Lorraine Connection (12 page)

‘So far, nothing unusual for this type of family company.’

‘Wait. For several years, Lagardère’s stud farms have been incorporated into the structure of the holding company and Lagardère has used the surplus to make up the losses from his horses. A Matra shareholder filed a complaint four years ago for misuse of company property. The affair followed its course, as they say. In other words, it was more or less hushed up. But as luck would have it, this week it will result in Lagardère being indicted.’

‘Clever move. Have you got any more like that up your sleeve? Waiter, two brandies.’

‘Don’t you think that the management of the stud farms should be investigated by the tax authorities? Supposing the losses have been hugely overestimated and that Lagardère used some
creative
accounting to avoid paying tax …’

‘An interesting possibility. Do you have anything to back it up?’

From his inside jacket pocket Rossellini takes out a few folded sheets of paper which he slips to Kaltenbach, who skims them quickly and nods.

‘I see the stables in question are at Chantilly. I happen to know some tax inspectors in Picardy, who, without exactly being
distributionists
, find it outrageous that Lagardère’s tax return is similar to that of someone on the minimum wage. I can get them on to it. I can’t guarantee results, the evidence is rather slim.’

‘I’m not interested in the results, but in the tax inspection. And the sooner the better. We’ll take care of the publicity.’

The alarm goes off and Ali Amrouche surfaces groggily. It’s been like this every night since the fire, long hours of insomnia
followed
by collapse into a deep sleep as dawn breaks. He’s been summoned to the police station, as a witness. To what? The end of the world? He gets up, his body stiff. He keeps the shutters closed because from his window he can see the charred remains of Daewoo’s hangars, metal carcasses and ash heaps, and he can’t bear it. He showers and shaves carefully. You need to watch out when you go to the cops. Always a worry. You can do what you like as far as the cops are concerned, you’ll always be the Arab. He goes downstairs. On the ground floor is a large room bathed in light, furnished with three big armchairs, the TV and house plants. It looks out on to his garden, a square of lawn and a
little
vegetable patch, well maintained, even pampered. He loves this house, the only plot of land he’s ever owned. He wants to die here. A bitter taste in his mouth. He’ll have to work for a few more years before he can retire. I’d carved out a nice little job for myself, no pressure, everyone knew me. And then the fire, with probable unemployment to come. Will it mean selling the house in order to survive before finally ending up in an old people’s home? Fear in his belly and rage in his heart. He moves into the kitchen, a quick coffee and a big cheese sandwich. The police
station
is a ten-minute walk away. In other circumstances it would be a pleasant stroll on a cool, bright day.

Amrouche gets up, paces up and down, speaking vehemently, his words tumbling out fast. The lieutenant can’t keep up and soon stops taking notes.

‘Things turned bad. It started with the accident in the
finishing
section and Rolande Lepetit being fired by the Head of HR. A pathetic guy, the Head of HR, I tell you. Nobody was prepared to take that lying down. She was such a courageous woman, a good worker, bringing up her kid on her own, with a dependent mother to look after as well …’

The lieutenant tries to steer Amrouche back on track: ‘Sit down. We’re not here to discuss Rolande Lepetit’s character …’

But Amrouche doesn’t even hear him: ‘I was the one who went to see Nourredine, who told him. Naturally, since I’m the staff rep, I can’t let them get away with that. I wanted to talk to him about what we could do for Rolande. I trusted him, I thought he could help me get her reinstated.’ Amrouche speaks faster,
losing
control, and the lieutenant gives up trying to slow him down. ‘But he made things worse, he accused Maréchal. But Maréchal had nothing to do with it. Nourredine started urging violence, he suggested setting fire to the lorries and overturning the
engineer
’s car. He was the one who wanted to lock the senior
managers
in, and led the group that broke down the door to the managers’ offices. After that, I don’t know, I was in a meeting, but he must have got into a fight, he ended up with a broken nose and was covered in blood. And I don’t know whether or not he was involved in the dustbin fire, there were traces of soot on his clothes. Maybe he’d already tried to start a fire. When I saw him again in the cafeteria, things had become really serious. At that point he was proposing to pour chemicals into the river. I was against it and he called me a traitor. But I’m older than him, I used to work in the blast furnaces, and people respect me around here. He’s a terrorist, that’s what he is, and I told him so. Then he hit me and said: “Terrorist, I’ll show you what a terrorist is. We’re all going to go up in smoke.” I don’t know what would have
happened
if the other workers hadn’t separated us. And then he left the cafeteria and I didn’t see him again. I went back to the offices. And the fire started not long after. I think he started the fire.’

Amrouche stops talking. The lieutenant takes charge again.

‘We’re going to sum all that up calmly, point by point. Give me time to write down your replies, for the statement.’

Amrouche, utterly drained, continues his account in half sentences, and in a more neutral tone. The lieutenant conscientiously starts going through the motions:

When Lambert makes his report, the superintendent is surprised and puzzled by Amrouche’s vehemence.

‘I told you not to be in too much of a hurry. We can’t discount this testimony. Check up to see if this Nourredine has a record. Nourredine what, by the way?’

‘Nourredine Hamidi.’

‘Anything on file is of interest, from teenage fights to
nicking
things from the supermarket. Anything that went down on record, at one time or another. This afternoon, I’m going to Étienne Neveu’s funeral. To gauge the mood and listen to what people are saying. We’ll review the situation together tomorrow morning, before getting back to business.’

