In the early afternoon, Montoya parks his car in front of the remains of the Daewoo factory. The situation is simple: the hangar that housed the stocks is completely gutted, the production plant is intact, and all the machines are there. The offices too are intact and have been thoroughly cleared out. Not a single piece of paper, not a single computer. There are no police on the premises any more and the security guards are carrying out their routine duties. In fact it was the security firm itself that handled the clearing out of the offices the day after the fire, without it occurring to the police for a moment to stop them.
Seated at the wheel of his car, he telephones Valentin using the secure mobile connected directly to Valentin’s private number. He keys in his personal code.
‘The investigation’s a sham, there’s absolutely no doubt about it. My hunch is that the cops aren’t aware of it, otherwise the superintendent wouldn’t have been so willing to let me go through his files, even though he’s desperate to make a good impression on yours truly. So he’s either being leaned on or used. Not very illuminating.’
Valentin merely groans.
‘For the time being, that’s all I’ve got. But I have a request: Can you find out about the security firm 3G in Nancy?’
‘Say that again.’
‘Security firm, 3G, Nancy.’
‘You’ll have that information right away.’
Hôtel Vauban on the main square in Pondange, a former parade ground in the days when the fortress was in use. The square is vast, windswept and deserted with a seventeenth-century church on the far side, built in the severe style of the Jesuits. A Jesuit style for a military congregation. An elegant, neo-classical mansion is home to the town hall. Once upon a time the two façades were so black with grime that he had never noticed the beauty of the architecture and the stone. After eating a ham baguette washed down with a beer, Montoya has a shower and changes his clothes. He stretches out flat on the bed, a pillow under his knees to ease his back which sometimes aches, the result of a nasty fall during a chase through the streets of Istanbul. Worn out, about to turn fifty. A whole past of half-successes and total cock-ups. Booted out of the police. Tactfully and with a farewell party, a cover-up, but still thrown out. His back slowly relaxes, the base of the spine first, and then the shoulders. Insurance investigator‚ some profession, always up hill and down dale, dosh, routine, boredom, and the iron grip of the lovely Eugénie with green eyes. You make enough dosh to blow on luxuries, and to make you want to earn even more. Yet never enough to be truly rich and not to give a damn. So it’s a spiraclass="underline" always more shit cases and an increasingly bitter taste in the mouth. Stop, take a breather. Get a grip, a bit of stability, an office in Paris, friends, a cosy relationship, that’d be nice. A job like Valentin’s. Less important. I don’t have the stature, or the contacts. A less strategic operation. Dreams of a quiet old age at last, so the whole journey does not seem simply absurd. The feeling of well-being radiates to the back of his neck … and now, where do I go from here? Stir the pot and see what comes to the surface. First point, various drugs are circulating, everyone seems to be aware of it and nobody’s attaching any importance to it. A minor dope dealer at the centre of the investigation, the Hakims in the area‚ could there be a connection between the two? Premise: there’s no such thing as chance. His body now entirely relaxed, his thoughts, woolly, begin to fray …
He must have fallen asleep.
He is abruptly woken by shouting beneath his window. ‘So-li-da-rity …’ ‘Free Nourredine …’ ‘Our bonuses …’
He rushes over to the window. More a gaggle than a demonstration. Thirty to forty people marching in a ragged procession without too much conviction. No banners, a few trade union flags, outbursts of shouting, the odd slogan taken up by the rest. The group appears to be breaking up, disappointed by the low turnout and a tangible general indifference. No one’s taking any notice of the demonstration, and the few pedestrians they do meet hurry away. An Arab, an arsonist … the group walks past the houses and stays in the shade of the trees lining the square, probably intimidated by the empty expanse in the centre. Montoya spots a tall woman with short, bleach-blonde hair cut in a bob, who holds herself upright and seems tougher than the others. A hunch, a bet: Stakhanova? There’s no harm in trying. The group speeds up, as if in a hurry to get the demonstration over with. Montoya slips on a leather coat and hurries after them. He catches them up in front of the town hall, where they are silently putting away the flags and starting to disperse, not even waiting for the return of the delegation that has gone inside to meet one of the mayor’s deputies. From behind he approaches the blonde woman, a tall silhouette in a fitted black wool coat and black boots. She’s smoking a cigarette with a calm elegance and talking to a man who is shorter than her, aged around fifty, heavy-set and solid.
‘Thank you, Mr Maréchal.’
A slightly husky voice reminiscent of a 1930s cabaret singer. Montoya shivers; the man leaves.
‘Ms Lepetit?’
She turns around, bright blue eyes, good bone structure, calm, regular features, a scar to the left of her upper lip. Definitely Stakhanova. Montoya’s surprised: beautiful, a very beautiful woman, a strong presence. I like that in a woman.
‘That’s me. What do you want?’
‘To buy you a drink. Is that possible?’
She finds herself looking at a slim, dark-haired man. He’s rather attractive, just my type, and a stranger around here. Not dragged down by the general misery. Whoever you are, for a fleeting moment, you’ll be a breath of fresh air. Smile.
‘It’s even welcome.’
There aren’t many cafes in Pondange, and most of the remaining few have been redecorated, sterilised, like the whole town. Rolande leads Montoya towards the lower town and walks into a cafe that still has a big zinc counter at the far end of a dark room with mirrors on the walls, solid timber tables and chairs, and a wide variety of beers chalked up on a slate. There are only two or three regulars at this hour. She sits down at a table by the window, unbuttons her coat, sighs and smiles. Stunning.
‘Tea with milk for me please, Simon.’
Montoya glances at the slate.
‘Sudden Death is just the drink for me.’
She rests her forearms on the table, leans on them and talks as if they were old friends.
‘The demo was very disappointing. A week ago, in the factory, there were two, three hundred of us, all standing together. Today in the square there were thirty of us, in disarray. It’s over. Luckily there are a few good people like Maréchal.’
The drinks arrive. Sudden Death is a lovely warm colour, a head that’s almost solid, cool droplets run down the glass. Rolande pours her tea, a drop of milk, warms her hands around the cup, her mind elsewhere. He resumes the conversation at random.
‘In the old days, the steelworkers had bigger demos.’
She jumps, her expression hard.
‘Not you too. I don’t like fairy tales. When I was sixteen, I worked for a small textiles factory ten kilometres from here, and it wasn’t unionised. We all went on strike over pay and conditions, and a delegation of us went to the local union in Pondange to ask if we could join. All the officials were steelworkers and they threw us out. They didn’t want to know a bunch of women, judging by what they had to say. Ever since that day …’
‘Don’t hold it against me, I’m not from around here.’