‘I’ll arrange that for you straight away.’
Room 23. As he expected, Montoya finds the ‘forgotten’ case file on the table, next to the press cuttings file. First of all he flicks rapidly through the newspaper cuttings, to get himself in the mood. In the local papers, there are pages on the fire, and the headlines are filled with praise for Quignard, the man who takes the company’s future in hand after the disaster. A local man, formerly in the iron and steel industry where he’d started out as a technician and ended up as a factory manager. On the demise of the industry, he successfully retrained and became boss of a design office specialising in industrial reconversions, president of the commercial court, advisor on the European Development Plan, and in that capacity, the munificent dispenser of EU subsidy manna to the entire valley. Apparently, he’s cherished Daewoo since it was set up, two years ago, and now he’s taking over the helm, in the midst of the crisis (who crowned him king?), whereas all the Korean managers have gone back to Seoul. (Why? Not a word, the question isn’t even asked.) Something widely regarded as evidence of a tremendous sense of responsibility and an admirable spirit of sacrifice. The regional press is proud of their local boy. Why does this exemplary track record immediately arouse Montoya’s suspicions?
He comes across a neatly cut out little article from a local paper on the arrest of the Hakim brothers, known drug traffickers. Hakim … and now the Tangier case resurfaces in his memory, twice in such a short time. Coincidence? With men like the Hakims, always hanging out with the cops, and a man like Valentin, anything can happen. Or, quite simply, the Pondange superintendent had a hand in their arrest and wants to blow his own trumpet to someone with my connections. He reads carefully. Customs officers, routine check, looks familiar. Apparently the Hakim brothers are still involved in the drugs racket and are now based in Antwerp. It would be funny for them to have fallen victim to a war between Belgian and French customs officers. But what part did the Pondange cops play? No mention in the article. The Hakim brothers: make a mental note. I’ll put it to one side until I find out more‚ but the two men and their dealings remain in the frame.
Now he skims through the file on the investigation, which seems to get off to a good start. List of those present during the strike, timetable of their movements, cross-checking of statements. The job is unfinished, and the names mean nothing to Montoya who moves on to the witness statements. He quickly draws the obvious conclusion: a trumped-up investigation. First of all a minor delinquent is targeted and then he becomes the prosecution witness. Classic. Once in the cops’ hands he does his job rather cleverly. The factory security guards: clearly following orders. The first version is to incriminate the future witness, the second to discredit the suspect, they’re ‘yes’ men. Which immediately raises a question about the exact nature of the company that employs them, 3G, in Nancy. Note that the minor delinquent, probably a grass, is a dope dealer. In Tangier, the Hakims also trafficked dope, as well as coke. Coincidence? Then there are the two proles. Amrouche, who makes vehement accusations. A management mole? But his hatred sounds genuine, which proves nothing, of course. And Rolande Lepetit, who offers only a limp defence. Is it limp or honest? She’s the one who was ‘unfairly’ sacked, as the superintendent said. Her sacking sparked off the strike, so she was well liked. Amrouche also liked her, and Quignard’s reinstated her. In exchange for what? I’ll bet Quignard isn’t the sort to give something for nothing. An exemplary worker? For a moment Montoya’s mind wanders. He recalls the milieus he frequented as a youth. They all sought to emulate Stakhanov, the model worker of the Soviet Union’s heyday. Was there still such a thing as a model worker? Rolande Lepetit Stakhanova. He pictured a tall, sturdy, fair-haired woman with clear blue eyes, a straight, rather thick waist, slightly stiff. Whoever this woman is, History has spoken: beware of Stakhanova. A final glance through the preliminary part of the investigation to check the movements of key witnesses: the security guards, Amrouche, Rolande Lepetit, Karim Bouziane. He’s through in less than two hours.
In the early afternoon, Montoya parks his car in front of the remains of the Daewoo factory. The situation is simple: the hangar that housed the stocks is completely gutted, the production plant is intact, and all the machines are there. The offices too are intact and have been thoroughly cleared out. Not a single piece of paper, not a single computer. There are no police on the premises any more and the security guards are carrying out their routine duties. In fact it was the security firm itself that handled the clearing out of the offices the day after the fire, without it occurring to the police for a moment to stop them.
Seated at the wheel of his car, he telephones Valentin using the secure mobile connected directly to Valentin’s private number. He keys in his personal code.
‘The investigation’s a sham, there’s absolutely no doubt about it. My hunch is that the cops aren’t aware of it, otherwise the superintendent wouldn’t have been so willing to let me go through his files, even though he’s desperate to make a good impression on yours truly. So he’s either being leaned on or used. Not very illuminating.’
Valentin merely groans.
‘For the time being, that’s all I’ve got. But I have a request: Can you find out about the security firm 3G in Nancy?’
‘Say that again.’
‘Security firm, 3G, Nancy.’
‘You’ll have that information right away.’
