Lorraine Connection (19 page)

Quignard finds the usual pile of national dailies on the back seat of his waiting Mercedes. They are folded over twice, and inside them is a set of clearly contrasted black-and-white
photos
. Without the least shade of doubt they show Park walking into the head office of Daewoo Poland; Park emerging and
walking
down the street; Park seated at a table in a cafe opposite a stranger; then Park coming out of a residential apartment block. There’s even a photo of him in pyjamas, standing at a bedroom window, opening the shutters. You can see the unmade bed. A calm man, always alone, going freely about his business, not in any way trying to hide. Worrying or reassuring? That remains to be seen: no choice. Tomaso the indispensable. The man of the moment.

He glances quickly at the headlines. One on page six of
Libération
catches his eye: “The law hits Lagardère in the wallet.” He skims the article: “The holding company’s payment system … a shareholder filed a complaint four years ago … legal proceedings have just concluded with Jean-Luc Lagardère being charged with the misuse of company money.”

Quignard settles back in his seat, torn between relief and
anxiety
. Lagardère’s tough enough to weather this kind of attack. Proceedings that dragged on for four years now reaching their climax … the competition is pulling out all the stops. When will it be our turn? With a loose cannon like Park roaming around just to make things worse … Yes, definitely, Tomaso is indispensable.

Mid-morning Quignard’s driver comes into his office.

‘Mr Tomaso’s just called me. He asked me to inform you that there was an explosion at the Oiseau Bleu last night.’ Quignard freezes. ‘As yet nobody knows what type of explosion or how it occurred. The boss is at the scene this morning, with the police.’

Which means he mustn’t try and get hold of him.
Explosion,
some
kind
of
a
racket?
Dodgy
customers.
Will
it
affect
me
?
Not
sure.
No
connection
between
me
and
Tomaso
for
the
moment.
Invitation
to
the
hunt,
maybe
not
a
good
idea,
won’t
repeat
it.
Be
very
careful.

‘Was anybody hurt?’

‘A few people were slightly wounded. No one killed.’

So
it’ll
be
all
right.
Daniel
will
sort
it
out.
We’ve
all
got
our
prob
lems
.
Just then, his secretary rings through.

‘Mr Maréchal is asking to see you.’

A pause. Tomaso’s shadow behind the driver.
Maréchal,
Tomaso,
two
worlds
that
must
not
meet.
Awkward.
To the driver: ‘Wait here, would you, while I get rid of my visitor?’

Quignard closes the door of his office behind him and walks over to Maréchal with a smile. A warm handshake before he leads him over to the coffee machine, an affable moment in an increasingly oppressive atmosphere. There follows a brief silence. Maréchal is tense and gets straight to the point.

‘I’ve come to find out what’s happening to my workers? When they ask me how long they’re going to be laid off, what do I reply? When is the factory scheduled to reopen? After all, the machines were unscathed.’

Quignard looks at Maréchal, offers him a cup of coffee.
Hardly
the
moment
to
tell
him
that
my
main
worry
is
the
Thomson
take
over
.
He’d
be
up
for
punching
me
in
the
face.
Better
not
rub
him
up
the
wrong
way,
a
valuable
man.

‘I’m not sitting here twiddling my thumbs you know. I’m
having
to negotiate with the banks to review the company’s financial situation. It’s not brilliant. I’m trying to obtain deferments and extensions. Daewoo wasn’t insured against fire …’ Astonishment from Maréchal who spills coffee on his sleeve. ‘So I’m having the losses assessed, to get an overview. I’m applying for subsidies to rebuild and start up again, and I’m talking to the local council to find out how they see our future. All that takes time. We should have a clearer picture within a couple of weeks.’

Maréchal chews his plastic cup.

‘That’s a long time when you haven’t got a cent to live on.’

‘Amrouche has been asked to look at the workers’ records and put together proposals for retraining courses in the event that …’

‘Oh right. Who could ask for more?’

‘You know that there’s a departmental manager’s job waiting for you at Thomson, when we’re the bosses, in a month or two.’

The tension increases palpably.

