Dead Horsemeat Read Free

very dark skin, thick mass of black hair brushing the floor. The pool of blood on the tiles seeps under the toilet door.
    The Crime Squad is at work. Forensic doctor, photographer, experts. Just one witness, a woman touching up her make-up saw the blood oozing under the toilet door and ran out screaming. It was 3.40 p.m.
    Daquin is tall, well over six foot, burly shoulders, powerfully built, possibly on the heavy side. Square, regular face, not particularly good-looking , alert brown eyes that take in every detail of his surroundings, a powerful physical presence. Since the arrival of his chief, Romero has felt more relaxed. Daquin turns to him:
    ‘Well?’
    ‘One of my snouts. She called me at home…’, slight hesitation, ‘…around two thirty, and asked me to meet her here, by window 10. She wanted to point someone out to me. She said it was important and urgent. She was killed before I got here.’
    ‘Where did you come across her?’
    ‘Jail. Fleury-Mérogis. When there was a big to-do about Colombian cocaine, I went in there to do a deal. She was inside, so was her mother. Mules. They were nabbed bringing in a hundred grams of coke each. She spoke French, seemed smart.’
    ‘Extremely pretty too.’
    ‘Yes.’ Annoyed. ‘I arranged for her to be released, and I promised I’d get her mother out if she tipped me off on the Colombian ring in Paris.’ Flashback to the girl’s body, lying in the sun in his apartment. He was wasting time. ‘I’m not proud of myself.’
    Daquin stares at him for a moment.
    ‘So I see.’
    Then he goes back to the body and examines it. The dress’s right sleeve has remained intact. Daquin leans over and pinches the fabric. Luxurious silk. Gently tugs the collar. Label: Sonia Rykiel. With the tip of his shoe he turns over a sandal lying by the toilet bowl. Two exotic leather straps signed Charles Jourdan.
    ‘And she spoke good French?’
    ‘Yes, fluently, just a hint of an accent.’
    ‘There’s something strange about this little mule of yours. Too well dressed for a poor Colombian girl. Romero, you’re hopeless. A cop can learn more about a woman from her clothes than from staring at her tits.’
    ‘Nobody’s perfect, chief.’
    Silence.
    ‘In my opinion, we should go and see her mother. Now, before someone else does.’

    When they reach Fleury-Mérogis, Daquin and Romero are told that Madame Jiménez was released yesterday, on judge’s orders.
    ‘May we see Paola Jiménez and her mother’s files?’
    The minute she was arrested, Paola Jiménez had asked for lawyer Maître Larivière to be contacted.
    ‘I’ve known Larivière for twenty years. He was already wheeling and dealing with the CIA when I was working with the FBI. A mule who dresses in Sonia Rykiel and has the address of a pal of the CIA… But apparently Larivière refused to take the case. That was before your visit, Romero… Let’s check out the mother.’ Daquin skims two pages. ‘Not bad either. A week ago, she received a visit from Maître Astagno, who stated he was her lawyer. Have you heard of Astagno?’
    ‘Of course.’
    Romero is distinctly uncomfortable.
    ‘High-flying lawyer, regular defender of the big drug traffickers we sometimes manage to arrest in France. Last year, he got a Medellín cartel treasurer off. The guy was handling huge sums of money placed in nine accounts registered in Luxembourg. It seems it wasn’t possible to prove that the money derived directly from drug smuggling. Does it make senseto you for Astagno to take an interest in an ageing Colombian mule? And manages to get her out in three days?’
    ‘No, of course not. Chief, I admit anything you want. I was careless, I trusted a pretty girl. I was slow, and I’m partly to blame for her death. Now what do we do?’
    ‘We drop it as quickly as we can. This case stinks. Probably a coup organised by the Americans, a publicity stunt before the Arche summit which is supposed to be a landmark occasion in the