The door of the superintendent’s office is flung open; a very young, podgy uniformed officer bursts into the room, a terrified look on his face. The superintendent protests.
‘Dumont, you don’t enter my office without knocking.’ Then, concerned: ‘What’s going on?’
‘An anonymous phone call, superintendent. A body near the entrance to the mine above Pondange.’
The superintendent’s infuriated. That’s all we need. Just as the investigation into the fire is getting underway. But what else can we do?
Visit the scene. Étienne Neveu’s body is there, in full view, lying in the bushes at the bottom of the scree. His wife had reported him missing the previous evening. He didn’t go far, mutters a cop. The anonymous phone calclass="underline" probably a lone early-morning walker. Then the deputy public prosecutor arrives and they make an initial report. Height of the scree, position of the body, neck very likely broken, looks like a fall. At the top of the scree slope, directly above the body, discovery of a footpath that leads directly to the car park on the estate where Étienne Neveu lived.
During the afternoon, information begins to filter in. Étienne Neveu seems to have been the victim of a fatal fall having taken a shortcut through the woods down to Pondange from his home. Death seems to have occurred between twenty-four and forty-eight hours before the discovery of the body. It seems highly likely that it was an accident. But the officials remain cautious, and are waiting for the result of the autopsy before closing the case.
Karim walks into the offices of the lawyer, Lavaudant, a stone’s throw from the Place Stanislas in Nancy. It is a magnificent high-ceilinged room, the walls covered with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in a dark wood filled with books bound in red leather. The vast windows are masked by thick red velvet curtains. It’s late, and Lavaudant doesn’t like Karim turning up in his working life unannounced. Apparently it’s an emergency, and the meeting will be brief. He watches him cross the room, supple, relaxed in his movements, he fills the space. Always the same intensity of desire, despite the passing years, the wife and two kids at home, his wealthy clientele. I may be a big shot but I can’t resist those round buttocks, the taste of his golden skin, the acid smell of the nape of his neck. My hands start to tremble when this ruffian comes near me. I’ll pay for this, one day. Karim stares at the hands the lawyer has placed flat in front of him on his desk. Always the same, you’re dying to bugger me, and when you have, you cry with shame. I’ve got you in a vice. He smiles and sits down.
‘I need you, Claude.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘The Daewoo fire …’
‘A nasty business.’
‘I’ve just realised that I fit the profile of the arsonist.’
‘Did you start the fire?’
‘Of course not. Why would I have done that? You know, arson’s out of my league. Besides, I’d have come to see you sooner. No. For the cops I’m the easiest scapegoat. I was at Daewoo during the strike. I made a barbecue and sold kebabs all afternoon, not far from the spot where the fire started. With a bit of dope too. I’m Arab and a dealer. If the cops arrest me, nobody will be surprised and nobody will defend me.’
‘What do you want me to do about it?’
‘The cops have got to leave me out of this, and you have to tell them to before they bang me up.’
‘Can you see me saying to the superintendent at Pondange, whom I don’t happen to know: “Please note, superintendent, that Mr Karim Bouziane has nothing to do with the fire at the Daewoo factory”?’
‘No, but I can see you having a word with your father-in-law Quignard and him passing it on to the superintendent. He’ll be able to convince him. They see each other every day. You’ll do it, Claude, because when a man falls into the cops’ hands, you never know what he might end up telling them.’
It is already late, the Gare de Lyon is gradually emptying, the rush is over at Le Train Bleu restaurant above the station. It is a place where Rossellini and Kaltenbach, the assistant director of the Revenue Department, are in the habit of eating, around the corner from the Ministry, and quiet at this time of day. Granted, the food is bland and expensive, boil-in-a-bag, but neither of them is a foodie, the wine is adequate and the setting ornate and luxurious with late nineteenth-century-style frescos, sculptures, and stucco, and a monumental silver meat trolley. The entire decor provides a welcome change of scene and fires their imagination.
Rossellini sinks on to the leather banquette and gazes up at the ceiling. So it’s true. Kaltenbach confirms that the senior ministry officials are all hostile to the choice of Matra. Rossellini trusts him. It’s the first time he’s felt relaxed since that nightmare evening, not least thanks to the wine. At this precise moment, he decides to throw himself body and soul into Valentin’s game. And he attacks.
‘Lagardère’s crazy about horses …’
Kaltenbach, not really surprised, looks up from his plate of chocolate profiteroles. Lagardère, now we’re getting there.
‘I’m listening.’ Smile. ‘But me, horses …’
‘Of course. Me neither. But the financial set-up involved …’
‘Now you’re talking.’
‘Lagardère set up a holding company that siphons off 0.2 per cent of Matra’s revenues.’ Nod. ‘Its purpose is to pay the salaries of the group’s ten most senior managers. The surplus profit is shared between Lagardère and his son.’
‘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.’ 19 October
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.