Lorraine Connection

by Dominique Manotti

  Q. Do you think that Nourredine Hamidi set the Daewoo factory on fire?

  A. It wouldn’t surprise me. Although I have no proof, of course.

  Q. Do you know Karim Bouziane?

  A. Yes, he’s been at Daewoo from the beginning. Our colleagues told us about a barbecue behind the factory on the day of the disturbances.

  Q. Could he have set fire to the factory deliberately?

  A. We know Karim Bouziane well, and have known him for a long time. He’s a wheeler-dealer, but he’s not a hothead and he’s not dangerous. We don’t think he can be the arsonist. But someone else could have used the embers from the barbecue if there were any left smouldering.

  Q. What names have you heard the workers mention in connection with this act of arson?

  A. The only name that’s been going around since the beginning, since the night of the fire, when everyone was on the roundabout watching the factory burn, is that of Nourredine Hamidi. What’s more, as far as we know he is the only person to have made public threats against the factory.

  The superintendent puts Lieutenant Michel’s transcription of the statement down on the desk.

  ‘This time, we’ve got him. You and Lambert have done an excellent job. The suspect is clearly identified. We won’t question him straight away, but we’ll build up a precise timetable of his movements between 20.00 hours, when he left the porter’s lodge with Hafed Rifaai heading for the cafeteria, and 21.43 hours when the fire alert was given. According to Amrouche, a whole lot went on. We’ll concentrate on the cafeteria, and on that time slot of less than two hours. According to the lists drawn up by your colleagues, Rolande Lepetit spent the whole afternoon and evening there. Question her before moving on to trickier witnesses like Hafed Rifaai or the suspect himself. But watch out, she seems to be a prickly character.’

  Montoya saunters casually up to the Hôtel Lutétia. He’s meeting Eugénie Flachat at seven o’clock in the bar and he’s early. Tomorrow he leaves for Lorraine, for the valley of Pondange, where he lived for ten years as a child and which left him with only painful memories. The idea of returning after thirty-five years, for a trivial case that stinks of shit, makes him feel uncomfortable. He thought he was impervious to the ghosts of the past. Well he wasn’t. Had he given in to Valentin’s blackmail? Not necessarily. He didn’t really believe his story. So what was it then? To revisit the place where he spent his childhood? Unlikely. To escape from the excruciating boredom of routine insurance investigations? Valentin’s offer is hardly more exciting. Don’t try and fathom it. I took it on because it came along and because Valentin intrigues me. Montoya hangs around in the lobby to kill time. Displayed conspicuously on the wall by the door is a framed, handwritten certificate that states:

  Hôtel Lutétia has been named the official hotel of the 50th Anniversary Committee for D-day – the Battle of Normandy and the Liberation of Europe

  The 50th Anniversary Committee for D-day in this hotel, requisitioned by the German army during the Occupation and used to house its officers, subsequently a repatriation centre for returning deportees after the war, was no doubt symbolic, but of what? Without knowing why, he feels a growing sense of unease. A bitter taste in his mouth. Increasingly frequent these days. Now, I really need a drink, a brandy. He strides across the main lounge where a few journalists are talking in low voices, a photographer clicks madly at two faces, celebrities no doubt, no clue who they are, and American tourists are having pre-dinner drinks. At the far end is a dark, narrow bar under a low ceiling, done out in wood panelling and carpeting like a snug retreat. Barely six or seven tables, only one still free at this hour of the evening, the first on the right by the door. He sinks into an ample, low armchair and orders a vintage brandy. There’s blues playing in the background, but the music can hardly be heard above the din of conversation and the clinking of the shakers and glasses. He cups the brandy balloon in his hands, without moving at first, until he gets a first whiff of the aroma, then warms it with tiny movements. The liquid is amber, almost dense, he inhales it, eyes closed, what a pleasure. Tonight, I’m meeting a beautiful, young, intelligent woman with whom I’ll never have sex. Tomorrow, I’m leaving this city which I love. And in a few days, I’ll be fifty. Bitterness and frustration swirl around with the complex, sublime smell of the brandy.

