‘If the police arrest any dealers over the next few months who implicate Neveu, it’ll make things difficult for me.’
‘In my view, there’s no danger. Étienne smoked a bit, like a lot of kids in the factory. But I’ve never heard of him being involved in any dealing.’
‘My contact claims Neveu took advantage of the strike to deal on the actual factory premises.’
Big smile. ‘He was much too busy for that.’
‘What do you mean?’
Amrouche falters, blots out the insistent image of Karim and Étienne slumped in front of the computer and closes his eyes for a moment to try and shut out the arses jiggling mechanically on the screen. Then: ‘He spent most of the day with a girl.’
‘Do you know her? Can you send her to see me so I can complete the paperwork?’
‘I know her, yes, but I can’t send her to you. She’s a very well brought-up girl, and very reserved. She allowed herself to be sweet-talked by Neveu, who was an incorrigible skirt-chaser, because she was devastated by Émilienne’s accident that morning and thrown off balance by everything that happened that day. But she couldn’t bear anyone to know about her fling, or me to have told you about it. Or her father. She hasn’t set foot outside her home since the strike. No, don’t count on me for that.’
‘Fine. I’ll just have to take your word for it, Ali. Which I will, because you know Daewoo’s employees better than anyone, and I trust you completely. Thank you for your help.’
Quignard returns to his office. Computer. Daewoo personnel file. If the girl was devastated by this Émilienne’s accident, she must have been on the same production line, the same shift. So she saw the electrocution. An accident is only devastating if you witness it directly. Otherwise the factories would all be empty, it would be impossible to find anyone to work in them. He ends up with a list of eight girls. Eliminate Émilienne, and Rolande Lepetit, since I know where she was during the strike. I’m looking for a young girl — the allusion to her father suggests she was probably unmarried. The records list two unmarried girls on Rolande Lepetit’s shift: Jeanne Beauvallon and Aisha Saidani. Or her father. I’ll take Aisha Saidani first. He reads the employee record carefully. It’s her. She lives at the same address as Rolande Lepetit. The shit-stirrer comes and questions Rolande. That makes sense, her dismissal sparked off the strike, and he meets Aisha into the bargain. Cosy little chat, all three of them. Aisha, who’s kept quiet so far to protect her reputation as a shy virgin, probably opens up and confides in the shit-stirrer — the power of the media — and tells him about her experience of the strike like a porn film, and mentions the lists. And the arsonists? Lepetit turns up in my office, the journalist at the widow’s. It all fits. And I’m up shit creek.
What to do? No rush. First of all, think. Quignard pours himself a third brandy, switches off the lights and sits in the dark looking out over the valley, his feet on the bay windowsill. To recap the sequence of events: Aisha looks at the lists with Neveu. Talks to Rolande Lepetit about it and yesterday, also to the journalist. Nothing to suggest she saw the arsonists too, since nobody’s mentioned it. They could have parted company at the end of the day. The journalist goes to see Neveu’s widow. So he’s made a connection between the lists and Neveu’s death, he can do that by simple logical deduction. He gets nothing out of Neveu’s widow. For the time being he has no proof and I’m in the clear. Two good points. As for Aisha, it’s unlikely shell talk to the police. She’d have to face her father, public opprobrium, and the Neveu family. That’s a lot. Anyway, what would be the point? The police won’t go looking for her. If she did decide to testify they’d undermine her testimony to salvage their investigation. Take a worst-case scenario and all that will take time, longer than I need. As a last resort, we pin it all on Park. As for Maréchal … Old solidarity between steelworkers. Worn out. As Head of Department he can always say he doesn’t give a damn. I don’t believe him. He’ll keep it shut. He takes a large swig of brandy, there’s a feeling of well-being, ripples of pleasure. The smartest way is to use Amrouche to keep an eye on the father and the daughter, do nothing and see what happens.
Quignard puts down his empty glass, gets up, stretches, then walks down through the empty, ill-lit building to the exit where his driver’s waiting for him.
‘Mr Tomaso asks if you can have dinner with him this evening at the Oiseau Bleu.’ Quignard looks at his watch.
‘This late?’
‘Mr Tomaso seems very insistent.’
To talk about the explosion in his nightclub, no doubt. He climbs into the Mercedes. After all why not? A slap-up meal, the girls, Deborah, much better than eating a solitary dinner at home staring at the valley while listening to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.
‘Fine. Head for Nancy.’
As soon as he leaves the Neveu apartment, Montoya phones Valentin.
‘Call me back in five minutes.’
He checks his watch. Five minutes to kill, hanging around the car park where kids are playing football. He walks to the edge of the woods, spots the start of the path Étienne Neveu must have taken the day he died. It can be seen clearly from the windows of the apartment block. Was Neveu alone when he set off down this path? Did the cops make any effort to get statements? Doesn’t know. And you won’t get to know either. Poor guy. A little wad of dosh and the deal is done.
The football flies in his direction. Montoya dives forward, blocks it with his chest, swerves away from two kids charging towards him, aims a long, plunging ball from his instep which sails between the two heaps of clothes marking the goal. Then he saunters off, feeling light. I’ve got my man. Quignard. I haven’t felt so good for … a very long time. The five minutes are up.
It’s Valentin on the other end of the phone again. Montoya opens fire.
‘I’ve identified the kingpin in our case, the man who’s pulling the strings at Daewoo and who’s in business with Tomaso. One Quignard, boss of a design consultancy and a local bigwig; so far, run-of-the-mill for a little provincial town. But he’s also very well connected in Brussels, the strongman of the European Development Plan, the man who rubber-stamps all the region’s subsidy grants. He’s been a non-executive director of Daewoo for some time, and since the fire he’s taken over the reins.’
‘Do you have proof?’
‘No. But I have convictions.’
‘What happens next?’
‘Quignard and Tomaso are hyperactive, they don’t have the experience or the mettle to wait and let things calm down. If I push a bit harder they’ll make a move. And make mistakes, which will give me ammunition against them.’
‘I’ll think about it. Is that all you have to tell me?’
‘For the time being.’
Valentin is silent. Then:
‘A bomb went off at the Oiseau Bleu last night. Had you heard about it?’
‘Yes.’ Bite the bullet You’ve got no choice. ‘I was there.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because I think the Hakims are involved. They’ve resurfaced as drug traffickers in Antwerp during the last few days. Knowing their tendency to work with the cops I’m not sure whether they’re closely in touch with you or not.’
‘We’re not yet used to working together, Montoya. I’ve just got one thing to say: I never play against my own side. Was the explosion connected to our business?’
‘Yes, without a doubt, but I don’t yet know how. Indirectly, I’d say.’
‘Let’s get back to your Mr Quignard. Here, in Paris, our affairs are going well, smoothly. There in Pondange it sounds like the Wild West. And this Quignard character changes everything. We’re no longer talking about provincial wheeling and dealing. The sums handled by the bureaucrats in Brussels put this in a different league of corruption altogether, and that’s what interests us. We’re going to take drastic action.’ Montoya tenses. He’s giving me the boot. ‘Does Quignard have offices in Pondange?’