the inspection, the ghost of a smile, then:
‘This afternoon, saddle up this horse for me and bring him to the small indoor school. I’ll get him to jump.’
On the dot of three, Le Dem leads a big brown bay to the small school, concealed among the trees. Thirard is already there, waiting for him. It’s the first time he’s entered the school, which is completely closed off with no windows. Only one skylight in the roof lets in the daylight. In a box next to the jumps are bandages and a bottle of turpentine. He rubs the horse’s legs. There’s a strong smell. Le Dem coughs.
‘Not used to the smell?’ laughs Thirard.
Le Dem stammers, then carefully bandages the horse’s legs.
‘Get the whip and I’ll set the bars.’
First of all the horse is allowed to canter freely around the ring a couple of times to loosen up. Then Le Dem drives it with the whip towards the hurdle, a few easy jumps. Thirard watches.
‘He’s a bit lazy with his forelegs. You have to make him pick them up.’
He constructs a much bigger jump with sharp black spikes on the top bar, then goes back to the centre of the school, holding a remote control. When the horse jumps, Thirard presses the button and the top bar is pushed up by two springs so that the spikes hit the horse’s front legs. The turpentine heightens the pain. Several jumps, the whip is needed more and more frequently.
‘Good, now the back legs twice, and that will be enough… Now, let’s see the result.’
The bars are raised to the maximum height, without the spiked bar and without the remote control. A normal hurdle. Huge, thinks Le Dem.
‘Keep up with the whip,’ says Thirard. ‘Don’t miss him.’
The horse soars, legs folded to avoid the anticipated pain, its style impeccable. Perfect. They lower the bars, a couple of easy jumps without restraint. Thirard stops the horse which is coated in froth, its legs trembling.
‘Hose his legs thoroughly and put cream on to soothe them.’ Three or four little pats on the neck. ‘A good horse. Groom him well, he’s being put up for sale tomorrow and should do well.’
When Annick opens her front door, accompanied by Jubelin, Deluc is already there. He comes out of the kitchen, with his perpetual constipated half-smile.
‘I got here a little early and I was chatting to your butler…’
He pauses ironically before the word ‘butler’, for emphasis. Annick, amused, (my relationship with Michel irritates him) walks over to the sofa and serves aperitifs. Deluc remains on his feet, leaning against the chimney breast.
‘… we exchange a few thoughts on Nicolas’s murder. Rather surprising, isn’t it?’ Silence. ‘What are you going to do now, darling, who’s going to feed your little habit?’ Then, abruptly changing subject, he turns to Jubelin. ‘Congratulations on the successful takeover bid for A.A. Bayern.’ Annick glances briefly at Deluc. Was he in on it too? ‘By the way, did Perrot talk to you about his luxury hotel project in Chantilly?’
‘On Thirard’s land?’
Annick jumps in surprise.
‘Thirard, who owns the stables where we shot the ad? Do you know him?’
‘Yes. A little. He’s providing the land for the operation and Perrot the capital.’
‘I’m in,’ says Deluc. ‘I’ll reinvest my recent profits from the stock market.’
So he’d also been involved in the takeover bid.
‘I’m not. The links between Pama and Perrot are too close, my personal involvement in the operation wouldn’t go down well.’
Michel brings in a grapefruit and crab salad, served in the shells, places it on the plates and goes back to the kitchen.
Annick invites the two men to sit at the table.
‘Suppose we move on to the serious business?’
Jubelin gets straight to the point.
‘I and other company bosses are wondering about the effects of the measures taken at the Arche summit to clamp down on the laundering of drugs money.’
Deluc launches into a diatribe against the deathmongers and the danger they represent for civilisation…
‘The new official line,’ retorts Annick acerbically. ‘Useful for reclaiming the moral high ground cheaply, in these times…’
‘Don’t act all virtuous, Annick, you’re in no position to.’
Slight unease. During which Michel changes the plates and brings in a sauté of veal with leeks and raisins, Jubelin wonders why Annick is always so aggressive towards Deluc. Her childhood friend, she says, and so useful in his position…
A heated conversation about drugs money ensues. It touches on everything. True, these vast sums of cash risk causing international disruption and crisis. But the global economy also needs it, and besides, the Americans can make as much fuss as they like, but actually, when it comes down to it, they are the chief beneficiaries of the narcodollars. So, don’t be naïve. And above all, above all don’t interfere with banking secrecy on the pretext of fighting against dirty money, or the tax havens, which all businesses badly need. A section of the business community is worried about these two issues, seriously worried, and wants assurances. Message received, it’ll be passed on to the necessary quarters who will act on it as they see fit.
When they rise to move on to coffee and liqueurs, the conversation switches to international politics.
Deluc embarks on a defence of Gorbachev, which amuses Annick. A few years ago, Deluc refused to shake a Communist’s hand…Age, probably. And Jubelin is clearly sceptical.
‘You know, we have associates in Munich who already have bridgeheads in the Communist countries…’
‘The Munich correspondents of the Mori group who we met at Perrot’s?’
‘That’s right. I guarantee that their contacts never go through official state channels, but through direct relations with very diverse and often rival interest groups. And our associates are banking on the implosion of the USSR and its satellites, not on the success of Gorbachev. I see it as a very tempting opportunity for Pama. The gambler and hunter in me, presumably.’
‘But as for us, we have other concerns: European stability…’
They fix a date for an informal exchange of information between a few handpicked individuals.
Once they’ve left, Annick and Michel have one last drink, sitting side by side on the sofa.
