Read Lorraine Connection Online
Authors: Dominique Manotti
Lorraine Connection (11 page)
‘I’m with you, and I’m listening.’
‘It’s not a very big case. Or to be precise, it’s a secondary aspect of a very big case. Around two to four weeks’ work, less action than in Tangier, no shooting. But I need you because you have experience and a reputation for working fast. A hundred to two hundred thousand francs, depending on results. Well?’
‘The trouble with men like you, Valentin, is that when you decide you want someone, you don’t really give them any choice, do you?’
‘No, I don’t. Reputations are precarious in the insurance world.’
‘Supposing I were interested?’
‘A Daewoo factory burned down a few days ago in Lorraine, at Pondange. I want you to find me a coherent explanation, backed up by evidence, fabricated or not …’ A pause, a half-smile. ‘I don’t mind either way. I want you to explain to me how the bosses set the factory on fire and their reasons for doing so. My sources tell me that you work as a private investigator for insurance
companies
on a lot of claims of this kind.’ Montoya nods. ‘So you have the expertise and the contacts.’
‘Go on, say it, a reputation for frame-ups and dirty tricks from my days in the drug squad. Is that it?’
‘Exactly.’
‘It will be a pleasure to work with you. I’m sure I’ll learn a lot. So, I’m in.’ Pause. ‘I can’t drag an insurance company into this. I’ll need a cover, of course.’
‘Of course. I’ll arrange one.’
October
Karim walks cautiously along the path through the woods from Pondange up to the entrance to the disused iron mine. He listens out for the slightest sound, not wanting anyone to see him or
follow
him. Up there, under the scree blocking the entrance, he’s dug out a well-camouflaged tunnel and uses the entrance to the galleries as a storeroom for his various little businesses. It’s an isolated spot, as the local people keep well away from the former mines. He only comes here very early in the morning and has never bumped into anyone. Twenty metres from the scree, he stops. A dark mass in a green bramble bush, a few metres from the foot of the scree. Out of the ordinary spells danger. Standing stock still, barely breathing, he listens. Scraping, sliding, faint crackling, birds taking flight, birdsong, nothing unusual. He approaches slowly, moving as little as possible. From ten metres away, there’s no mistaking it, it’s a human body, wearing black jeans and a brown parka. Caught head first in the bramble bush, his neck probably broken. Glance up to the top of the slope. Thrown from up there, probably. If he’d fallen, he’d be closer to the rocks. Karim removes his shoes and takes a few steps forward in his socks. He crouches down and can clearly make out the profile. Étienne Neveu. Rooted to the spot, his heart thumping, adrenaline rush. Étienne, so close, his arm around his shoulders, the shared spliff, the porn images, the little business deals, a friend you could say.
Weep
my
heart,
in
your
despair,
your
solitude.
And a new image: the night of the fire, Étienne wandering from group to group between the cars, as if oscillating between the
darkness
and the flames, distraught: ‘I saw the guys who started the fire.’ Nobody was listening to him, but you heard him and you thought, ‘Good, that’ll keep the cops off my back.’ Now, Étienne’s been killed. A fire, a murder, big names.
And
you,
the
Arab,
the
kid,
the
small-time
wheeler-dealer,
you
risk
ten
years’
inside,
mini
mum
,
or
your
hide.
Gotta play this carefully. He straightens up, pins and needles in his legs. Go back down to Pondange
leaving
as little trace as possible. Think fast. Suddenly: an image. Quignard in an anorak and woolly hat, sitting on the bonnet of his car, brightly lit up by showers of sparks, and Étienne in front
of him, probably – no, certainly – saying, ‘I saw the guys who started the fire.’ Perhaps signing his death warrant. Tell the cops about the body, see how they react, I’ll soon find out.
At the police station, Lieutenant Émile Lambert bustles about, conscious of his responsibilities. He interviews the first witness.
Robert Duffaut, born 10 August 1963 in Nantes.
