Lorraine Connection

PART THREE

24 October

Quignard has maintained the habit of rising at dawn from his years of working in a factory. Breakfast is served on the ground floor, in the vast dining room which opens on to a terrace with a view over the entire valley. The Quignard residence is a small château, the former mansion of the owner of the ironworks, in the days when there were ironworks. He lives there alone with his wife since their only daughter got married and went to live in Nancy with her husband. He and his wife now live separate lives. She’s asleep somewhere upstairs while he eats breakfast alone in the monumental room, and that suits him fine. Less time wasted.

A chauffeur-driven black Mercedes waits at the foot of the white stone steps. Car and driver come courtesy of 3G. Tomaso is not unappreciative. Impeccable, as always. On the fawn leather back seat, Quignard finds the national dailies, which the driver brings him from Nancy. He flicks through them. Libération’s financial section is entirely taken up by a big article entitled: ‘Thomson Multimedia turns down Korean marriage offer.’ With a subheading: ‘The Daewoo affair: emotions run high.’ The opening lines read: ‘The unions are fighting to stop their factory and its technology from being sold to the Korean group.’ Half-smile. As long as there’s nothing more serious … He turns the page and moves on to the sports section.

Montoya reaches Pondange via the plateau road, around mid-morning. He stops before heading down into the valley and gazes at the town spread out in front of him. Thirty-five years since he left. Thirty-five years, a lifetime, my whole life, hold your breath, vertigo. On the edge of the plateau, high up, the old town with its ramparts and ancient houses, nothing’s changed. All around, descending down the valley, the workers’ houses and housing estates. A little further away, high up on the flanks of the valley and surrounded by greenery are the residences of the ironworks owners, and on the plateau, outside the town, two social housing estates. It’s all still there, but the street of factories along the river with its blast furnaces, the continuous fires hammering and puffing, the smoke and the smells, the men’s activity, their all-consuming passions, the powerful, violent town, its heart beating day and night, has all been swallowed up, wiped out. He knew it, but to see it … He didn’t want to come here. Liar. You had to come back sooner or later. Valentin simply gave you an excuse. Now look what’s become of Pondange, that monster you were so afraid of‚ amputated of its factory satellites, a little provincial town that’s had a facelift, repainted, neat and tidy, dozing deep in its green valley.

Unhesitatingly, he finds his way to the police station: it sits behind the local school where his father had been head teacher. He parks his car. A quick glance at the playground. To the left, the head teacher’s house, his own bedroom window. A flood of painful memories. A motherless childhood. He’d never known whether she’d died or simply run off and abandoned him. A strict, tyrannical father who showed no affection, whose image superimposed itself, in his memory, on that of the blast furnaces gobbling up men. He’d run away from Pondange at the age of fourteen and his father had never tried to find him, accepting his disappearance as he had his mother’s. They had never seen each other again. What must he look like now, my father, since apparently he’s still alive? A broken old man of tidy appearance? Is it his shadow that I’ve come to track down here, in this sleepy town? He falters for a moment in the muffled mid-morning silence, his equilibrium perturbed, then walks into the police station.

‘The superintendent’s expecting you. First floor on the right.’

In the vast office, the superintendent rises to greet him. Good-looking, athletic, very elegant, he invites Montoya to take a seat in an armchair and sits down facing him.

‘Let me introduce myself. Charles Montoya. I work for the Thomson group’s security department …’

‘I know. I got your entire pedigree from Sébastiani, the Nancy police chief, who obtained it from a deputy director of the judicial police, no less.’ Smile. ‘That is sufficient for me to consider you as a man who can be trusted.’

Efficient, Valentin’s network. Rayssac, superintendent at Pondange. What can he hope for in this dump? Promotion to the rank of chief at Nancy. Who can help him to achieve that? Sébastiani in Nancy and Renaud at the judicial police department. All Valentin had to do was pick up the phone. Montoya is conscious of the gulf between a former top security services cop, and a poor bastard from the drug squad who left under a cloud. My pedigree. If only you knew … He too smiles.

‘I’ll put my cards on the table. I’m here to investigate Daewoo, on behalf of my employers. I glean what I can here and there, to help Thomson in the negotiations that are about to begin with the group’s future buyer. Of course, I’m also seeking further information on last week’s fire. My employer is a real stickler for security.’

‘I’ll do everything I can to assist you, especially as the investigation is now closed. We’ve just experienced a very unfortunate series of events, the questionable sacking of a woman worker, then one thing led to another and it all got out of hand, culminating in the fire. Fortunately we did a good job fast and effectively. A textbook investigation.’ He enunciates every syllable. ‘Textbook …’

Textbook, that brought back memories. Made-to-measure witnesses, hand-sewn, prefabricated evidence that comes in a kit. Textbook. A frightening word.

‘… I’ve had a press file compiled for you on Daewoo and on our town, which you’ll find in room 23, on the third floor. You can use the office for two hours, no one will disturb you. No point looking for a photocopier, there isn’t one in the office or upstairs. Another thing, I request that you do not contact Karim Bouziane, the key prosecution witness, and that you inform me of anything you find out that may be useful to the investigation.’

‘Naturally, and I’m grateful for your help. You will understand that I have to be very discreet. It is not desirable for Daewoo to know the precise nature of my visit. I plan to introduce myself as an Agence France Press journalist and if possible, without taking advantage of your kindness, I’d like to have a look around the factory, just to get an idea of what we’re talking about.’

‘I’ll arrange that for you straight away.’

Room 23. As he expected, Montoya finds the ‘forgotten’ case file on the table, next to the press cuttings file. First of all he flicks rapidly through the newspaper cuttings, to get himself in the mood. In the local papers, there are pages on the fire, and the headlines are filled with praise for Quignard, the man who takes the company’s future in hand after the disaster. A local man, formerly in the iron and steel industry where he’d started out as a technician and ended up as a factory manager. On the demise of the industry, he successfully retrained and became boss of a design office specialising in industrial reconversions, president of the commercial court, advisor on the European Development Plan, and in that capacity, the munificent dispenser of EU subsidy manna to the entire valley. Apparently, he’s cherished Daewoo since it was set up, two years ago, and now he’s taking over the helm, in the midst of the crisis (who crowned him king?), whereas all the Korean managers have gone back to Seoul. (Why? Not a word, the question isn’t even asked.) Something widely regarded as evidence of a tremendous sense of responsibility and an admirable spirit of sacrifice. The regional press is proud of their local boy. Why does this exemplary track record immediately arouse Montoya’s suspicions?

He comes across a neatly cut out little article from a local paper on the arrest of the Hakim brothers, known drug traffickers. Hakim … and now the Tangier case resurfaces in his memory, twice in such a short time. Coincidence? With men like the Hakims, always hanging out with the cops, and a man like Valentin, anything can happen. Or, quite simply, the Pondange superintendent had a hand in their arrest and wants to blow his own trumpet to someone with my connections. He reads carefully. Customs officers, routine check, looks familiar. Apparently the Hakim brothers are still involved in the drugs racket and are now based in Antwerp. It would be funny for them to have fallen victim to a war between Belgian and French customs officers. But what part did the Pondange cops play? No mention in the article. The Hakim brothers: make a mental note. I’ll put it to one side until I find out more‚ but the two men and their dealings remain in the frame.

Now he skims through the file on the investigation, which seems to get off to a good start. List of those present during the strike, timetable of their movements, cross-checking of statements. The job is unfinished, and the names mean nothing to Montoya who moves on to the witness statements. He quickly draws the obvious conclusion: a trumped-up investigation. First of all a minor delinquent is targeted and then he becomes the prosecution witness. Classic. Once in the cops’ hands he does his job rather cleverly. The factory security guards: clearly following orders. The first version is to incriminate the future witness, the second to discredit the suspect, they’re ‘yes’ men. Which immediately raises a question about the exact nature of the company that employs them, 3G, in Nancy. Note that the minor delinquent, probably a grass, is a dope dealer. In Tangier, the Hakims also trafficked dope, as well as coke. Coincidence? Then there are the two proles. Amrouche, who makes vehement accusations. A management mole? But his hatred sounds genuine, which proves nothing, of course. And Rolande Lepetit, who offers only a limp defence. Is it limp or honest? She’s the one who was ‘unfairly’ sacked, as the superintendent said. Her sacking sparked off the strike, so she was well liked. Amrouche also liked her, and Quignard’s reinstated her. In exchange for what? I’ll bet Quignard isn’t the sort to give something for nothing. An exemplary worker? For a moment Montoya’s mind wanders. He recalls the milieus he frequented as a youth. They all sought to emulate Stakhanov, the model worker of the Soviet Union’s heyday. Was there still such a thing as a model worker? Rolande Lepetit Stakhanova. He pictured a tall, sturdy, fair-haired woman with clear blue eyes, a straight, rather thick waist, slightly stiff. Whoever this woman is, History has spoken: beware of Stakhanova. A final glance through the preliminary part of the investigation to check the movements of key witnesses: the security guards, Amrouche, Rolande Lepetit, Karim Bouziane. He’s through in less than two hours.

In the early afternoon, Montoya parks his car in front of the remains of the Daewoo factory. The situation is simple: the hangar that housed the stocks is completely gutted, the production plant is intact, and all the machines are there. The offices too are intact and have been thoroughly cleared out. Not a single piece of paper, not a single computer. There are no police on the premises any more and the security guards are carrying out their routine duties. In fact it was the security firm itself that handled the clearing out of the offices the day after the fire, without it occurring to the police for a moment to stop them.

Seated at the wheel of his car, he telephones Valentin using the secure mobile connected directly to Valentin’s private number. He keys in his personal code.

‘The investigation’s a sham, there’s absolutely no doubt about it. My hunch is that the cops aren’t aware of it, otherwise the superintendent wouldn’t have been so willing to let me go through his files, even though he’s desperate to make a good impression on yours truly. So he’s either being leaned on or used. Not very illuminating.’

