Lorraine Connection

by Dominique Manotti

Genres: International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

The players in this deadly-serious game of Monopoly will stop at nothing.

In Pondange, Lorraine, the Korean Daewoo group manufactures cathode ray tubes. Working conditions are abysmal, but as it's the only source of employment in this bleak former iron and steel-manufacturing region, the workers daren't protest. Until a strike breaks out, and there's a fire at the factory. But is it an accident? The Pondange factory is at the centre of a strategic battle being played out in Paris, Brussels and Asia for the takeover of the ailing state-owed electronic giant, Thomson. Unexpectedly the Matra-Daewoo alliance wins the bid. Rival contender Alcatel believes there's foul play involved and brings in the big guns led by its head of security service. Intrepid private cop Charles Montoya is called to Lorraine to investigate, and explosive revelations follow - dirty tricks, blackmail and murder.

Release date: March 19, 2009

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 276

Sample

 

A room enclosed by four grey sheet-metal walls, bisected by a conveyor belt carrying two rows of television screens and their cathode ray tubes, under the glare of neon lights from which a stray electric wire dangles. Two rows of four women sit facing each other on either side of the conveyor. Autumn is around the corner and it is very chilly: when they took up their positions this morning it was still dark outside. All the women know each other and feel almost close in this confined space where they work as a team on collective output and bonuses, but no one feels like talking, since the prospect of long nights and short days dampens their spirits.

The women, also looking grey in their short overalls, lean forward, their eyes constantly moving from the aggressive oblong-shaped bases of the cathode tubes filing past them to the tilting polished-steel mirrors overhead. The same crushing images of the same tubes are reflected from a different angle, as if magnified. Holding tiny soldering irons, they add a few final spots of solder then, on leaving the production line, the finished cathode ray tubes are conveyed to the next workshop on the other side of the sheet-metal wall, where they will be packaged, stored, and ultimately despatched elsewhere, generally to Poland, where they will be given plastic casings and become television sets.

The girls can hear only muffled sounds from the factory floor, but the noise from the conveyor belt bounces off the sheet-metal walls and dictates the rhythm of their days. Clack, the conveyor starts up, hiss, two seconds, the tubes start moving, clack, stop. Each girl leans forward, the soldering irons sputter, one, two, three, four blobs, and in ten seconds they straighten up. Rolande, at the end of the line, gives the tubes a quick once-over to check the accuracy of the soldering. Clack,
sssh, the belt moves forward, minds blank, their hands and eyes work automatically. Clack, one, two, three, four, glance, clack,
sssh … Aisha’s face between two tubes, wan, twenty years old, should
be
in
better
health.
Clack, one, I
was
in
better
shape
at
twenty, two, pregnant,
ditched, three, alcoholic
mother,
violent, four, who
was
already
sponging
off
me, glance, clack,
sssh.
Aisha,
her
eyes
vacant,
violent
father.
Clack, one, my
son,
ruffling
his
hair, two, caressing
his
face,
affection, three, the
factory
no
way,
never, four, study,
study,
study, glance, clack,
sssh.
Aisha,
work,
can’t
stand
it
any
more,
clack, one, since
the
accident, two, the
accident,
the
blood, three, blood
everywhere, four, throat
slit, glance, clack,
sssh.
Aisha
covered
in
blood.
Clack, one, she’s
afraid, two, me
too, three, all
of
us,
afraid, four, the
sheet-metal
walls
exude
fear,
clack,
sssh.
Aisha,
her
father
yelling,
clack, one, blinding flash, from floor to ceiling. On the other side of the production line a tube explodes, the briefest scream, earsplitting.

