He heads for the bedroom door. Just before entering, he turns to Romero:
‘Here we are on the threshold of the dark continent. Not too scared?’
Baffled, Romero gazes at the golliwog.
Daquin signals to the woman police officer to leave. Annick is sitting on the bed, whey-faced, puffy-eyed, staring vacantly, her nose pinched,
shivering. She stares at them blankly. Then she gets up, her body tense to breaking point, her hands clenched, knuckles white, and with explosive energy grabs a crystal ash tray from the bedside table and hurls it with all her strength at Daquin’s head. He manages to duck just in time, and the ash tray shatters against the wall sounding like an explosion.
‘Filthy rapist, I’ve been waiting for this for years, bastard, I’m going to cut your balls off.’ Laughs. ‘At last it’ll be over. No more nightmares.’
She moves towards Daquin, who frankly feels more intrigued than afraid.
Romero, who always tends to take this kind of threat very seriously, edges towards her and tries to seize her bodily. She breaks away with surprising strength, gives him a resounding slap on the left ear, pain in the eardrum, and screeches shrilly:
‘Don’t you touch me, you filthy Eyetie, you’re all the same, garbage…’
Daquin encircles her waist from behind, and sits her on the bed. Her body rigid, arched, resisting all the way, she tries to free herself, twists, kicks out, smashes the bedside light.
‘Did Jubelin send you? I hate Jubelin, he killed Michel.’
Her voice is already less shrill. Then, suddenly, she sinks into apathy, her eyes vacant. Daquin lays her on the bed, without relaxing his hold, and talks to her very softly, almost in a whisper:
‘What’s this got to do with Jubelin?’
‘I don’t want to talk to you. Leave me alone.’
Daquin gradually loosens his grip. Lying on the bed, she begins to sob tearlessly, in fitful spasms.
‘Romero, get me a damp towel from the bathroom, a glass of water, and some tranquillisers – there are bound to be some.’
While Romero coaxes her to drink, Daquin inspects the room, opens the drawers and cupboards. Inside the bedside table drawer is a diskette. He picks it up. You never know.
Ten minutes or so later, Annick, still lying on the bed, is breathing more calmly, her eyes closed.
‘We’re not going to get any sense out of her. Get the car and take Madame Renouard to Doctor Senik’s clinic at Le Vésinet. Tell him I sent you and explain the situation. Cocaine, terrible shock, no way can she get out of this by cutting out and telling us to go to Hell. He’s used to dealing with this type of case. Tell him to register her under a false name, and take
some precautions. After all, she may be in danger. We’ll meet up tomorrow. I’m staying here. I’ve got to have a word with Bourdier.’
On Daquin’s desk is a big brown envelope which must have been delivered by hand. No address, no stamp, just his name in block letters.
He makes himself a coffee, sits down and opens the envelope. Four glossy photos, large format. Michel and him in the bar, Daquin’s hand inside Michel’s sweater. Daquin’s lips on Michel’s face. The first kiss. It was just before they left together. Both clearly identifiable. At first they stir the acute memory of the pleasure of that evening. Daquin feels a pang of gratitude towards Michel, who was so alive. With his finger, he traces Michel’s features. Flashback, his cool lips, his warm mouth. The photos are very slightly fuzzy, as if they had captured the heat of their touch. And then Daquin’s anger at the memory of the naked corpse at the foot of the bed, the battered skull, came flooding back. Finally he tells himself it’s about time he reacted as a cop.
Picks up the four photos and pins them to the cork board on the back wall of his office. A phone call to Inspector Bourdier.
‘Come and see me in my office as soon as you can, I’ve got something to show you.’
Who? It could be an intimidation tactic linked to the busting of Transitex, to discourage us from going any further, either Perrot or Jubelin could be behind it. But it could also be someone from within the police. A cop from the Horseracing and Gaming division out to protect the debt recovery boys from further snooping. Daquin thinks long and hard. Or it has nothing whatsoever to do with our investigation. An opportunity seized by a clandestine intelligence and blackmailing outfit within the police, the Ministry or elsewhere. There are all sorts of possibilities.
Phone rings. Daquin picks it up. The switchboard.
‘Please hold for Monsieur Deluc who’s calling from the Élysée.’
‘Let me introduce myself. Christian Deluc, presidential advisor. I have just met your director and I’d very much like to make your acquaintance.’ Silence. ‘Would you be free to have dinner with me, tonight, at the Élysée, I’m on duty, I can’t leave the building.’
‘Certainly, Monsieur Deluc.’
‘Perfect. See you this evening. Eight thirty?’
‘Fine.’
Perrot, Deluc, Beirut, this is it. The photos too?
A few minutes later, the phone rings again, his direct line. It’s the director of the Drugs Squad.
‘Come and see me in my office.’ Curt.
I’m certainly not going to sit twiddling my thumbs today.
When Daquin enters the director’s office, he finds his superior
ashen-faced
. With rage? The photos are spread out on his desk.
‘Sit down, Daquin. I received these this morning.’
‘So did I.’
‘Is it a set-up?’
‘No. I spent an evening in that bar, with that man.’ A smile. ‘And it was a great evening.’
‘What else do you have to say about this?’
‘That it concerns my private life, Sir. When these photos were taken I was off duty. It’s a chance meeting in a bar where there are many chance meetings. With a consenting adult.’
‘I find these compromising for my department. That’s not all. There was an anonymous note with these photos.’ Silence. Daquin doesn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Apparently the second man is a certain Michel Nolant, murdered a few days later.’ Still no reaction. ‘In all likelihood in the course of a homosexual pick-up that turned nasty. And you were apparently seen in the vicinity.’
Daquin laughs.
‘Do you suspect me, Sir?’
‘Not yet. But I’d like you to take the situation more seriously. The director of the Crime Squad is hopping mad.’
‘I’m taking it very seriously. Maybe you’re aware that I was called to the scene of the murder by Inspector Bourdier of the Crime Squad, who’s in charge of the investigation, because this murder ties in with my own investigation into the Transitex case. The minute I recognised Michel Nolant, I informed Inspector Bourdier of the encounter which these photos so touchingly record. I also informed him this morning, before coming to see you, that I had received some souvenir photos. He’s coming to have a look at them this afternoon, in my office.’
‘I’m going to talk to the Crime Squad and see if they can order an internal investigation. Meanwhile, I’d like you to consider yourself on leave.’ An ironic smile. ‘Well deserved too, now that the Transitex case is closed.’
‘May I inform my inspectors of your decision myself?’
Terse. ‘Of course’.
‘Have you asked yourself, Sir, who might be trying to intimidate me, or even remove me, and why?’
‘Daquin, you don’t need to teach me my job.’
Daquin is leaning against the parapet of the embankment once more. Grey sky, an intense, mellow light, like in a film. In the same spot as the other evening. Go back to that evening, relive it moment by moment. He left from here, on foot, heading for the Marais. He walked past the cathedral, crossed the bridges, inhaled the cool air of the Seine deeply then turned into the narrow back streets with their stone buildings and their promise of pleasure. At no point had he worried about whether he was being followed. So it is possible that he was. He’d walked up Rue Vieille-du-Temple. A little further on, in front of him, he had spotted Michel and begun to follow, not approaching him immediately, watching him wiggle his arse. When he’d turned into Rue du Bourg-Tibourg, Daquin had followed him, moving closer all the time. It was definitely he, Daquin, who had gone up to Michel, a few metres from that bar. No chance, therefore, that Michel had been involved in setting him up. Which one of them had suggested that bar rather than another? Neither. It was chance. It was the closest one to the spot where he had spoken to Michel. None of this is getting me anywhere.
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.