Valentin merely groans.

‘For the time being, that’s all I’ve got. But I have a request: Can you find out about the security firm 3G in Nancy?’

‘Say that again.’

‘Security firm, 3G, Nancy.’

‘You’ll have that information right away.’

Hôtel Vauban on the main square in Pondange, a former parade ground in the days when the fortress was in use. The square is vast, windswept and deserted with a seventeenth-century church on the far side, built in the severe style of the Jesuits. A Jesuit style for a military congregation. An elegant, neo-classical mansion is home to the town hall. Once upon a time the two façades were so black with grime that he had never noticed the beauty of the architecture and the stone. After eating a ham baguette washed down with a beer, Montoya has a shower and changes his clothes. He stretches out flat on the bed, a pillow under his knees to ease his back which sometimes aches, the result of a nasty fall during a chase through the streets of Istanbul. Worn out, about to turn fifty. A whole past of half-successes and total cock-ups. Booted out of the police. Tactfully and with a farewell party, a cover-up, but still thrown out. His back slowly relaxes, the base of the spine first, and then the shoulders. Insurance investigator‚ some profession, always up hill and down dale, dosh, routine, boredom, and the iron grip of the lovely Eugénie with green eyes. You make enough dosh to blow on luxuries, and to make you want to earn even more. Yet never enough to be truly rich and not to give a damn. So it’s a spiral: always more shit cases and an increasingly bitter taste in the mouth. Stop, take a breather. Get a grip, a bit of stability, an office in Paris, friends, a cosy relationship, that’d be nice. A job like Valentin’s. Less important. I don’t have the stature, or the contacts. A less strategic operation. Dreams of a quiet old age at last, so the whole journey does not seem simply absurd. The feeling of well-being radiates to the back of his neck … and now, where do I go from here? Stir the pot and see what comes to the surface. First point, various drugs are circulating, everyone seems to be aware of it and nobody’s attaching any importance to it. A minor dope dealer at the centre of the investigation, the Hakims in the area‚ could there be a connection between the two? Premise: there’s no such thing as chance. His body now entirely relaxed, his thoughts, woolly, begin to fray …

He must have fallen asleep.

He is abruptly woken by shouting beneath his window. ‘So-li-da-rity …’ ‘Free Nourredine …’ ‘Our bonuses …’

He rushes over to the window. More a gaggle than a demonstration. Thirty to forty people marching in a ragged procession without too much conviction. No banners, a few trade union flags, outbursts of shouting, the odd slogan taken up by the rest. The group appears to be breaking up, disappointed by the low turnout and a tangible general indifference. No one’s taking any notice of the demonstration, and the few pedestrians they do meet hurry away. An Arab, an arsonist … the group walks past the houses and stays in the shade of the trees lining the square, probably intimidated by the empty expanse in the centre. Montoya spots a tall woman with short, bleach-blonde hair cut in a bob, who holds herself upright and seems tougher than the others. A hunch, a bet: Stakhanova? There’s no harm in trying. The group speeds up, as if in a hurry to get the demonstration over with. Montoya slips on a leather coat and hurries after them. He catches them up in front of the town hall, where they are silently putting away the flags and starting to disperse, not even waiting for the return of the delegation that has gone inside to meet one of the mayor’s deputies. From behind he approaches the blonde woman, a tall silhouette in a fitted black wool coat and black boots. She’s smoking a cigarette with a calm elegance and talking to a man who is shorter than her, aged around fifty, heavy-set and solid.

‘Thank you, Mr Maréchal.’

A slightly husky voice reminiscent of a 1930s cabaret singer. Montoya shivers; the man leaves.

‘Ms Lepetit?’

She turns around, bright blue eyes, good bone structure, calm, regular features, a scar to the left of her upper lip. Definitely Stakhanova. Montoya’s surprised: beautiful, a very beautiful woman, a strong presence. I like that in a woman.

‘That’s me. What do you want?’

‘To buy you a drink. Is that possible?’

She finds herself looking at a slim, dark-haired man. He’s rather attractive, just my type, and a stranger around here. Not dragged down by the general misery. Whoever you are, for a fleeting moment, you’ll be a breath of fresh air. Smile.

‘It’s even welcome.’

There aren’t many cafes in Pondange, and most of the remaining few have been redecorated, sterilised, like the whole town. Rolande leads Montoya towards the lower town and walks into a cafe that still has a big zinc counter at the far end of a dark room with mirrors on the walls, solid timber tables and chairs, and a wide variety of beers chalked up on a slate. There are only two or three regulars at this hour. She sits down at a table by the window, unbuttons her coat, sighs and smiles. Stunning.

‘Tea with milk for me please, Simon.’

Montoya glances at the slate.

‘Sudden Death is just the drink for me.’

She rests her forearms on the table, leans on them and talks as if they were old friends.

‘The demo was very disappointing. A week ago, in the factory, there were two, three hundred of us, all standing together. Today in the square there were thirty of us, in disarray. It’s over. Luckily there are a few good people like Maréchal.’

The drinks arrive. Sudden Death is a lovely warm colour, a head that’s almost solid, cool droplets run down the glass. Rolande pours her tea, a drop of milk, warms her hands around the cup, her mind elsewhere. He resumes the conversation at random.

‘In the old days, the steelworkers had bigger demos.’

She jumps, her expression hard.

‘Not you too. I don’t like fairy tales. When I was sixteen, I worked for a small textiles factory ten kilometres from here, and it wasn’t unionised. We all went on strike over pay and conditions, and a delegation of us went to the local union in Pondange to ask if we could join. All the officials were steelworkers and they threw us out. They didn’t want to know a bunch of women, judging by what they had to say. Ever since that day …’

‘Don’t hold it against me, I’m not from around here.’

‘That’s what I thought. And that’s what I like about you. Now tell me why you invited me for this drink.’

‘I’m a journalist. I’m writing a special report on Daewoo, its various factories in France. I’m interested in the strike and the fire, but also all the issues to do with working conditions and safety in the factory.’

‘Which paper do you work for?’

‘Not a paper, for Agence France Presse. Our reports are sold to the newspapers. At the moment, with Daewoo taking over Thomson, there’s a lot of interest.’

‘Who gave you my name?’

‘A staff rep, All Amrouche.’

‘He’s a good man too, and a friend.’ Bitterly: ‘He wasn’t at the demo.’ Montoya refrains from asking: Are you surprised? She pours another cup of tea. ‘You’ve come to the right person. I can tell you about working conditions at Daewoo.’

She launches into the story of Émilienne’s accident. Montoya listens attentively, his gaze riveted by Rolande’s square hands, her slightly swollen fingers, the skin worn and marked, her nails cut short. They appear to feel every sentence, emphasising and punctuating her words. After Émilienne, the clash with Maréchal. He’s taken aback: the same Maréchal who was at the demonstration and who you said was a ‘good’ man? Mocking smile, yes, yes, the same Maréchal. She moves on to the account of her dismissal …

‘I heard it caused some controversy …’

Rolande sits up straight with a slight smile, her hands are folded on the table.

‘In any case Quignard, the new boss, reinstated me. It was worth it.’

‘A new boss? Isn’t it an odd time to change bosses?’

‘All the Koreans left after the fire, very quickly within forty-eight hours. Quignard took things in hand and in my opinion is doing a good job.’

Amrouche, Maréchal, Quignard, all good guys, yet she still has that Stakhanova manner. Be careful. Why is she standing up for Nourredine? Doesn’t she get it? She stops talking and slowly drinks her tea. A powerful memory from the day of the strike comes back to her. Aisha, her arms folded across her chest, her face white, describing the headless body, the emotion they all felt.

‘I’m not a very good talker. I’ll have to introduce you to my young neighbour, Aisha.’ Her fingers drum on the table. ‘It won’t be easy. She hasn’t set foot outside her flat since the strike.’

‘Why not?’

The hands open, spread, hesitate. ‘She’s very young, her father is a strict man who tends to be violent, the mother’s dead, the older brothers and sisters are married and have gone looking for work elsewhere. He’s stayed here, alone with her, he gets a steelworker’s pension, does nothing all day long. Like that for years, a man who’s still able-bodied, he finds it hard to accept. He was furious with her for going on strike. And since then she’s allowed herself to be shut up without protest. It’s not like her.’ She clasps her hands. ‘I haven’t seen her since. This would be a good opportunity.’

A silence as she lays her hand on top of Montoya’s, skin on skin, pressing down. Her hand is soft and rasping like her voice. Montoya shivers with an unexpected thrill. Careful. Let Stakhanova come to you.

Rolande says, ‘I like the way you listen. Calmly, not in a hurry. You make it easier for me to talk.’ He thinks dark thoughts … Even in the drug squad, my grasses talked more than other people’s, fat lot of good that did me …

‘Come, I’ll take you to my flat, it’s the only place where you’ll be able to meet Aisha.’

As Rolande leaves the cafe, she bumps into a short young man who is going in. On seeing her, he shrinks back.

‘Karim. You weren’t at the demo either.’

He stammers: ‘I couldn’t make it, Rolande.’

Montoya steps aside to let him pass and stares at him. Not striking, the key prosecution witness. Before leaving, he turns around and meets Karim’s eye in the mirror observing him, prying and anxious.

Cité des Jonquilles, staircase A, first floor. Rolande leaves Montoya outside on the landing for a few minutes. He hears a brief conversation on the other side of the door, Rolande and another female voice, sounds of washing-up, doors banging. Then she shows him into a pleasant and well-lit living room. She keeps it impeccably tidy, spick and span in fact. Two windows, creamy white walls, pale wood furniture. On the wall facing the windows, there’s a panoramic view of Venice as it appears when you arrive by sea, suspended between sky and lagoon, painted in blue and pink hues, the light of certain September mornings. A break in the wall, a break in life. A souvenir? A dream? Rolande motions him to sit in one of the three chintz armchairs facing the television while she goes and telephones in the hall, with the door closed. On a coffee table in front of him there’s a photo of a smiling teenage boy wearing a polo-necked jumper and some books that look as if they’re from a library.

