Dominique Manotti - Lorraine Connection

‘I’ll drive you wherever you want to go. There’s a room for you at the Hôtel Vauban if you like. And you can have something to eat there too, with or without me, as you wish.’

She nods and signals to him to get going.

A quick dinner in the Hôtel Vauban’s empty, dimly-lit dining room. Not a word. She doesn’t meet his eye, concentrates on eating a vegetable soup and cheese with slow movements, her head bowed. Then she sits upright.

‘I spent hours in the apartment with the superintendent, drawing up an inventory. He wanted me to tell him what had been stolen. Of course nothing had been stolen.’ She gives him a harsh stare. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you told me who you are and what’s going on? Don’t you think I’ve paid dearly enough to find out?’

He takes her into the lobby. The security guard has left, the main door is locked and the curtains are drawn across the bay window overlooking the main square. The night lights give off a dim glow and the only light comes from a single bright lamp with a big shade standing on a coffee table. They sit side by side in two big chintz armchairs. Rolande sinks back in hers, her arms on the rests, her hands spread flat, tensing occasionally. Montoya tells her in a low, monotonous voice about Matra and Alcatel’s rival bids for Thomson, how he came to be hired, his arrival in Pondange. Note that I arrived after the fire and after Étienne’s death. I have nothing to do with the start of the trouble. He tells her about the bogus Daewoo accounts, what he knows about the collaboration between Quignard and Tomaso. He tells her that the fire was started deliberately and that Étienne was murdered, about Amrouche’s statement fingering Nourredine — she closes her eyes, ashen — and about Karim Bouziane. He doesn’t tell her about his meeting with Neveu’s widow or her phone call to Quignard. At that particular point, he underestimated the enemy. At that particular point, he pushed Aisha towards her death. He’ll never tell her that. Not because he doesn’t want to lose her, he knows it’s already too late for that. But because he doesn’t want to admit responsibility and make it official.

Then he gives her a list of the Luxembourg bank accounts which has her name on it. ‘It got into my hands sort of by mistake. The person who copied it from the computer thought he was copying porn videos, the pastime of the person who kept the accounts.’ She becomes more animated, turns the sheets over and over, reads them several times, folds them, puts them in her coat pocket. Montoya reckons he’s winning and is almost surprised. She’s changing, fast.

‘I’m telling you these things, Rolande, because I’m almost certain of them, and am acting accordingly. But I have no proof. So you must be very careful what you say, including to the cops. Especially to the cops. Because in this affair, anyone who knows anything is in danger of being murdered. I’m not exaggerating, that’s really what happened.’

‘So I gather.’

‘One question: Aisha?’

‘It was terrible. Hanged from the handle of the roof fanlight at the top of our staircase, in front of the door to her apartment.’ Rolande buries her face in her hands for a long moment. Those hands, the memory of their touch, her caresses both gentle and rough at the same time, Montoya shivers. Then she continues in a calm voice: ‘The cops are clueless and are beginning to talk about suicide. I don’t believe it. Aisha had a strength that I haven’t always had. Aisha was a force of nature. What do you think?’

‘Murdered, like Étienne, because she was with Étienne during the strike. Quignard didn’t know that at first. And then he must have found out from Amrouche, in an informal conversation. Amrouche wasn’t exactly cautious. In any case, he didn’t see any reason to be wary.’

‘What about my mother?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe they used her to lure Aisha out of her apartment? Possibly with a telephone call?’ She nods. ‘Where were you this morning?’

‘In Amrouche’s office. He called me to offer me a job. What a farce.’

‘What about Aisha’s father?’

‘At the Social Security office. An appointment came in the post. It was a mistake.’

A long silence. Rolande has a vacant look, her hands mechanically caress the armrests.

‘Rolande, I want to know who kept these accounts and what their purpose was. I need you. You told me Maréchal was in the know. He wouldn’t tell me, but he’d talk to you.’

‘Yes, he probably would. But I’d have to want to get involved. I don’t give a shit about the competition between Alcatel and Matra.’ Silence, then Rolande gets up. ‘I’m going to bed. I’ll think about it, I’m giving myself a bit of time, I’m going to bury my dead. We’ll talk about it again tomorrow.’

‘Is your son coming back?’

‘No. He’s staying in Metz. I phoned him. I told him his grandmother was dead. And I forbade him to leave the school. I don’t want him mixed up in all this.’

‘I hoped he’d be there to support you.’ A pause. ‘I’ve brought you some sleeping tablets.’ He proffers a tube in its cardboard packaging. ‘Use them sparingly.’

She smiles for the first time.

‘I don’t have suicidal tendencies. Any more than Aisha did.’ 28 October

Impossible to work. Quignard’s unable to read the file lying open on his desk. Plagued by his obsessive thoughts. Largardère’s being investigated again for fraud, the making and use of forgeries, and misuse of company money. Lagardère is alleged to have falsified his company’s results during his group’s merger with Hachette, two years ago. Two years, in other words, an age. The list is frightening. Two investigations, a tax inspection and a COB investigation, in under a fortnight.

Plus a national strike and demonstration over Thomson Multimedia. He swivels his armchair, puts his feet up on the windowsill and stares out at the peaceful autumnal landscape of the valley, the deep green of the meadows, the varied shades of brown of the trees, the grey of the sky. A brief respite. He is physically conscious of the weight of the huge machine that’s been set in motion, beyond his reach in Paris, pressing on his shoulder and back. For the first time, a little question worms its way into his mind: Supposing ultimately we lose? Unthinkable. True, but no more unthinkable than what’s happened here, the chain of disasters at Pondange. Time will pass and people will forget. No, no one will forget while Tomaso’s there, he’s got me. He won’t let go. And I’ll be under his heel.

The phone rings, he jumps, spins around and picks it up.

‘Mr Quignard, I have a certain Mr Chan on the line who’s asking to speak to you. It’s personal.’

‘His name doesn’t mean anything to me. Put him through.’

‘My dear friend, I am so pleased to be talking to you …’

Quignard sits up, that refined tone, the slight accent that was so familiar … this is it, Tomaso was right, it had to happen. He settles back into his armchair with a faint smile: a flesh-and-blood adversary at last.

‘To what do I owe the honour of this call?’

‘I’ve just read the French press. Rather late, I admit. What can I do, being so far away … and I learn that an investigation is apparently under way into the insider dealing of Matra shares …’ Silence. ‘I want my percentage of the profits.’ His tone changes, becoming harsh and vindictive. ‘Consider it a redundancy payment …’

‘You’ve got a nerve.’

‘… a golden parachute if you like. We’ve seen worse, much more exorbitant than what I’m asking for. You took a big risk in firing me like a subordinate. You made an error of judgement.’