Lorraine Connection (21 page)

‘Ali, come and have a coffee with me. We’re the only ones still here, and you and I need to discuss a delicate matter.’

Amrouche leaps up. Quignard is already at the machine, he hands him a cup of coffee, picks up his own, and the two men sit down.

‘I’m finishing off the paperwork for Étienne Neveu’s
compensation
.’ A pause. ‘Well, for his widow and his two girls. Do you know about it?’

Amrouche nods. Bosses like Quignard are rare.

‘I have a problem. Someone came to see me this afternoon,’ he hesitates, ‘he asked me not to divulge his visit.’ Hesitates again. ‘He’s not a Daewoo employee. In short, he claims that Neveu was involved in drug trafficking in Pondange, and that he was
hanging
around in the woods to do a deal on the day he died. That would be awkward.’

‘I don’t think it’s true.’

‘If the police arrest any dealers over the next few months who implicate Neveu, it’ll make things difficult for me.’

‘In my view, there’s no danger. Étienne smoked a bit, like a lot of kids in the factory. But I’ve never heard of him being involved in any dealing.’

‘My contact claims Neveu took advantage of the strike to deal on the actual factory premises.’

Big smile. ‘He was much too busy for that.’

‘What do you mean?’

Amrouche falters, blots out the insistent image of Karim and Étienne slumped in front of the computer and closes his eyes for a moment to try and shut out the arses jiggling mechanically on the screen. Then: ‘He spent most of the day with a girl.’

‘Do you know her? Can you send her to see me so I can
complete
the paperwork?’

‘I know her, yes, but I can’t send her to you. She’s a very well brought-up girl, and very reserved. She allowed herself to be sweet-talked by Neveu, who was an incorrigible skirt-chaser, because she was devastated by Émilienne’s accident that morning and thrown off balance by everything that happened that day. But she couldn’t bear anyone to know about her fling, or me to have told you about it. Or her father. She hasn’t set foot outside her home since the strike. No, don’t count on me for that.’

‘Fine. I’ll just have to take your word for it, Ali. Which I will, because you know Daewoo’s employees better than anyone, and I trust you completely. Thank you for your help.’

Quignard returns to his office. Computer. Daewoo personnel file. If the girl was devastated by this Émilienne’s accident, she must have been on the same production line, the same shift. So she saw the electrocution. An accident is only devastating if you witness it directly. Otherwise the factories would all be empty, it would be impossible to find anyone to work in them. He ends up with a list of eight girls. Eliminate Émilienne, and Rolande Lepetit, since I know where she was during the strike. I’m looking for a young girl – the allusion to her father suggests she was
probably
unmarried. The records list two unmarried girls on Rolande Lepetit’s shift: Jeanne Beauvallon and Aisha Saidani. O
r
her
father.
I’ll take Aisha Saidani first. He reads the employee record carefully. It’s her. She lives at the same address as Rolande Lepetit. The shit-stirrer comes and questions Rolande. That makes sense, her dismissal sparked off the strike, and he meets Aisha into the bargain. Cosy little chat, all three of them. Aisha, who’s kept quiet so far to protect her reputation as a shy virgin, probably opens up and confides in the shit-stirrer – the power of the media – and tells him about her experience of the strike like a porn film, and
mentions
the lists. And the arsonists? Lepetit turns up in my office, the journalist at the widow’s.
It
all
fits.
And
I’m
up
shit
creek.

What
to
do?
No
rush.
First
of
all,
think.
Quignard pours himself a third brandy, switches off the lights and sits in the dark
looking
out over the valley, his feet on the bay windowsill. To recap the sequence of events: Aisha looks at the lists with Neveu. Talks to Rolande Lepetit about it and yesterday, also to the journalist. Nothing to suggest she saw the arsonists too, since nobody’s
mentioned
it. They could have parted company at the end of the day. The journalist goes to see Neveu’s widow. So he’s made a
connection
between the lists and Neveu’s death, he can do that by simple logical deduction. He gets nothing out of Neveu’s widow.
For
the
time
being
he
has
no
proof
and
I’m
in
the
clear.
Two
good
points.
As
for
Aisha,
it’s
unlikely
shell
talk
to
the
police.
She’d
have
to
face
her
father,
public
opprobrium,
and
the
Neveu
family.
That’s
a
lot.
Anyway,
what
would
be
the
point?
The
police
won’t
go
looking
for
her.
If
she
did
decide
to
testify
they’d
undermine
her
testimony
to
salvage
their
investigation.
Take
a
worst-case
scenario
and
all
that
will
take
time,
longer
than
I
need.
As
a
last
resort,
we
pin
it
all
on
Park.
As
for
Maréchal
…
Old
solidarity
between
steelworkers.
Worn
out.
As
Head
of
Department
he
can
always
say
he
doesn’t 
give
a
damn.
I
don’t
believe
him.
He’ll
keep
it
shut
.
He takes a large swig of brandy, there’s a feeling of well-being, ripples of pleasure.
The
smartest
way
is
to
use
Amrouche
to
keep
an
eye
on
the
father
and
the
daughter,
do
nothing
and
see
what
happens.

Quignard puts down his empty glass, gets up, stretches, then walks down through the empty, ill-lit building to the exit where his driver’s waiting for him.

‘Mr Tomaso asks if you can have dinner with him this evening at the Oiseau Bleu.’ Quignard looks at his watch.

‘This late?’

‘Mr Tomaso seems very insistent.’

To talk about the explosion in his nightclub, no doubt. He climbs into the Mercedes. After all why not? A slap-up meal, the girls, Deborah, much better than eating a solitary dinner at home staring at the valley while listening to Beethoven’s
Fifth
Symphony.