Rolande comes back: Aisha will be here in a minute. She lives upstairs on the fourth floor.

Aisha arrives and the two women embrace. Rolande keeps her arms around her for a moment. ‘I’m so pleased to see you. We haven’t seen each other since the strike. How long is it? Ten days? It feels ages. How are you, Aisha?’

Aisha dismisses the question with a wave of her hand. Wan-faced, she stares at the floor and perches gingerly on the edge of the armchair facing Montoya. Rolande introduces him: a journalist friend (no more friend than journalist, thinks Montoya with irritation) who’s writing a series of articles about Daewoo, about our strike. ‘I couldn’t tell him much because I stayed in the cafeteria kitchen all the time.’ She breaks off, smiles at Montoya: ‘Onion and potato omelettes, Spanish-style. But you were all over the place, you can tell him about it.’ Aisha leans forward, hugging her chest.

‘It’s still so painful. Do we really have to go back over it?’

‘Yes, we have to talk about it. Something’s eating you up, I don’t know what. Take advantage of my friend’s presence (she stresses the word again), he’s not from around here, he’ll be gone in a few days and will listen to what you have to say.’

Montoya hears moaning from inside the apartment. The two women are unruffled. Aisha turns slightly towards Montoya, her eyes still lowered.

‘I’ve been working in the factory for six years. People who haven’t worked on the production line, like Rolande and me, can’t understand what happened to me. When our shift came out on strike we all started walking around the factory, freely, the bosses had disappeared. I thought I’d go mad with joy. I felt as though I existed. I thought it was easy, and that I was changing my life. I’d already heard people say that, on the radio, on TV: nothing will ever be the same again.’ Still tense and huddled up, she turns towards Rolande. ‘I decided there and then that I’d never return to my father’s house. And then, I met Étienne.’ Montoya glances at Rolande, she seems to know who he is so leave out the questions. He mustn’t interrupt Aisha who’s talking as if under hypnosis. ‘We slept together in the packaging workshop.’ Rolande puts her hand on Aisha’s arm and the girl smiles at her. ‘It wasn’t amazing, but it wasn’t terrible either. I felt as though I was breaking away from my father once and for all. You know what he’s like. It was the worst thing I could do to him. In my own way, I was doing everything I could so my life would be different.’

Aisha sighs, leans back in the armchair, then looks up and grows animated as she describes the arrival of the lorries, her elation, the overturned car, the occupation of the offices, the women becoming increasingly marginalised, wandering around the deserted factory.

‘I bumped into Étienne in the cafeteria and we went back to the packaging workshop.’ A little smile. ‘Much better than the first time. While we’re putting our clothes back on, Étienne hears a noise coming from the direction of the waste ground. He goes out of the back door to see what’s going on. I hear him yell: “What are you doing? Who are you? Stop! Stop!” and he comes back like a madman, grabs my arm and drags me to the cafeteria, running, and he keeps yelling, “Quick, quick, there’s a fire. I saw the guys who started it”.’

Rolande and Montoya look at each other. She’s surprised, he’s alert. He sits back, relaxed. Don’t forget, you’re not a cop. Journalist. Fragile girl. Discretion. Don’t ruin everything, this is the first link in the chain, and you’ve been here less than seven hours. Not bad going. Aisha continues. ‘Then we both ended up on the roundabout in front of the factory. Do you remember? A lot of people were crying. I was crying. I saw my dreams and my newfound freedom going up in smoke. Afterwards Ali Amrouche walked me back here. On the way, he gently talked to me about Étienne, without pressing the point. A married man with two kids and the worst skirt-chaser in the whole factory. I didn’t care, one guy or another, but I didn’t tell him that. Can you imagine how shocked Ali would have been? He came up to see my father, told him about the strike, the occupation, and why I hadn’t come home at the usual time, without a word about Étienne. Very proper. The old man didn’t say anything but I think he understood the whole thing. I left the two of them and went to bed. The next morning, the old man didn’t beat me, but he said I wasn’t to leave the flat until Daewoo went back to work. And I’ve been there until this evening.’ Now, she’s very relaxed, almost smiling.

‘In a way, I felt protected, I was taking time to heal. When I’m ready, I’ll leave this town and this life.’

Leave. The word fills the room as they listen respectfully. From another room in the flat, the groaning has given way to snoring. Montoya turns to Rolande.

‘This Étienne speaks of several arsonists, strangers by the sound of it. Can’t he testify to clear your friend who’s in prison?’

‘No. He’s dead.’

Montoya feels a shudder run up his spine. The violent smell of blood like in the old days. A host of forgotten, repressed sensations suddenly come flooding back. I wouldn’t have believed it was still possible.

‘How did he die?’

‘An accident. The day after the fire, he was walking through the woods from his place, on the housing estate on the plateau, to Pondange. He probably took the wrong path and fell down a rocky slope. He broke his neck.’

‘Was he alone when this accident happened?’

‘Yes. Alone. His wife had taken the car as usual. She works in a supermarket in Briey.’

Hold on a minute. A young man catches arsonists in the act one evening, and has a fatal fall while walking alone in the woods the next morning. Nothing more natural? Aren’t Stakhanova and her friend acting just a bit too naive? Montoya turns back to Aisha, who seems very calm in her armchair.

‘Did you know about this?’

‘Yes.’ She sounds almost indifferent. ‘Ali phoned to tell me before the funeral.’

‘Were you the only person who heard him say: “I saw the guys who started the fire”?’

‘No. Why?’ She seems surprised by the question. ‘When we were all on the roundabout during the fire, he was telling everyone. He went on and on about it but nobody took any notice.’

‘It’s true now you come to mention it. I remember hearing him, but it didn’t sink in at the time.’

Astounding, this Stakhanova, thinks Montoya.

‘We were all in shock. And completely spellbound by the fire … Besides, Étienne was off his head and nobody was taking any notice of what he was saying.’

‘Off his head. In what way?’

Aisha darts Rolande an embarrassed look.

‘When I met him in the cafeteria, in the late afternoon, he’d come back from the offices, which he’d occupied with the others. He was telling everyone that while playing on one of the managers’ computers, he’d come across bank statements from banks in Luxembourg …’ Another glance at Rolande, who still doesn’t move a muscle. ‘Accounts in the names of Nourredine, Amrouche and Maréchal. And you too, Rolande. Accounts into which Daewoo paid huge sums of money.’

Rolande jumps and the colour drains from her cheeks.

‘I’ve never been paid a cent more than my wages. What on earth are you talking about?’

‘What he was saying was all very muddled. He was talking about millions, it wasn’t clear if he was talking about old francs, new francs or some other currency, he didn’t seem to know himself …’

‘And how did people react?’

‘Nobody believed him, and because he kept on and on saying the same thing, everyone thought he was off his head.’ Aisha stops, a smile on her face, the memory of the magic desk, the spliff in the dark. ‘He often smoked dope, everyone knew, so naturally they didn’t take any notice. But he really did see the guys who started the fire.’

‘We’ll have to get to the bottom of this bank account business. I can’t have rumours like that going around.’

Montoya’s no longer listening to the two women. He’s picturing the managers’ offices emptied of all their computer equipment, their files, moved out in a hurry. One thing he’s certain of: This is the second link in the chain.

‘Was there anyone with Étienne in the manager’s office when he was playing on the computer?’

‘I have no idea. There were at least twenty people involved in the occupation but I didn’t stay. I don’t know what went on.’

Montoya remembers security guard Schnerb’s statement: the alarm was raised at 21.43 hours with no mention of who raised it or how.

‘Did Étienne raise the alarm throughout the factory?’

‘Yes, straight away. We went back to the cafeteria together, and he ran to the porter’s lodge to tell the security guards to call the fire brigade.’

The true importance of security guard Schnerb’s statement is beginning to emerge. It is vital to find out more about this company, 3G.

Late afternoon and darkness has already fallen over the valley when Quignard leaves the empty offices. He smokes the one cigar he allows himself during the day. In the big Mercedes, cigar in mouth, he skims the international press. Very favourable reactions to the privatisation of Thomson, praise for Lagardère and Kim, the Daewoo bosses, modern-day heroes. When this business is completely sewn up, he too will be one of the big boys. He’ll see his own name in large print in the financial press. He daydreams. His driver’s mobile phone rings.

‘For you, Mr Quignard. It’s Mr Tomaso. Will you take it?’ Quignard nods and takes the phone.

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t know whether this is good news or bad news, but we’ve found your man Park in Warsaw.’ A silence. Quignard does not react. ‘My men photographed him — you’ll have the prints tomorrow morning — but as far as I’m concerned, there’s no room for doubt, it’s him.’

‘So we need to prepare for war?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘Don’t lose him, Daniel. We must be able to act under all circumstances.’

‘Understood. You know my rates.’

Montoya gets into his car, drives for some ten kilometres and parks in the middle of the countryside with the lights switched off. A few moments without moving, in the dark, to gather his thoughts. The seat tilts back, he makes himself breathe slowly, deeply. Oxygenate the brain. I’m making progress. Exciting, even in Pondange, even a minor case. To sum up: during the strike, the bosses try to remove some of the computers and fail. While the offices are occupied and the computers are in the hands of the strikers, a fire breaks out. This means immediate evacuation and the next day, or even that same night‚ the computers are taken away and hidden by 3G. Conclusion: those computers contain evidence that there’s something dodgy going on at Daewoo. That’s too vague a conclusion to be much use to me. More specifically: Étienne Neveu had time to play on one of the computers and came across a list of names of employees who hold bank accounts in Luxembourg. Am I certain that these accounts exist? For the time being, I’ve only got one source and an indirect report. Neveu could have invented the story about the arsonists and the Luxembourg accounts. But he didn’t invent his broken neck. That confirms all the rest. So, I’ll work on the hypothesis that these Luxembourg accounts exist. What for? No idea. They are in various names. Apparently Neveu mentioned Nourredine, Amrouche, Rolande Lepetit, Maréchal. There are probably others. Could they be willing front men? Rolande claims not to know anything about it. If we believe her, why use names of company employees? It makes no sense. Further probing needed. Find out whether Neveu was the only one to have seen the lists, and if I can find any trace of them.

