A groan. Montoya smiles.
‘I’ve got the list of Luxembourg accounts.’
‘Well … What does it look like?’
‘It looks like provincial wheeling and dealing. That’s what you called it, isn’t it?’
‘Something like that. Fill me in on the detail.’
‘Ten names of Daewoo workers, payments every month for just over a year which all come from another Luxembourg bank account. Sums ranging from fifty thousand to a hundred thousand francs.’
‘Which amounts to around three million a year. It’s a wealthy region.’
‘But these aren’t the sort of figures you’re interested in, am I right?’
‘Yes, but we can still make good use of them. Do you have the instructions?’
‘Not yet. The files I have were copied by mistake. The person who made the disk thought he was copying the porn videos the accountant watched while performing his onerous duties, but he copied the bank statements instead. I have an idea of how to find an explanation for all this. I just need a little time – forty-eight hours.’
‘That’s much too long. Fax me that list and we’ll work on it at our end too. I’ll give you twenty-four hours.’
Laughs. ‘I can’t do exactly as I please here. You said yourself that Pondange was the Wild West. This morning, we had two more corpses.’
Silence. ‘Clearly, you’re not joking.’
‘Clearly.’
‘Have the corpses got anything to do with our affair?’
‘Of course. Elimination of a potential witness.’
‘Fine. Forty-eight hours, if you insist. Things have been dead quiet at this end. Quignard hasn’t set foot in his office. More worrying, our phone tap hasn’t picked up any calls between Quignard and Tomaso.’
Silence. Montoya rubs the bridge of his nose. ‘Is Quignard’s driver employed by 3G?’
‘Good question. We’ll find out. I’ll page you on this phone as soon as I have any news. Don’t forget to check it. And be careful.’
‘That goes without saying. Goodbye, chief.’
Montoya is patiently waiting for Rolande outside Pondange police station. He’s parked across the street from the entrance and has been leaning against the car for more than an hour. Darkness is falling, he can feel the cold and damp in his bones. Behind him stands the local primary school, silent and empty. He hasn’t glanced at it, the memories it stirred are fading. The dark shape of the police station looms before him. The neon-lit entrance can be seen through the open door, hinting at the activity going on inside and casting a band of light on the white stone steps and the neat lawn.
Rolande’s tall, slim, upright silhouette in its black overcoat steps into the light as she descends the three steps, her hands in her pockets. He straightens up, takes a step towards her when she sees him. Her entire body freezes on the spot, hesitates. He thinks of her hands fluttering as she struggles for words, her eloquent body. A rush of affection. He walks swiftly towards her, offers his arm, which she takes without looking at him. The two bodies brush, touch, recognise each other, then move apart. Observation: between them, a silent, dead space. He leads her to the car and opens the door for her. She sits down. He sits behind the wheel.
‘I’ll drive you wherever you want to go. There’s a room for you at the Hôtel Vauban if you like. And you can have something to eat there too, with or without me, as you wish.’
She nods and signals to him to get going.
A quick dinner in the Hôtel Vauban’s empty, dimly-lit dining room. Not a word. She doesn’t meet his eye, concentrates on eating a vegetable soup and cheese with slow movements, her head bowed. Then she sits upright.
‘I spent hours in the apartment with the superintendent, drawing up an inventory. He wanted me to tell him what had been stolen. Of course nothing had been stolen.’ She gives him a harsh stare. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you told me who you are and what’s going on? Don’t you think I’ve paid dearly enough to find out?’
He takes her into the lobby. The security guard has left, the main door is locked and the curtains are drawn across the bay window overlooking the main square. The night lights give off a dim glow and the only light comes from a single bright lamp with a big shade standing on a coffee table. They sit side by side in two big chintz armchairs. Rolande sinks back in hers, her arms on the rests, her hands spread flat, tensing occasionally. Montoya tells her in a low, monotonous voice about Matra and Alcatel’s rival bids for Thomson, how he came to be hired, his arrival in Pondange. Note that I arrived after the fire and after Étienne’s death. I have nothing to do with the start of the trouble. He tells her about the bogus Daewoo accounts, what he knows about the collaboration between Quignard and Tomaso. He tells her that the fire was started deliberately and that Étienne was murdered, about Amrouche’s statement fingering Nourredine – she closes her eyes, ashen – and about Karim Bouziane. He doesn’t tell her about his meeting with Neveu’s widow or her phone call to Quignard. At that particular point, he underestimated the enemy. At that particular point, he pushed Aisha towards her death. He’ll never tell her that. Not because he doesn’t want to lose her, he knows it’s already too late for that. But because he doesn’t want to admit responsibility and make it official.