Residing at 29 rue d’Auxonne, Nancy. Profession:
Security guard employed by 3G, based in Nancy since 3 March 1996.
The witness states he was sent to the Daewoo factory by his security company, 3G in Nancy, to provide backup for the company’s permanent team of two security guards, who are employed by the same company, 3G, and who were confronted with disturbances among the personnel which they believed could turn dangerous if security were not maintained.
He states he arrived on the premises at 15.00 hours, accompanied by his colleague. They immediately started patrolling the premises, and continued to do so until 21.30 hours, when they returned to the porter’s lodge to make their report. They were both still there when the fire alarm went off at 21.43 hours.
Q. Who raised the alarm?
A. A man came running in. He was shouting: ‘The place is on fire,’ and pointing towards the warehouses. I don’t know this man’s name.
Q. When you were doing your rounds, did you notice any particular incidents or suspicious behaviour?
A. I would like to mention that around 15.15 hours, my colleague and I walked past the waste ground behind the factory, and there, a young North African-looking individual had set up a barbecue and was selling kebabs. This barbecue was about ten metres from the place where the fire started a little later. We made a few inquiries. This individual is called Karim Bouziane.
Q. In your opinion, could this barbecue have had something to do with the outbreak of the fire?
A. I think so. Furthermore, around 19.00 hours, a
minor dustbin fire was reported in the main corridor between the factory and the warehouse. It was quickly extinguished by members of the Health and Safety committee before we arrived on the scene. When we arrived a few minutes later, we noted that embers had been thrown into the dustbin, intentionally or otherwise, and were certainly the cause of the dustbin fire. As far as we could ascertain, those embers came from the barbecue.
I must also inform you that around 17.00 hours, we patrolled the stockrooms and we noted that a group of several individuals were smoking marijuana in the vicinity of highly flammable packaging materials.
Q. Do you know who their dealer is?
A. We have no proof, but the name bandied around by those smoking is once again that of Karim Bouziane. Apparently he sold the dope along with his sausages.
Q. In your view, could Karim Bouziane have set fire to the factory?
A. There’s no concrete proof. I don’t know if he did, or why he would want to. But in any case, he had the wherewithal.
Q. Among your colleagues, or the individuals present during the day in question, did you hear any names being mentioned as possible instigators of the fire?
A. I did not talk to any Daewoo personnel after the fire. But the name being whispered among the workers is that of Karim Bouziane.
Q. Is there anything else you would like to mention?
A. No. Nothing else comes to mind.
‘Nice work, Lieutenant Lambert‚’ comments the
superintendent
. ‘You see the effectiveness of this method. Karim Bouziane may be a serious lead. But let’s not rush, let’s be methodical. You carry on listening to what people have to tell you, but if they don’t spontaneously mention Karim Bouziane, you ask them discreetly about him, his barbecue and his dope dealing.’
The door of the superintendent’s office is flung open; a very young, podgy uniformed officer bursts into the room, a terrified look on his face. The superintendent protests.
‘Dumont, you don’t enter my office without knocking.’ Then, concerned: ‘What’s going on?’
‘An anonymous phone call, superintendent. A body near the entrance to the mine above Pondange.’
The superintendent’s infuriated.
That’s
all
we
need.
Just
as
the
investigation
into
the
fire
is
getting
underway.
But
what
else
can
we
do?
Visit the scene. Étienne Neveu’s body is there, in full view, lying in the bushes at the bottom of the scree. His wife had reported him missing the previous evening. He didn’t go far, mutters a cop. The anonymous phone call: probably a lone early-morning walker. Then the deputy public prosecutor arrives and they make an initial report. Height of the scree, position of the body, neck very likely broken, looks like a fall. At the top of the scree slope, directly above the body, discovery of a footpath that leads directly to the car park on the estate where Étienne Neveu lived.