‘Fine. Head for Nancy.’

As soon as he leaves the Neveu apartment, Montoya phones Valentin.

‘Call me back in five minutes.’

He checks his watch. Five minutes to kill, hanging around the car park where kids are playing football. He walks to the edge of the woods, spots the start of the path Étienne Neveu must have taken the day he died. It can be seen clearly from the windows of the apartment block. Was Neveu alone when he set off down this path? Did the cops make any effort to get statements? Doesn’t know.
And
you
won’t
get
to
know
either.
Poor
guy.
A
little
wad
of
dosh
and
the
deal
is
done.

The football flies in his direction. Montoya dives forward, blocks it with his chest, swerves away from two kids charging towards him, aims a long, plunging ball from his instep which sails between the two heaps of clothes marking the goal. Then he saunters off, feeling light.
I’ve
got
my
man.
Quignard.
I
haven’t
felt
so
good
for …
a
very
long
time.
The five minutes are up.

It’s Valentin on the other end of the phone again. Montoya opens fire.

‘I’ve identified the kingpin in our case, the man who’s
pulling
the strings at Daewoo and who’s in business with Tomaso. One Quignard, boss of a design consultancy and a local bigwig;
so far, run-of-the-mill for a little provincial town. But he’s also very well connected in Brussels, the strongman of the European Development Plan, the man who rubber-stamps all the region’s subsidy grants. He’s been a non-executive director of Daewoo for some time, and since the fire he’s taken over the reins.’

‘Do you have proof?’

‘No. But I have convictions.’

‘What happens next?’

‘Quignard and Tomaso are hyperactive, they don’t have the experience or the mettle to wait and let things calm down. If I push a bit harder they’ll make a move. And make mistakes, which will give me ammunition against them.’

‘I’ll think about it. Is that all you have to tell me?’

‘For the time being.’

Valentin is silent. Then:

‘A bomb went off at the Oiseau Bleu last night. Had you heard about it?’

‘Yes.’
Bite
the
bullet
You’
ve
got
no
choice.
‘I was there.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because I think the Hakims are involved. They’ve resurfaced as drug traffickers in Antwerp during the last few days. Knowing their tendency to work with the cops I’m not sure whether they’re closely in touch with you or not.’

‘We’re not yet used to working together, Montoya. I’ve just got one thing to say: I never play against my own side. Was the explosion connected to our business?’

‘Yes, without a doubt, but I don’t yet know how. Indirectly, I’d say.’

‘Let’s get back to your Mr Quignard. Here, in Paris, our affairs are going well, smoothly. There in Pondange it sounds like the Wild West. And this Quignard character changes everything. We’re no longer talking about provincial wheeling and dealing. The sums handled by the bureaucrats in Brussels put this in a
different
league of corruption altogether, and that’s what interests us. We’re going to take drastic action.’ Montoya tenses.
He’s
giv
ing
me
the
boot.
‘Does Quignard have offices in Pondange?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’ll make our job easier. Tomorrow evening I’m sending you an expert in phone-tapping and bugging. Find a way of
getting
him into Quignard’s office tomorrow night. He and I will
take care of the rest. Call me back tomorrow afternoon so I can fix up a meeting.’ Montoya exhales,
I’
m
still
in.
Valentin hesitates for a moment. ‘In the meantime, your instructions stay the same: watch out.’

‘Goodbye, chief.’

In
the
meantime,
I’m
off
to
fuck
Stakhanova.

Montoya has a date with Rolande. Dinner in Brussels. They could have gone somewhere closer, but it was her idea, and she seemed keen on it. ‘If you want a good night out, you can’t go to Metz or Nancy, only Brussels will do,’ she said. ‘It’s more cheerful, more lively, a capital city.’ She’s standing waiting for him on the
pavement
in front of the Cité des Jonquilles estate. She’s a tall figure in a severe, well-cut grey wool suit, the black overcoat flung around her shoulders in a casual fashion, carefully contrived. As she stands immobile beneath a lamp post, smoking, her light helmet of bleached hair cut in a bob is eyecatching. Hard to say what it is that makes her a beauty. Men’s eyes are drawn to Rolande in the way that the spotlight loves some actresses. When he pulls up, she throws away her cigarette, slides inside the car, and slams the door.

‘Let’s get out of here quickly, you never know. If they catch up with us …’

When the car moves into the fast lane she sighs, loosens her overcoat, stretches out her legs in her beautiful black leather boots, and turns to Montoya.

‘So you’ve got your article on the strike, thanks to my friend’s story.’

Montoya concentrates on the road so as not to miss the Brussels turn-off.

‘More or less. I’m still looking for more information about this and that.’

‘I’m always amazed when she finally opens her mouth. I don’t know where she gets her strength from. It’s as though her words come from her gut and have the texture of flesh.’

She fiddles with the radio and soon finds a Belgian station that plays popular, all-purpose disco music which she seems to like. She hums along. Montoya returns to the subject.

‘Did you notice that Aisha mentioned several arsonists, most likely people unknown to Étienne Neveu?’

‘Of course.’ Pointing: ‘Turn right. There, now it’s straight ahead to Brussels.’ Silence for a while. ‘I’d never have thought of asking her to talk about her experience of the strike if you hadn’t been there. I don’t know, perhaps I assumed it had been the same for all of us so there was no point talking about it. I was very taken aback.’

Montoya stares into the rear-view mirror.

‘What she says clears your friend, this Nourredine who’s in prison. But will she agree to testify, to tell the police, the judges, the whole of Pondange, what she told us yesterday?’