box begins to circulate. Lavorel on the alert. As the box goes round, they all take a pinch of white powder and snort it from the base of their thumb. Things are hotting up even more. Lavorel helps himself and discreetly sprinkles the powder on the floor. Meanwhile Romero, with a big grin, stares at him and has a quick snort. By now, disaster is imminent.
Two girls jump up onto the buffet and start dancing among the dishes, high as kites, wild… They dance well. Everybody claps, the little box is still going around, faster and faster. The blonde has her hand between Romero’s legs, and her fingers are moving up and down to the rhythm of the music. When she gets the expected response, she suddenly leaps onto the table and begins a striptease between the two dancers, who become even more frenzied. The guests shriek with delight. She’s down to her bra… Romero rips off his shirt – Lavorel nervously pats the tape recorder in his pocket to reassure himself it’s there – beats his chest, lets out a Tarzan cry and clambers onto the table.
Blascos, standing next to Lavorel, his eyes wide, says in an undertone ‘Some cop, huh?’
Tarzan-Romero sweeps the blonde, now bra-less, into his arms, jumps down but misses his footing, crashes heavily onto the table, breaks a few plates, one or two bottles and gives himself a deep gash in his left buttock. Blood spurts everywhere.
Lavorel grabs Blascos by the shoulder.
‘Help me.’
They each grab Romero under one armpit, drag him out to the car parked outside and lay him on his stomach on the back seat. Head for the hospital. Blascos laughs uncontrollably.
‘I haven’t laughed like this for years. Come back guys. Whenever you like.’
Once Romero’s been taken care of and sent home in a taxi, Blascos and Lavorel return to the party, which is still in full swing.
‘Tell me, who’s the guy who’s so generous with the coke?’
‘A friend of Massillon’s. He’s called Nicolas Berger, and that’s all I know about him.’
Blascos waits until the end of the party to sell to the guests who want to stock up before going home. And Lavorel waits for Nicolas Berger to find out a little more about him.
Sunday 17 September 1989
Nicolas Berger leaves Massillon’s villa at around 7 a.m., seemingly on good form, with Lavorel trailing behind, rather the worse for wear. After about thirty kilometres, they approach a large farm, still in the Ile de France. It is an imposing stone-built, partially fortified construction. Some large trucks are parked in a field in front of the farm, their ramps lowered, and horses everywhere, tethered to the trucks, being led or ridden by young people wearing jeans, and competitors in white jodhpurs, black boots and tailored red or black jackets.
Nicolas cruises slowly around the thronging field, and Lavorel concentrates on tailing him without knocking anyone over. Then Nicolas pulls up beside a large green and white truck and Lavorel drives past and parks his car twenty metres further on, under a tree. Nicolas goes over to the truck driver. After changing his clothes, he leads a horse out of the truck, mounts it, rides around the farmhouse and disappears.
Lavorel picks his way across the field on foot. People are rushing busily all over the place, calling out; they all seem to know each other. The atmosphere is that of a cheerful gathering of old friends and there’s a powerful smell of horses. Lavorel feels very out of place in his blue blazer, by now slightly grubby, and his smart shoes.
Behind the farm, a vast grassy field surrounded by white fences, with brightly coloured jumps and flower beds everywhere. Along one side of thefield a bank has been made into a stand for the spectators and across the far end drinks are being served in a white canvas marquee. At first glance, it’s tempting. Lavorel sits down and knocks back three disgusting cups of coffee. Behind him, a group of riders are talking about horses and business, thumping each