Another lead, the dope. I already had the Hakims, the traffickers, and Bouziane, the dealer. Now I’ve got Bouziane the dealer, witness for the prosecution, and Neveu the consumer, the witness who’s both a nuisance and the victim. There’s every likelihood they knew each other well. I’ll keep anything to do with drugs to myself for the time being in case Valentin’s manipulating the Hakim brothers. Can’t be too careful. Montoya brings his seat back to the upright position. Now it’s time to call Valentin.
Over the telephone Valentin sounds relaxed. Montoya takes advantage of this to be a little more forthcoming.
‘Things are moving fast here. You thought it would be quieter than in Tangier. That’s not so sure. A young worker who saw the arsonists was murdered the following morning.’
‘What do the police say?’
‘Accidental death, apparently. No post-mortem. A mixture of incompetence, compromise and autosuggestion. The accident hypothesis seems to suit everyone.’
‘The joys of provincial France. What about you, what do you say?’
‘We already have a deliberate fire and a murder. I’ve also found signs of false accounting. Only signs, no evidence yet. But there’s absolutely no doubt that Daewoo is a real mess. First of all, we have to find out what sort of mess before fabricating one of our own from start to finish.’
‘That sounds reasonable. May I simply remind you that we have barely three weeks at the most. And I need evidence, of course.’
‘I’m very optimistic.’
‘Meanwhile I’ve got some interesting news too. 3G is registered at 2 Avenue des Érables in Nancy and the company is owned by Daniel Tomaso, ex-Foreign Legion, former mercenary, whose last playground was Croatia, in 1991. Officially 3G provides security guards for factories, and its clients include nearly all the factory owners in the valley of Pondange. It also handles security for political meetings, with customers ranging from the regional council to the various local political parties, mainly but not exclusively right-wing, and it has a garage specialising in limo hire whose drivers also double as bodyguards. Its biggest customers in this area are the European Commission and EU circles in Brussels. The firm’s thriving but it also has less official sources of income. Its biggest profits come from the trafficking of stolen cars to Poland and Russia. And probably also from drug trafficking.’ Montoya’s mind goes into overdrive. ‘But my informers can’t be sure of that as yet.’ A lull. ‘You’re very quiet?’ Montoya groans. ‘Even more interesting, 3G recruits local staff but it also acts as a haven for hardcore French and German mercenaries at a loose end between contracts.’
‘Pheeew … An army of potential arsonists and hitmen if need be.’
‘Precisely. And lastly, Tomaso’s official mistress is a Croat he brought back with him. She runs a brothel in Nancy, more or less disguised as a swingers’ club, the Oiseau Bleu. It’s frequented by all the local bigwigs and some of their wives, cheap thrills guaranteed. In short, the whole works.’ A silence. ‘Coming across a character like this Tomaso in the environs of Daewoo Pondange doesn’t make it the centre of the universe, nor does it make your investigation central to my case, but I take back what I said about your mission being a rest cure.’ Another silence. ‘I’m aware that you know your job, Montoya, but watch out with customers like this. Suicides happen so easily.’
‘Don’t worry. Good night.’
Back to the nocturnal quiet. The key thing is to find the man in charge of the dodgy operations at Daewoo. The one in contact with Tomaso. My money’s on Quignard, because I don’t trust his type, but I don’t have a shred of evidence, and I can’t afford to make any mistakes on that score. It’s beginning to get cold in this car, time to move. And it just so happens that the road ahead of me leads to Nancy.
Jean-Louis Robin cruises slowly down the barely lit Avenue des Acacias where vague shapes in the bushes of the Bois de Boulogne beckon him. He can’t help but blush, so looks away. He turns off down a pitch dark, narrow twisting road, opens his window and stops about a hundred metres from the junction without turning the engine off. He’s been in the habit of meeting Alicia here for months. A tall figure in a fur coat and high heels leans in, elbows resting on the door, face heavily made-up, wide mouth with well-defined lips. She caresses the nape of his neck.
‘Hi there, handsome blond, Alicia’s not here. Rounded up by the police.’ He reaches for the gear stick ready to drive off, but she restrains him with a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t panic, things are quiet now, and Alicia asked me to take care of you this evening.’
She straightens up, steps back a couple of paces and opens her coat. She’s naked. He groans. A magnificent slender body with clean hard lines and smooth bronzed skin. Long slim legs, narrow hips, broad shoulders, a pair of generous silicon-enhanced breasts whose erect nipples he can almost feel cupped in his hands, and a man’s cock. Balls and cock displayed invitingly, hairless, in the hollow of her thighs. She walks towards the car without bending, all he can see is the flat stomach, the cock. His hand moves, brushes the cock, the round balls whose skin tautens.
‘Open up, handsome blond.’
The voice is authoritative. He groans again. She walks round the car, gets in and sits beside him, holding her coat open.
‘You can touch a little, to get you in the mood.’ She takes his hand and places it on her hot, throbbing cock, makes him caress it. ‘But I don’t fuck in cars. Especially not tonight with the cops on heat. I’ve got a studio flat near here, Rue du Docteur Blanche.’ She leans towards his ear, and licks it as she murmurs: ‘The lift goes directly up from the underground car park, discretion guaranteed.’ Nibbles his ear. ‘Alicia told me you like it up the arse from behind, dressed as a woman. Can you feel my cock swelling?’ Bites his earlobe. ‘You won’t forget me, I’m stricter than Alicia.’
Hard to miss the Oiseau Bleu on the Nancy ring road, it stands out for miles around. It occupies a small three-storey building and the façade is painted with frescos depicting a tropical forest filled with multicoloured birds and lit up by flashing blue neon lights. No naked girls on display, notes Montoya. No bouncers on the door either. He enters the building. A vast lobby done out in red velvet and dark wood where two gorgeous young women in simple, figure-hugging long black dresses greet and seat the clients. On the ground floor are the bar, with its ambiance of an English private club, and the restaurant specialising in French cuisine. The hostesses hand guests the menu. In the basement is the nightclub with a striptease show, frequented by a clientele that’s into swinging, the hostesses warn. This is reflected in the admission charge, especially for a man on his own. And upstairs? The private lounges are only available on reservation. Montoya realises that he’s starving, but chooses the nightclub where there’s probably more action.
He goes down a big, brightly-lit, white stone spiral staircase to a cloakroom with a heavy, perfectly soundproof padded door. It closes behind him, and he is immediately plunged into a world of deafening, monotonous techno music, flashing golden strobes and a warm darkness filled with cloying smells. A few moments to adjust before he’s able to make out a large rectangular room with pillars supporting the ceiling. In the centre, a dance floor. On two sides, alcoves with cushions, some with curtains drawn. And on the other two sides, a bar, tables where guests can sit, relax and have a drink before re-entering the fray.