‘Here we go.’
Lying on the roof of the Cité des Jonquilles, next to the fanlight above stairwell A, two men receive the walkie-talkie message.
‘Over to us.’
They open the fanlight, jump down on to the fourth-floor landing and hide on the staircase. Barely two minutes’ wait before Aisha comes out of her apartment wearing blue jeans and a red polo-necked sweater. As she turns round to lock her door, a man grabs her round the waist and forces a rubber gag into her mouth. She arches her body, her legs buckle as she grabs for the support of the wall. The other man comes to help and gives her an injection in the waist, through her sweater. Her body immediately goes limp. While one carries the unconscious Aisha, the other takes her keys, enters the apartment and comes out with a kitchen stool, locks the door and puts the key back in the pocket of Aisha’s jeans. He positions the stool under the fanlight. As the first guy climbs on to it, passes a rope through the handle of the fanlight then a slipknot around Aisha’s neck, the other retrieves the rubber gag while keeping hold of her body, and slips it into his jacket pocket. Between them, they haul up the body and let go. Aisha’s body revolves slowly. One man kicks over the stool, the other encircles her hips and swings himself from her body. A snap. The two men give a final glance to check: girl dead, body hanged, stool kicked over, fanlight closed, gag in pocket. They both then calmly walk down the four flights of stairs.
On the first-floor landing, the door to Rolande Lepetit’s apartment is still open. They don’t look inside.
Rendezvous in the main square, the teams meet up, divide themselves between three cars and drive off in the direction of Nancy.
Montoya parks his car in the car park opposite the police station without hurrying. The superintendent asked him to drop in: to review the progress of his investigation, he said. Have a chat. By the entrance to the car park, a big black Mercedes is waiting, engine running. A man is sitting alone at the wheel, very close-cropped hair, bomber jacket, square shoulders. Montoya has no difficulty in recognising one of the two mercenaries who cornered him in the alcove at the Oiseau Bleu less than forty-eight hours ago. The man calmly stares at him and smiles. We know who you are, we know who you’re going to see. Pure intimidation. When they stop showing themselves, then it’ll be time to worry. He’s not entirely convinced by his own argument.
In the superintendent’s office, a polite exchange of greetings. To avoid touching on other subjects, Montoya talks drugs. At Daewoo, hash was definitely being smoked, perhaps regularly? Dealing on the factory premises, worrying in terms of security. No, the superintendent doesn’t find the situation a matter of concern. Grossly exaggerated, the amount of hash circulating at Daewoo. In a small town like Pondange, it doesn’t take much for people to get upset. Montoya starts fishing: trafficking linked to the arrest of the Hakim brothers, maybe? The superintendent ducks the question and the conversation continues to flag, when the door suddenly bursts open and a podgy young police officer wearing glasses rushes in theatrically, then stands rooted to the spot, gawping. The superintendent rises, tense.
‘Dumont, don’t tell me …’
‘Yes, superintendent. Two bodies at the Cité des Jonquilles.’
Montoya suddenly feels drained. Aisha and Rolande. Drained and chilled. He knew the danger, said nothing, did nothing, and so those two women, friends, so full of life. Criminal. Think about it later. For the moment, get over there, hurry up, don’t think about anything. The police drive off, sirens wailing. Montoya follows in his own car. The black Mercedes is no longer waiting by the car park entrance.
In front of the entrance to staircase A, two uniformed police officers are holding back a small crowd of neighbours and onlookers. People are talking about Aisha and Rolande’s mother. Montoya, his throat dry, his mind in turmoil, doesn’t ask any questions. And waits. A police car pulls up and Rolande stumbles out. A police officer escorts her through the crowd, which abruptly falls silent, and they disappear up staircase A.
The door to the apartment is wide open. Rolande freezes on the threshold, head lowered. On the floor in the middle of the hall lies a shapeless form beneath a white sheet, a few scraps of blue towelling dressing gown peeping out, and the tip of the white-haired plait bound with a very ordinary red elastic band. Her gaze rests on the elastic band. Then she looks up. All the apartment doors are open, she sees overturned furniture, things on the floor. She thinks: a battle scene. And again: stage scenery. None of this is real.