Another lead, the dope. I already had the Hakims, the traffickers, and Bouziane, the dealer. Now I’ve got Bouziane the dealer, witness for the prosecution, and Neveu the consumer, the witness who’s both a nuisance and the victim. There’s every likelihood they knew each other well. I’ll keep anything to do with drugs to myself for the time being in case Valentin’s manipulating the Hakim brothers. Can’t be too careful. Montoya brings his seat back to the upright position. Now it’s time to call Valentin.

Over the telephone Valentin sounds relaxed. Montoya takes advantage of this to be a little more forthcoming.

‘Things are moving fast here. You thought it would be quieter than in Tangier. That’s not so sure. A young worker who saw the arsonists was murdered the following morning.’

‘What do the police say?’

‘Accidental death, apparently. No post-mortem. A mixture of incompetence, compromise and autosuggestion. The accident hypothesis seems to suit everyone.’

‘The joys of provincial France. What about you, what do you say?’

‘We already have a deliberate fire and a murder. I’ve also found signs of false accounting. Only signs, no evidence yet. But there’s absolutely no doubt that Daewoo is a real mess. First of all, we have to find out what sort of mess before fabricating one of our own from start to finish.’

‘That sounds reasonable. May I simply remind you that we have barely three weeks at the most. And I need evidence, of course.’

‘I’m very optimistic.’

‘Meanwhile I’ve got some interesting news too. 3G is registered at 2 Avenue des Érables in Nancy and the company is owned by Daniel Tomaso, ex-Foreign Legion, former mercenary, whose last playground was Croatia, in 1991. Officially 3G provides security guards for factories, and its clients include nearly all the factory owners in the valley of Pondange. It also handles security for political meetings, with customers ranging from the regional council to the various local political parties, mainly but not exclusively right-wing, and it has a garage specialising in limo hire whose drivers also double as bodyguards. Its biggest customers in this area are the European Commission and EU circles in Brussels. The firm’s thriving but it also has less official sources of income. Its biggest profits come from the trafficking of stolen cars to Poland and Russia. And probably also from drug trafficking.’ Montoya’s mind goes into overdrive. ‘But my informers can’t be sure of that as yet.’ A lull. ‘You’re very quiet?’ Montoya groans. ‘Even more interesting, 3G recruits local staff but it also acts as a haven for hardcore French and German mercenaries at a loose end between contracts.’

‘Pheeew … An army of potential arsonists and hitmen if need be.’

‘Precisely. And lastly, Tomaso’s official mistress is a Croat he brought back with him. She runs a brothel in Nancy, more or less disguised as a swingers’ club, the Oiseau Bleu. It’s frequented by all the local bigwigs and some of their wives, cheap thrills guaranteed. In short, the whole works.’ A silence. ‘Coming across a character like this Tomaso in the environs of Daewoo Pondange doesn’t make it the centre of the universe, nor does it make your investigation central to my case, but I take back what I said about your mission being a rest cure.’ Another silence. ‘I’m aware that you know your job, Montoya, but watch out with customers like this. Suicides happen so easily.’

‘Don’t worry. Good night.’

Back to the nocturnal quiet. The key thing is to find the man in charge of the dodgy operations at Daewoo. The one in contact with Tomaso. My money’s on Quignard, because I don’t trust his type, but I don’t have a shred of evidence, and I can’t afford to make any mistakes on that score. It’s beginning to get cold in this car, time to move. And it just so happens that the road ahead of me leads to Nancy.

Jean-Louis Robin cruises slowly down the barely lit Avenue des Acacias where vague shapes in the bushes of the Bois de Boulogne beckon him. He can’t help but blush, so looks away. He turns off down a pitch dark, narrow twisting road, opens his window and stops about a hundred metres from the junction without turning the engine off. He’s been in the habit of meeting Alicia here for months. A tall figure in a fur coat and high heels leans in, elbows resting on the door, face heavily made-up, wide mouth with well-defined lips. She caresses the nape of his neck.

‘Hi there, handsome blond, Alicia’s not here. Rounded up by the police.’ He reaches for the gear stick ready to drive off, but she restrains him with a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t panic, things are quiet now, and Alicia asked me to take care of you this evening.’

She straightens up, steps back a couple of paces and opens her coat. She’s naked. He groans. A magnificent slender body with clean hard lines and smooth bronzed skin. Long slim legs, narrow hips, broad shoulders, a pair of generous silicon-enhanced breasts whose erect nipples he can almost feel cupped in his hands, and a man’s cock. Balls and cock displayed invitingly, hairless, in the hollow of her thighs. She walks towards the car without bending, all he can see is the flat stomach, the cock. His hand moves, brushes the cock, the round balls whose skin tautens.

‘Open up, handsome blond.’

The voice is authoritative. He groans again. She walks round the car, gets in and sits beside him, holding her coat open.

‘You can touch a little, to get you in the mood.’ She takes his hand and places it on her hot, throbbing cock, makes him caress it. ‘But I don’t fuck in cars. Especially not tonight with the cops on heat. I’ve got a studio flat near here, Rue du Docteur Blanche.’ She leans towards his ear, and licks it as she murmurs: ‘The lift goes directly up from the underground car park, discretion guaranteed.’ Nibbles his ear. ‘Alicia told me you like it up the arse from behind, dressed as a woman. Can you feel my cock swelling?’ Bites his earlobe. ‘You won’t forget me, I’m stricter than Alicia.’

Hard to miss the Oiseau Bleu on the Nancy ring road, it stands out for miles around. It occupies a small three-storey building and the façade is painted with frescos depicting a tropical forest filled with multicoloured birds and lit up by flashing blue neon lights. No naked girls on display, notes Montoya. No bouncers on the door either. He enters the building. A vast lobby done out in red velvet and dark wood where two gorgeous young women in simple, figure-hugging long black dresses greet and seat the clients. On the ground floor are the bar, with its ambiance of an English private club, and the restaurant specialising in French cuisine. The hostesses hand guests the menu. In the basement is the nightclub with a striptease show, frequented by a clientele that’s into swinging, the hostesses warn. This is reflected in the admission charge, especially for a man on his own. And upstairs? The private lounges are only available on reservation. Montoya realises that he’s starving, but chooses the nightclub where there’s probably more action.

He goes down a big, brightly-lit, white stone spiral staircase to a cloakroom with a heavy, perfectly soundproof padded door. It closes behind him, and he is immediately plunged into a world of deafening, monotonous techno music, flashing golden strobes and a warm darkness filled with cloying smells. A few moments to adjust before he’s able to make out a large rectangular room with pillars supporting the ceiling. In the centre, a dance floor. On two sides, alcoves with cushions, some with curtains drawn. And on the other two sides, a bar, tables where guests can sit, relax and have a drink before re-entering the fray.

To keep things hot there are four pole-dancers in thongs on a podium in the middle of the tables. Nancy, US-style. Montoya takes refuge at the bar and orders a brandy. Sniffs it. Not bad. Warms it. Good even. Whatever happens, his evening won’t be completely wasted. His eyes begin to adjust to the dark. There are a lot of people already on the dance floor, with at least fifty, skimpily-dressed women, not all hookers. Not far from him, seated at a table on the edge of the dance floor is a group of five young — or youngish — men. They’re all tall and well-built, with close-cropped hair, tight-fitting T-shirts and tattoos. They’re joking and drinking among themselves like a sports team playing away. The mercenaries. It was a good idea to come here.

While there could be wives in the room, the girls hanging around the bar are all hookers hanging out for punters. Another brandy. Montoya leans towards the barman and says loudly enough to make himself heard above the techno beat: ‘Do you know if Mr Quignard is here tonight? I’m looking for him and I can’t see him.’ The barman glances distractedly around the room.

‘I can’t see him either, sir.’

‘He told me he’d be here. I was hoping to meet him …’

The barman lets the conversation die. Montoya turns back to face the room. A buxom blonde in pastel pink and blue, skirt slit to the waist and a tight top with a plunging neckline, comes over to him and lays a hand on his arm.

‘I’m Deborah. Anyone who’s a friend of my friend Quignard is a friend of mine. He’s not here tonight. If he were, I’d know. But you can take his place.’

‘I can try.’

‘He usually starts with a bottle of champagne.’

Montoya signals to the barman, picks up the bottle in an ice bucket and two glasses, and they go and sit at a vacant table on the edge of the dance floor. The barman gazes after them. A few metres away one of the mercenaries is dancing with a couple. He’s removed his T-shirt and is showing off his scars, a star-shaped hole in his left shoulder and a long, straight, clean line on his chest, near the heart. The evidence of his mistakes, of his professional errors, thinks Montoya. The woman dancer, a somewhat insipid dark-haired woman in her forties, runs her finger over them, as if tracing a new map of Love. The handsome mercenary is wearing a very long white silk scarf around his neck which he uses to lasso the woman, moving her between the husband and himself.

‘Pour a drink my friend, and don’t forget about me.’

Montoya slides a hand inside her top, pops out a nipple and bites it playfully.

‘How could I forget you, madam?’

She laughs. ‘Quignard isn’t so imaginative.’ She loosens Montoya’s tie and unbuttons his shirt. ‘Let’s go and dance.’

A chore. Montoya moves as little as possible and in the darkness concentrates on trying not to lose contact with Quignard’s friend who goes wild to the beat of the music, both breasts now bouncing free. Montoya has to raise his voice loudly to make himself heard.

‘Quignard told me he’s very friendly with the owner of the Oiseau Bleu.’

