Lorraine Connection (10 page)

The man takes out a card wallet and presents it open in front of the spy hole, the colours of the French flag. Police. Étienne opens the door. He’s in his pyjamas, barefoot, his hair
dishevelled
. He lets the two men in and they close the door softly behind them.

‘Police. You are Étienne Neveu, you work at Daewoo Pondange, you were present yesterday during the occupation of the factory and at the time of the fire, and that night you claimed in public that you saw the arsonists. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, that’s correct.’ He ushers them in. ‘Come in, sit down.’

‘No, we’re in rather a hurry. We want you to come with us to Pondange police station to make a statement.’

‘Right away?’

‘Right away. You understand that it is crucial for our
investigation
. We’ll drive you there and bring you back home as soon as we’ve finished. You can expect it to take a couple of hours.’

Two hours … There goes his lie-in to recover from the
excitement
of the day before. It’s no joke, a fire. Sleep first, then slob around in my pyjamas in front of the TV, no wife and no kids. With a beer. Maybe even get a bit pissed, and then another snooze, so as to be on form for dinner.
I
should
have
kept
my
mouth
shut
yesterday,
fat
lot
of
good
it’s
going
to
do
me …

‘Get dressed, Mr Neveu, we’re waiting.’

To go to the police station, you’ve got to look smart, you don’t want to find yourself in a position of inferiority. You never know, they might take advantage, the bastards. So, a clean pair of black jeans, Italian leather moccasins, a nice beige sweater and the brown parka. Satisfied glance in the mirror, and a little idea begins to form. Pondange, Aisha, why not? He’s beginning to feel more cheerful …

The three men go downstairs together without exchanging a word. They meet no one in the lift. In the car park, the trio makes its way towards a grey Peugeot 206 where a man is sitting behind the wheel reading the
Républicain
Lorrain.
He folds away the
paper as they come towards the car. Perfectly synchronised, one of the men takes Étienne by the elbow and steers him towards the right rear door which he holds open for him, while the other opens the rear left door, gets in and sits down. Étienne leans
forward
to climb into the car, the man behind gives him a violent shove, and Étienne topples head first on to the back seat. The guy sitting inside the car guides his fall and pushes a wad soaked in chloroform under his nose, pressing down hard on his injured neck. His partner finishes bundling Étienne into the car, wedges him firmly in, barely a couple of convulsive jerks and the body is inert. Then he also gets in, slamming the door shut. The driver switches on the ignition, the three men exchange glances, the car slowly pulls away and moves towards the second car park which overlooks the Pondange valley. They drive between the edge of the woodland and a white van parked there, completely
blocking
the residents’ view. The two passengers throw their police ID cards on to the front seat, get out of the Peugeot, grab Étienne’s legs, pull him out of the car, load him on to one of their backs and vanish quickly into the trees.

After a few minutes’ wait, everything is quiet, a man slides behind the wheel of the van, the Peugeot starts up, leaves the car park and turns on to the road to Nancy. The van follows at a distance.

The two men jog down overgrown, downhill paths through the woods as if training, taking turns to carry Étienne’s limp body. Halfway down the incline, one of them points to a gap on the right, and the other follows him. They come to a halt on a
concrete
slab overhanging a scree-covered slope dotted with rocks. Étienne is deposited face-down on the slab. The taller of the two men presses his foot on the back of his neck and unwinds his long white silk scarf which he slips under Étienne’s chin and around his forehead with precise movements. He leans forward, tests his foothold, and yanks hard with both hands. The cervical vertebrae snap cleanly making a dry crackling sound like a dead branch. One man takes the arms, the other the feet, hup-two, and they toss the body over the edge. It bounces on the scree then lands head first in a bush, dislocated. The killer winds the long white scarf around his neck again, zips his jacket up to the chin, and starts to walk away.

‘Aren’t we going to hide it with branches?’

‘No. The more visible the body is, the easier it will be for the officials to treat it as an accident. And besides, this is the
sealed-up
entrance to a former iron mine shaft, the locals don’t like coming here, old memories, probably, except in spring to hunt for morels. By then …’

The Pondange police station is halfway up a hill, in an elegant nineteenth-century mansion built of local yellow limestone. It stands in a garden which was once protected by high railings, when life there was fraught with danger, when the iron and
steel-workers
used to attack it with bulldozers and the cops locked up inside owed their salvation solely to the arrival of the riot police. That was a long time ago. Now the railings have been removed and the beautiful, sleepy villa in the centre of this tiny provincial town is surrounded by lawns.