During the afternoon, information begins to filter in. Étienne Neveu seems to have been the victim of a fatal fall having taken a shortcut through the woods down to Pondange from his home. Death seems to have occurred between twenty-four and
forty-eight
hours before the discovery of the body. It seems highly likely that it was an accident. But the officials remain cautious, and are waiting for the result of the autopsy before closing the case.
Karim walks into the offices of the lawyer, Lavaudant, a stone’s throw from the Place Stanislas in Nancy. It is a magnificent
high-ceilinged
room, the walls covered with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in a dark wood filled with books bound in red leather. The vast windows are masked by thick red velvet curtains. It’s late, and Lavaudant doesn’t like Karim turning up in his working life unannounced. Apparently it’s an emergency, and the meeting will be brief. He watches him cross the room, supple, relaxed in his movements, he fills the space. Always the same intensity of desire, despite the passing years, the wife and two kids at home, his wealthy clientele.
I
may
be
a
big
shot
but
I
can’t
resist
those
round
buttocks,
the
taste
of
his
golden
skin,
the
acid
smell
of
the
nape
of
his
neck.
My
hands
start
to
tremble
when
this
ruffian
comes
near
me.
I’ll
pay
for
this,
one
day.
Karim stares at the hands the lawyer has placed flat in front of him on his desk.
Always
the
same,
you’re
dying
to
bugger
me,
and
when
you
have,
you
cry
with
shame.
I’ve got you
in
a
vice.
He smiles and sits down.
‘I need you, Claude.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘The Daewoo fire …’
‘A nasty business.’
‘I’ve just realised that I fit the profile of the arsonist.’
‘Did you start the fire?’
‘Of course not. Why would I have done that? You know, arson’s out of my league. Besides, I’d have come to see you sooner. No. For the cops I’m the easiest scapegoat. I was at Daewoo during the strike. I made a barbecue and sold kebabs all afternoon, not far from the spot where the fire started. With a bit of dope too. I’m Arab and a dealer. If the cops arrest me, nobody will be
surprised
and nobody will defend me.’
‘What do you want me to do about it?’
‘The cops have got to leave me out of this, and you have to tell them to before they bang me up.’
‘Can you see me saying to the superintendent at Pondange, whom I don’t happen to know: “Please note, superintendent, that Mr Karim Bouziane has nothing to do with the fire at the Daewoo factory”?’
‘No, but I can see you having a word with your father-in-law Quignard and him passing it on to the superintendent. He’ll be able to convince him. They see each other every day. You’ll do it, Claude, because when a man falls into the cops’ hands, you never know what he might end up telling them.’
It is already late, the Gare de Lyon is gradually emptying, the rush is over at Le Train Bleu restaurant above the station. It is a place where Rossellini and Kaltenbach, the assistant director of the Revenue Department, are in the habit of eating, around the
corner
from the Ministry, and quiet at this time of day. Granted, the food is bland and expensive, boil-in-a-bag, but neither of them is a foodie, the wine is adequate and the setting ornate and
luxurious
with late nineteenth-century-style frescos, sculptures, and stucco, and a monumental silver meat trolley. The entire decor provides a welcome change of scene and fires their imagination.
Rossellini sinks on to the leather banquette and gazes up at the ceiling. So it’s true. Kaltenbach confirms that the senior ministry
officials are all hostile to the choice of Matra. Rossellini trusts him. It’s the first time he’s felt relaxed since that nightmare evening, not least thanks to the wine. At this precise moment, he decides to throw himself body and soul into Valentin’s game. And he attacks.
‘Lagardère’s crazy about horses …’
Kaltenbach, not really surprised, looks up from his plate of chocolate profiteroles. Lagardère, now we’re getting there.
‘I’m listening.’ Smile. ‘But me, horses …’
‘Of course. Me neither. But the financial set-up involved …’
‘Now you’re talking.’
‘Lagardère set up a holding company that siphons off 0.2 per cent of Matra’s revenues.’ Nod. ‘Its purpose is to pay the salaries of the group’s ten most senior managers. The surplus profit is shared between Lagardère and his son.’
