Lorraine Connection (26 page)

‘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 forbade 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.’

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
disas
ters
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 for 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.