The superintendent has assembled his officers, four men, in his first-floor office which occupies what probably used to be the master bedroom. It is a vast corner room with high coffered
ceilings
of dark wood, oak floorboards, two windows flooding the room with light, and a bare black marble mantelpiece running along one wall. The furniture – a desk, three armchairs, an oval table and a few very ordinary chairs – barely fills the space.

The officers are sitting around the table, a few sheets of paper and a ballpoint pen in front of them, listening carefully and
obediently
to their superintendent who stays standing. He always remains on his feet, there’s never a chair for him. He paces up and down the room, his tall frame – close on six foot three of pure muscle – nearly filling the room. He maintains his physique with regular workouts and judo, and his waistline shows little evidence of the frequent meals eaten with the local bigwigs. His elegant, classic grey suit (tailor-made in Paris) and his dark red shirt and grey-and-red tie make him look slimmer, and he gives off a subtle whiff of eau de toilette and matching aftershave. With his
experience
– twenty-five years in the police rising through the ranks with a dogged determination – many think he’ll end up chief superintendent in Nancy. Adding to his charm and authority, he
speaks with a southern accent which ten years in Lorraine have barely mellowed.

‘Yesterday I met the public prosecutor and Bastien, the
investigating
magistrate in charge of this case. For the time being, we are handling the investigation.’ He stops, draws himself up, looks his men up and down and tugs at the creases in his jacket sleeves. ‘I hope you realise what an opportunity this is for all of us here.’ He starts pacing again. ‘But it won’t stay that way for long. If we don’t make significant headway fast, it’ll be handed to the Nancy judiciary police.’ Another pause, the threat hangs in the air over the officers who gaze at the blank sheets of paper on the table and fidget with their ballpoint pens. The superintendent turns his back to his men and plants himself in front of the window overlooking the bottom of the valley and the Daewoo factory, or what’s left of it. ‘The firefighters are convinced it’s arson. So it’s vital we get results – and fast, for the sake of the valley’s economy. We can’t have people thinking that in Lorraine factories are burned down with impunity. It wouldn’t be good for business or for jobs.’

‘Right.’ He moves to the end of the table, his hands lightly
resting
on its surface. ‘So as not to waste any time, the magistrates in charge and I have drawn up an initial framework for the
investigation
. We can forget about gathering evidence from the scene of the fire – that can be left to the fire brigade’s experts. They’ll do a better job than we will. Besides, we’re convinced that those mounds of cinders are unlikely to yield much, and it would take too long. We have decided to start by profiling. It’s all the rage at the moment. Let’s start with the French method: who
benefits
from the crime? Not the Daewoo bosses who are currently involved in a huge deal of national importance, the privatisation of Thomson, and the last thing they want is to be in the news at the moment.’ A pause. ‘What’s more, the factory’s insurance expired a month ago, so no compensation …

‘Not convinced?’ A mutter from the officers but the
superintendent
carries on, oblivious.

‘… nor the unions, who were in the middle of pay and bonus negotiations which the boss agreed to fund by selling the stock. No more stock, no bonuses. The crime benefits neither the bosses nor the unions, so we can eliminate them from the
investigation
, which narrows the field. Now, the American method: we’ve drawn up a profile of the typical arsonist. What’s the profile of
the arsonist? If the bosses and the unions have been ruled out, we’re looking for an individual who was there during the strike, active, fired-up, a non-unionised maverick, probably a hothead. Most likely someone with a history of petty crime.’ He
straightens
up. ‘Any comments?’

There aren’t. In any case, the question is purely rhetorical; the superintendent isn’t in the habit of consulting his subordinates.