The afternoon sun is warm in the little cemetery sheltered from the winds, on the outskirts of the town, where there’s almost a holiday atmosphere. A brief ceremony for Étienne Neveu. A simple
blessing
in a tiny chapel, not even a funeral: his wife wants to bury him in her village, up on the plateau, about fifty kilometres away, far from the town, the factories, the Arabs. The priest reads prayers in hushed tones to a compact group composed of the widow, her parents and her two children, all wearing black. Outside the chapel and a little apart, Quignard, in a grey coat, hat in hand,
contemplates
the mourners. Poor woman, poor kids. Recalls Etienne’s
jittery
voice,
I
saw
the
guys
who
started
the
fire,
you
know.

He suddenly feels shattered, devoid of willpower. All night he had turned his ambitious plans over and over in his mind, the alliance between Europe and Asia in boom industry sectors.
With
me
as
the
architect.
My
grand
design,
my
work,
my
contacts …
and it would all be compromised if an idiot happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I
saw
the
guys
who
started
the
fire.
The full impact of the impending scandal.
Me,
in
the
eye
of
the
cyclone,
powerful,
removed
from
the
action.
But
I’m
probably
too
old.
The following morning, Tomaso was on the phone: ‘Problem sorted.’ Not a word more. He, careful not to ask any questions. Then one thing leading to another: the discovery of the body, an accident, no investigation. Disconcertingly obvious, simple. I’ll help his family. The superintendent comes over to him. The two men greet each other. Quignard, in a low voice:

‘Well, superintendent, can we expect a rapid conclusion to the investigation into the fire? It’s so important for the valley …’

‘Too soon to be able to tell.’ A long silence. The
superintendent
lets his gaze rest on the group of Étienne’s friends gathered in front of the chapel. Karim has just joined them. ‘You know the factory well, what do you make of Karim Bouziane?’

‘He’s a bit of a delinquent, but nothing serious. He’s someone who knows exactly where the power is and where his interests lie.’

‘What about Nourredine Hamidi?’

Quignard turns his head and looks at the superintendent, who doesn’t move a muscle.

‘A different kettle of fish. Violent, an agitator. The day of the disturbances, 14 October, all day he kept adding fuel to the flames.’ A smile. ‘Until they spread,’ he adds meaningfully.

‘Ali Amrouche?’

‘A trustworthy man, I’m going to recruit him for the
emergency
committee that my company’s forming to manage the Daewoo personnel while they’re temporarily laid off, and
afterwards
if need be.’

Karim watches the exchange between Quignard and the
superintendent
. Several times, while they’re talking, the two men look at him. Smug. Quignard’s expression didn’t escape him. He hasn’t wasted his afternoon. It’s back to business as usual. He’s there, slightly self-conscious, standing on the fringe of the
tight-
knit
group made up of the entire packaging department, gathered around Nourredine, silent, emotional and ill at ease. Memories, the amazing desk, the TV, the dope, most of that was thanks to Étienne, a crazy nice guy, and dead. A really stupid accident. Maybe one spliff too many? Down there, behind the hostile
family
unit, dead and buried according to a rite that for most of them is essentially foreign. Dead like the factory that died in the fire. Life’s falling apart.

The girls from finishing didn’t know him so well, they’ve come mainly for the pleasure of meeting up with each other, which they don’t often get the chance to do now. They whisper, such a young guy, and with a wife and two kids, that’s sad, it really is. The woods in autumn, where accidents can easily happen. Rolande talks about dead leaves making the ground slippery. ‘How’s Émilienne doing?’ ‘Not very well, she can’t get over the shock of losing the baby. They’re talking about taking her to a psychiatrist, that’s not good.’ A silence. Since the fire, things haven’t been good for anyone. ‘What about Aisha?’ ‘Not here,’ says Rolande. ‘She stays stuck indoors all day. I think she’s having a hard time with her father.’ Silence.

Maréchal and Amrouche remain apart, behind a headstone.

‘Quignard asked me to request that you go and see him in his office, at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’

Wary, aggressive. ‘What does he want from me?’ Maréchal smiles.

‘To offer you a job.’

Amrouche, shaken, speechless with uncontrolled emotion.

In the chapel, the priest has fallen silent. Quignard is the first to walk past the coffin and genuflect. Then he bows to the widow.

‘My condolences.’

‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for my family, Mr Quignard.’

He clasps her hand for a long time. ‘I am only doing my duty.’ Then he walks back to the car park at the entrance to the
cemetery
where his car and driver are waiting, and stays talking to Maréchal for a long time. He says goodbye to each of those who are leaving, Karim, Nourredine, Amrouche (
See
you
tomorrow
?
In
my
office
?
).
When Rolande walks past, Maréchal stops her and introduces her to Quignard.

‘Ms Lepetit, I am now the authorised representative of Daewoo.
I have quashed the regrettable decision to dismiss you. You are of course reinstated. I wanted to inform you myself.’

Rolande, her face expressionless, seems indecisive, at a loss for words. She falters.

‘That’s good news.’

And she hurries off to join the girls who are making their way back to town on foot.

‘She’s a bit uptight, your protégée. A little “thank you” wouldn’t kill her.’

At the police station, Lieutenant Lambert is handing over to Lieutenant Michel. Today the first witness to be interviewed, security guard Schnerb.