The officers are sitting around the table, a few sheets of paper and a ballpoint pen in front of them, listening carefully and obediently to their superintendent who stays standing. He always remains on his feet, there’s never a chair for him. He paces up and down the room, his tall frame — close on six foot three of pure muscle — nearly filling the room. He maintains his physique with regular workouts and judo, and his waistline shows little evidence of the frequent meals eaten with the local bigwigs. His elegant, classic grey suit (tailor-made in Paris) and his dark red shirt and grey-and-red tie make him look slimmer, and he gives off a subtle whiff of eau de toilette and matching aftershave. With his experience — twenty-five years in the police rising through the ranks with a dogged determination — many think he’ll end up chief superintendent in Nancy. Adding to his charm and authority, he speaks with a southern accent which ten years in Lorraine have barely mellowed.
‘Yesterday I met the public prosecutor and Bastien, the investigating magistrate in charge of this case. For the time being, we are handling the investigation.’ He stops, draws himself up, looks his men up and down and tugs at the creases in his jacket sleeves. ‘I hope you realise what an opportunity this is for all of us here.’ He starts pacing again. ‘But it won’t stay that way for long. If we don’t make significant headway fast, it’ll be handed to the Nancy judiciary police.’ Another pause, the threat hangs in the air over the officers who gaze at the blank sheets of paper on the table and fidget with their ballpoint pens. The superintendent turns his back to his men and plants himself in front of the window overlooking the bottom of the valley and the Daewoo factory, or what’s left of it. ‘The firefighters are convinced it’s arson. So it’s vital we get results — and fast, for the sake of the valley’s economy. We can’t have people thinking that in Lorraine factories are burned down with impunity. It wouldn’t be good for business or for jobs.’
‘Right.’ He moves to the end of the table, his hands lightly resting on its surface. ‘So as not to waste any time, the magistrates in charge and I have drawn up an initial framework for the investigation. We can forget about gathering evidence from the scene of the fire — that can be left to the fire brigade’s experts. They’ll do a better job than we will. Besides, we’re convinced that those mounds of cinders are unlikely to yield much, and it would take too long. We have decided to start by profiling. It’s all the rage at the moment. Let’s start with the French method: who benefits from the crime? Not the Daewoo bosses who are currently involved in a huge deal of national importance, the privatisation of Thomson, and the last thing they want is to be in the news at the moment.’ A pause. ‘What’s more, the factory’s insurance expired a month ago, so no compensation …
‘Not convinced?’ A mutter from the officers but the superintendent carries on, oblivious.
‘… nor the unions, who were in the middle of pay and bonus negotiations which the boss agreed to fund by selling the stock. No more stock, no bonuses. The crime benefits neither the bosses nor the unions, so we can eliminate them from the investigation, which narrows the field. Now, the American method: we’ve drawn up a profile of the typical arsonist. What’s the profile of the arsonist? If the bosses and the unions have been ruled out, we’re looking for an individual who was there during the strike, active, fired-up, a non-unionised maverick, probably a hothead. Most likely someone with a history of petty crime.’ He straightens up. ‘Any comments?’
There aren’t. In any case, the question is purely rhetorical; the superintendent isn’t in the habit of consulting his subordinates.
‘So our work plan is all mapped out.’ He goes over to a flip-chart, picks up a felt-tip and writes as he speaks. ‘First, draw up a list of those on the premises during the afternoon and evening on the day of the fire and note their whereabouts at various times, however approximate. Two of you take care of that.’ Glances around. Berjamin and Loriot. ‘Talk to the security guards, then the workers. I want that list on my desk in forty-eight hours at the latest. It won’t be as difficult as it sounds — according to our sources there weren’t more than eighty people in the factory at the time of the fire. But I want an absolutely reliable list. Make sure you get it.’
The officers take notes.
‘So as not to waste any time, while your colleagues are drawing up those lists, you Lambert, and you Michel, start questioning the key witnesses. The security guards first, they’re impartial observers. The Nancy security company 3G, which employs them, has been very cooperative. It has supplied us with the security guards’ duty rotas and contact details. Start with the guards on the second shift. They were called in as backup at around three p.m. They don’t know anyone in the company so they won’t be biased. They were patrolling the factory continuously from three p.m. until the fire broke out so they’ve got an overall view of events. Also question Ali Amrouche, a decent guy who was directly involved in the whole business, always trying to calm things down, and who should be useful in helping us to determine the next stage of the investigation.
‘Once these preliminaries are completed, we’ll routinely question all those identified by Berjamin and Loriot as being on the premises. And in taking witness statements, be on the alert for hearsay: who was overexcited, who’s violent, who’s a hooligan. And through hearsay the name of our arsonist will eventually emerge. See if I’m not right on this’. A glance at his subordinates. ‘People aren’t stupid. They know a lot, often you just have to listen.’ That’s what you call experience, muses the superintendent. He puts the top back on the felt-tip and places it on the ledge of the flipchart. ‘To work, and good luck.’
Valentin’s gaze dissects the man who walks into his office: tall, slim, getting on for fifty, wearing an elegant navy pinstripe suit, royal blue printed tie, Hermès most likely; ink-dark hair, a bit thin on top, carefully plastered down; a mobile, smiling face with a high forehead. The ex-cop has put on the uniform of his new profession, private investigator for the insurance industry. Valentin gets up to greet him, walks around the desk, his gaze piercing as always. Finesse rather than force, a form of prosperity, that’s a good sign. But beneath the veneer of elegance is the cop, cynical, burned-out, tough. Just what I need. He shakes his hand, gestures him to sit in an armchair.
‘Thank you for coming, Mr Montoya. Coffee?’
‘Yes please. Strong, no sugar.’
Middle-aged female assistant, copper tray, china cups, Italian espresso. So far, so good. Montoya feels a mixture of curiosity and slight apprehension as to what will follow. A former security service chief. Respect. But there are skeletons in my cupboard. He’s the one who asked me to come here, let him spit it out.
‘I heard a lot about you when I still worked for the police …’
Simple code between ex-cops, or a bit more? What does he know?
‘… I’m handling a case that requires intelligence, professionalism. Imagination too, a lot of imagination.’ Big smile. ‘And no scruples.’
Montoya drinks his coffee and puts down his cup. Here we go, smiles back.
‘What makes you think I’m your man?’
‘1990, Tangier, the Hakim family.’
A violent flash, white and blue, the old town, the sea, a very big sting, dangerous, no cover, organised with his best informers, the Hakim brothers. Contact is made out at sea, the US Drug Enforcement Administration turns up. Why? How? A fuck-up. The traffickers chuck the goods into the sea, the Hakim brothers eliminate the traffickers, and he ends up killing an American agent and sinking the DEA’s boat. Then he and the Hakims make off with the only boat whose motor’s still working and what can be salvaged of the cargo, leaving the rest of the DEA crew adrift in an old tub. A French police officer is not supposed to shoot an American agent to protect his informants. The killing is blamed on unidentified traffickers on the run, and the affair is hushed up to avoid a serious diplomatic incident with the Americans. But he’s fired. Only a very few people know about his true role. Don’t underestimate Valentin. Does that give him a hold over me? Yes‚ without a doubt. Not all those involved are dead. The Americans are aggressive. And he needs to keep a few aces up his sleeve. Have to start bidding to find out.