‘I’m getting old, Michel. Sometimes I feel as though I can’t stand them any more, or perhaps I can’t stand myself.’
‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I like you indomitable.’
Perrot is a man of punctilious habits. He lives in the penthouse apartment of the building he owns in Rue Balzac. A hundred square metres, Slavik-style interiors, done by Slavik, plus a fifty square-metre terrace with a view over the Arc de Triomphe, the Bois de Boulogne and La Défense, maintained by a landscape gardener. Every morning, at eight o’clock, his housekeeper brings him eggs, processed cheese, bread and his newspaper,
Le Figaro.
By this time, he is already up, she hears him showering in the bathroom. She brings him his breakfast in the living room or out on the terrace if the weather is warm enough. He has soft-boiled eggs with soldiers, the juice of two freshly squeezed oranges, and the cheese spread on the
baguette
. He drinks a lot of coffee. This is the only meal he eats at home, the routine never varies. There are no bookshelves in the apartment, he doesn’t appear ever to read books, nor is there a desk, never any work documents. In the bedroom, a big radio, which he probably listens to before eight o’clock. A huge bathroom, with a round bath tub. And a living room dominated by television: two TV sets, several video players and a whole cupboard full of cassettes, which is kept carefully locked. He never invites anybody home.
Every weekday at nine o’clock, he goes down to the car park where his chauffeur is waiting for him.
After he has left, the housekeeper tidies up, does the washing (Perrot changes his clothes during the day), cleans the apartment and leaves at the end of the morning. For this work, six days a week, she is paid a full salary, which is why she says it’s a good job, even though he generally tends to be rather rude: never so much as a good morning or a goodbye, as though she didn’t exist. It’s hard to take, day in and day out.
(Source: the housekeeper.)
At nine o’clock, Perrot gets into his car, a black BMW, the only car he owns, and is driven to his office in Rue de l’Université, a small private mansion set between a courtyard and garden, surrounded by high walls with a wide carriage entrance.
(Source: the chauffeur.)
His entire operation is in this building. He himself occupies a rather austere, medium-sized office on the top floor overlooking the garden. He
never has any contact with the lawyers, architects, surveyors, designers and accountants who make up his staff. But he begins his day with a conversation with Dumas, his right-hand man, with whom he discusses everything, and who passes on his orders and ensures they are executed. The length of this conversation varies from one day to the next. For the rest of the day, Perrot works on his company’s financial dossiers. It is always he, and he alone, who deals with the financial arrangements for his various business ventures. When he hands the dossiers over to the various departments, they are finalised. He receives a lot of telephone calls, vetted by his secretary, or on a personal direct line. Or on his car phone. He never holds meetings in his office, to which only Dumas and his secretary have access. His secretary believes he is the most powerful property developer in Paris. He specialises in renovating old houses and converting them into office buildings, mainly in Paris’s 8
th
arrondissement. With residential space in this district worth about 20,000 francs per square metre, and office space around 80,000 francs per square metre, it’s not hard to imagine the profits Perrot reaps from the dozen or so conversions he always has on the go. (
Given that my personal office space is five square metres, if I sold it at that price, I could contemplate retiring in two years.
) Furthermore, property prices in general have doubled in two years, which boosts his profits even further. At six o’clock, Perrot leaves his office.
There are only two exceptions to this strict schedule: from time to time, his chauffeur drives him to visit a building site with Dumas. And once a week, he has lunch in town. That is all. His secretary, a woman in her forties, rather unprepossessing, admits that her boss is authoritarian and rude, but he is also well-organised and not temperamental. She considers herself very well paid, and feels that all things considered, it’s a very good job.
(Source: the secretary.)
Once a week, Perrot has lunch at Le Pactole, a classy restaurant on Boulevard St Germain.
(Source: the chauffeur.)
At Le Pactole, he has a table for two reserved. And there he meets a modest-looking woman, well into her fifties. He is attentive, pulls out her chair, chooses the menus himself (that day, fresh foie gras, a tureen of
steamed scallops, cheese, pears cooked in wine). Their conversation is lively, he gives her the latest society gossip, she talks to him about the shows she’s seen: lengthy account of the opening night of a concert at the Bastille Opera.
(Source: Inspector Romero, sitting at the next table, expenses attached.)
On leaving the restaurant, Perrot drives his companion back to her office. She works at the Paris City Hall planning applications department.
(Source: the chauffeur.)
This department deals with applications for change of use, for converting residential property to offices. In central Paris, developing office space at the expense of housing is prohibited. If you want to convert housing in one part of Paris, you have to obtain authorisation and compensate for it by converting office or industrial sites into housing elsewhere in the capital. And obtain permission from the Mayor of Paris for the entire operation. Mademoiselle Sainteny (Perrot’s guest) is a lowly employee in this department: she registers applications, checks that they are in order, and passes them on to the appropriate department which makes the decisions. It normally takes six or seven months to obtain a reply. Which represents a major lost opportunity at a time when the price per square metre is doubling every two years. Thanks to Mademoiselle Sainteny, Perrot’s applications are always on the top of the pile, and he receives a reply within two weeks. She is a sort of “application pusher”, which has little risk attached, for there is no actual fraud involved, and which brings pleasant rewards: she, a low-down official on a paltry salary, a rather lonely spinster, has lunch once a week in an excellent restaurant, receives regular invitations to the opening nights of prestigious Paris shows, and, from time to time, little gifts – perfume, or leather gloves – which she shows off to her colleagues. Once, a rather smart suit. But never any money. Mademoiselle Sainteny therefore has a clear conscience and is perfectly happy.