A wink. ‘That’s true.’

‘Have they known each other long?’

‘I’ve been here for six months and I always see them together.’

A man has slipped between the girl and him, Montoya is yanked violently back and tripped up. He falls on to some cushions to find the man with the white scarf leaning over him. He looks more intimidating from this angle. The Incredible Hulk personified grabs his shirt collar with one hand and plants him back on his feet with no apparent effort. Another mercenary draws the curtains around the alcove, frisks him, finds his ID, reads it and tells the Hulk, with a grimace: ‘Journalist.’ Montoya tries to keep both men in his field of vision. The ringleader shakes him.

‘Why are you asking about Quignard? What do you want of Quignard, eh?’

Think fast. A suicide can happen so easily. Maximum concentration.

‘I don’t want anything. Just to have a bit of fun with a girl, like everyone else here, right?’ The second man has come to stand beside his chief, blocking the entrance to the alcove. My back’s clear, now’s my chance. Fuck you.

The chief swings back his arm and delivers a blow fit to stun an ox. Montoya ducks it by rotating his body slightly around the hand gripping his collar, then follows through his attacker’s movement with both arms, knocking him off balance. As he topples forward Montoya lunges and knees him in the groin. A howl. Then an explosion. Pitch darkness. The world quakes. Montoya is lifted in the air as his opponent seems to have disintegrated, and lands flat on his back under a hail of rubble. His chest crushed, he pants in shallow breaths, the thick air feels like burning dust in his lungs. A bloody face, sticky at the corners of his mouth, under his hand. Total blackout. Blind? A plane engine roars in his head. Deaf? A reflex: get away. Crawl. A wall. Stands up. Stays upright. Feels like laughing, one thought: Get out of here. Follow the wall. Stumbles. Obstacles. Go round them, push them away. Soft moving masses, bodies? Step over. Legs feeling stronger and stronger. Taste of blood in his mouth. The staircase. Still in the dark. Several people trying to get out. A crush. At last, the street, fresh air, breathe, breathe, hiccup, spit, choke. No, he’s not blind, he can make out, behind a haze, the illuminated street, the façade of the Oiseau Bleu with its tropical forest intact. He makes a rapid inventory of his wounds. He can walk, he can breathe, blood on his face, running down his neck, superficial wounds to his head. Vaguely hears the sirens of the fire engines getting closer. Not deaf either. For now, don’t try and understand, grab your chance and get the hell out. Things were turning nasty down there. 25 October

Quignard finds the usual pile of national dailies on the back seat of his waiting Mercedes. They are folded over twice, and inside them is a set of clearly contrasted black-and-white photos. Without the least shade of doubt they show Park walking into the head office of Daewoo Poland; Park emerging and walking down the street; Park seated at a table in a cafe opposite a stranger; then Park coming out of a residential apartment block. There’s even a photo of him in pyjamas, standing at a bedroom window, opening the shutters. You can see the unmade bed. A calm man, always alone, going freely about his business, not in any way trying to hide. Worrying or reassuring? That remains to be seen: no choice. Tomaso the indispensable. The man of the moment.

He glances quickly at the headlines. One on page six of Libération catches his eye: “The law hits Lagardère in the wallet.” He skims the article: “The holding company’s payment system … a shareholder filed a complaint four years ago … legal proceedings have just concluded with Jean-Luc Lagardère being charged with the misuse of company money.”

Quignard settles back in his seat, torn between relief and anxiety. Lagardère’s tough enough to weather this kind of attack. Proceedings that dragged on for four years now reaching their climax … the competition is pulling out all the stops. When will it be our turn? With a loose cannon like Park roaming around just to make things worse … Yes, definitely, Tomaso is indispensable.

Mid-morning Quignard’s driver comes into his office.

‘Mr Tomaso’s just called me. He asked me to inform you that there was an explosion at the Oiseau Bleu last night.’ Quignard freezes. ‘As yet nobody knows what type of explosion or how it occurred. The boss is at the scene this morning, with the police.’

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:

Last nighty‚ around three a.m., a mysterious explosion caused major damage to the premises of the Oiseau Bleu, the well-known Nancy nightclub. Was it accidental or deliberate? The state prosecutor, who has opened an investigation, is keeping an open mind. Some fifty casualties were treated at Nancy hospital, around thirty people have been kept in, but nobody is in a critical condition and there were no deaths. The Oiseau Bleu remains closed for the time being.

He turns off the radio and meticulously puts on a beige silk and cotton mix shirt. He does the buttons up slowly, one by one. Quignard is embroiled in this for sure. He had numerous opportunities to meet Tomaso in Brussels or in the valley. His car and driver? Check them out No tie, no appointments that require one. What about Tomaso? He remembers Valentin’s words: It’s a case that requires intelligence, skill and imagination, lots of imagination. Black trousers, checks the crease, impeccable, black leather belt with a polished steel buckle. Give your imagination free rein. Tomaso is probably involved in the drug business, the secret services reckon, but it’s not proven. So, it’s recent, otherwise they’d know for sure. He has access to the ideal network of dealers through his drivers and bodyguards. They know the consumers who are loaded and have dealings with the concierges in the big hotels. Woollen cardigan in a slightly darker beige than the shirt. And the factory security guards in another sector of the market. Black lace-up shoes, English leather. If he wants to get involved in drugs, either he goes into business with those who are already there, or he ousts them and takes their place. Initially, he teams up with the Hakims. Then he takes advantage of his connection with Quignard and the local big shots to have them arrested. They take their revenge by blowing up the Oiseau Bleu. A moderate explosion: they’re still in the negotiation phase. It all stacks up. A final touch of the comb to disguise the gashes as best he can. There’s still Bouziane. He fits into this somehow, but I don’t know how. He looks at himself in the mirror. That’ll do. I’d better move fast. It won’t take Tomaso and Quignard more than twenty-four hours to exchange notes and identify me. Keep on thinking. Bouziane isn’t one of the security guard mafia. What emerges from the initial evidence against him is that he’s been a small-time dealer for years, and everyone knows it. So Bouziane works with the Hakims. Tomaso and Quignard both used him, one to bring down the Hakims, the other to finger him as the arsonist. It still holds up. Montoya slips on his black leather jacket. He feels on top form.

Montoya’s having a couscous in a little restaurant in Pondange, sitting at the table next to Amrouche, with whom he’s quickly struck up a conversation. A journalist looking for first-hand accounts of the Daewoo strike. Amrouche could have gone on for ever. Particularly on the subject of the occupation of the offices, in which he claims to have played a leading role. Sentimental, lost, hurt, with a profound hatred of Nourredine. Extraordinary how readily people talk. They need to tell someone about their traumatic experience, and not many people around here seem prepared to listen. But Montoya’s a good listener. Chuffed, Amrouche invites him to drop into his new office to see him whenever he likes. The next conversation, scheduled later that afternoon, will probably be much more difficult.

Rossellini’s singing loudly in the shower. His daily game of tennis, and he’s never played better. He beat one of his usual partners hollow. Robin, who was not in good shape. So perhaps not so surprising. Dresses quickly. The game ahead is likely to be much harder. Pillbox, a little blue pill. Sure of himself. Barely a quarter of an hour left to grab a salad and a coffee at the clubhouse before going back to the office.

Robin’s waiting for him at a table by the window. Rossellini looks him over. Tall, slim, fair-haired, a graduate of ENA, the prestigious École Nationale d’Administration, a state councillor getting on for fifty, and a member of the French stock exchange regulatory body: an excellent track record you could say. But he lacks ambition and is stagnating in the civil service. And he’s a practising Catholic, married, father of six. Unlucky.

Rossellini sits down at the table and places on it an orange cardboard file which he slides towards Robin. A thrill of excitement, then he attacks the tomato and mozzarella salad in front of him. Robin half opens the file, a packet of large-format photos. The first one shows a close-up of his own face wearing a dark wig, his face caked with make-up, all smudged. His mouth is open, his eyes closed, in the throes of orgasm. Retches. How could he look so ugly? And standing over him, the drag queen from the night before, hands on his hips, fucking his arse. Closes the file, ashen. Pours himself a big glass of water, drinks it slowly, his eyes half closed. He looks up at Rossellini, who’s almost finished his tomato and mozzarella salad.

‘You astound me, Philippe, I thought I knew you …’

‘Am I entitled to say the same to you?’

Weak smile. ‘The ENA old boys’ network isn’t what people think. So what’s this all about?’

‘Today or tomorrow, courtesy of the Financial Securities Committee, you’ll be receiving at your office around ten anonymous letters drawing your attention to the fluctuations of Matra share prices at the time its takeover of Thomson was announced.’

‘These fluctuations have not escaped the Financial Securities Committee’s attention. But we can’t see Lagardère becoming involved in this type of operation for the time being.’

‘Lagardère, no. But his partner in the operation, Kim, the Daewoo boss? What was to stop him speculating on Matra shares? Do you know who Kim is?’

Robin finishes eating his warm goat’s cheese on a bed of dandelion leaves. He chews meticulously, down to the last crumb, his gaze darting back and forth from his plate to the hardbound file. Then he puts down his knife and fork, wipes his mouth and gives a long sigh.

‘Very well. I expect the prints and the negatives as soon as the investigation starts.’

‘Of course.’

He rises. ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry today. No time for coffee. Sorry I played so badly, I was a bit tired. Rough night, work, worries …’

And he smiles, picks up the orange file as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and walks out, leaving Rossellini to pick up the bill. Classy, you’ve got to hand it to him. And the wild sex, who’d have believed it? Rossellini feels a pang of jealousy. Flashback: Valentin, we’ll cross-check my contacts and yours. You’ll see, you’ll be surprised. This is probably only the beginning. He’s about to get an insight into Kim’s crooked system. He’ll have to probe deep and rummage around. Life is assuming unexpected colours. A ray of sunshine on his back as he extends his legs, let the pressure relax, savour the moment. Blackmail: a new sport that gives him a thrill and a great deal of pleasure.