Hôtel Vauban on the main square in Pondange, a former parade ground in the days when the fortress was in use. The square is vast, windswept and deserted with a seventeenth-century church on the far side, built in the severe style of the Jesuits. A Jesuit style for a military congregation. An elegant, neo-classical mansion is home to the town hall. Once upon a time the two façades were so black with grime that he had never noticed the beauty of the architecture and the stone. After eating a ham baguette washed down with a beer, Montoya has a shower and changes his clothes. He stretches out flat on the bed, a pillow under his knees to ease his back which sometimes aches, the result of a nasty fall during a chase through the streets of Istanbul. Worn out, about to turn fifty. A whole past of half-successes and total cock-ups. Booted out of the police. Tactfully and with a farewell party, a cover-up, but still thrown out. His back slowly relaxes, the base of the spine first, and then the shoulders. Insurance investigator‚ some profession, always up hill and down dale, dosh, routine, boredom, and the iron grip of the lovely Eugénie with green eyes. You make enough dosh to blow on luxuries, and to make you want to earn even more. Yet never enough to be truly rich and not to give a damn. So it’s a spiral: always more shit cases and an increasingly bitter taste in the mouth. Stop, take a breather. Get a grip, a bit of stability, an office in Paris, friends, a cosy relationship, that’d be nice. A job like Valentin’s. Less important. I don’t have the stature, or the contacts. A less strategic operation. Dreams of a quiet old age at last, so the whole journey does not seem simply absurd. The feeling of well-being radiates to the back of his neck … and now, where do I go from here? Stir the pot and see what comes to the surface. First point, various drugs are circulating, everyone seems to be aware of it and nobody’s attaching any importance to it. A minor dope dealer at the centre of the investigation, the Hakims in the area‚ could there be a connection between the two? Premise: there’s no such thing as chance. His body now entirely relaxed, his thoughts, woolly, begin to fray …
He must have fallen asleep.
He is abruptly woken by shouting beneath his window. ‘So-li-da-rity …’ ‘Free Nourredine …’ ‘Our bonuses …’
He rushes over to the window. More a gaggle than a demonstration. Thirty to forty people marching in a ragged procession without too much conviction. No banners, a few trade union flags, outbursts of shouting, the odd slogan taken up by the rest. The group appears to be breaking up, disappointed by the low turnout and a tangible general indifference. No one’s taking any notice of the demonstration, and the few pedestrians they do meet hurry away. An Ar
ab, an arsonist … the group walks past the houses and stays in the shade of the trees lining the square, probably intimidated by the empty expanse in the centre. Montoya spots a tall woman with short, bleach-blonde hair cut in a bob, who holds herself upright and seems tougher than the others. A hunch, a bet: Stakhanova? There’s no harm in trying. The group speeds up, as if in a hurry to get the demonstration over with. Montoya slips on a leather coat and hurries after them. He catches them up in front of the town hall, where they are silently putting away the flags and starting to disperse, not even waiting for the return of the delegation that has gone inside to meet one of the mayor’s deputies. From behind he approaches the blonde woman, a tall silhouette in a fitted black wool coat and black boots. She’s smoking a cigarette with a calm elegance and talking to a man who is shorter than her, aged around fifty, heavy-set and solid.
‘Thank you, Mr Maréchal.’
A slightly husky voice reminiscent of a 1930s cabaret singer. Montoya shivers; the man leaves.
‘Ms Lepetit?’
She turns around, bright blue eyes, good bone structure, calm, regular features, a scar to the left of her upper lip. Definitely Stakhanova. Montoya’s surprised: beautiful, a very beautiful woman, a strong presence. I like that in a woman.
‘That’s me. What do you want?’
‘To buy you a drink. Is that possible?’
She finds herself looking at a slim, dark-haired man. He’s rather attractive, just my type, and a stranger around here. Not dragged down by the general misery. Whoever you are, for a fleeting moment, you’ll be a breath of fresh air. Smile.
‘It’s even welcome.’
There aren’t many cafes in Pondange, and most of the remaining few have been redecorated, sterilised, like the whole town. Rolande leads Montoya towards the lower town and walks into a cafe that still has a big zinc counter at the far end of a dark room with mirrors on the walls, solid timber tables and chairs, and a wide variety of beers chalked up on a slate. There are only two or three regulars at this hour. She sits down at a table by the window, unbuttons her coat, sighs and smiles. Stunning.
‘Tea with milk for me please, Simon.’
Montoya glances at the slate.
‘Sudden Death is just the drink for me.’
She rests her forearms on the table, leans on them and talks as if they were old friends.
‘The demo was very disappointing. A week ago, in the factory, there were two, three hundred of us, all standing together. Today in the square there were thirty of us, in disarray. It’s over. Luckily there are a few good people like Maréchal.’
The drinks arrive. Sudden Death is a lovely warm colour, a head that’s almost solid, cool droplets run down the glass. Rolande pours her tea, a drop of milk, warms her hands around the cup, her mind elsewhere. He resumes the conversation at random.
‘In the old days, the steelworkers had bigger demos.’
