‘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 3G, 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 informers, 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.
‘I’m with you, and I’m listening.’
‘It’s not a very big case. Or to be precise, it’s a secondary aspect of a very big case. Around two to four weeks’ work, less action than in Tangier, no shooting. But I need you because you have experience and a reputation for working fast. A hundred to two hundred thousand francs, depending on results. Well?’
‘The trouble with men like you, Valentin, is that when you decide you want someone, you don’t really give them any choice, do you?’
‘No, I don’t. Reputations are precarious in the insurance world.’
‘Supposing I were interested?’
‘A Daewoo factory burned down a few days ago in Lorraine, at Pondange. I want you to find me a coherent explanation, backed up by evidence, fabricated or not …’ A pause, a half-smile. ‘I don’t mind either way. I want you to explain to me how the bosses set the factory on fire and their reasons for doing so. My sources tell me that you work as a private investigator for insurance companies on a lot of claims of this kind.’ Montoya nods. ‘So you have the expertise and the contacts.’
‘Go on, say it, a reputation for frame-ups and dirty tricks from my days in the drug squad. Is that it?’
‘Exactly.’
‘It will be a pleasure to work with you. I’m sure I’ll learn a lot. So, I’m in.’ Pause. ‘I can’t drag an insurance company into this. I’ll need a cover, of course.’
‘Of course. I’ll arrange one.’
18 October
Karim walks cautiously along the path through the woods from Pondange up to the entrance to the disused iron mine. He listens out for the slightest sound, not wanting anyone to see him or follow him. Up there, under the scree blocking th
e entrance, he’s dug out a well-camouflaged tunnel and uses the entrance to the galleries as a storeroom for his various little businesses. It’s an isolated spot, as the local people keep well away from the former mines. He only comes here very early in the morning and has never bumped into anyone. Twenty metres from the scree, he stops. A dark mass in a green bramble bush, a few metres from the foot of the scree. Out of the ordinary spells danger. Standing stock still, barely breathing, he listens. Scraping, sliding, faint crackling, birds taking flight, birdsong, nothing unusual. He approaches slowly, moving as little as possible. From ten metres away, there’s no mistaking it, it’s a human body, wearing black jeans and a brown parka. Caught head first in the bramble bush, his neck probably broken. Glance up to the top of the slope. Thrown from up there, probably. If he’d fallen, he’d be closer to the rocks. Karim removes his shoes and takes a few steps forward in his socks. He crouches down and can clearly make out the profile. Étienne Neveu. Rooted to the spot, his heart thumping, adrenaline rush. Étienne, so close, his arm around his shoulders, the shared spliff, the porn images, the little business deals, a friend you could say. Weep my heart, in your despair, your solitude. And a new image: the night of the fire, Étienne wandering from group to group between the cars, as if oscillating between the darkness and the flames, distraught: ‘I saw the guys who started the fire.’ Nobody was listening to him, but you heard him and you thought, ‘Good, that’ll keep the cops off my back.’ Now, Étienne’s been killed. A fire, a murder, big names. And you, the Arab, the kid, the small-time wheeler-dealer, you risk ten years’ inside, minimum, or your hide. Gotta play this carefully. He straightens up, pins and needles in his legs. Go back down to Pondange leaving as little trace as possible. Think fast. Suddenly: an image. Quignard in an anorak and woolly hat, sitting on the bonnet of his car, brightly lit up by showers of sparks, and Étienne in front of him, probably – no, certainly – saying, ‘I saw the guys who started the fire.’ Perhaps signing his death warrant. Tell the cops about the body, see how they react, I’ll soon find out.
At the police station, Lieutenant Émile Lambert bustles about, conscious of his responsibilities. He interviews the first witness.
Robert Duffaut, born 10 August 1963 in Nantes.
Residing at 29 rue d’Auxonne, Nancy. Profession:
Security guard employed by 3G, based in Nancy since 3 March 1996.
The witness states he was sent to the Daewoo factory by his security company, 3G in Nancy, to provide backup for the company’s permanent team of two security guards, who are employed by the same company, 3G, and who were confronted with disturbances among the personnel which they believed could turn dangerous if security were not maintained.
He states he arrived on the premises at 15.00 hours, accompanied by his colleague. They immediately started patrolling the premises, and continued to do so until 21.30 hours, when they returned to the porter’s lodge to make their report. They were both still there when the fire alarm went off at 21.43 hours.
Q. Who raised the alarm?
A. A man came running in. He was shouting: ‘The place is on fire,’ and pointing towards the warehouses. I don’t know this man’s name.
Q. When you were doing your rounds, did you notice any particular incidents or suspicious behaviour?
A. I would like to mention that around 15.15 hours, my colleague and I walked past the waste ground behind the factory, and there, a young North African-looking individual had set up a barbecue and was selling kebabs. This barbecue was about ten metres from the place where the fire started a little later. We made a few inquiries. This individual is called Karim Bouziane.
Q. In your opinion, could this barbecue have had something to do with the outbreak of the fire?
A. I think so. Furthermore, around 19.00 hours, a minor dustbin fire was reported in the main corridor between the factory and the warehouse. It was quickly extinguished by members of the Health and Safety committee before we arrived on the scene. When we arrived a few minutes later, we noted that embers had been thrown into the dustbin, intentionally or otherwise, and were certainly the cause of the dustbin fire. As far as we could ascertain, those embers came from the barbecue.