Then he gives her a list of the Luxembourg bank accounts which has her name on it. ‘It got into my hands sort of by mistake. The person who copied it from the computer thought he was copying porn videos, the pastime of the person who kept the accounts.’ She becomes more animated, turns the sheets over and over, reads them several times, folds them, puts them in her coat pocket. Montoya reckons he’s winning and is almost surprised. She’s changing, fast.
‘I’m telling you these things, Rolande, because I’m almost certain of them, and am acting accordingly. But I have no proof. So you must be very careful what you say, including to the cops. Especially to the cops. Because in this affair, anyone who knows anything is in danger of being murdered. I’m not exaggerating, that’s really what happened.’
‘So I gather.’
‘One question: Aisha?’
‘It was terrible. Hanged from the handle of the roof fanlight at the top of our staircase, in front of the door to her apartment.’ Rolande buries her face in her hands for a long moment. Those hands, the memory of their touch, her caresses both gentle and rough at the same time, Montoya shivers. Then she continues in a calm voice: ‘The cops are clueless and are beginning to talk about suicide. I don’t believe it. Aisha had a strength that I haven’t always had. Aisha was a force of nature. What do you think?’
‘Murdered, like Étienne, because she was with Étienne during the strike. Quignard didn’t know that at first. And then he must have found out from Amrouche, in an informal conversation. Amrouche wasn’t exactly cautious. In any case, he didn’t see any reason to be wary.’
‘What about my mother?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe they used her to lure Aisha out of her apartment? Possibly with a telephone call?’ She nods. ‘Where were you this morning?’
‘In Amrouche’s office. He called me to offer me a job. What a farce.’
‘What about Aisha’s father?’
‘At the Social Security office. An appointment came in the post. It was a mistake.’
A long silence. Rolande has a vacant look, her hands mechanically caress the armrests.
‘Rolande, I want to know who kept these accounts and what their purpose was. I need you. You told me Maréchal was in the know. He wouldn’t tell me, but he’d talk to you.’
‘Yes, he probably would. But I’d have to want to get involved. I don’t give a shit about the competition between Alcatel and Matra.’ Silence, then Rolande gets up. ‘I’m going to bed. I’ll think about it, I’m giving myself a bit of time, I’m going to bury my dead. We’ll talk about it again tomorrow.’
‘Is your son coming back?’
‘No. He’s staying in Metz. I phoned him. I told him his grandmother was dead. And I forb
ade him to leave the school. I don’t want him mixed up in all this.’
‘I hoped he’d be there to support you.’ A pause. ‘I’ve brought you some sleeping tablets.’ He proffers a tube in its cardboard packaging. ‘Use them sparingly.’
She smiles for the first time.
‘I don’t have suicidal tendencies. Any more than Aisha did.’
28 October
Impossible to work. Quignard’s unable to read the file lying open on his desk. Plagued by his obsessive thoughts. Largardère’s being investigated again for fraud, the making and use of forgeries, and misuse of company money. Lagardère is alleged to have falsified his company’s results during his group’s merger with Hachette, two years ago. Two years, in other words, an age. The list is frightening. Two investigations, a tax inspection and a COB investigation, in under a fortnight.
Plus a national strike and demonstration over Thomson Multimedia. He swivels his armchair, puts his feet up on the windowsill and stares out at the peaceful autumnal landscape of the valley, the deep green of the meadows, the varied shades of brown of the trees, the grey of the sky. A brief respite. He is physically conscious of the weight of the huge machine that’s been set in motion, beyond his reach in Paris, pressing on his shoulder and back. For the first time, a little question worms its way into his mind: Supposing ultimately we lose? Unthinkable. True, but no more unthinkable than what’s happened here, the chain of disasters at Pondange. Time will pass and people will forget. No, no one will forget while Tomaso’s there, he’s got me. He won’t let go. And I’ll be under his heel.