She jumps, her expression hard.
‘Not you too. I don’t like fairy tales. When I was sixteen, I worked for a small textiles factory ten kilometres from here, and it wasn’t unionised. We all went on strike over pay and conditions, and a delegation of us went to the local union in Pondange to ask if we could join. All the officials were steelworkers and they threw us out. They didn’t want to know a bunch of women, judging by what they had to say. Ever since that day …’
‘Don’t hold it against me, I’m not from around here.’
‘That’s what I thought. And that’s what I like about you. Now tell me why you invited me for this drink.’
‘I’m a journalist. I’m writing a special report on Daewoo, its various factories in France. I’m interested in the strike and the fire, but also all the issues to do with working conditions and safety in the factory.’
‘Which paper do you work for?’
‘Not a paper, for Agence France Presse. Our reports are sold to the newspapers. At the moment, with Daewoo taking over Thomson, there’s a lot of interest.’
‘Who gave you my name?’
‘A staff rep, All Amrouche.’
‘He’s a good man too, and a friend.’ Bitterly: ‘He wasn’t at the demo.’ Montoya refrains from asking: Are you surprised? She pours another cup of tea. ‘You’ve come to the right person. I can tell you about working conditions at Daewoo.’
She launches into the story of Émilienne’s accident. Montoya listens attentively, his gaze riveted by Rolande’s square hands, her slightly swollen fingers, the skin worn and marked, her nails cut short. They appear to feel every sentence, emphasising and punctuating her words. After Émilienne, the clash with Maréchal. He’s taken aback: the same Maréchal who was at the demonstration and who you said was a ‘good’ man? Mocking smile, yes, yes, the same Maréchal. She moves on to the account of her dismissal …
‘I heard it caused some controversy …’
Rolande sits up straight with a slight smile, her hands are folded on the table.
‘In any case Quignard, the new boss, reinstated me. It was worth it.’
‘A new boss? Isn’t it an odd time to change bosses?’
‘All the Koreans left after the fire, very quickly within forty-eight hours. Quignard took things in hand and in my opinion is doing a good job.’
Amrouche, Maréchal, Quignard, all good guys, yet she still has that Stakhanova manner. Be careful. Why is she standing up for Nourredine? Doesn’t she get it? She stops talking and slowly drinks her tea. A powerful memory from the day of the strike comes back to her. Aisha, her arms folded across her chest, her face white, describing the headless body, the emotion they all felt.
‘I’m not a very good talker. I’ll have to introduce you to my young neighbour, Aisha.’ Her fingers drum on the table. ‘It won’t be easy. She hasn’t set foot outside her flat since the strike.’
‘Why not?’
The hands open, spread, hesitate. ‘She’s very young, her father is a strict man who tends to be violent, the mother’s dead, the older brothers and sisters are married and have gone looking for work elsewhere. He’s stayed here, alone with her, he gets a steelworker’s pension, does nothing all day long. Like that for years, a man who’s still able-bodied, he finds it hard to accept. He was furious with her for going on strike. And since then she’s allowed herself to be shut up without protest. It’s not like her.’ She clasps her hands. ‘I haven’t seen her since. This would be a good opportunity.’
A silence as she lays her hand on top of Montoya’s, skin on skin, pressing down. Her hand is soft and rasping like her voice. Montoya shivers with an unexpected thrill. Careful. Let Stakhanova come to you.
Rolande says, ‘I like the way you listen. Calmly, not in a hurry. You make it easier for me to talk.’ He thinks dark thoughts … Even in the drug squad, my grasses talked more than other people’s, fat lot of good that did me …
‘Come, I’ll take you to my flat, it’s the only place where you’ll be able to meet Aisha.’
As Rolande leaves the cafe, she bumps into a short young man who is going in. On seeing her, he shrinks back.
‘Karim. You weren’t at the demo either.’
He stammers: ‘I couldn’t make it, Rolande.’
Montoya steps aside to let him pass and stares at him. Not striking, the key prosecution witness. Before leaving, he turns around and meets Karim’s eye in the mirror observing him, prying and anxious.
Cité des Jonquilles, staircase A, first floor. Rolande leaves Montoya outside on the landing for a few minutes. He hears a brief conversation on the other side of the door, Rolande and another female voice, sounds of washing-up, doors banging. Then she shows him into a pleasant and well-lit living room. She keeps it impeccably tidy, spick and span in fact. Two windows, creamy white walls, pale wood furniture. On the wall facing the windows, there’s a panoramic view of Venice as it appears when you arrive by sea, suspended between sky and lagoon, painted in blue and pink hues, the light of certain September mornings. A break in the wall, a break in life. A souvenir? A
dream? Rolande motions him to sit in one of the three chintz armchairs facing the television while she goes and telephones in the hall, with the door closed. On a coffee table in front of him there’s a photo of a smiling teenage boy wearing a polo-necked jumper and some books that look as if they’re from a library.
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.
Lorraine Connection Page 12