  When he opens his eyes, Eugénie Flachat is sitting opposite him. Mid-length hair the colour of … brandy, exactly, tumbling over her shoulders, fine features, a clear expression, nothing too remarkable except those grey-green eyes, a mountain lake in a storm, frozen waters. He raises his glass towards her and takes a long, warm sip. She orders with a contrite smile as if to apologise: a Murmure – champagne, blackcurrant liqueur and amaretto. She always has a Murmure at the Lutétia. Nobody’s perfect.

  Eugénie Flachat is a loss adjustor in the accident division of a big insurance firm and often when she has a dubious case to deal with she calls on the services of Charles Montoya, turned private investigator after more than twenty years in the police force, mostly in the drug squad. They are an efficient team, she deals with officialdom and he pokes around in dustbins.

  She leans towards him, speaking clearly, in a low voice, creating a bubble of intimacy around them in the crowded bar.

  ‘You’re right, Daewoo’s insured with us. Or rather, was insured. I’ll come back to that.’ Hesitation in her green eyes. ‘I’ll try and summarise the case for you, from the beginning. The factory has been operational for two years. It’s never made any money. In fact, it has always lost astronomical amounts.’ A pause. ‘There are two reasons why.’ Montoya, with a little smile, sinks deeper into his armchair. The green eyes have become two blocks of ice, the sharp intellectual mind swings into gear, a real delight. ‘First of all, the factory, which is supposed to manufacture cathode ray tubes, was designed to produce five hundred thousand tubes a year whereas it’s internationally accepted that the profitability threshold is a million units. That could be possibly put down to managerial incompetence, you see it all the time. The second matter is more awkward. The factory almost exclusively buys from and sells to Daewoo subsidiaries in Eastern Europe, Poland in particular. Seventy per cent of its business is transacted with its Warsaw subsidiary. It is a textbook blueprint for tax evasion or money laundering. On the one hand you just need to raise the prices of the parts you purchase, and on the other to sell the finished products at a loss, and the money disappears into accounting black holes.’

  ‘And what keeps the factory going?’

  ‘Subsidies. EU mainly. It’s in a region that comes under the European Development Plan, where the tap is full on. National, regional and local subsidies are also pouring in, unmonitored, the spectre of the iron and steelworks industry haunts everyone.’

  ‘Could it be a system for diverting EU subsidies towards the former Eastern bloc countries?’

  Eugénie leans back in her armchair, sips her cocktail, an absent look in her eyes. Then leans towards him again.

  ‘I find that difficult to answer because I don’t know how what I’m going to tell you can be of use, Charles. But I trust you, after six years of working together … Whatever happens, my company and I will be kept out of the frame?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Siphoning off subsidies is the most likely scenario, but there’s another, more sinister theory. We could possibly be dealing with a major embezzlement operation. The manager of Daewoo Warsaw is a curious character. In Korea, he had a few problems with the law for having bribed a senior government official with a rather large sum of Daewoo’s money, and then blackmailing him with the threat of disclosure so as to recover the money for himself.’

  ‘Clever.’

  ‘Instead of firing him, Daewoo appointed him CEO in Poland.’

  ‘That opens up new avenues.’

  ‘I think it does. My glass is empty, Charles, and I have more to tell you.’

  They wait in silence while the barman serves them another brandy and another Murmure,
before Eugénie continues.

  ‘The most surprising thing is the fire insurance policy. First of all, it was hugely inflated in relation to the value of the building.’

  ‘Extensions might have been planned but never built.’

  ‘Probably. A month before the fire, the contract was cancelled. Too expensive.’ Montoya whistles between his teeth.

  ‘The factory wasn’t insured against fire?’

  ‘No. Not any more.’

  ‘At least that eliminates the run-of-the-mill insurance fiddle.’

  ‘Sure, but it also eliminates investigations by insurance company loss adjusters, and we both know how awkward they can sometimes be for management. Especially if the loss adjusters start nosing around in the company’s accounts. Lastly, immediately after the fire, the Korean managers were recalled to Seoul. And the factory, or what’s left of it, is being run by a French acting manager about whom we have no information.’