The door half opens.

‘Mrs Neveu?’

‘Mm …’

A wall of suspicion. Montoya puts his shoulder to the door and shoves, flashing his press pass.

‘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.’

‘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?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’ll make our job easier. Tomorrow evening I’m sending you an expert in phone-tapping and bugging. Find a way of getting him into Quignard’s office tomorrow night. He and I will take care of the rest. Call me back tomorrow afternoon so I can fix up a meeting.’ Montoya exhales, I’m still in. Valentin hesitates for a moment. ‘In the meantime, your instructions stay the same: watch out.’

‘Goodbye, chief.’

In the meantime, I’m off to fuck Stakhanova.

Montoya has a date with Rolande. Dinner in Brussels. They could have gone somewhere closer, but it was her idea, and she seemed keen on it. ‘If you want a good night out, you can’t go to Metz or Nancy, only Brussels will do,’ she said. ‘It’s more cheerful, more lively, a capital city.’ She’s standing waiting for him on the pavement in front of the Cité des Jonquilles estate. She’s a tall figure in a severe, well-cut grey wool suit, the black overcoat flung around her shoulders in a casual fashion, carefully contrived. As she stands immobile beneath a lamp post, smoking, her light helmet of bleached hair cut in a bob is eyecatching. Hard to say what it is that makes her a beauty. Men’s eyes are drawn to Rolande in the way that the spotlight loves some actresses. When he pulls up, she throws away her cigarette, slides inside the car, and slams the door.

‘Let’s get out of here quickly, you never know. If they catch up with us …’

When the car moves into the fast lane she sighs, loosens her overcoat, stretches out her legs in her beautiful black leather boots, and turns to Montoya.

‘So you’ve got your article on the strike, thanks to my friend’s story.’

Montoya concentrates on the road so as not to miss the Brussels turn-off.

‘More or less. I’m still looking for more information about this and that.’

‘I’m always amazed when she finally opens her mouth. I don’t know where she gets her strength from. It’s as though her words come from her gut and have the texture of flesh.’

She fiddles with the radio and soon finds a Belgian station that plays popular, all-purpose disco music which she seems to like. She hums along. Montoya returns to the subject.

‘Did you notice that Aisha mentioned several arsonists, most likely people unknown to Étienne Neveu?’

‘Of course.’ Pointing: ‘Turn right. There, now it’s straight ahead to Brussels.’ Silence for a while. ‘I’d never have thought of asking her to talk about her experience of the strike if you hadn’t been there. I don’t know, perhaps I assumed it had been the same for all of us so there was no point talking about it. I was very taken aback.’

Montoya stares into the rear-view mirror.

‘What she says clears your friend, this Nourredine who’s in prison. But will she agree to testify, to tell the police, the judges, the whole of Pondange, what she told us yesterday?’

‘Announce to her father and to the whole town: I slept with Étienne Neveu during the strike? I wouldn’t bet on it. Though I already talked to her about it today and I think she’ll come round. She needs a little time. The day when she does that, she’ll be free. She knows it, and wants it.’

He feels like telling her: If your friend agrees to testify, she won’t be free, she’ll be in danger of being killed. Étienne Neveu was murdered because he saw the men who started the fire. He looks at her. Relaxed and happy. Brussels is a long way away. If you explode this bombshell in her face, you’ve blown it. You won’t get any more out of her. He decides not to.

‘What kind of man was Étienne Neveu?’

‘I don’t really know. A skirt-chaser, for sure, but you know, men and women hardly mixed at the factory.’

‘Did he have any friends?’

‘No idea.’

‘Did he know Karim Bouziane?’

‘I really don’t know.’ She thinks. ‘They’re quite similar, the pair of them. Why are you asking me that question?’

He avoids answering. ‘If Nourredine didn’t start the fire, then who did, in your opinion?’ She suddenly looks pensive.

‘It was a strange outfit, Daewoo. I say “was” because I don’t believe it’ll ever re-open. Amrouche is already trying to find alternative employment for as many people as possible. An odd outfit.’ Her hands caress the dashboard, wipe away an imaginary speck of dust. ‘The atmosphere was weird. Not easy to put into words. There were huge numbers of Korean managers, too many for that kind of operation, and you never knew where they were or what they were doing. At first, it used to make Maréchal furious, then he calmed down. The workers turned up when and if they felt like it and the production lines carried on, even if the shift was short-staffed. Safety levels were a disaster, with the highest accident rate in the region. Even though we were handling hazardous chemicals, nobody gave a damn. The same went for the quality of the products. No real quality control. In my opinion, what we produced was pretty much worthless.’ Her hands flutter and hesitate, in front of the windscreen swallowing up the road. ‘The workers were all very young. For a lot of them, it was their first job, it all seemed normal to them. But I … it’s as though the whole factory was a stage set, and we were acting in a play without understanding what it was about …’

Montoya sees another woman, poised over her Murmure in the bar at the Lutétia. She belongs in another world and comes from a different perspective but, while speaking a different language in different tones, she says more or less the same thing: the factory was a front for money laundering and embezzlement. The weight of two overlapping views. The weight of Rolande’s hand on his arm.

‘… It’s almost as though the director had had enough and set fire to the theatre. I like that idea. Besides, the Korean managers vanished into thin air like extras after the show.’ She smiles. ‘Or you could also imagine that the audience burned the whole place down, enraged at the sight of the actors’ rebellion.’ She rubs her hands together. ‘You can imagine anything.’ She dreams for a moment, leaning against the door, looking out at the road, absently listening to the disco songs which keep on thumping out. ‘It’s funny, I almost said: you can hope for anything.’

‘Rolande, may I ask you a question?’

‘Of course.’

‘Aren’t you intrigued by those lists of bank accounts in Luxembourg that Neveu was talking about and on which your name appears?’

‘Of course I am.’ Silence. Her hands smooth her trouser pleats. ‘I went and asked Quignard for an explanation this morning.’ Montoya’s hands clench the steering wheel. He concentrates on overtaking an articulated lorry. ‘Maréchal was there, he also …’

She allows a silence to set in.

‘Maréchal, the foreman?’

‘Yes.’ A hand flutters, seeking a word. ‘A brute. I slapped him after Émilienne’s accident.’ Her hand pauses on the armrest, caressing it. ‘But he’s also a man who respects the worker, and a man I respect in return.’

He respects the worker. A covert glance at Rolande’s profile. No trace of irony. The last witness of a vanished world, Atlantis, or not far off. She continues: ‘Well, I did have respect for him until today.’

‘Do he and Quignard know each other?’

‘Very well. They used to work in the same steelworks. That creates a bond and they’ve remained very close. Quignard listens to what Maréchal tells him. They may not be friends, because now Quignard’s a boss and Maréchal’s still a foreman, just a glorified worker, but they’re very close.’ She turns to him, looks at him, hesitates, makes up her mind. ‘I’m convinced Maréchal and Quignard knew about the lists of bank accounts. They merely asked who’d told me. And then Quignard threw me out, like a little girl who’s slightly simple. If Maréchal’s in on it, he’s also …’

‘Did you mention Aisha to them?’

‘No.’ Montoya’s relieved, a few days’ respite. ‘I have a very funny feeling. The factory isn’t a factory, it’s a stage set. Quignard isn’t a concerned boss, he’s a crook. And you, you’re no journalist, but I won’t ask who you are for the time being. As for me, I’m no longer a factory worker.’

Montoya reclines against the seat and sighs. It feels as if relations with Rolande are suddenly becoming very simple. She isn’t, or has ceased being, Stakhanova. And he doesn’t have to act the journalist any more, but that doesn’t stop him from continuing to brood. If Maréchal knows about those damn lists, how to tackle him without Quignard finding out about it straight away? A glance at Rolande’s profile. Interconnected networks, utterly impenetrable as far as he’s concerned, vaguely exotic, no further away than the next street. You can live your whole life without setting foot inside a factory. At last, the outskirts of Brussels. Rolande smiles at him.

Once in Brussels and with the car parked, she places her hand on his shoulder as they enter Léon’s: ‘Enough. We’re not going to talk about the factory any more.’

He follows her through a maze of staircases and dining rooms, amid the smell of mussels and chips and the waiters bustling about. In a cosy low-ceilinged dining room on the first floor, painted a cheerful orange and yellow, they sit at a window table overlooking a narrow street swarming with people. Mussels and chips for both of them, and a Sudden Death for him, Perrier for her. She attacks her mussels with impressive gusto.

‘What about that big photo of Venice, in the living room? Have you ever been to Venice?’ The question delights Rolande.

‘No, I haven’t, unfortunately. I’ve never been anywhere. I was born in Pondange, like my mother and my grandmother. My mother’s dependent on me, and dependent is the word. Yesterday evening you pretended not to hear the groans and the snoring from the next room, because you’re well brought up. I’d double-locked my mother in the end room, because she was drunk out of her skull, to stop her making a scene. I was already picking her up off the kitchen floor when I was ten. I can never leave her alone in the evenings or at night. This evening Aisha’s going to drop by to put her to bed. I’m not going to make a big deal of it, she’s my mother. I look after her, it’s only natural, but it’s hard work.’ She licks her fingers. ‘I’m going to have another plate of chips, with mayonnaise. And I’ve got a son. I’ve sent him to a boarding school run by Jesuits in Metz. I had no other option. He works hard, takes his baccalaureate in two years’ time. But I miss him a lot. In the evenings, when I come home from work, I’d like to hug him, cook special meals for him. And the boarding school’s costing me more and more.’ She stops, suddenly serious. ‘That’s why being reinstated mattered so much to me. I get back my entitlements, my allowances, time to look for another job …’

‘We said we wouldn’t talk about the factory any more.’