‘So our work plan is all mapped out.’ He goes over to a
flip-chart,
picks up a felt-tip and writes as he speaks. ‘First, draw up a list of those on the premises during the afternoon and evening on the day of the fire and note their whereabouts at various times, however approximate. Two of you take care of that.’ Glances around. Berjamin and Loriot. ‘Talk to the security guards, then the workers. I want that list on my desk in forty-eight hours at the latest. It won’t be as difficult as it sounds – according to our sources there weren’t more than eighty people in the factory at the time of the fire. But I want an absolutely reliable list. Make sure you get it.’

The officers take notes.

‘So as not to waste any time, while your colleagues are drawing up those lists, you Lambert, and you Michel, start questioning the key witnesses. The security guards first, they’re impartial
observers
. The Nancy security company 3
G
, which employs them, has been very cooperative. It has supplied us with the security guards’ duty rotas and contact details. Start with the guards on the second shift. They were called in as backup at around three p.m. They don’t know anyone in the company so they won’t be biased. They were patrolling the factory continuously from three p.m. until the fire broke out so they’ve got an overall view of events. Also
question
Ali Amrouche, a decent guy who was directly involved in the whole business, always trying to calm things down, and who should be useful in helping us to determine the next stage of the investigation.

‘Once these preliminaries are completed, we’ll routinely
question
all those identified by Berjamin and Loriot as being on the premises. And in taking witness statements, be on the alert for hearsay: who was overexcited, who’s violent, who’s a hooligan. And through hearsay the name of our arsonist will eventually emerge. See if I’m not right on this’. A glance at his subordinates. ‘People aren’t stupid. They know a lot, often you just have to
listen.’
That’s
what
you
call
experience
, muses the superintendent. He puts the top back on the felt-tip and places it on the ledge of the flipchart. ‘To work, and good luck.’

Valentin’s gaze dissects the man who walks into his office: tall, slim, getting on for fifty, wearing an elegant navy pinstripe suit, royal blue printed tie, Hermès most likely; ink-dark hair, a bit thin on top, carefully plastered down; a mobile, smiling face with a high forehead. The ex-cop has put on the uniform of his new profession, private investigator for the insurance industry. Valentin gets up to greet him, walks around the desk, his gaze piercing as always. Finesse rather than force, a form of
prosperity
, that’s a good sign. But beneath the veneer of elegance is the cop, cynical, burned-out, tough.
Just
what
I
need.
He shakes his hand, gestures him to sit in an armchair.

‘Thank you for coming, Mr Montoya. Coffee?’

‘Yes please. Strong, no sugar.’

Middle-aged female assistant, copper tray, china cups, Italian espresso. So far, so good. Montoya feels a mixture of curiosity and slight apprehension as to what will follow.
A
former
security
service
chief.
Respect.
But
there
are
skeletons
in
my
cupboard.
He’s
the
one
who
asked
me
to
come
here,
let
him
spit
it
out.

‘I heard a lot about you when I still worked for the police …’

Simple code between ex-cops, or a bit more? What does he know?

‘… I’m handling a case that requires intelligence,
professionalism
. Imagination too, a lot of imagination.’ Big smile. ‘And no scruples.’

Montoya drinks his coffee and puts down his cup. Here we go, smiles back.

‘What makes you think I’m your man?’

‘1990, Tangier, the Hakim family.’

A
violent
flash,
white
and
blue,
the
old
town,
the
sea,
a
very
big
sting,
dangerous,
no
cover,
organised
with
his
best
inform
ers
,
the
Hakim
brothers.
Contact
is
made
out
at
sea,
the
US
Drug
Enforcement
Administration
turns
up.
Why?
How?
A
fuck-up.
The traffickers chuck the goods into the sea, the Hakim
brothers
eliminate the traffickers, and he ends up killing an American agent and sinking the DEA’s boat. Then he and the Hakims make off with the only boat whose motor’s still working and what can
be salvaged of the cargo, leaving the rest of the DEA crew adrift in an old tub. A French police officer is not supposed to shoot an American agent to protect his informants. The killing is blamed on unidentified traffickers on the run, and the affair is hushed up to avoid a serious diplomatic incident with the Americans. But he’s fired. Only a very few people know about his true role.
Don’t
underestimate
Valentin.
Does
that
give
him
a
hold
over
me?
Yes
‚
without
a
doubt.
Not all those involved are dead. The Americans are aggressive. And he needs to keep a few aces up his sleeve. Have to start bidding to find out.