  Montoya leans back in his armchair and savours his second brandy appreciatively. The second is always better than the first, the senses of smell and taste are heightened. Valentin’s words come back to him: ‘evidence fabricated or not, I don’t mind either way’ … It would be funny if … At least now I know what I’m getting myself into, and it looks as though it might be more fun than I thought.

  ‘Eugénie, tell me. In your view, is there a chance that the bosses set fire to the factory?’ The green gaze becomes vague.

  ‘In my view … I just don’t know. The timing seems inappropriate, bang in the middle of the Thomson Multimedia takeover. They won the bid, by the way, have you heard? We didn’t think they had a hope in hell. And then the factory was occupied by the workers, that obviously puts it at risk. I expect the police will be taking a close interest in them first. But actually, if a thorough investigation were to point a finger at the management, I wouldn’t be altogether surprised.’

  21 October

  It is drizzling, early on a gloomy morning in the lay-by of the southbound carriageway of the A31 motorway, some thirty kilometres from Pondange. It is a particularly Spartan lay-by with a few sodden grassy areas fringed by dark pines and a concrete toilet block. Karim drives around it twice to make sure there’s nobody there and parks his red Clio about twenty metres from the toilets. Engine switched off, his head against the headrest, he closes his eyes and waits. Ten minutes. A black BMW crawls into the lay-by and drives past the Clio. Eyes half-closed, Karim doesn’t move. It pulls up a little way ahead. Belgian licence plates, two men inside, dark suits, it’s them. He sits up, gets out of the car, in a red anorak, same colour as the car, goes into the toilets. The two men also head for the toilets, stretching and chatting. One of them is carrying a black canvas briefcase. They come out after a few minutes, still carrying the briefcase, get back into the BMW and drive off. Powerful acceleration, a fine piece of engineering. Two minutes later, Karim emerges. He’s wearing a black nylon rucksack which he flings into the Clio, then he drives off slowly, heading south and whistling.

  Moments later, two men leap out of the pine trees ringing the toilets and meet at the door. They are wearing identical black leather jackets, black jeans and work boots. One of them has a barely visible white silk scarf knotted around his neck.

  ‘Fucking resin. I hope it hasn’t messed up my jacket. Anyway, it’s in the can.’

  ‘The light wasn’t good and we didn’t get the handover.’

  ‘Only to be expected. These shots will be adequate for our purposes. Come on, we’re out of here.’

  They head into the trees, turning their backs on the motorway. On reaching the fencing they pick up a ladder lying in the grass, clamber over the wire netting, jump down on to a path that runs across the fields, then get into a car parked a hundred metres away and drive off towards Nancy.

  Lieutenant Lambert sits facing Rolande Lepetit, feeling slightly awkward, eyes firmly on his computer screen. A beautiful woman sitting calmly staring at him. He wasn’t expecting that.

  Rolande Lepetit, born on 23 June 1956 in Pondange, single, residing at 9 Cité des Jonquilles, Pondange, machine operator at Daewoo for two years.

  Q. Were you on the premises when disturbances broke out in the Daewoo factory on 14 October?

  ‘What do you call “disturbances”?’

  Lambert stops taking notes.

  ‘I was there when Émilienne Machaut’s accident occurred, yes. In my view, a worker electrocuted at her workstation is a disturbance.’

  Lambert smiles at her.

  ‘I meant, were you in the factory when your colleagues downed tools?’

  ‘That’s more precise.’

  A. No, I wasn’t there any more, I’d been fired.

  Q. Did you return to the factory at any time on 14 October?

  A. Yes.

  Q. When, exactly?

  Rolande leans towards Lambert, smiling at her memories.

  ‘I was at the supermarket when I heard the news: the lorries that came to move the stocks out hadn’t been able to get into the factory. The whole town was talking about it. I wanted to go and congratulate my friends, and I went back to the factory.’

  A. It must have been some time around 15.00.

  Q. Then what did you do?

  A. Everyone expected it to be a long day and a long night. I went to the cafeteria to cook for those involved in the occupation, and I stayed there until the fire broke out.

  Q. So you were there when Nourredine Hamidi came back with Hafed Rifaai, at around 20.00?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Were there many people in the cafeteria at that point?