‘I’m not talking to you about myself right now, Maurice. I’m talking to you about my people, the ones in my sector, more than a hundred workers. What are you doing for them? You’re the boss of this factory now, aren’t you?’

The door opens. Rolande Lepetit is standing on the
threshold,
spectacular in her black overcoat buttoned up to the chin, a hard, set expression. She has come on foot from the Cité des Jonquilles, going over and over two or three phrases in her mind, to the point of exasperation.
A
bank
account
in
Luxembourg.
Me.
Me,
who
supports
my
mother
and
my
son.
Never
asked
anyone
for
anything.
Always
earned
every
cent
I
spend.
A
bank
account
in
Luxembourg.
Their
world,
not
mine.
No
respect.
That’s
what
it
is,
they
lack
respect.
We
have
to
talk.
You’re
not
afraid
of
him.
Talk.
Have
to.
Leave
Aisha
out
of
it,
whatever
happens.
She takes a step forward, closes the door and thrusts her hands deeper in her pockets.

‘Mr Quignard, I’ve come to talk to you about something …’

She casts around for the right word, can’t find it, and clenches her hands deep in her pockets. Maréchal makes as if to leave the room.

‘Stay, Mr Maréchal. Just wait, this matter concerns you too.’ The two men exchange a glance. ‘Daewoo’s accounts list a bank account in Luxembourg in my name with a very large sum of money in it.’ The two men stand stock still. She leans forward, tense. ‘Obviously I don’t have a bank account in Luxembourg, and I want an explanation.’

She presents a solid wall of hostility and persistence.

‘Ms Lepetit, please …’

She turns to Maréchal, punctuating each phrase with a jerk of her head and shoulders.

‘And you too, Mr Maréchal, you’re on the list, in case you weren’t aware of it. One of these famous accounts is in your name.’

Maréchal’s reaction is dramatic. His face turns ashen, he opens his mouth and closes it again with a gulp, but not a sound comes out. Quignard is finding the situation increasingly awkward, he needs to act fast. He walks over to Rolande, takes her by the arm
and sits her down in an armchair. He sits down beside her and talks to her in a confidential tone.

‘Ms Lepetit, I know nothing about any of this, I’ve just taken over the reins of Daewoo. Tell me first of all where you got your information.’

‘During the occupation of the offices Étienne Neveu was
playing
around on one of the computers.’ Rolande hears Maréchal exhale suddenly behind her, as if he’d just received a punch in the stomach. ‘On it he found a list of bank accounts in Luxembourg. One is in my name and there are more in the names of Maréchal, Amrouche and Nourredine, and probably others too, but those names are for definite.’

‘When did he tell you this?’

‘He didn’t. But he told a lot of people on the night of the
occupation
and the rumour found its way back to me yesterday. I find it completely unacceptable, and I want an explanation.’

‘Ms Lepetit, I’m not taking this matter lightly. But please understand, the company’s entire accounts were removed from the premises on the day after the fire. We couldn’t leave them in a gutted factory. It will probably take several weeks before we get ourselves sorted out.’ He gets to his feet, helps Rolande up and sees her to the door. ‘I give you my word that I’ll do everything I can to clarify this matter.’ He opens the door for her and pushes her into the corridor. ‘And you’ll be informed the minute we find out anything.’

She’s in the corridor as he closes the door again. Quignard leans against the wall for a moment, eyes closed as he blots his upper lip and the roots of his hair with a handkerchief.

‘She’s a pain in the arse, your protégée‚’ he says to Maréchal.

‘I disagree.’ Frostily: ‘And don’t forget you can’t tell me you know nothing of all this. Are you sure this isn’t to do with your friend Park’s system of bogus invoices?’

‘Yes, it probably is.’

‘Park was embezzling company money, that’s his business and yours. But I won’t stand for him mixing up our names in it all. Your dumping ground for the unemployed can burn down for all I care, but for you to fail to lift a little finger to help the workers who were inside, that’s a disgrace. What’s more it wouldn’t have bothered me in the least if Bouziane had taken the rap for the fire, with everything else he’s got on his conscience. But finger
Nourredine, one of the few reliable workers out of the whole bunch, simply because he led the strike – no way will you get me to swallow that. And don’t, whatever you do, tell me the tale of what happened to Étienne Neveu. You scare me. Your story’s full of holes. I only ask one thing of you: make sure you leave me out of your master cock-up. Understood?’