The superintendent stands close to her, one of his two men raises the sheet. Face butchered, the right temple and cheekbone smashed in, mouth open, twisted, dentures broken, body naked, terrifying. Poor, poor woman, what a wretched life. Immense pity but not a tear. The superintendent points to a long gash across her stomach.
‘Prowlers obviously. They must have tortured her to find out where the money was, then knocked her out with the crowbar they used to force open the front door. The weapon was found by the telephone.’
He covers up the body. Again that overwhelming feeling of strangeness.
‘I don’t believe it. We’ve never had a bean and everyone knows it,’ says Rolande in a very low, very hoarse voice.
Montoya’s still milling among the small crowd of onlookers. His mind starts working again. He broods over his silence and his mistakes, his doubts too. You thought you had time, and she’s dead. How did Quignard trace things back to her so quickly? He feels sluggish, heavy, out of his depth. He decides to leave. Phone Valentin. The reflex of a subordinate, deferring to his boss, like in the old days in the police. Sometimes it’s useful. His gaze falls on Karim Bouziane, at the back of the crowd, standing slightly apart, ashen, dishevelled. Electric shock. Suddenly he feels a tingling in his fingers, takes a deep breath, mind in overdrive. Bouziane-Amrouche. Amrouche, of course. Amrouche who put you on Bouziane’s track and tipped off Quignard about Aisha. Why do you think he put him in an office next to his? Quignard alerted perhaps by the Neveu widow’s phone call … Time for regrets later, must never let an opportunity slip. Bouziane roams from one knot of people to another, tries to catch a phrase here and there, his eyes on the lookout. Flashback: eyes meeting in the cafe. He’s seen me before. Careful. Karim takes out a packet of cigarettes, three attempts before he manages to light one, throws it away after two drags. I know that bitter taste at the back of the throat when you can’t swallow anything, not even cigarette smoke. This guy’s in a very bad way. He senses he’s in danger, isn’t used to it, and doesn’t know why. Don’t lose sight of him. He saw the lists at the same time as Neveu. For the time being, Quignard doesn’t know that, but at the rate he’s going, Karim may not have long left. He’s got to talk.
Karim walks away from the crowd, his steps faltering, reaches the car park, gets into an old red Clio and sits there for several minutes, his head resting on the steering wheel. He’s got to find a way out, he’s going round in circles, can’t find one. Montoya slides behind the wheel of his car, waits. Karim starts up his engine, manoeuvres and drives slowly out of the car park. He appears to be heading towards the plateau. The motorway to Paris? Montoya allows him to get ahead, and then catches up with him. Tailing him is easy as long as he stays on the plateau with its straight, sloping roads. Karim leaves the main road, so he’s not heading for Paris and turns on to a secondary road, driving slowly, his mind elsewhere. He probably still hasn’t decided where he’s going. It’s lunchtime, not much traffic, lonely road. Risky but doable. Montoya hangs back, rummages in the glove compartment, leaves the revolver but takes the plastic handcuffs which he flings on to the back seat. Goes over the controlled-crash training course he’d been on in the old days. He’d never used the technique until now. Recites the advice and recommendations. Above all, don’t injure Karim. As they say in the movies, I want him alive. Action. Puts his foot down on the accelerator. The red Clio reappears. No one in front, no one behind. Overtakes, brakes, cuts in front of the Clio’s wing, which he hits with his bumper. Karim, thrown off course, his expression terrified behind the windscreen, tries to straighten up, jerks the wheel and swerves into the ditch where the Clio lands, bonnet first. Montoya stops on the verge, roars into reverse, pulls up level with the Clio, jumps out, opens the driver’s door where a dazed Karim is trying to unfasten his seat belt. Montoya grabs him by the shoulder, extricates him from the car, leans him against the bonnet, and with his right hand straight, fingers taut, gives him a blow to the plexus. Karim crumples to the ground. Montoya picks him up, throws him on to the back seat of his car, handcuffs him tightly, that’ll loosen his tongue, attaches the handcuffs to the seat belt anchor, gets behind the wheel and drives off at speed.