Quignard suddenly feels faint. His heart turns to ice, sweat streams down his face, he is unable to move and can no longer follow what the people around him are saying. The maître d’hôtel and a waiter race over, sit him in an armchair, loosen his tie and shirt collar and remove his jacket. He gradually recovers his wits, and his first instinct is to run away, as far away as possible. To Mongolia, his favourite fantasy, to ride the stocky little horses with short legs and large heads and track snow tigers with their thick white fur striped with black, ad infinitum. But he doesn’t run away. Several anxious faces ask him if he’s feeling better. Much better. In fact he feels fine. A dizzy spell due to exhaustion, travelling on an empty stomach, it’s nothing. He hears himself grinding his teeth. A COB investigation takes several months. By that time … By that time he only knows that he’s no longer certain of anything, and that he’s afraid.
A few minutes later, having washed his face and hands, he’s at the table of three EU officials, calmly and competently discussing the reorganisation of the railway system in the European Development Plan zone, while tucking into toast and marmalade.
It’s nearly nine a.m. and dead quiet in the Cité des Jonquilles. Two men cross the lawn in bomber jackets, jeans and work boots. They go up staircase A and stop on the first-floor landing. The one wearing a white silk scarf around his neck takes a short crowbar out of his jacket, and attacks Rolande Lepetit’s door which gives way with a sharp snap at the first blow. The two men enter and shut the door behind them. An elderly woman in a blue towelling dressing gown is sitting at the kitchen table facing three cans of beer. Her long white hair is in a plait, from which a few stray tousled strands escape. Her mouth drops open, her eyes staring, as she attempts to rise. One man is already upon her, stuffs a rubber gag in her mouth, folds the dressing gown behind her to pin her arms, grabs her plait, yanks her head back and knees her in the small of the back. The man with the white scarf strolls round the apartment.
‘Nobody home. We can get on with it.’
He contemplates the elderly woman in a long blue floral-print cotton nightdress immobilised before him. She chokes convulsively. He pulls out his knife, and slits the fabric from the neck to the hem in a single movement. The elderly woman struggles, wriggles, helpless, is naked, breasts swinging, her flesh badly mottled, with purplish fatty lumps in places. He laughs, biting his lips, traces the folds of her stomach with the tip of the knife barely applying any pressure, the skin splits, a long gash from one hip to the other, scarcely a trail of blood. He shoves the elderly woman against the table and pushes her over on to her back. She chokes, her legs flailing.
‘Hold her down, I won’t be long. Just want to see if the equipment’s still working.’
He puts his knife down on the table, unzips his flies, grabs her hips with both hands, penetrates her, a few violent up-and-down movements, he climaxes, releases her, zips up his flies. Winks at his associate.
‘Best way to show them who’s boss.’
He leans over the elderly woman who remains spreadeagled on the table, her body jerking convulsively, the gash has begun to bleed more seriously, her eyes show their whites, she’s no longer breathing.
‘Get her up.’
He gives her two hard slaps and the elderly woman opens her eyes. He presses the tip of the knife to her throat.’
‘Listen, slag. I’m going to take off your gag.’ Presses the knife harder, cuts. ‘You keep it shut, otherwise I’ll slit your throat. And you know I mean it.’
He removes the gag. The elderly woman, mouth gaping, gasps frenziedly, a low, hoarse groan, not a scream.
‘Perfect.’
He signals to his associate. They drag the elderly woman over to the telephone in the hall.
‘I’m going to dial Aisha’s number, and you’re going to ask her to come here, you need her to come now, you’re ill. When she’s here, my friend here and I will ask her some questions quite politely, and then we’ll leave the pair of you alone. Understood?’
The elderly woman nods, her eyes closed. He presses the tip of the knife to her throat again.
‘This time, I want to hear your voice. Find out whether you can still talk. Say: “Yes, sir”.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The man with the white scarf takes a walkie-talkie from his belt, presses the button.
‘Here we go.’
Lying on the roof of the Cité des Jonquilles, next to the fanlight above stairwell A, two men receive the walkie-talkie message.
‘Over to us.’
