Lorraine Connection (27 page)

‘Charles, tell me, who is it talking to Quignard?’

‘In my opinion, it’s Park, the CEO of Daewoo Pondange, who left town within forty-eight hours of the fire. He was Quignard’s usual contact, and he recognised his voice immediately. But it could be someone else, I didn’t meet any of the Korean managers. They’d all left by the time I arrived in Pondange.’

‘He speaks like a CEO,’ says Benoît-Rey.

‘Let’s suppose it’s Park. Now, what do you make of this conversation?’

‘We seem to be on the right track.’

‘Strange that people aren’t more guarded about speaking on the phone.’

‘Haven’t you ever done any confidential business over the phone?’

Laughter. ‘Yes, but never again from now on, I swear it.’

‘It’s funny to be hearing about the insider dealing again.’ Rossellini turns to Montoya. ‘It’s a set-up. I wrote the anonymous letters myself, and we forced the hand of the COB just a little, to get them to launch an investigation.’

‘That doesn’t prove that there was no insider dealing,’ retorts Montoya. Rossellini freezes. Valentin smiles.

‘What do you make of what Park calls the “Polish scheme”?’

Benoît-Rey embarks on a long explanation of how the losses and subsidies are orchestrated in Pondange and the profits in Warsaw, for the benefit of Montoya, who stops him with a gesture.

‘I know all that. It was explained to me by an expert before I left for Pondange.’ Benoît-Rey turns to Valentin.

‘That is exactly the problem. The Polish scheme is fraudulent, but a large number if not all of the multinationals operate in a similar fashion, and declare as they please, whenever they please,
that one or other of their subsidiaries has gone bankrupt. Clearly in this case Daewoo chose Warsaw, and Pondange was only set up in order to channel the subsidies into Warsaw. But I very much doubt that the disclosure of the “Polish scheme” will get things moving in Paris. Everyone knows that’s how things are done. If the funding bodies are stupid enough to continue granting
subsidies
, that’s their business.’

‘We need the lists of personal accounts into which the
payments
were made through this scheme. Once we have those lists, we win by a knockout.’

‘True. The financial arrangements remain obscure, and the journalists don’t understand the first thing about it. But if we can say to them that so-and-so was caught with his hand in the till, we hit the jackpot.’

Montoya gets up, picks up a new bottle of Beaujolais and fills two glasses for Valentin and himself.

‘There’s no proof that these personal accounts exist, or that lists were drawn up, even that Park has them if they do exist. And Park is definitely behind this.’

Valentin takes a sip of wine and twirls his glass, watching the liquid shimmer.

‘You’re right, Charles, in theory. That conversation could be pure bluff, straight out of a game of poker. But we know the boss of Daewoo Poland. He’s a swindler and a blackmailer appointed by the CEO of the entire group. Unless it’s to set up an
embezzlement
scheme using the personal accounts Park mentions, why else would it exist? Let me tell you what I think: there is insider dealing going on, but we drop that aspect. There is embezzlement, and Park has the lists, we concentrate on that.’

‘You’re the chief.’

‘Then I have two questions. The first one’s for you, Charles: How is Quignard going to react?’

Montoya takes his time.

‘It depends how much he knows. He doesn’t necessarily know that Park is calling him from Warsaw.’

‘If he’s clever, he’ll have a suspicion …’

‘He’s very clever.’

‘… and I have some bad news. Tomaso controls a network that sells stolen cars in Warsaw.’

‘That’s very bad news indeed. To go by what I’ve seen in
Pondange, he’ll react fast and violently. If he negotiates, it will only be to gain time.’

‘Second question, for all three of you: How are we going to get hold of those lists?’

Benoît-Rey: ‘Find out where Park is, talk to him, negotiate, pay him off.’

Rossellini: ‘Tell him that there’s no insider dealing,
Valentin
, since we’re all in the bluffing business. Tell him that we set the whole thing up ourselves, and that Quignard hasn’t got the wherewithal to pay.’

