Ali Amrouche, born on 28 February 1944 in Tizi Ouzou, Algeria. Resident in France since 1964, nationality French. Address: 7 rue des Bois, Pondange.
Q. You are a staff representative at the Daewoo factory?
A. Yes, I am a staff representative.
Q. What part did you play in the events of 14 October?
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:
Q. Do you know Karim Bouziane?
A. Yes.
Q. In your opinion, could he have been involved in this attack?
A. No. He’s a little schemer, not an arsonist.
Q. What name or names are being bandied around among your colleagues as people who could have started the fire?
A. The name that kept coming up from the beginning is Nourredine. I think he’s the terrorist who started the fire, even if I don’t have any evidence.
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 funeraclass="underline" 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.