They open the fanlight, jump down on to the fourth-floor landing and hide on the staircase. Barely two minutes’ wait before Aisha comes out of her apartment wearing blue jeans and a red polo-necked sweater. As she turns round to lock her door, a man grabs her round the waist and forces a rubber gag into her mouth. She arches her body, her legs buckle as she grabs for the support of the wall. The other man comes to help and gives her an injection in the waist, through her sweater. Her body immediately goes limp. While one carries the unconscious Aisha, the other takes her keys, enters the apartment and comes out with a kitchen stool, locks the door and puts the key back in the pocket of Aisha’s jeans. He positions the stool under the fanlight. As the first guy climbs on to it, passes a rope through the handle of the fanlight then a slipknot around Aisha’s neck, the other retrieves the rubber gag while keeping hold of her body, and slips it into his jacket pocket. Between them, they haul up the body and let go. Aisha’s body revolves slowly. One man kicks over the stool, the other encircles her hips and swings himself from her body. A snap. The two men give a final glance to check: girl dead, body hanged, stool kicked over, fanlight closed, gag in pocket. They both then calmly walk down the four flights of stairs.
On the first-floor landing, the door to Rolande Lepetit’s apartment is still open. They don’t look inside.
Rendezvous in the main square, the teams meet up, divide themselves between three cars and drive off in the direction of Nancy.
Montoya parks his car in the car park opposite the police station without hurrying. The superintendent asked him to drop in: to review the progress of his investigation, he said. Have a chat. By the entrance to the car park, a big black Mercedes is waiting, engine running. A man is sitting alone at the wheel, very close-cropped hair, bomber jacket, square shoulders. Montoya has no difficulty in recognising one of the two mercenaries who cornered him in the alcove at the Oiseau Bleu less than forty-eight hours ago. The man calmly stares at him and smiles. We know who you are, we know who you’re going to see. Pure intimidation. When they stop showing themselves, then it’ll be time to worry. He’s not entirely convinced by his own argument.
In the superintendent’s office, a polite exchange of greetings. To avoid touching on other subjects, Montoya talks drugs. At Daewoo, hash was definitely being smoked, perhaps regularly? Dealing on the factory premises, worrying in terms of security. No, the superintendent doesn’t find the situation a matter of concern. Grossly exaggerated, the amount of hash circulating at Daewoo. In a small town like Pondange, it doesn’t take much for people to get upset. Montoya starts fishing: trafficking linked to the arrest of the Hakim brothers, maybe? The superintendent ducks the question and the conversation continues to flag, when the door suddenly bursts open and a podgy young police officer wearing glasses rushes in theatrically, then stands rooted to the spot, gawping. The superintendent rises, tense.
‘Dumont, don’t tell me …’
‘Yes, superintendent. Two bodies at the Cité des Jonquilles.’
Montoya suddenly feels drained. Aisha and Rolande. Drained and chilled. He knew the danger, said nothing, did nothing, and so those two women, friends, so full of life. Criminal. Think about it later. For the moment, get over there, hurry up, don’t think about anything. The police drive off, sirens wailing. Montoya follows in his own car. The black Mercedes is no longer waiting by the car park entrance.
In front of the entrance to staircase A, two uniformed police officers are
holding back a small crowd of neighbours and onlookers. People are talking about Aisha and Rolande’s mother. Montoya, his throat dry, his mind in turmoil, doesn’t ask any questions. And waits. A police car pulls up and Rolande stumbles out. A police officer escorts her through the crowd, which abruptly falls silent, and they disappear up staircase A.
The door to the apartment is wide open. Rolande freezes on the threshold, head lowered. On the floor in the middle of the hall lies a shapeless form beneath a white sheet, a few scraps of blue towelling dressing gown peeping out, and the tip of the white-haired plait bound with a very ordinary red elastic band. Her gaze rests on the elastic band. Then she looks up. All the apartment doors are open, she sees overturned furniture, things on the floor. She thinks: a battle scene. And again: stage scenery. None of this is real.
The superintendent stands close to her, one of his two men raises the sheet. Face butchered, the right temple and cheekbone smashed in, mouth open, twisted, dentures broken, body naked, terrifying. Poor, poor woman, what a wretched life. Immense pity but not a tear. The superintendent points to a long gash across her stomach.