Montoya: ‘Give him a scare, a big scare. Point the finger at him for embezzlement at Pondange and the factory fire. With as much concrete evidence as possible, which I’ll have tomorrow. To soften him up, show him that we know all about it. But above all, frighten him by telling him what Quignard and Tomaso are capable of. He left Pondange straight after the fire. We have to tell him in great detail about all three murders. So that he
understands
that this is no small-time blackmail scenario, that he’s risking his hide. Make him understand that only we can protect and hide him, and that he’s going to need us. If he’s really scared, he’ll be more flexible, the deal will be easier, and the price lower.’

Valentin leans back in his chair, his arms behind his head, and flexes his back. Gives a broad smile.

‘I remember what my father always used to say: “My son, you mustn’t kill, because he who kills ends up stealing, and he who steals ends up lying, and lying is really very bad.” This is a very bad business.’

The bodies of both Aisha and Rolande’s mother have been deposited at the undertaker’s and will be returned to their families late that afternoon. When she’s finished tidying her apartment, Rolande goes up to the fourth floor, closes her eyes, hunches her shoulders as she crosses the landing and walks underneath the fanlight, to ring the Saidani family’s doorbell. The father opens the door, he’s expecting her. He’s not alone; Amrouche is keeping him company. The three of them leave together, without
exchanging
a word. The old man holds himself erect, his face impassive, and does not walk beside her.

When they reach the undertaker’s, Rolande and Aisha’s father
are received in separate rooms by the ‘Authorities’, keen to inform them of the progress of the investigation. The watchwords are ‘transparency’ and ‘concern for the victims’ families’.

Rolande is greeted by two men – a doctor in a white coat and a plainclothes policeman – and a woman in a tailored grey suit with a sympathetic expression. She’s a psychologist specialising in bereavement counselling. Rolande refuses to sit down, and remains standing, stiffly erect, her hands thrust in her coat
pockets
. The doctor speaks first.

‘The cause of death is absolutely certain. Your mother received a very violent blow to the temple from the crowbar found beside her body. Death was instantaneous. I’m afraid I have to inform you (the psychologist moves closer to Rolande) that your mother was raped (the psychologist puts her arm around Rolande’s shoulders) before she was killed.’

Rolande gently extricates herself.

‘Please leave me alone, my grief is mine alone, and I’m keeping it to myself.’ She turns towards the doctor: ‘What time did my mother die?’

‘Between nine and nine-thirty a.m., I can’t be any more precise than that, the presence of vast amounts of alcohol …’

‘I know. Did Aisha die at the same time?’

‘Around the same time, yes.’

The cop steps in.

‘We are pursuing every line of enquiry, every lead. Samples have been taken. We found fingerprints in the kitchen and in the hall of your apartment. We checked for the same fingerprints on the fourth floor. So far, we haven’t found any. In fact, we didn’t find any significant fingerprints on the fourth-floor landing. In your mother’s case, we think the murder was probably
committed
by a prowler, a drug addict most likely. We’re going through our records and we’ll carry out all the necessary checks. We will find the murderer.’

‘Did you check whether my mother made any phone calls in the hour before her death?’ The cop stalls, slightly worried.

‘I repeat that we are doing, and will do, everything in our power.’

In the lobby, Aisha’s father is pacing up and down, yelling a string of unintelligible curses, wailing and banging the walls with
his fists and his head. Beside him, Amrouche is desperately
trying
to calm him down. Rolande comes out of the room. Aisha’s father throws himself upon her, grabs her by the coat collar and shakes her, howling, then throws her to the ground and runs off. The psychologist is there like a shot, helping her to her feet. Amrouche also comes over.

‘Ali, can you tell me what’s going on?’

‘Saidani repudiates his daughter and holds you responsible for all his misfortunes.’

‘But why?’

‘The doctor told him that his daughter was pregnant.’ Silence. ‘And that she probably committed suicide because she didn’t dare tell him. The old man is blaming the factory, her girlfriends – you included – for corrupting his daughter. He won’t forgive her, and he won’t forgive you.’

Appalled, Rolande glances around the foyer. There is no one there except Amrouche, the psychologist, and herself. She sees a bench against a wall. Her legs give way, she collapses on to it, breathless and trembling, her hands resting on her knees.

‘I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it. How can anyone have said such terrible things to Aisha’s father?’

‘Rolande, calm down. Aisha could have been pregnant. During the strike she did … you know … what people do to end up pregnant.’

