The phone rings, he jumps, spins around and picks it up.
‘Mr Quignard, I have a certain Mr Chan on the line who’s asking to speak to you. It’s personal.’
‘His name doesn’t mean anything to me. Put him through.’
‘My dear friend, I am so pleased to be talking to you …’
Quignard sits up, that refined tone, the slight accent that was so familiar … this is it, Tomaso was right, it had to happen. He settles back into his armchair with a faint smile: a flesh-and-blood adversary at last.
‘To what do I owe the honour of this call?’
‘I’ve just read the French press. Rather late, I admit. What can I do, being so far away … and I learn that an investigation is apparently under way into the insider dealing of Matra shares …’ Silence. ‘I want my percentage of the profits.’ His tone changes, becoming harsh and vindictive. ‘Consider it a redundancy payment …’
‘You’ve got a nerve.’
‘… a golden parachute if you like. We’ve seen worse, much more exorbitant than what I’m asking for. You took a big risk in firing me like a subordinate. You made an error of judgement.’
‘You should know that I’m only in charge of the Daewoo plant in Lorraine. I know nothing of financial matters nor anything about the alleged insider dealing. These matters are handled at a more senior level, by the Daewoo group management, and the steering committee for the Thomson bid in Paris, of which I am not a member.’
‘I should like you to pass on my request to them. And to let them know how vulnerable they are at the moment. The newspaper articles mention anonymous letters. If anonymous letters are sufficient to trigger a COB investigation, what would happen if documents relating to Daewoo’s Polish scheme were to be sent anonymously to the press?’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘I think that you’re unaware of a great number of things, Mr Quignard. You knew what was going on in France, but not in Poland. The ultimate target wasn’t the company as you assumed, or as you purported to, but a matter of revenge. Did you believe that the Daewoo-Thomson takeover idea came from you, you pathetically pretentious little creep?’ A hearty guffaw on the other end of the phone. First time I’ve heard him laugh, thinks Quignard, with a lump in his throat and no voice. Silence. ‘Are you still there? Now listen to me carefully. Day in, day out, over the past two years, the major investors have paid for this special relationship with Matra with the money from your subsidies. I have the list of the bank account holders, and I’m sure that if you think a little, you’ll recognise them. Can you picture the scandal? So I’m demanding my share of profits from the Matra share dealing. It’s my due. On second thoughts, call it five million francs, and I’d consider that a fair return …’ Silence. ‘You’re not saying anything, Mr Quignard, that’s up to you. Just do what has to be done. I’ll call you back in two days so that we can agree on the method of payment.’
The line goes dead.
The first stage of the investigation is over, say the police. You may go home. Rolande clears up the apartment, working furiously. Keep busy, don’t stop. The murderers emptied all the cupboards and threw the contents on the floor. Sort out, throw out everything that’s broken: crockery, a bedside lamp, an alarm clock, a standard lamp, her son’s photo frame, not that much stuff in the end. She straightens up. In the kitchen are the enamel beer mugs which her mother used to drink from, the times when she bothered to use a glass rather than drink the beer straight from the bottle. They go straight into the dustbin. Clear out the bathroom and chuck away her toiletries: a brush matted with long white hair, an empty perfume bottle kept as a souvenir. Of what? She goes into her mother’s room. Throw out the teddy bear won at a fairground, the doll in traditional Lorraine costume, odds and ends and mementos, the cushion in which she hid her treasures and the things she nicked. She’d ended up stealing her grandson’s pocket money. All her clothes too, while she was at it, without stopping to sort them out. And bedlinen. A mattress airing in an empty room.