‘Prowlers obviously. They must have tortured her to find out where the money was, then knocked her out with the crowbar they used to force open the front door. The weapon was found by the telephone.’
He covers up the body. Again that overwhelming feeling of strangeness.
‘I don’t believe it. We’ve never had a bean and everyone knows it,’ says Rolande in a very low, very hoarse voice.
Montoya’s still milling among the small crowd of onlookers. His mind starts working again. He broods over his silence and his mistakes, his doubts too. You thought you had time, and she’s dead. How did Quignard trace things back to her so quickly? He feels sluggish, heavy, out of his depth. He decides to leave. Phone Valentin. The reflex of a subordinate, deferring to his boss, like in the old days in the police. Sometimes it’s useful. His gaze falls on Karim Bouziane, at the back of the crowd, standing slightly apart, ashen, dishevelled. Electric shock. Suddenly he feels a tingling in his fingers, takes a deep breath, mind in overdrive. Bouziane-Amrouche. Amrouche, of course. Amrouche who put you on Bouziane’s track and tipped off Quignard about Aisha. Why do you think he put him in an office next to his? Quignard alerted perhaps by the Neveu widow’s phone call … Time for regrets later, must never let an opportunity slip. Bouziane roams from one knot of people to another, tries to catch a phrase here and there, his eyes on the lookout. Flashback: eyes meeting in the cafe. He’s seen me before. Careful. Karim takes out a packet of cigarettes, three attempts before he manages to light one, throws it away after two drags. I know that bitter taste at the back of the throat when you can’t swallow anything, not even cigarette smoke. This guy’s in a very bad way. He senses he’s in danger, isn’t used to it, and doesn’t know why. Don’t lose sight of him. He saw the lists at the same time as Neveu. For the time being, Quignard doesn’t know that, but at the rate he’s going, Karim may not have long left. He’s got to talk.
Karim walks away from the crowd, his steps faltering, reaches the car park, gets into an old red Clio and sits there for several minutes, his head resting on the steering wheel. He’s got to find a way out, he’s going round in circles, can’t find one. Montoya slides behind the wheel of his car, waits. Karim starts up his engine, manoeuvres and drives slowly out of the car park. He appears to be heading towards the plateau. The motorway to Paris? Montoya allows him to get ahead, and then catches up with him. Tailing him is easy as long as he stays on the plateau with its straight, sloping roads. Karim leaves the main road, so he’s not heading for Paris and turns on to a secondary road, driving slowly, his mind elsewhere. He probably still hasn’t decided where he’s going. It’s lunchtime, not much traffic, lonely road. Risky but doable. Montoya hangs back, rummages in the glove compartment, leaves the revolver but takes the plastic handcuffs which he flings on to the back seat. Goes over the controlled-crash training course he’d been on in the old days. He’d never used the technique until now. Recites the advice and recommendations. Above all, don’t injure Karim. As they say in the movies, I want him alive. Action. Puts his foot down on the accelerator. The red Clio reappears. No one in front, no one behind. Overtakes, brakes, cuts in front of the Clio’s wing, which he hits with his bumper. Karim, thrown off course, his expression terrified behind the windscreen, tries to straighten up, jerks the wheel and swerves into the ditch where the Clio lands, bonnet first. Montoya stops on the verge, roars into reverse, pulls up level with the Clio, jumps out, opens the driver’s door where a dazed Karim is trying to unfasten his seat belt. Montoya grabs him by the shoulder, extricates him from the car, leans him against the bonnet, and with his right hand straight, fingers taut, gives him a blow to the plexus. Karim crumples to the ground. Montoya picks him up, throws him on to the back seat of his car, handcuffs him tightly, that’ll loosen his tongue, attaches the handcuffs to the seat belt anchor, gets behind the wheel and drives off at speed.
Karim slowly comes to his senses. Feels like throwing up. Utterly lost. His last memory: Aisha’s dead. He groans. He got into the Clio. Was going where? Can’t remember. He’s half lying down. Glimpses foliage and blinks, the trees are very close and aren’t moving. Rubs his cheek against a familiar fabric, blinks, grey fabric, he’s lying on a seat in a stationary car. A surge of panic. Sits up, sharp pain in his chest, a man is sitting on the front seat, watching him without moving, hazy face, the lawyer? Tries to get up. Impossible, arm hurts, pinned behind his back. The nightmare comes back, tied up in the four-wheel drive, the lawyer. He howls, pulls frantically on his arms, kicks the back of the seat with both feet, a spasm, vomits on his shoes.