‘We did.’ She rests her chin on her two fists, her eyes wide, and smiles at him. ‘My travels are my lovers, as you see. Always casual affairs. Can’t take the risk of anyone wanting to tie me down. With my mother and my son, I’ve got enough on my plate.’

He returns her smile.

‘From what I understand, I belong to the category of those who wouldn’t tie you down, so I’m in with a chance. I’m very pleased. But what about Venice?’

‘I’ve already talked a lot. Now it’s your turn. Journalist or whatever, you must travel a lot. Tell me about a city that’ll give me something to dream about.’

Dream, nightmare, city, Tangier, a recurring memory these days. He looks at Rolande, a woman who quietly gets on with life without making a fuss. You’re not going to start crying? And he tells her about the old city clinging to the rocks, white, the intense light burning your eyes, the sumptuous villas from another era, a little dilapidated and their gardens tumbling down to the sea, or the ocean shores where, you never know, people can take refuge at night, in the cool air, to smoke kif under the bougainvillaea. And that morning when the sea washed dozens of plastic sachets filled with cocaine on to the rocks. The whole city went fishing and went crazy with music, singing, dancing, one long party that lasted for twenty-four hours until the US secret services turned up at dawn to take charge of things, as the Moroccan police lacked motivation and were already well stoned. They gathered up what was left and burned it in the boiler of a freighter in the port. It gave off a suffocating black smoke, in front of hundreds of children gathered on the quayside, silently weeping.

She’s enjoying this, he’s brilliant. In his memory, Tangier changes colour.

‘What about Venice? I’m not going to let you avoid my question.’

‘The photo was a goodbye present from an Italian, a Venetian. I was very young. I thought he was very handsome. He’s the father of my son. Thanks to him, I broke the curse on my family: single mothers, from mother to daughter, for generations. But I had a boy, the chain of misery is broken. For me, Venice is the pearl in life’s ocean.’

The desserts arrive: copious, plumed mountains of cream studded with garish colours. Montoya orders a brandy to wash it down.

The bill. He helps her on with her coat.

‘Let’s walk to the Grand’Place.’

He takes her arm, she leans against him. She’s almost as tall as he is. They walk hip to hip, their rhythmic steps in sync. A prelude to love, muses Montoya, his eyes half closed, attentive to every gesture, every tremor, to the mounting tension of desire. He stops in front of the entrance to a discreet luxury hotel, a few metres from the Grand’Place.

‘Shall we go in?’

She enters first, he follows. A vast room done out entirely in greys and whites, a huge copper bedstead, white duvet, drawn grey velvet curtains. The bathroom is in grey and white marble. Rolande removes her coat, takes off her shoes and, barefoot, turns on the bath taps, pours in some foam, then continues to undress without inhibition, scattering her clothes haphazardly on a chair, the edge of the bed, the floor. Propped against the washbasin, Montoya watches her. A long streamlined body, long legs, long thighs, narrow hips, not much of a waist, high, round breasts, lovely shoulders, a solid body, full, not many curves, with delicate, pale skin. The triangle of dark curly hairs emphasises the artificiality of her blonde helmet. As if she wore a wig, as if she weren’t completely naked. She comes towards him.

‘You’re not allowed to touch anything while you’ve still got your clothes on.’

And she steps into the bathtub, lies down and disappears under the foam. He undresses in the bedroom, carefully folding his clothes, then joins her. The warmth of the water, groping contact between two smooth bodies, barely glimpsed, slithering, eluding, seeking each other, passionately embracing, legs extended, intertwined, feet colliding, he kisses her in the foam, under water, breathless, eyes swimming, head spinning, weightless. Her hands seek his cock, find it, he’s inside her before he even realises it, a great shudder runs through him from the nape of his neck to the small of his back, specks of iridescent foam fly as far as the bedroom. He grasps her shoulders and, half drowning amid gales of laughter, climaxes, long shudders racking his entire body, and she seems to do likewise.

No sooner does she regain her breath than she gets out of the bath, gazes at him for a moment, streaming water. ‘Not a bad start,’ she says, slipping into a grey bathrobe embroidered with the hotel’s crest. She dries her hair and runs a comb through it. ‘Shall we continue in bed?’ And she goes into the bedroom. He hears her light a cigarette.

He relaxes in the water, no hurry. Savour this blissful feeling of blessed well-being. An athletic woman who takes the initiative in a luxury hotel. I’m reliving the flavour of my youth, other women in other luxury hotels, my early years of freedom. I was very young, fourteen, fifteen, they were older. I was a bit of a gigolo in those days, they were in charge, it was delicious and I had a good time.

The entrance to the Oiseau Bleu is concealed behind plywood boards, and a cop is pacing up and down the pavement. Quignard enters through the back door and goes up to the third floor, entirely taken up by Tomaso’s private apartment. The latter already awaits him, and leads him into a small office done out in mahogany like a yacht. Quignard half lies on a chaise longue with wooden slats. Tomaso opens a casket with copper corners, containing six glasses and six crystal decanters filled with peaty malt whiskies of different strengths. ‘Medium,’ says Quignard, his mind on other things. Tomaso serves him then pours himself a glass that gives off a strong peaty whiff, takes a sip, goes over to a chair and straddles it, his arms on the back, a mocking expression on his face. At that precise moment, Quignard knows he’s sitting opposite the war dog of the old days.

‘So, Maurice, there’s something fishy going on in Pondange, and you haven’t said a word to me about it?’ Quignard looks stunned. Tomaso continues: ‘Who were the man and woman who came to see you in your office this morning?’

A punch in the stomach probably has a similar effect: your body snaps in half, winded, your mind’s in a haze. Mustn’t bat an eyelid. The driver in the office. Fuck. It’s too late to improvise and too dangerous.

Quignard rapidly explains the situation as he sees it, carefully leaving out the journalist and his visit to Neveu’s widow. There’s no point in making things worse. He concludes:

‘In my view, there’s no immediate danger, which is why I decided not to say anything to you.’

‘That’s not what I think. First of all, a journalist came sniffing round the Oiseau Bleu last night, asking questions about you and your connection to me …’

A second blow to the stomach. Hard. How does he always manage to be one step ahead? The journalist, the same one who went to see the Neveu widow, for certain. How did he trace things back to me? And how did he discover the link between Tomaso and me? Quignard feels himself going into a tailspin.

‘… my man had just got hold of him when the explosion went off, and they couldn’t find him afterwards. I infer that there are people poking around who know a lot more than you imagine. So we can’t allow an eyewitness to what happened in the factory to be left hanging around. That’s the golden rule in my profession. No eyewitnesses.’ He rises. Standing, his legs slightly apart, his hands still resting on the back of the chair. ‘This girl’s name.’

It isn’t a question, it’s an order. Quignard blurts out in anguish, with a mixture of fear and pleasure:

‘Aisha Saidani.’

‘Where do we find her?’

‘Cité des Jonquilles, staircase A.’

‘I’m holding on to you, Maurice, you’ll have dinner with us. An intimate dinner among friends, here at the club, there’ll only be about ten of us. It’s seabass en croûte, and Deborah’s waiting for you. She was thrilled to hear you’ll be joining us. Trust me. In any case you have no option.’ 26 October

When he hears the Mercedes pull up in front of the steps, at first Quignard retches. Last night, he was too smashed to realise he was being driven home. He’d been so drunk that he could almost claim he didn’t remember having told Tomaso: Aisha Saidani, Cité des Jonquilles. But this morning, sobered up and on an empty stomach, the idea of seeing his spy driver depresses him. Send him away? Delicate. That would be to sever relations with Tomaso. Could he? The blaze, Neveu, Park in Warsaw. Of course not. Does he want to? The tall, hard form leaning over him yesterday evening, the pent-up violence, the shudder of pleasure he experienced at that moment, which he remembers very clearly, and the uneasy feeling of abandon that followed. Of course not. He gulped down his coffee and cut breakfast short. Back to his daily routine: the morning papers, anxious to know. He hurries.

The Mercedes is there as usual. The driver is someone new. Tomaso had the bright idea of substituting him. He greets him with a groan, slumps on the back seat and spreads out the front pages of the three national dailies. Identical headlines: Thomson Multimedia employees organise national strike and demonstrate against Daewoo taking over their company. Relief. No point reading the articles. What effect can a strike have on the great machinations of international finance? None, it’s almost laughable. These people will never understand. He folds up the newspapers. Then anxiety resurfaces. Daewoo is the press’s main target, for the second time. Not being shielded by Matra makes that dangerous, with the shit-stirrer in the area who’s already traced things back to Tomaso. According to the superintendent, he’s straight. But it’s so easy to get it wrong. I’m going to have another chat to him about it. He leans back in his seat and admires the last patches of forest shrouded in fog, fragmenting as they near the city. The trees are turning russet, the leaves will soon fall, and they’ll be able to go hunting in the woods. I must take a tour of the Grande Commune with the gamekeeper to see where the pheasants are. Time’s going on. We’ve only got to hold out for a few more weeks, three or four at the most, get the Privatisation Commission’s approval, Brussels’ approval, and it’s all in the bag. We’ve held out so far. And yet … His stomach is in knots, it’s hard to breathe. Spiral. Park’s tricks first of all, right under his nose, without him noticing a thing, and he’d thought he was totally in control, the devastating blaze when he’d been expecting a dustbin fire. With that question nagging him since last night: Supposing Tomaso had deliberately overstepped the mark? With Neveu the infernal machine is set in motion, the discovery of Park’s fraudulent accounting system, Maréchal who drops him, the unstoppable Tomaso who takes charge. Admit it: I’ve lost control. The driver’s broad, impassive back and neck. They’re all the same, I’m free but under close surveillance. Random images of last night’s blondes, Deborah and the other one whose name he doesn’t even know, abundant flesh, pink and white, moist, wet, and that feeling of being cocooned. A phrase goes round and round in his head: an old man’s pleasures. He fears the days to come.

Quignard realises that the car has stopped outside his office, it’s probably been there for a while. He leans towards his driver.