The phone rings, he jumps, spins around and picks it up.
‘Mr Quignard, I have a certain Mr Chan on the line who’s asking to speak to you. It’s personal.’
‘His name doesn’t mean anything to me. Put him through.’
‘My dear friend, I am so pleased to be talking to you …’
Quignard sits up, that refined tone, the slight accent that was so familiar … this is it, Tomaso was right, it had to happen. He settles back into his armchair with a faint smile: a flesh-and-blood adversary at last.
‘To what do I owe the honour of this call?’
‘I’ve just read the French press. Rather late, I admit. What can I do, being so far away … and I learn that an investigation is apparently under way into the insider dealing of Matra shares …’ Silence. ‘I want my percentage of the profits.’ His tone changes, becoming harsh and vindictive. ‘Consider it a redundancy payment …’
‘You’ve got a nerve.’
‘… a golden parachute if you like. We’ve seen worse, much more exorbitant than what I’m asking for. You took a big risk in firing me like a subordinate. You made an error of judgement.’
‘You should know that I’m only in charge of the Daewoo plant in Lorraine. I know nothing of financial matters nor anything about the alleged insider dealing. These matters are handled at a more senior level, by the Daewoo group management, and the steering committee for the Thomson bid in Paris, of which I am not a member.’
‘I should like you to pass on my request to them. And to let them know how vulnerable they are at the moment. The newspaper articles mention anonymous letters. If anonymous letters are sufficient to trigger a COB investigation, what would happen if documents relating to Daewoo’s Polish scheme were to be sent anonymously to the press?’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘I think that you’re unaware of a great number of things, Mr Quignard. You knew what was going on in France, but not in Poland. The ultimate target wasn’t the company as you assumed, or as you purported to, but a matter of revenge. Did you believe that the Daewoo-Thomson takeover idea came from you, you pathetically pretentious little creep?’ A hearty guffaw on the other end of the phone. First time I’ve heard him laugh, thinks Quignard, with a lump in his throat and no voice. Silence. ‘Are you still there? Now listen to me carefully. Day in, day out, over the past two years, the major investors have paid for this special relationship with Matra with the money from your subsidies. I have the list of the bank account holders, and I’m sure that if you think a little, you’ll recognise them. Can you picture the scandal? So I’m demanding my share of profits from the Matra share dealing. It’s my due. On second thoughts, call it five million francs, and I’d consider that a fair return …’ Silence. ‘You’re not saying anything, Mr Quignard, that’s up to you. Just do what has to be done. I’ll call you back in two days so that we can agree on the method of payment.’
The line goes dead.
The first stage of the investigation is over, say the police. You may go home. Rolande clears up the apartment, working furiously. Keep busy, don’t stop. The murderers emptied all the cupboards and threw the contents on the floor. Sort out, throw out everything that’s broken: crockery, a bedside lamp, an alarm clock, a standard lamp, her son’s photo frame, not that much stuff in the end. She straightens up. In the kitchen are the enamel beer mugs which her mother used to drink from, the times when she bothered to use a glass rather than drink the beer straight from the bottle. They go straight into the dustbin. Clear out the bathroom and chuck away her toiletries: a brush matted with long white hair, an empty perfume bottle kept as a souvenir. Of what? She goes into her mother’s room. Throw out the teddy bear won at a fairground, the doll in traditional Lorraine costume, odds and ends and mementos, the cushion in which she hid her treasures and the things she nicked. She’d ended up stealing her grandson’s pocket money. All her clothes too, while she was at it, without stopping to sort them out. And bedlinen. A mattress airing in an empty room.
