Have to start bidding to find out.
‘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.’
18 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 frontof him, probably – no, certainly – saying, ‘I saw the guys who started the fire.’ Perhaps signing his death warrant. Tell the cops
‘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.’
18 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 frontof him, probably – no, certainly – saying, ‘I saw the guys who started the fire.’ Perhaps signing his death warrant. Tell the cops
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