‘I’m a journalist and I’m writing an article on Daewoo.’ He steps inside. I wasn’t able to get to the cemetery. Please accept my condolences.’ Now he’s standing in the cramped hallway. ‘May I talk to you?’
She shrugs.
‘Seeing as you’re already inside, come into the kitchen. The girls are in the front room watching TV.’
American cartoons, probably. Tinny voices and outbursts of children’s laughter. The kitchen isn’t big. He sits down, she walks round in circles before sitting down too.
‘Mrs Neveu, before his accident, did your husband talk to you about the Daewoo strike?’ She’s still very tense.
‘No. He came home very late and I was asleep. Next morning when the alarm went off, he just told me that the factory had burned down and that I should let him sleep. I got the girls ready and we left together. Then I dropped them off at school on my way to work as usual. I never saw him again.’
‘Did you know that your husband smoked a bit of dope from time to time at the factory?’
Smile. She’s beginning to relax. ‘I don’t know what you want, but that’s not news. He wasn’t the only one.’
‘Do you know his dealer?’
‘Are you joking? Do you think I’ve got time to think about all that? With my job, my two girls, and a husband to look after? I’ll show you my schedule if you like.’
‘How did you find out that he’d had an accident and that he was dead?’
‘The police told me. The first night, he didn’t come home. Well, I wasn’t too worried. He was a womaniser, my husband. A womaniser and he lived life in the fast lane. I went to bed and slept. The next morning, he still wasn’t back and he didn’t often spend the whole night away. When he didn’t come home the next night either, I started to get worried and called the police. They found his body the day after. They told me that when I reported him missing they took a look in the woods below our estate, and that’s where they found him. An accidental fall which broke his neck.’
‘Have you seen the forensic report?’ She immediately becomes suspicious again.
‘No.’
‘Didn’t you ask to see it?’
She gets up, walks over to the window, and stands gazing out over the plateau stretching as far as the horizon. Apart from a few clumps of trees and silhouettes of gigantic silos to break it up, the prospect is endlessly flat under the bleak late afternoon light of a day without sunshine. After what seems like an age, she comes back over to him, a look of profound exhaustion on her face.
‘I’m from the countryside. My parents have a farm on the plateau. When I met Étienne, I was sixteen, I dreamed of the city, of going out and having fun, seeing shows, meeting people. I got a job as a cashier in a supermarket thirty kilometres from here. I see people all right, that’s for sure. A husband who’s always chasing women, never at home, two kids to look after, to bring up almost alone on a housing estate that’s miles from everywhere. And this view. It’s unbelievable how beautiful the plateau can look when you see it from the windows of our farm, and how desolate and sinister it seems from the third floor of a council flat. So, when Mr Quignard came to tell me that he would ensure that the funeral expenses would be borne by Daewoo, and that the company will pay me compensation for my husband’s death, I didn’t ask any questions, I said fine. Straight away. I’m going back to the farm with my two girls, and that’ll be the end of it. It’ll be cheaper for me and I’ll always be able to find a job. And what Daewoo gives me, even if it doesn’t amount to much, will help me and my girls with the move. Now, go away and leave me alone.’
She turns her back on him and fumbles in a cupboard to occupy her hands. Montoya gets up and leaves, slamming the front door. On the landing, he leans against the door jamb, listening. He hears the TV and the girls’ voices, their mother bustling about. She must be wishing she hadn’t talked to me. But she had to unburden herself, one way or another, in her solitude. She’s wondering what she can get out of it. He waits. And then the click as she picks up the telephone, which he’d noticed on the wall in the hall. She dials a number with nervous concentration.
‘Mr Quignard? … I had a visit from a journalist … No, I don’t know who he is. He asked me questions about Étienne’s death … If he was in the habit of walking down that path, if I’d read the forensic report … Of course … Like we said … but I wanted to let you know that I’m prepared to move right away, this week. Only it’ll cost me …’
At least she’s got her head screwed on. Montoya escapes noiselessly down the stairs before the end of the phone call.
Quignard replaces the handset very gently, trying to control his movement. Be calm, calm. Today could turn into a nightmare if I’m not careful. Pours a double brandy, turns on Radio Classique and sinks into his armchair. Let’s take stock. This morning, I find out from that half-crazy Lepetit woman that Park’s fraudulent accounts were seen by Étienne Neveu. Perhaps. She wouldn’t be capable of making up something like that. Who does Neveu tell about these lists? She answers: everyone. That I don’t believe. It happened more than ten days ago. And Maréchal wasn’t aware of it? I wouldn’t have heard anything from Amrouche? Impossible. Neveu was with someone when he saw the lists. Someone who, for one reason or another, didn’t say anything until yesterday. Lepetit couldn’t keep it to herself for more than twenty-four hours. Now, think. At the same time, a journalist tries to talk to Neveu’s widow and asks her questions that prove he thinks Étienne Neveu’s death was no accident. A brilliant accident, well orchestrated, everyone was convinced. Quignard pictures the blaze, its unexpected fierceness, the roar, familiar in a strange way, the showers of sparks, the iridescent flashes, a lavish display that had everybody mesmerised, and Étienne’s diminutive physique, rushing from one group to another, nobody taking any notice or listening to him. Not a single witness mentioned him to the police. Even Maréchal, standing next to me, his eyes riveted, afire in his valley, had forgotten about him, until the arrival of that pain-in-the-arse this morning. Question: how had this shit-stirrer got on the trail of Neveu’s widow? Someone talked yesterday, to Lepetit and to the shit-stirrer. Someone who was in the factory with Neveu. Who saw the lists with Neveu. And who’d kept quiet about it until yesterday. Why? Because he and Neveu must have been up to something together. Who can know? I can’t count on Maréchal any more, he’s put himself out of the running. Amrouche. Of course, Amrouche. Glance at his watch. Not quite six o’clock. He’s probably still there, he always works very late. Smug little smile. Smart move, taking him on. I knew he’d be useful to me sooner or later. He turns off the radio, sends the secretary home, then heads for Amrouche’s office near the staff lounge and the coffee machine. He hammers on the door and pushes it open. Amrouche, hunched over his work in the light of his desk lamp, is handwriting a note about a Daewoo worker he’d spoken to that afternoon to find out if he was willing to take on a job elsewhere.
‘Ali, come and have a coffee with me. We’re the only ones still here, and you and I need to discuss a delicate matter.’
Amrouche leaps up. Quignard is already at the machine, he hands him a cup of coffee, picks up his own, and the two men sit down.
‘I’m finishing off the paperwork for Étienne Neveu’s compensation.’ A pause. ‘Well, for his widow and his two girls. Do you know about it?’
Amrouche nods. Bosses like Quignard are rare.
‘I have a problem. Someone came to see me this afternoon,’ he hesitates, ‘he asked me not to divulge his visit.’ Hesitates again. ‘He’s not a Daewoo employee. In short, he claims that Neveu was involved in drug trafficking in Pondange, and that he was hanging around in the woods to do a deal on the day he died. That would be awkward.’
‘I don’t think it’s true.’