  A. Around thirty.

  Q. What were you doing?

  A. I was finishing making and serving the omelettes. I was busy in the kitchen.

  Q. And what were the others doing?

  A. They were playing cards, chatting, eating.

  Q. Were you present at the meeting when Nourredine Hamidi proposed pouring chemicals into the river?

  A. Yes, I was present.

  ‘But you shouldn’t overstress the importance of Nourredine’s proposal. The managers had just left the factory. We felt less powerful. There were several proposals, including Nourredine’s, which was overwhelmingly rejected, so we moved on to other issues.’

  Q. Did you witness the attack carried out by Nourredine Hamidi on Ali Amrouche?

  ‘It wasn’t an attack. Ali was opposed to Nourredine’s proposal, which was rejected, and Nourredine felt hurt and betrayed. Besides, he was exhausted and overwrought from the day’s events.’

  A. On his way out for some fresh air, Nourredine bumped into Ali. That’s all. Anyway, Ali Amrouche didn’t make a big fuss about it.

  Q. Some witnesses have spoken of a very violent fight.

  A. Well I’m talking about a minor tussle, nothing more.

  Q. What did Nourredine Hamidi do after this fight?

  A. He went outside with Hafed Rifaai, to walk, calm down‚ I don’t know, I didn’t ask him.

  Q. Which door did they exit from?

  A. The one that leads to the car park.

  Q. Did he come back into the cafeteria?

  A. Yes.

  Q. At what time?

  A. I have no idea. He wasn’t outside for long, maybe half an hour.

  Q. Still with Hafed?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Then what did they do?

  A. Hafed and some of the others went off to the security control centre and Nourredine settled down to sleep on a table in a corner of the cafeteria.

  Q. Was he alone there?

  A. No. There were five or six of them trying to get some sleep in the darkest corner.

  Q. Did you see Nourredine Hamidi leave the cafeteria again?

  A. No. He remained asleep until the fire alert.

  Q. Are you positive?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Even though you were on the other side of the cafeteria - busy in the kitchen, according to your account - and there were several people lying down in the dark corner? Yo
u might be mistaken.

  A. If he’d gone out, I’d have noticed.

  ‘Nobody else left the cafeteria after Hafed and his team.’

  Q. But you had no particular reason to keep a constant check on Nourredine Hamidi’s movements while you were busy in the kitchen?

  A. No of course not, I had no particular reason.

  She falters now, her face tense.

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re trying to get me to say, or why you’ve got it in for Nourredine. It’s not the workers who set fire to the damned factory. And Nourredine would be the last person to do a thing like that.’

  ‘I’m not trying to get you to say anything, I’m taking down your statement, that’s all. I’m simply trying to obtain the facts. One last question.’

  Q. Among your colleagues, is there one particular name, or names, that keep cropping up in connection with who might have started the fire?

  A. No, I’ve heard nothing like that.

  Later that afternoon, the lawyer drives Karim off in his big four-wheel drive with tinted windows. ‘We’ve got a business appointment, the two of us‚’ he tells him. When Karim sits down in the passenger seat, the lawyer caresses his face with his rough hand, following the hollows of his cheeks, brushing his lips until he touches his moist mouth. Surprised and worried, Karim doesn’t recognise the man he took for a constipated Catholic, but he doesn’t flinch. Then the lawyer pulls away sharply. He drives fast, along an almost straight secondary road across the plateau. Rounding sharp bends, the heavy car feels as if it’s about to come off the road, and Karim instinctively checks his seat belt. What on earth’s the guy on? Coke, speed? The lawyer smiles at him, his teeth prominent, ready to bite. (Coke, most likely. He’d better not touch me, the arsehole). Then without slowing down, he turns off on to a farm track and pulls up at the edge of a copse. He takes a packet of photos from his pocket and slides it across the dashboard to Karim who flicks through them. The Hakim brothers’ most recent delivery, shot from every angle. Hot flush. Don’t bat an eyelid. Keep calm. Playing for time, he looks at the whole set again. Faces, licence plates, very clear. Expensive equipment and the work of a pro. What’s he playing at, this arsehole? This isn’t some sexual game. He’s trying to trap me, but how? And who’s behind it? Have to see. Puts the photos down.