‘Take me to the Grande Commune. I’m unavailable for the rest of the day. Unless Tomaso calls, of course.’

Montoya drops Rolande at the Cité des Jonquilles around mid-morning (no, let’s not arrange to meet, Pondange is a very small town, you know, you’ll find me easily), a smile, and the door slams. Then he stops at a cafe and drinks a coffee and brandy standing at the bar. Alone and glad to be on his own. A break before getting back to work. Time to plan the bugging of Quignard’s office.

The offices of Quignard’s design consultancy specialising in industrial reconversions are in Pondange, in the Grands Bureaux building, formerly the head office of the Pondange Steelworks Company. In other words, the nerve centre of the entire valley. Montoya has a very clear, physical, almost painful memory of it. A massive cube of blackish stone, standing at the frontier between the world of the city and that of the blast furnaces, with the roar of the steelworks always in the background. The main façade opened on to the town. There were two doors, side by side. One, the monumental doorway, white stone steps, colonnade supporting a balcony, solid carved wooden double door, was opened just once a month for board meetings, both doors flung wide open for the occasion. Only the directors in their dark suits and Homburgs were entitled to cross the threshold, watched by the local press photographers. The other, very ordinary, door was used by the staff going in to work each day. The young Montoya used to imagine the hundreds of employees shut up in there all day long, labouring like the workers you could glimpse through the factory gates, and he would never go near it, for fear that these barracks might gobble him up. The idea of returning under cover thirty-five years later, breaking in and installing an illegal phone tap puts him in a mood of slight elation mingled with the physical tiredness of the night, his muscles stiff, the image of straight wisps of damp hair plastered against Rolande’s cheeks, gales of laughter, the memory of the faint taste of soap bubbles in the corner of his mouth, stimulating a sense of fulfilment.

Carry out a recce. Hard to recognise the Grands Bureaux of his childhood. The building, of beautiful Lorraine limestone, has been cleaned up and glows golden yellow in the sun. The staff and the guest entrances are both neglected. The two trees either side of the colonnade are no longer pruned, and their branches reach down to the ground encroaching on to the terrace where the big French doors of the boardroom are protected by wooden shutters. An easy way in, sheltered from view. We’ll enter through here. He walks round to the building’s rear façade which used to overlook the yard of the great ironworks, and comes to carefully manicured lawns running down to the river where poplars, trees that grow quickly, have been planted. A new entrance, all in glass, has been added, facing the verdant valley. In the sun-drenched lobby, a charming receptionist behind a counter smiles at him. The names of all the companies with offices in the building are on a huge board. Employment and training on every floor. The parasites that thrive on the social management of unemployment have all found refuge here, thanks to the hospitality of the municipality, which bought the Grands Bureaux. You did the right thing in getting out, kid.

‘Mr Amrouche of the COFEP design consultancy, please?’

‘First floor, door 110.’

He climbs the stairs, follows the long corridor which goes all round the building and on to which all the offices open. He is totally alone. He takes the time to study the walls and ceilings carefully. No indication of any surveillance cameras or alarms. Quite logical really. Guarantee the security of what? Employment? He walks all the way round to the wing where the grand entrance is. A huge monumental staircase flanked by early twentieth-century stained-glass windows celebrating the men of iron and fire in blues and yellows made vivid by the sunlight. The factories have been razed, but the windows have been preserved. Opposite are the padded double doors of the boardroom. Still no one in sight. He hunches over the lock, holding a bunch of master keys, it’s child’s play, and soon finds himself in the large dark room with a pervasively musty smell. He gropes his way forward to the French door, which he opens a crack. Free entry tonight. He turns round. Rows of tables and chairs, baize, ashtrays, crystal chandeliers. At the far end is the chairman’s armchair. Ghosts. The smell grows stronger, haunting, he finds it suffocating, got to get out. Another long corridor, still no living soul, and at last, door 110 which leads to COFEP’s offices.

An internal area furnished as a waiting room or small lounge, containing three armchairs, a water fountain, a coffee machine, and five doors. Quignard’s name is on the door at the end and Amrouche’s is on the door to his left. No visible security system. He knocks and enters.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you? If possible I’d like to continue the enjoyable conversation we began yesterday.’

Without hesitation, Amrouche closes the file spread open in front of him and stands up.

‘It will be a pleasure. Come, we’ll be more comfortable by the coffee machine.’

There’s a danger of bumping into Quignard. Too bad, impossible to refuse, have to be quick. Behind a door, phones ringing and a woman’s voice. His secretary most likely. Amrouche fills two cups with coffee and comes and sits beside Montoya, stretches his leg and back muscles and smiles.

‘What did you want to talk about?’

‘The occupation of the offices. You were the ringleader. Were there many of you occupying?’

‘At first, yes. More than fifty. One or two hours later, I walked around and there were only twenty or so of us at most.’

‘I know that Bouziane and Neveu were there. Did you see them?’

Amrouche fidgets in his armchair, looks away, suddenly assailed by images of arses jerking up and down, clears his throat, hesitates, then answers.

‘Yes, they were playing video games on a computer. Why?’

Montoya takes his time, sips his coffee, not bad by the way. Bouziane, the trail’s getting warm. At last.

‘I’m interested in the drug dealing at Daewoo.’

Relieved, Amrouche laughs.

‘You’re not the only one. And you are utterly mistaken. Bouziane was a small-time dealer and Neveu liked the odd spliff. That’s it and honestly nothing to write an article about.’

A place known as the Haute Chapelle, on the Paris-Nancy road. On the edge of the village, Montoya pulls up in an improvised car park cluttered with a few articulated lorries. Between the car park and the road, stands an isolated, one-storey house, its shutters closed. On the front a sign in big black lettering reads “Au rendez-vous des voyageurs” beside a round blue and red Relais des Routiers plaque. The place is poorly lit, and looks deserted and sinister. Montoya pushes open the door and finds himself in the bar where he is immediately hit by heat, noise and smoke. The room is packed with young and not-so-young men, beer drinkers, jostling and yelling at each other. The owner and his wife are busy behind the bar, and in a corner, at two Formica tables, a small group is eating pork and cabbage hotpot from soup bowls. On the telephone, Valentin had said: ‘Don’t stop at the bar, go into the restaurant.’ At the back to the left, there’s a door masked by a bead curtain, and above it an enamel plaque: Dining room. In the low-ceilinged, dimly-lit room, twenty or so tables with check tablecloths and bunches of plastic flowers. A strapping waitress greets Montoya, who chooses an isolated table in a corner and sits facing the door. Ten or so lone men are eating in silence, probably in need of some peace and quiet before driving through most of the night. So do I, thinks Montoya, I need peace and quiet. Valentin pays amazing attention to detail.

A rare steak, chips, and a carafe of water. It comes quickly — here everyone knows their job — and Montoya starts eating.

The bead curtain rustles, a burst of conversation from the bar, a man comes in. Montoya lifts his head and looks at him. Tall, thin, a khaki parka down to his knees, close-cropped hair, his face furrowed with wrinkles and a pasty complexion. His dull, faded eyes darting everywhere meet Montoya’s gaze. The man comes towards him.

‘Christophe.’

‘Sébastien.’

‘Our mutual friend sent me.’

A subdued, croaking, broken voice, a tormented voice. He’s probably had his trachea crushed, his vocal chords damaged. Fight, accident or punishment? A battered life. Valentin’s probably got him by the balls.

‘Sit down. Pleased to meet you.’

The man orders steak and chips and begins to eat slowly, without saying a word, his eyes always on the lookout.

‘You know what we have to do tonight?’

‘More or less. Bug an office.’

‘I’m in charge of getting in and getting out. You’re in charge of the work inside. And our friend takes care of the rest.’ The man nods while chewing. ‘I’ve carried out a recce, the operation shouldn’t be difficult.’

A wan smile. ‘If you say so …’

The restaurant empties, no point hanging around. Coffee. The man toys with the spoon, long, elegant, bony fingers, never still. Relentless training? The bill. He thrusts his nervous hands into the vast pockets of his parka. Coins deep in the corners of his pockets, notes, an amber rosary? Montoya reckons he’s done a spell in detox, and that it was rough. Maybe in jail. Familiar world. He’s come across hundreds of men of his ilk. Without knowing why, he has a hunch that he’s an excellent professional. As long as someone’s there to lead the way.

In the car park, the two men part company, each gets into his own car, rendezvous in Pondange at eleven-thirty in the main square.

Rubber gloves, cotton balaclavas pulled over their eyes, the two men prepare in the shelter of a tree. Then a rope slipped over a branch, a jump up on to the balcony, a few rapid steps, bent double under the cover of the balustrade, an open French door, groping their way through the boardroom, empty corridor, the two men walk quickly, without running, barely breathing. Door no, master key in the lock, on into the waiting room, yet another door, at last Quignard’s office. Montoya gets his breath back while the expert unwraps his toolkit carefully stowed in a wide canvas belt hidden under the voluminous parka, and sets to work. Speed, the precision of his long bony fingers. The man knows what he has to do. Montoya glances at the desk piled high with files. Banks, Department of Labour, chartered accountants … Valentin doesn’t want Montoya to search his papers: don’t arouse Quignard’s suspicions for nothing, a responsible boss doesn’t leave compromising documents lying around in his office. You never know … but orders are orders. He moves away, walks over to the big bay window looking out over the valley. In the moonlight, a rural landscape in grey and ice-blue, poplars, meadows, river, the foothills of the plateau, the dark mass of the forest. No variations in the light, not the least nuance, no breath of air, not a creature stirring. And no sound penetrates the double glazing. Death valley. The expert brushes his shoulder, he’s done.

Return by the same route, Montoya ensuring he shuts all the doors behind him.

At the foot of the tree, the two men remove their gloves, the balaclavas, touch hands, palm to palm.

‘I’ve known worse,’ breathes the expert. And they go their separate ways. The entire operation took seventeen minutes.