Rolande leaves the room, automatically locking the door behind her. Finished, over, that whole part of my life. A feeling of immense relief, an unfamiliar lightness. She still has to tidy up the rest of the apartment. My life remains inside. Address: Cité des Jonquilles, Pondange. Rolande feels a surge of cold rage. Pile up the crockery and clothes into the cupboards, quick. Any old how, without thinking. Then shut the cupboards. Now to wash away the blood. First the kitchen, then the living room. This is where the old woman liked to sit and drink, often playing patience. A few stains left on the table, on the tiled floor, this is where they found her. In the hall, much bigger stains on the floor and on the wall, by the phone. Montoya’s voice: the telephone used to lure Aisha out of there. This is where they killed her. Pondange, not for much longer.
Summons to a small downstairs meeting room at the Reims Novotel, halfway between Paris and Pondange. Montoya arrives first. On the phone, Valentin simply arranged the meeting. Make sure you’re not followed, of course, and expect two solid hours’ work. Nothing more. Doesn’t he trust his secure phone line? Or is he going for maximum effect? Perhaps by putting on the pressure? Standing in front of the French doors, carefully concealed by net curtains, he contemplates the empty garden and the pool covered with a blue tarpaulin. He sees Rolande’s image reflected in the glass, her face buried in her hands as she absorbs the fact that her life has been turned upside down and she’s now alone, as she always wished. A memory of their meeting last night, outside the police station, their two bodies briefly attuned, echoing their walk through Brussels. Whatever happens, that moment was real, nothing can destroy it. He wanders over to a buffet of cold meats and salads standing in a corner and realises he’s starving. He makes himself a roast pork and mustard sandwich and washes it down with a glass of Beaujolais.
The door opens, he turns around. Two men he doesn’t know, still young, energetic, clean-shaven and well groomed, in dark suits and ties, carrying briefcases. Predictable. They introduce themselves: Pierre Benoît-Rey (warm), Philippe Rossellini (uncommunicative). Handshakes. ‘We’ll wait for Valentin.’ He says nothing.
Valentin arrives. Montoya is struck by his peasant appearance: stocky physique, thick socks, corduroy trousers, baggy at the knees, and grey wool sweater. He gives Montoya a vague but warm embrace and makes the appropriate introductions. ‘Those in charge of the Alcatel working party for the Thomson bid.’ ‘Our very special agent in Pondange.’ Inquisitive looks. ‘I’ve been keeping them up-to-date on the findings of your mission as it progresses.’ Maybe. Be careful my friend, say as little as possible.
They all gather around the buffet, salads and mineral water for the Alcatel men, cold meat and Beaujolais for Valentin and Montoya. Then the four of them sit down at the table to work. Valentin takes out a small tape recorder.
‘I’m going to play you a conversation that took place at eight this morning between Quignard and an unidentified party, perhaps a Korean, calling from Warsaw. We’re trying to pinpoint the precise location. I think this conversation is important, and I’d like your opinion.’ He presses play.
The phone rings: ‘Mr Quignard …’ Then a secretary’s voice, a voice Montoya doesn’t know. Listening to the anonymous words and sentences, he relives an old, long-forgotten feeling, hunting snipe with Moroccan friends in the marshes near Rabat. The stunning landscape, a completely flat stretch of land covered in short grass floating on the water, your feet sinking in with every step; the water rose, sometimes covering the feet of your boots, sometimes up to your knees, sometimes up to your waist, and there was always the fear that you’d go right under with the next step. The land immediately closed over your footsteps, obliterating all traces of your passing. This conversation is like the marsh: no bearings, no support, shifting. Everything is true, everything is false, nothing exists. A glance at the two executives, they look very excited. Flashback: Rolande, I don’t give a shit about the competition between Alcatel and Matra. Neither do I, sweetheart. And most probably nor do they. But we’re at the gaming table, and we want to win. ‘… in two days so that we can agree on the method of payment.’ The phone goes dead, the tape hisses gently. Rossellini jumps when Valentin stops the tape recorder. The fat cop was right: weapons, strategy, industrial restructuring, all a stage set. This is where the decisions were made, in the bogus accounts of a second-rate business. I’ll never forget this lesson. Valentin turns to Montoya.