The door slams.

When Quignard returns to his office, the driver is standing before the bay window contemplating the trees in the valley rippling in the wind.

Montoya had fallen asleep fully dressed on his bed. He awakens fairly late in the morning, body aching and mind numb. The first thing he does is to switch on the bedside radio and tune into a local station to try and find out what happened to him last night at the Oiseau Bleu. Schmaltzy music as he glances at his watch: the news will be on soon.
First
of
all,
have
a
wash.
His reflection in the bathroom mirror is not a pretty sight. Jacket and shirt ripped. Flashback, the mercenary’s burly frame above him as he lay on the floor, cornered in the alcove. Allowing himself to be caught out like that, black mark, lack of vigilance.
I
knew
what
I
was
get
ting
myself
into.
Won’t
happen
again.
Then, the blow, dodging it, neat, nice move, nothing to say about that. Kneeing him in the balls: bullseye. Certainly effective. Smile.
I
bet
the
Hulk’s
finding
it
hard
to
walk
today.
And the explosion …
Full
inventory:
only
minor
damage.
Three nasty cuts to his scalp which he washes and disinfects, that’ll do. Scratches on his face, hands, a wound in the neck, he applies an antiseptic cream. He steps under the shower. On the radio, the news. Metz football team is the main item. I don’t give a shit. And then immediately afterwards:

He turns off the radio and meticulously puts on a beige silk and cotton mix shirt. He does the buttons up slowly, one by one.
Quignard
is
embroiled
in
this
for
sure.
He
had
numerous
oppor
tunities
to
meet
Tomaso
in
Brussels
or
in
the
valley.
His
car
and
driver?
Check
them
out
No
tie,
no
appointments
that
require
one.
What
about
Tomaso?
He remembers Valentin’s words:
It’s
a
case
that
requires
intelligence,
skill
and
imagination,
lots
of
imagina
tion
.
Black trousers, checks the crease, impeccable, black leather belt with a polished steel buckle.
Give
your
imagination
free
rein.
Tomaso
is
probably
involved
in
the
drug
business,
the
secret
services
reckon,
but
it’s
not
proven.
So,
it’s
recent,
otherwise
they’d
know
for
sure.
He
has
access
to
the
ideal
network
of
dealers
through
his
drivers
and
bodyguards.
They
know
the
consumers
who
are
loaded
and
have
dealings
with
the
concierges
in
the
big
hotels.
Woollen cardigan in a slightly darker beige than the shirt.
And
the
fac
tory
security
guards
in
another
sector
of
the
market.
Black lace-up shoes, English leather.
If
he
wants
to
get
involved
in
drugs,
either
he
goes
into
business
with
those
who
are
already
there,
or
he
ousts
them
and
takes
their
place.
Initially,
he
teams
up
with
the
Hakims.
Then
he
takes
advantage
of
his
connection
with
Quignard
and
the
local
big
shots
to
have
them
arrested.
They
take
their
revenge
by
blowing
up
the
Oiseau
Bleu.
A
moderate
explosion:
they’re
still
in
the
negotiation
phase.
It
all
stacks
up.
A final touch of the comb to disguise the gashes as best he can.
There’s
still
Bouziane.
He
fits
into
this
somehow,
but
I
don’t
know
how.
He looks at himself in the mirror.
That’ll
do.
I’d
better
move
fast.
It
won’t
take
Tomaso
and
Quignard
more
than
twenty-four
hours
to
exchange
notes
and
identify
me.
Keep
on
thinking.
Bouziane
isn’t
one
of
the
security
guard
mafia.
What
emerges
from
the
initial
evidence
against
him
is
that
he’s
been
a
small-time
dealer
for
years,
and
everyone
knows
it.
So
Bouziane
works
with
the
Hakims.
Tomaso
and
Quignard
both
used
him,
one
to
bring
down
the
Hakims,
the
other
to
finger
him
as
the
arsonist.
It
still
holds
up.
Montoya slips on his black leather jacket. He feels on top form.