Rolande leaves the room, automatically locking the door behind her. Finished, over, that whole part of my life. A feeling of immense relief, an unfamiliar lightness. She still has to tidy up the rest of the apartment. My life remains inside. Address: Cité des Jonquilles, Pondange. Rolande feels a surge of cold rage. Pile up the crockery and clothes into the cupboards, quick. Any old how, without thinking. Then shut the cupboards. Now to wash away the blood. First the kitchen, then the living room. This is where the old woman liked to sit and drink, often playing patience. A few stains left on the table, on the tiled floor, this is where they found her. In the hall, much bigger stains on the floor and on the wall, by the phone. Montoya’s voice: the telephone used to lure Aisha out of there. This is where they killed her. Pondange, not for much longer.
Summons to a small downstairs meeting room at the Reims Novotel, halfway between Paris and Pondange. Montoya arrives first. On the phone, Valentin simply arranged the meeting. Make sure you’re not followed, of course, and expect two solid hours’ work. Nothing more. Doesn’t he trust his secure phone line? Or is he going for maximum effect? Perhaps by putting on the pressure? Standing in front of the French doors, carefully concealed by net curtains, he contemplates the empty garden and the pool covered with a blue tarpaulin. He sees Rolande’s image reflected in the glass, her face buried in her hands as she absorbs the fact that her life has been turned upside down and she’s now alone, as she always wished. A memory of their meeting last night, outside the police station, their two bodies briefly attuned, echoing their walk through Brussels. Whatever happens, that moment was real, nothing can destroy it. He wanders over to a buffet of cold meats and salads standing in a corner and realises he’s starving. He makes himself a roast pork and mustard sandwich and washes it down with a glass of Beaujolais.
The door opens, he turns around. Two men he doesn’t know, still young, energetic, clean-shaven and well groomed, in dark suits and ties, carrying briefcases. Predictable. They introduce themselves: Pierre Benoît-Rey (warm), Philippe Rossellini (uncommunicative). Handshakes. ‘We’ll wait for Valentin.’ He says nothing.
Valentin arrives. Montoya is struck by his peasant appearance: stocky physique, thick socks, corduroy trousers, baggy at the knees, and grey wool sweater. He gives Montoya a vague but warm embrace and makes the appropriate introductions. ‘Those in charge of the Alcatel working party f
or the Thomson bid.’ ‘Our very special agent in Pondange.’ Inquisitive looks. ‘I’ve been keeping them up-to-date on the findings of your mission as it progresses.’ Maybe. Be careful my friend, say as little as possible.
They all gather around the buffet, salads and mineral water for the Alcatel men, cold meat and Beaujolais for Valentin and Montoya. Then the four of them sit down at the table to work. Valentin takes out a small tape recorder.
‘I’m going to play you a conversation that took place at eight this morning between Quignard and an unidentified party, perhaps a Korean, calling from Warsaw. We’re trying to pinpoint the precise location. I think this conversation is important, and I’d like your opinion.’ He presses play.
The phone rings: ‘Mr Quignard …’ Then a secretary’s voice, a voice Montoya doesn’t know. Listening to the anonymous words and sentences, he relives an old, long-forgotten feeling, hunting snipe with Moroccan friends in the marshes near Rabat. The stunning landscape, a completely flat stretch of land covered in short grass floating on the water, your feet sinking in with every step; the water rose, sometimes covering the feet of your boots, sometimes up to your knees, sometimes up to your waist, and there was always the fear that you’d go right under with the next step. The land immediately closed over your footsteps, obliterating all traces of your passing. This conversation is like the marsh: no bearings, no support, shifting. Everything is true, everything is false, nothing exists. A glance at the two executives, they look very excited. Flashback: Rolande, I don’t give a shit about the competition between Alcatel and Matra. Neither do I, sweetheart. And most probably nor do they. But we’re at the gaming table, and we want to win. ‘… in two days so that we can agree on the method of payment.’ The phone goes dead, the tape hisses gently. Rossellini jumps when Valentin stops the tape recorder. The fat cop was right: weapons, strategy, industrial restructuring, all a stage set. This is where the decisions were made, in the bogus accounts of a second-rate business. I’ll never forget this lesson. Valentin turns to Montoya.
Lorraine Connection Page 19