Lorraine Connection (17 page)

Rolande comes back: Aisha will be here in a minute. She lives upstairs on the fourth floor.

Aisha arrives and the two women embrace. Rolande keeps her arms around her for a moment. ‘I’m so pleased to see you. We haven’t seen each other since the strike. How long is it? Ten days? It feels ages. How are you, Aisha?’

Aisha dismisses the question with a wave of her hand.
Wan-faced
, she stares at the floor and perches gingerly on the edge of the armchair facing Montoya. Rolande introduces him: a
journalist
friend (no more friend than journalist, thinks Montoya with irritation) who’s writing a series of articles about Daewoo, about our strike. ‘I couldn’t tell him much because I stayed in the cafeteria kitchen all the time.’ She breaks off, smiles at Montoya: ‘Onion and potato omelettes, Spanish-style. But you were all over the place, you can tell him about it.’ Aisha leans forward, hugging her chest.

‘It’s still so painful. Do we really have to go back over it?’

‘Yes, we have to talk about it. Something’s eating you up, I don’t know what. Take advantage of my friend’s presence (she stresses the word again), he’s not from around here, he’ll be gone in a few days and will listen to what you have to say.’

Montoya hears moaning from inside the apartment. The two women are unruffled. Aisha turns slightly towards Montoya, her eyes still lowered.

‘I’ve been working in the factory for six years. People who haven’t worked on the production line, like Rolande and me, can’t understand what happened to me. When our shift came out on strike we all started walking around the factory, freely, the bosses had disappeared. I thought I’d go mad with joy. I felt as though I existed. I thought it was easy, and that I was changing my life. I’d already heard people say that, on the radio, on TV: nothing will ever be the same again.’ Still tense and huddled up, she turns towards Rolande. ‘I decided there and then that I’d never return to my father’s house. And then, I met Étienne.’ Montoya glances at Rolande, she seems to know who he is so leave out the
questions
. He mustn’t interrupt Aisha who’s talking as if under
hypnosis
. ‘We slept together in the packaging workshop.’ Rolande
puts her hand on Aisha’s arm and the girl smiles at her. ‘It wasn’t amazing, but it wasn’t terrible either. I felt as though I was breaking away from my father once and for all. You know what he’s like. It was the worst thing I could do to him. In my own way, I was doing everything I could so my life would be different.’

Aisha sighs, leans back in the armchair, then looks up and grows animated as she describes the arrival of the lorries, her
elation
, the overturned car, the occupation of the offices, the women becoming increasingly marginalised, wandering around the deserted factory.

‘I bumped into Étienne in the cafeteria and we went back to the packaging workshop.’ A little smile. ‘Much better than the first time. While we’re putting our clothes back on, Étienne hears a noise coming from the direction of the waste ground. He goes out of the back door to see what’s going on. I hear him yell: “What are you doing? Who are you? Stop! Stop!” and he comes back like a madman, grabs my arm and drags me to the cafeteria, running, and he keeps yelling, “Quick, quick, there’s a fire. I saw the guys who started it”.’

Rolande and Montoya look at each other. She’s surprised, he’s alert. He sits back, relaxed.
Don
’
t
forget
,
you
’
re
not
a
cop.
Journalist.
Fragile
girl.
Discretion.
Don’t
ruin
everything,
this
is
the
first
link
in
the
chain,
and
you’ve
been
here
less
than
seven
hours.
Not
bad
going.
Aisha continues. ‘Then we both ended up on the roundabout in front of the factory. Do you remember? A lot of people were crying. I was crying. I saw my dreams and my
newfound
freedom going up in smoke. Afterwards Ali Amrouche walked me back here. On the way, he gently talked to me about Étienne, without pressing the point. A married man with two kids and the worst skirt-chaser in the whole factory. I didn’t care, one guy or another, but I didn’t tell him that. Can you imagine how shocked Ali would have been? He came up to see my father, told him about the strike, the occupation, and why I hadn’t come home at the usual time, without a word about Étienne. Very proper. The old man didn’t say anything but I think he
understood
the whole thing. I left the two of them and went to bed. The next morning, the old man didn’t beat me, but he said I wasn’t to leave the flat until Daewoo went back to work. And I’ve been there until this evening.’ Now, she’s very relaxed, almost smiling.

‘In a way, I felt protected, I was taking time to heal. When I’m ready, I’ll leave this town and this life.’

Leave. The word fills the room as they listen respectfully. From another room in the flat, the groaning has given way to snoring. Montoya turns to Rolande.

‘This Étienne speaks of several arsonists, strangers by the sound of it. Can’t he testify to clear your friend who’s in prison?’

‘No. He’s dead.’

Montoya feels a shudder run up his spine. The violent smell of blood like in the old days. A host of forgotten, repressed
sensations
suddenly come flooding back.
I
wouldn
’
t
have
believed
it
was
still
possible.

‘How did he die?’

‘An accident. The day after the fire, he was walking through the woods from his place, on the housing estate on the plateau, to Pondange. He probably took the wrong path and fell down a rocky slope. He broke his neck.’

‘Was he alone when this accident happened?’

‘Yes. Alone. His wife had taken the car as usual. She works in a supermarket in Briey.’

Hold on a minute. A young man catches arsonists in the act one evening, and has a fatal fall while walking alone in the woods the next morning. Nothing more natural? Aren’t Stakhanova and her friend acting just a bit too naive? Montoya turns back to Aisha, who seems very calm in her armchair.

‘Did you know about this?’

‘Yes.’ She sounds almost indifferent. ‘Ali phoned to tell me before the funeral.’