I must also inform you that around 17.00 hours, we patrolled the stockrooms and we noted that a group of several individuals were smoking marijuana in the vicinity of highly flammable packaging materials.
Q. Do you know who their dealer is?
A. We have no proof, but the name bandied around by those smoking is once again that of Karim Bouziane. Apparently he sold the dope along with his sausages.
Q. In your view, could Karim Bouziane have set fire to the factory?
A. There’s no concrete proof. I don’t know if he did, or why he would want to. But in any case, he had the wherewithal.
Q. Among your colleagues, or the individuals present during the day in question, did you hear any names being mentioned as possible instigators of the fire?
A. I did not talk to any Daewoo personnel after the fire. But the name being whispered among the workers is that of Karim Bouziane.
Q. Is there anything else you would like to mention?
A. No. Nothing else comes to mind.
‘Nice work, Lieutenant Lambert‚’ comments the superintendent. ‘You see the effectiveness of this method. Karim Bouziane may be a serious lead. But let’s not rush, let’s be methodical. You carry on listening to what people have to tell you, but if they don’t spontaneously mention Karim Bouziane, you ask them discreetly about him, his barbecue and his dope dealing.’
The door of the superintendent’s office is flung open; a very young, podgy uniformed officer bursts into the room, a terrified look on his face. The superintendent protests.
‘Dumont, you don’t enter my office without knocking.’ Then, concerned: ‘What’s going on?’
‘An anonymous phone call, superintendent. A body near the entrance to the mine above Pondange.’
The superintendent’s infuriated. That’s all we need. Just as the investigation into the fire is getting underway. But what else can we do?
Visit the scene. Étienne Neveu’s body is there, in full view, lying in the bushes at the bottom of the scree. His wife had reported him missing the previous evening. He didn’t go far, mutters a cop. The anonymous phone call: probably a lone early-morning walker. Then the deputy public prosecutor arrives and they make an initial report. Height of the scree, position of the body, neck very likely broken, looks like a fall. At the top of the scree slope, directly above the body, discovery of a footpath that leads directly to the car park on the estate where Étienne Neveu lived.
During the afternoon, information begins to filter in. Étienne Neveu seems to have been the victim of a fatal fall having taken a shortcut through the woods down to Pondange from his home. Death seems to have occurred between twenty-four and forty-eight hours before the discovery of the body. It seems highly likely that it was an accident. But the officials remain cautious, and are waiting for the result of the autopsy before closing the case.
Karim walks into the offices of the lawyer, Lavaudant, a stone’s throw from the Place Stanislas in Nancy. It is a magnificent high-ceilinged room, the walls covered with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in a dark wood filled with books bound in red leather. The vast windows are masked by thick red velvet curtains. It’s late, and Lavaudant doesn’t like Karim turning up in his working life unannounced. Apparently it’s an emergency, and the meeting will be brief. He watches him cross the room, supple, relaxed in his movements, he fills the space. Always the same intensity of desire, despite the passing years, the wife and two kids at home, his wealthy clientele. I may be a big shot but I can’t resist those round buttocks, the taste of his golden skin, the acid smell of the nape of his neck. My hands start to tremble when this ruffian comes near me. I’ll pay for this, one day. Karim stares at the hands the lawyer has placed flat in front of him on his desk. Always the same, you’re dying to bugger me, and when you have, you cry with sham
e. I’ve got you in a vice. He smiles and sits down.
‘I need you, Claude.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘The Daewoo fire …’
‘A nasty business.’
‘I’ve just realised that I fit the profile of the arsonist.’
‘Did you start the fire?’
‘Of course not. Why would I have done that? You know, arson’s out of my league. Besides, I’d have come to see you sooner. No. For the cops I’m the easiest scapegoat. I was at Daewoo during the strike. I made a barbecue and sold kebabs all afternoon, not far from the spot where the fire started. With a bit of dope too. I’m Arab and a dealer. If the cops arrest me, nobody will be surprised and nobody will defend me.’
‘What do you want me to do about it?’
‘The cops have got to leave me out of this, and you have to tell them to before they bang me up.’
‘Can you see me saying to the superintendent at Pondange, whom I don’t happen to know: “Please note, superintendent, that Mr Karim Bouziane has nothing to do with the fire at the Daewoo factory”?’
‘No, but I can see you having a word with your father-in-law Quignard and him passing it on to the superintendent. He’ll be able to convince him. They see each other every day. You’ll do it, Claude, because when a man falls into the cops’ hands, you never know what he might end up telling them.’
It is already late, the Gare de Lyon is gradually emptying, the rush is over at Le Train Bleu restaurant above the station. It is a place where Rossellini and Kaltenbach, the assistant director of the Revenue Department, are in the habit of eating, around the corner from the Ministry, and quiet at this time of day. Granted, the food is bland and expensive, boil-in-a-bag, but neither of them is a foodie, the wine is adequate and the setting ornate and luxurious with late nineteenth-century-style frescos, sculptures, and stucco, and a monumental silver meat trolley. The entire decor provides a welcome change of scene and fires their imagination.
Lorraine Connection Page 8
