Which means he mustn’t try and get hold of him. Explosion, some kind of a racket? Dodgy customers. Will it affect me? Not sure. No connection between me and Tomaso for the moment. Invitation to the hunt, maybe not a good idea, won’t repeat it. Be very careful.
‘Was anybody hurt?’
‘A few people were slightly wounded. No one killed.’
So it’ll be all right. Daniel will sort it out. We’ve all got our problems. Just then, his secretary rings through.
‘Mr Maréchal is asking to see you.’
A pause. Tomaso’s shadow behind the driver. Maréchal, Tomaso, two worlds that must not meet. Awkward. To the driver: ‘Wait here, would you, while I get rid of my visitor?’
Quignard closes the door of his office behind him and walks over to Maréchal with a smile. A warm handshake before he leads him over to the coffee machine, an affable moment in an increasingly oppressive atmosphere. There follows a brief silence. Maréchal is tense and gets straight to the point.
‘I’ve come to find out what’s happening to my workers? When they ask me how long they’re going to be laid off, what do I reply? When is the factory scheduled to reopen? After all, the machines were unscathed.’
Quignard looks at Maréchal, offers him a cup of coffee. Hardly the moment to tell him that my main worry is the Thomson takeover. He’d be up for punching me in the face. Better not rub him up the wrong way, a valuable man.
‘I’m not sitting here twiddling my thumbs you know. I’m having to negotiate with the banks to review the company’s financial situation. It’s not brilliant. I’m trying to obtain deferments and extensions. Daewoo wasn’t insured against fire …’ Astonishment from Maréchal who spills coffee on his sleeve. ‘So I’m having the losses assessed, to get an overview. I’m applying for subsidies to rebuild and start up again, and I’m talking to the local council to find out how they see our future. All that takes time. We should have a clearer picture within a couple of weeks.’
Maréchal chews his plastic cup.
‘That’s a long time when you haven’t got a cent to live on.’
‘Amrouche has been asked to look at the workers’ records and put together proposals for retraining courses in the event that …’
‘Oh right. Who could ask for more?’
‘You know that there’s a departmental manager’s job waiting for you at Thomson, when we’re the bosses, in a month or two.’
The tension increases palpably.
‘I’m not talking to you about myself right now, Maurice. I’m talking to you about my people, the ones in my sector, more than a hundred workers. What are you doing for them? You’re the boss of this factory now, aren’t you?’
The door opens. Rolande Lepetit is standing on the threshold, spectacular in her black overcoat buttoned up to the chin, a hard, set expression. She has come on foot from the Cité des Jonquilles, going over and over two or three phrases in her mind, to the point of exasperation. A bank account in Luxembourg. Me. Me, who supports my mother and my son. Never asked anyone for anything. Always earned every cent I spend. A bank account in Luxembourg. Their world, not mine. No respect. That’s what it is, they lack respect. We have to talk. You’re not afraid of him. Talk. Have to. Leave Aisha out of it, whatever happens. She takes a step forward, closes the door and thrusts her hands deeper in her pockets.
‘Mr Quignard, I’ve come to talk to you about something …’
She casts around for the right word, can’t find it, and clenches her hands deep in her pockets. Maréchal makes as if to leave the room.
‘Stay, Mr Maréchal. Just wait, this matter concerns you too.’ The two men exchange a glance. ‘Daewoo’s accounts list a bank account in Luxembourg in my name with a very large sum of money in it.’ The two men stand stock still. She leans forward, tense. ‘Obviously I don’t have a bank account in Luxembourg, and I want an explanation.’
She presents a solid wall of hostility and persistence.
‘Ms Lepetit, please …’
She turns to Maréchal, punctuating each phrase with a jerk of her head and shoulders.
‘And you too, Mr Maréchal, you’re on the list, in case you weren’t aware of it. One of these famous accounts is in your name.’
Maréchal’s reaction is dramatic. His face turns ashen, he opens his mouth and closes it again with a gulp, but not a sound comes out. Quignard is finding the situation increasingly awkward, he needs to act fast. He walks over to Rolande, takes her by the arm and sits her down in an armchair. He sits down beside her and talks to her in a confidential tone.
‘Ms Lepetit, I know nothing about any of this, I’ve just taken over the reins of Daewoo. Tell me first of all where you got your information.’
‘During the occupation of the offices Étienne Neveu was playing around on one of the computers.’ Rolande hears Maréchal exhale suddenly behind her, as if he’d just received a punch in the stomach. ‘On it he found a list of bank accounts in Luxembourg. One is in my name and there are more in the names of Maréchal, Amrouche and Nourredine, and probably others too, but those names are for definite.’
‘When did he tell you this?’
‘He didn’t. But he told a lot of people on the night of the occupation and the rumour found its way back to me yesterday. I find it completely unacceptable, and I want an explanation.’
‘Ms Lepetit, I’m not taking this matter lightly. But please understand, the company’s entire accounts were removed from the premises on the day after the fire. We couldn’t leave them in a gutted factory. It will probably take several weeks before we get ourselves sorted out.’ He gets to his feet, helps Rolande up and sees her to the door. ‘I give you my word that I’ll do everything I can to clarify this matter.’ He opens the door for her and pushes her into the corridor. ‘And you’ll be informed the minute we find out anything.’
She’s in the corridor as he closes the door again. Quignard leans against the wall for a moment, eyes closed as he blots his upper lip and the roots of his hair with a handkerchief.
‘She’s a pain in the arse, your protégée‚’ he says to Maréchal.
‘I disagree.’ Frostily: ‘And don’t forget you can’t tell me you know nothing of all this. Are you sure this isn’t to do with your friend Park’s system of bogus invoices?’
‘Yes, it probably is.’
‘Park was embezzling company money, that’s his business and yours. But I won’t stand for him mixing up our names in it all. Your dumping ground for the unemployed can burn down for all I care, but for you to fail to lift a little finger to help the workers who were inside, that’s a disgrace. What’s more it wouldn’t have bothered me in the least if Bouziane had taken the rap for the fire, with everything else he’s got on his conscience. But finger Nourredine, one of the few reliable workers out of the whole bunch, simply because he led the strike — no way will you get me to swallow that. And don’t, whatever you do, tell me the tale of what happened to Étienne Neveu. You scare me. Your story’s full of holes. I only ask one thing of you: make sure you leave me out of your master cock-up. Understood?’
The door slams.
When Quignard returns to his office, the driver is standing before the bay window contemplating the trees in the valley rippling in the wind.
Montoya had fallen asleep fully dressed on his bed. He awakens fairly late in the morning, body aching and mind numb. The first thing he does is to switch on the bedside radio and tune into a local station to try and find out what happened to him last night at the Oiseau Bleu. Schmaltzy music as he glances at his watch: the news will be on soon. First of all, have a wash. His reflection in the bathroom mirror is not a pretty sight. Jacket and shirt ripped. Flashback, the mercenary’s burly frame above him as he lay on the floor, cornered in the alcove. Allowing himself to be caught out like that, black mark, lack of vigilance. I knew what I was getting myself into. Won’t happen again. Then, the blow, dodging it, neat, nice move, nothing to say about that. Kneeing him in the balls: bullseye. Certainly effective. Smile. I bet the Hulk’s finding it hard to walk today. And the explosion … Full inventory: only minor damage. Three nasty cuts to his scalp which he washes and disinfects, that’ll do. Scratches on his face, hands, a wound in the neck, he applies an antiseptic cream. He steps under the shower. On the radio, the news. Metz football team is the main item. I don’t give a shit. And then immediately afterwards: