Unhesitatingly, he finds his way to the police station: it sits behind the local school where his father had been head teacher. He parks his car. A quick glance at the playground. To the left, the head teacher’s house, his own bedroom window. A flood of painful memories. A motherless childhood. He’d never known whether she’d died or simply run off and abandoned him. A strict, tyrannical father who showed no affection, whose image superimposed itself, in his memory, on that of the blast furnaces gobbling up men. He’d run away from Pondange at the age of fourteen and his father had never tried to find him, accepting his disappearance as he had his mother’s. They had never seen each other again. What must he look like now, my father, since apparently he’s still alive? A broken old man of tidy appearance? Is it his shadow that I’ve come to track down here, in this sleepy town? He falters for a moment in the muffled mid-morning silence, his equilibrium perturbed, then walks into the police station.
‘The superintendent’s expecting you. First floor on the right.’
In the vast office, the superintendent rises to greet him. Good-looking, athletic, very elegant, he invites Montoya to take a seat in an armchair and sits down facing him.
‘Let me introduce myself. Charles Montoya. I work for the Thomson group’s security department …’
‘I know. I got your entire pedigree from Sébastiani, the Nancy police chief, who obtained it from a deputy director of the judicial police, no less.’ Smile. ‘That is sufficient for me to consider you as a man who can be trusted.’
Efficient, Valentin’s network. Rayssac, superintendent at Pondange. What can he hope for in this dump? Promotion to the rank of chief at Nancy. Who can help him to achieve that? Sébastiani in Nancy and Renaud at the judicial police department. All Valentin had to do was pick up the phone. Montoya is conscious of the gulf between a former top security services cop, and a poor bastard from the drug squad who left under a cloud. My pedigree. If only you knew … He too smiles.
‘I’ll put my cards on the table. I’m here to investigate Daewoo, on behalf of my employers. I glean what I can here and there, to help Thomson in the negotiations that are about to begin with the group’s future buyer. Of course, I’m also seeking further information on last week’s fire. My employer is a real stickler for security.’
‘I’ll do everything I can to assist you, especially as the investigation is now closed. We’ve just experienced a very unfortunate series of events, the questionable sacking of a woman worker, then one thing led to another and it all got out of hand, culminating in the fire. Fortunately we did a good job fast and effectively. A textbook investigation.’ He enunciates every syllable. ‘Textbook …’
Textbook, that brought back memories. Made-to-measure witnesses, hand-sewn, prefabricated evidence that comes in a kit. Textbook. A frightening word.
‘… I’ve had a press file compiled for you on Daewoo and on our town, which you’ll find in room 23, on the third floor. You can use the office for two hours, no one will disturb you. No point looking for a photocopier, there isn’t one in the office or upstairs. Another thing, I request that you do not contact Karim Bouziane, the key prosecution witness, and that you inform me of anything you find out that may be useful to the investigation.’
‘Naturally, and I’m grateful for your help. You will understand that I have to be very discreet. It is not desirable for Daewoo to know the precise nature of my visit. I plan to introduce myself as an Agence France Press journalist and if possible, without taking advantage of your kindness, I’d like to have a look around the factory, just to get an idea of what we’re talking about.’
‘I’ll arrange that for you straight away.’
Room 23. As he expected, Montoya finds the ‘forgotten’ case file on the table, next to the press cuttings file. First of all he flicks rapidly through the newspaper cuttings, to get himself in the mood. In the local papers, there are pages on the fire, and the headlines are filled with praise for Quignard, the man who takes the company’s future in hand after the disaster. A local man, formerly in the iron and steel industry where he’d started out as a technician and ended up as a factory manager. On the demise of the industry, he successfully retrained and became boss of a design office specialising in industrial reconversions, president of the commercial court, advisor on the European Development Plan, and in that capacity, the munificent dispenser of EU subsidy manna to the entire valley. Apparently, he’s cherished Daewoo since it was set up, two years ago, and now he’s taking over the helm, in the midst of the crisis (who crowned him king?), whereas all the Korean managers have gone back to Seoul. (Why? Not a word, the question isn’t even asked.) Something widely regarded as evidence of a tremendous sense of responsibility and an admirable spirit of sacrifice. The regional press is proud of their local boy. Why does this exemplary track record immediately arouse Montoya’s suspicions?
He comes across a neatly cut out little article from a local paper on the arrest of the Hakim brothers, known drug traffickers. Hakim … and now the Tangier case resurfaces in his memory, twice in such a short time. Coincidence? With men like the Hakims, always hanging out with the cops, and a man like Valentin, anything can happen. Or, quite simply, the Pondange superintendent had a hand in their arrest and wants to blow his own trumpet to someone with my connections. He reads carefully. Customs officers, routine check, looks familiar. Apparently the Hakim brothers are still involved in the drugs racket and are now based in Antwerp. It would be funny for them to have fallen victim to a war between Belgian and French customs officers. But what part did the Pondange cops play? No mention in the article. The Hakim brothers: make a mental note. I’ll put it to one side until I find out more‚ but the two men and their dealings remain in the frame.
Now he skims through the file on the investigation, which seems to get off to a good start. List of those present during the strike, timetable of their movements, cross-checking of statements. The job is unfinished, and the names mean nothing to Montoya who moves on to the witness statements. He quickly draws the obvious conclusion: a trumped-up investigation. First of all a minor delinquent is targeted and then he becomes the prosecution witness. Classic. Once in the cops’ hands he does his job rather cleverly. The factory security guards: clearly following orders. The first version is to incriminate the future witness, the second to discredit the suspect, they’re ‘yes’ men. Which immediately raises a question about the exact nature of the company that employs them, 3G, in Nancy. Note that the minor delinquent, probably a grass, is a dope dealer. In Tangier, the Hakims also trafficked dope, as well as coke. Coincidence? Then there are the two proles. Amrouche, who makes vehement accusations. A management mole? But his hatred sounds genuine, which proves nothing, of course. And Rolande Lepetit, who offers only a limp defence. Is it limp or honest? She’s the one who was ‘unfairly’ sacked, as the superintendent said. Her sacking sparked off the strike, so she was well liked. Amrouche also liked her, and Quignard’s reinstated her. In exchange for what? I’ll bet Quignard isn’t the sort to give something for nothing. An exemplary worker? For a moment Montoya’s mind wanders. He recalls the milieus he frequented as a youth. They all sought to emulate Stakhanov, the model worker of the Soviet Union’s heyday. Was there still such a thing as a model worker? Rolande Lepetit Stakhanova. He pictured a tall, sturdy, fair-haired woman with clear blue eyes, a straight, rather thick waist, slightly stiff. Whoever this woman is, History has spoken: beware of Stakhanova. A final glance through the preliminary part of the investigation to check the movements of key witnesses: the security guards, Amrouche, Rolande Lepetit, Karim Bouziane. He’s through in less than two hours.