Dead Horsemeat Read Free Page A

international drugs war. Paola brings in a sample to bait the buyers. For some mysterious reason, the operation goes pear-shaped. She’s arrested, perhaps on a tip-off from the Americans themselves, seeing as Larivière refused to get involved. When you put her back in circulation, the prospective buyers talk to the mother, and kill the girl. And to cap it all, there are probably a few French cops mixed up in it. So tread carefully. You open a case and it turns out to be a can of worms.’
Friday 14 July 1989
    Annick, Jubelin and Nicolas arrive together at the private Maréchaux mansion bordering on Place de l’Étoile. They had to walk, for the whole district is in a state of siege. In less than half an hour, the 14 th July parade will begin, a special extravaganza to celebrate the bicentenary of the French Revolution of 1789. A beaming Perrot greets them on the steps. In the hall, Domenico Mori, elegant as ever, accompanied by three Italians. Perrot makes the introductions: Enzo Ballestrino, Mori’s financial advisor, Michele Galliano and Giuseppe Renta, Munich-based directors of subsidiaries of Mori’s consortium.
    Then he takes them all on a guided tour of the mansion. The first-floor rooms, high ceilings, white oak Versailles floors, huge curved bay windows overlooking Place de l’Étoile, sumptuous walls and ceilings decorated with panelling and plasterwork. No furniture, just several buffet tables laden with food, drink and floral arrangements facing the bay windows. Between the tables are the TV monitors that will relay the procession. On the second floor, more empty rooms with a view of Place de l’Étoile, groaning buffet tables and TV screens.
    Perrot turns to the Italians:
    ‘It’s thanks to my friend Jubelin and to Pama that I was able to buy this residence a month ago. It has already been sold to a Japanese insurancecompany, at the highest price per square metre of the entire Golden Triangle. In three months, I’ve made a net profit of fifteen per cent.’
    ‘And by underwriting the operation,’ continues Jubelin, ‘Pama gains a foothold in Japan, without spending a cent. Give me plenty of business like that, and we’ll remain good friends.’ Laughter.
    The guests arrive in small clusters. When the parade starts, at around 10 p.m., there are about a hundred people there, businessmen, members of ministerial cabinets, ‘and their spouses’, jostling at the windows on the two floors. The procession formed in Avenue Foch winds round the Arc de Triomphe, passing beneath the windows of the mansion, then turns into the Champs Élysées to the continuous boom of drums and, from time to time, the whine of bagpipes.
    At the head of the procession, under a vast banner ‘We fight on’, a grey, silent crowd and a float swathed in black symbolise the death of hope in Tiananmen Square.
    Deluc throws an arm around Annick and Nicolas.
    ‘The sight of the defeated is always tedious.’
    ‘I can’t share your cynicism.’
    ‘I’m not cynical, my friend. Just realistic. And I don’t mix entertainment with politics.’ He steers them towards the buffet. ‘Champagne all round. This magnificent parade to celebrate our anniversary. Do you remember? It’s exactly twenty years since we three left Rennes to come to Paris. Something worth celebrating.’
    Annick’s mind darts back to that last evening in Rennes. Deluc, running away, her stumbling, caught by the cops, dragged to the police station, fucked by a detective inspector… Were they supposed to be toasting that unforgettable night? She glances around the room. Let bygones be bygones, and any excuse to drink champagne is a good one.
    The guests amble between the buffet and the windows, up and down the stairs. In the heavily soundproofed rear rooms, a hi-fi plays music and a few couples are dancing.
    On the Place de l’Étoile, after the French regions come the Americans, Russians and Scots, parading to the sound of hurdy-gurdies, fifes, bagpipes and the