‘Finished blubbering like a woman? I’m not going to rape you, for fuck’s sake.’
Down to earth with a bump. Recognises the guy who was in the cafe with Rolande. Still doesn’t understand what’s happened to him. Shuts up. Wipes his mouth on his right shoulder.
‘That’s better. Are you capable of understanding what I say to you?’
Nods. ‘Who are you?’
‘The Hakim brothers, does that name ring a bell?’
Karim feels his bladder empty into his trousers. Dense trees all around, dusk outside, no way out. He closes his eyes, leans back and groans.
‘My wrists and arms really hurt. Can’t you loosen these handcuffs?’
‘Let’s try and make this quick. The brothers weren’t very happy about you grassing on them.’
‘I didn’t grass.’
‘But they seem to think you did.’
‘When they came to pick up their last delivery, someone had tipped off the cops. They took photos.’
‘Who snitched then, if you didn’t?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And they forced you to testify against Nourredine.’
‘You know about that too?’
‘I know a lot about it. Except that it wasn’t the cops that were behind it, it was Tomaso. The cops only saw the fire.’ Karim opens his eyes and wriggles his back slightly.
‘You know more than I do. I don’t know any Tomaso.’
‘A guy from Nancy who used you to grass on the Hakims and is taking over their business. I don’t think they’ll let him walk all over them. There was an explosion in Tomaso’s nightclub two days ago, and the battle has only just begun. And you’re right in the middle of it. Not a good place to be.’
‘Why me? I’m small fry, I don’t count.’
Here we come to the epistemological disassociation, as my intellectual student friends would have said. Concentrate and cross your fingers in the hope that the kid will be scared enough not to realise that you’re changing the subject and that there’s no logical link between the two.
Montoya leans over towards Karim and strokes his cheek. A nervous twitch from the corner of his mouth to the corner of his eye. The smell of vomit, urine, sour sweat.
‘Poor kid. You saw the lists of names in the Daewoo accounts, when you w
ere playing on the computer with Neveu, and everyone’s interested in those lists. Neveu was murdered because he’d seen them.’ The cheek twitches again. ‘Aisha was murdered because she was with Neveu during the strike. You haven’t been murdered yet because I’m the only person who knows that you were messing around on the computer with Neveu.’ Karim pictures himself sitting next to Étienne, shoulder to shoulder, the porn pop-ups against a background of accounting information which he didn’t even glance at. He hears Amrouche coming in and going out, slamming the door. Amrouche … ‘So you see, you may not have too long to live.’
Karim’s arms have gone numb. Now, all the pain is concentrated between his shoulders and up into the back of his neck. How long before Amrouche grasses on me, to Quignard, Tomaso, whoever? Despair. He shouts, ‘But I never saw those accounts. We were watching the porn. Étienne copied it on to a disk for me. We wanted to duplicate it and sell it. I took it with me and went home, that’s all, I never saw anything else. I haven’t even had time to do anything with it yet. I don’t know anything about disks and computers. Étienne was going to do the editing, and I was just going to sell it.’
Montoya turned back to face the windscreen. This kid’s telling the truth. I got close, but missed it. Wait. Pursue this idea to the end.
‘Give me the disk.’
‘Whenever you like. Right away, if you want. It’s in the Clio’s glove box.’ Montoya starts up the engine.
‘Fine, we’ll go there. Then, I’ll let you go and I advise you to disappear for a month or two, until things calm down. You’re out of your depth.’
Montoya pulls up at a junction between a farm track and a secondary road. A sweeping glance over the plateau’s clear horizon to check that he’s not being followed. The majestic swell of ploughed fields, as far as the eye can see. He hears Neveu’s widow: ‘It’s unbelievable how beautiful the plateau can look when you see it from the windows of our farm.’ He takes out his ‘special Valentin’ phone and calls him.
Lorraine Connection Page 18