‘That was two weeks ago. How would she have known? And decided to commit suicide because of that?’

‘Women know when they’re pregnant, they know it straight away, that’s all.’

‘What do you know about women, Ali, can you tell me? You always side with management and the cops. You’re a scab, Ali. Go away, it would better for everyone if you cleared off.’ She turns to the psychologist. ‘Where is she, the psychologist who told Aisha’s father all that filth? I want to give her a piece of my mind.’

The woman in the simple, elegant suit hesitates, clearly ill at ease, before coming over and sitting on the bench beside Rolande. Then she takes the plunge.

‘There was no psychologist present during the interview with Mr Saidani, only the forensic doctor and a police officer. As it is a suicide, you understand, Mr Saidani isn’t strictly speaking the father of a victim …’

Rolande feels giddy, as if she’s spiralling down into a
bottomless
well.

‘You don’t believe these things, you don’t believe them until they happen to you. The lives of the working class count for
nothing
. We can be raped, crushed or hanged, and nobody gives a shit.’

The two coffins sit side by side on trestles in the windowless room inside the morgue, which serves as the chapel of rest. Aisha’s
coffin
is open: her ashen face is very beautiful with her eyes closed and her hair parted down the middle and looped back at the sides. On seeing her, Rolande cries. Rolande’s mother’s coffin is closed. A corpse not fit to be seen. Soft lighting, two big candles
burning
, and chairs around the coffins. Rolande has decided to spend the night keeping vigil over her two dead, a priest will come and bless them tomorrow morning. Later the coffins will be buried in Pondange’s small cemetery.

The room gradually fills up. Women. Her workmates. Word has got around, they come with bunches of flowers picked from their gardens, sprays of autumnal leaves gathered in the forest. They need vases, the morgue’s supplies are exhausted, and they rush off home to fetch some more. Soon the two coffins disappear beneath a sea of plants. Rolande smiles. Hands over hands, warm kisses on her cheeks, arms around her shoulders, it reminds her of the atmosphere in the factory, women together,
understanding
, supportive. The women settle down to spend the night there. One has brought a thermos of mulled wine, another a plum tart, still others cakes, chocolates. It’s getting late. The women break up into small groups. The work shifts have more or less re-formed, they chat to keep themselves awake. Sitting on a chair, her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands, Rolande listens to the hubbub of conversation all around her. Aisha, her beauty, her way of speaking, intense, determined, naive too. Aisha, the virgin without a man, hardly surprising given the father she had, he’d beat her first, ask questions later. ‘You know he left Pondange today?’ ‘Apparently he’s gone to live with his son, not even attending his daughter’s funeral, can you understand that?’ ‘Not a happy person, Aisha. Do you remember the Korean engineer’s accident? Covered in blood, a nightmare, Aisha was so distraught I thought she’d never return to the factory.’ But she did return.
‘Brave woman.’ And then, same thing again, Émilienne’s
accident
. Unlucky. ‘She never laughed, did she?’ ‘We should have
rallied
round her, then maybe she wouldn’t have killed herself.’

Killed herself. Aisha. Rolande clamps her mouth shut with both hands to stop herself from screaming.
You
didn’t
commit
suicide,
I
know
you
didn’t.
Flashback: Étienne’s funeral, accidents happen so easily, she hears her own voice, the woods, the dead leaves at this time of year, the grounds slippery … the cops say accident. The cops say suicide. What would be the point of
saying
to the girls: Étienne and Aisha were murdered? They’d never admit it. Life’s hard enough as it is. Order, justice, you’ve got to believe in something. Otherwise, what would they do from now on?
But
you,
you
can’t
believe
in
them
any
more.
You’ve
seen
it
first-hand.
It’s
a
question
of
dignity.

The men arrive in the morning. The room is beginning to feel stuffy and smell of wilted flowers. Amrouche is the first,
touching
with his clumsy kindness and concern. He sits down beside Rolande.

‘If you don’t want to go back to your apartment after all this, I’ll lend you my house for as long as you need to get over it all. I can turn the top floor into a flat for you, it’s not big but it’s
comfortable
and quiet, you know, you’ll be completely independent. And then there’s the garden …’