‘Were you the only person who heard him say: “I saw the guys who started the fire”?’

‘No. Why?’ She seems surprised by the question. ‘When we were all on the roundabout during the fire, he was telling
everyone
. He went on and on about it but nobody took any notice.’

‘It’s true now you come to mention it. I remember hearing him, but it didn’t sink in at the time.’

Astounding,
this
Stakhanova,
thinks Montoya.

‘We were all in shock. And completely spellbound by the fire … Besides, Étienne was off his head and nobody was taking any notice of what he was saying.’

‘Off his head. In what way?’

Aisha darts Rolande an embarrassed look.

‘When I met him in the cafeteria, in the late afternoon, he’d come back from the offices, which he’d occupied with the
others
. He was telling everyone that while playing on one of the managers’ computers, he’d come across bank statements from banks in Luxembourg …’ Another glance at Rolande, who still doesn’t move a muscle. ‘Accounts in the names of Nourredine, Amrouche and Maréchal. And you too, Rolande. Accounts into which Daewoo paid huge sums of money.’

Rolande jumps and the colour drains from her cheeks.

‘I’ve never been paid a cent more than my wages. What on earth are you talking about?’

‘What he was saying was all very muddled. He was talking about millions, it wasn’t clear if he was talking about old francs, new francs or some other currency, he didn’t seem to know himself …’

‘And how did people react?’

‘Nobody believed him, and because he kept on and on
saying
the same thing, everyone thought he was off his head.’ Aisha stops, a smile on her face, the memory of the magic desk, the spliff in the dark. ‘He often smoked dope, everyone knew, so naturally they didn’t take any notice. But he really did see the guys who started the fire.’

‘We’ll have to get to the bottom of this bank account business. I can’t have rumours like that going around.’

Montoya’s no longer listening to the two women. He’s
picturing
the managers’ offices emptied of all their computer
equipment
, their files, moved out in a hurry. One thing he’s certain of:
This
is
the
second
link
in
the
chain.

‘Was there anyone with Étienne in the manager’s office when he was playing on the computer?’

‘I have no idea. There were at least twenty people involved in the occupation but I didn’t stay. I don’t know what went on.’

Montoya remembers security guard Schnerb’s statement: the alarm was raised at 21.43 hours with no mention of who raised it or how.

‘Did Étienne raise the alarm throughout the factory?’

‘Yes, straight away. We went back to the cafeteria together, and he ran to the porter’s lodge to tell the security guards to call the fire brigade.’

The true importance of security guard Schnerb’s statement is beginning to emerge. It is vital to find out more about this
company
, 3
G
.

Late afternoon and darkness has already fallen over the valley when Quignard leaves the empty offices. He smokes the one cigar he allows himself during the day. In the big Mercedes, cigar in mouth, he skims the international press. Very favourable
reactions
to the privatisation of Thomson, praise for Lagardère and Kim, the Daewoo bosses, modern-day heroes. When this
business
is completely sewn up, he too will be one of the big boys. He’ll see his own name in large print in the financial press. He daydreams. His driver’s mobile phone rings.

‘For you, Mr Quignard. It’s Mr Tomaso. Will you take it?’ Quignard nods and takes the phone.

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t know whether this is good news or bad news, but we’ve found your man Park in Warsaw.’ A silence. Quignard does not react. ‘My men photographed him – you’ll have the prints
tomorrow
morning – but as far as I’m concerned, there’s no room for doubt, it’s him.’

‘So we need to prepare for war?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘Don’t lose him, Daniel. We must be able to act under all circumstances.’

‘Understood. You know my rates.’

Montoya gets into his car, drives for some ten kilometres and parks in the middle of the countryside with the lights switched off. A few moments without moving, in the dark, to gather his thoughts. The seat tilts back, he makes himself breathe slowly, deeply. Oxygenate the brain.
I’m
making
progress.
Exciting,
even
in
Pondange,
even
a
minor
case.
To
sum
up:
during
the
strike,
the
bosses
try
to
remove
some
of
the
computers
and
fail.
While
the
offices
are
occupied
and
the
computers
are
in
the
hands
of
the
strikers,
a fire
breaks
out.
This
means
immediate
evacuation
and
the
next
day,
or
even
that
same
night
‚
the
computers
are
taken
away
and
hidden
by
3
G
.
Conclusion:
those
computers
contain
evi
dence
that
there’s
something
dodgy
going
on
at
Daewoo.
That’s
too
vague
a
conclusion
to
be
much
use
to
me.
More
specifically:
Étienne
Neveu
had
time
to
play
on
one
of
the
computers
and
came
across
a
list
of
names
of
employees
who
hold
bank
accounts
in
Luxembourg.
Am
I
certain
that
these
accounts
exist?
For
the
time
being,
I
’
ve
only
got
one
source
and
an
indirect
report.
Neveu
could
have
invented
the
story
about
the
arsonists
and
the
Luxembourg
accounts.
But
he
didn’t
invent
his
broken
neck.
That
confirms
all
the
rest.
So,
I’ll
work
on
the
hypothesis
that
these
Luxembourg
accounts
exist.
What
for?
No
idea.
They
are
in
various
names.
Apparently
Neveu
mentioned
Nourredine,
Amrouche,
Rolande
Lepetit,
Maréchal.
There
are
probably
others.
Could
they
be
willing
front
men?
Rolande
claims
not
to
know
anything
about
it.
If
we
believe
her,
why
use
names
of
company
employees?
It
makes
no
sense.
Further
probing
needed.
Find
out
whether
Neveu
was
the
only
one
to
have
seen
the
lists,
and
if
I
can
find
any
trace
of
them.