Émilienne keels over backwards, Rolande’s palm automatically hits the emergency button, the production line comes to a halt, a wire is fizzling all the way up to the neon light, orangey-yellow sparks and a very strong smell of burning rubber or some other substance, sickening. Silence. Rolande clambers on to a chair and picks her way over the conveyor between two cathode tubes. Émilienne is lying on the floor on her back, white, rigid, eyes closed, lips blue. Six months pregnant. Her belly protrudes through her half-unbuttoned overalls. An alarm goes off somewhere on the other side of the partition. In the total silence of the cramped room, Rolande speaks quietly, in a precise monotone: ‘Aisha, run to the offices, grab a phone and call an ambulance, the fire brigade. Go, hurry.’ Aisha rushes off. Rolande kneels down, Émilienne’s hair is spread on the worn-out vinyl tiles. The floor’s filthy, when was it last cleaned? She feels ashamed, removes her overalls and places them under the head of the injured, possibly dead, woman. Émilienne doesn’t appear to be breathing. She leans over her, attempts mouth-to-mouth, senses a breath. She gently unbuttons the neck of Émilienne’s blouse and frees her legs from under the overturned chair. A scorch mark on the seat. The girls are all on their feet, staring expressionlessly, their mouths closed, leaning against the sheet-metal walls, as far away as possible from Émilienne. What
was
I
thinking
about
earlier?
Fear?

This
is
its
natural
home. Réjane, who sits next to Émilienne on the production line, murmurs in a quavering voice, her hands trembling:

‘Maybe we should give her heart massage.’

‘Do you know how?’

‘No.’

‘Me neither.’

One women slaps Émilienne’s face and dabs at it with a wet cloth, the other massages her hands, weeping.

 

Antoine Maréchal, bespectacled and in blue overalls, is juggling schedules and attendance sheets in the personnel office. He is the foreman of the assembly-finishing-packaging section, and each day is a monumental challenge to maintain output with absenteeism ranging between ten and twenty per cent. Closer to twenty per cent on this autumn day. What dross, all bloody Arabs or women. They don’t know the meaning of work. The Human Resources Manager in person comes into the office, thirty-something, in a tailored suit, expensive shoes of Italian leather, an incompetent, cocksure young upstart, still wet behind the ears. Maréchal, in his fifties, a lumbering figure in his overalls and safety boots, shudders with repressed hatred.

‘Mr Maréchal, how convenient, just the person I wanted to see. The latest figures show an absenteeism rate of thirteen per cent in your section over the last month.’

‘I know. I’m dealing with it.’

‘It’s the highest rate in the factory. If you don’t do something about it, you’ll be jeopardising the survival of the entire company.’

Maréchal removes his glasses, snaps down the sides and puts them in his overalls pocket, next to the red ballpoint pen and the blue ballpoint pen, and rests both hands on the desk, which creaks.

‘Listen, Mr Human Resources Manager, you’re new here. I’ve been here since the day this factory opened, and not a month has gone by without the management threatening closure. Anyone would think they’d only opened it so they could close it down. So that kind of talk won’t go very far with me. I don’t give a damn if your place closes down. I’ve got my house, it’s not long till I retire, I’ll pocket my bonus and go off gathering mushrooms.’ The pager clipped to Maréchal’s belt starts beeping. ‘Excuse me, I’m wanted on the factory floor.’

He leaves the Head of HR casting around for a reply and goes next door into the main factory building. The clanging, clattering, scraping and the din of engines. Confused sounds, he thinks. Memories of the powerful, constant roar of the blast furnace, the roar of fire. Nostalgia? Not really. It
cost
my
father
his
life. 
He
was
confused
too. The main factory building, divided into numerous enclosed areas which you have to cross or skirt around to reach the long, central corridor, cluttered with a discarded Fenwick engine, empty pallets and dustbins. In front of him, a gaping doorway leading to a narrow room entirely taken up by a machine which, at the time of its installation, was to revolutionise the chemical treatment of microprocessors. A purpose-built room, specially insulated against dust and temperature variations to prevent the machine from overheating and breaking down for lack of ventilation. Idle for a year and a half. Some
clever
buggers
must
have
dismantled
it
and
nicked
some
of
the
parts,
can’t
blame
them. A rush of anger. And
it’s
my
section
that’s
jeopardising
the
future
of
the
factory.
Wanker.


Aisha’s running down the main corridor towards him. Trouble of one kind or another. Without stopping, she yells at him:

‘An accident, a short circuit, Émilienne’s dead! I’m going to call an ambulance.’

Maréchal catches himself thinking if
she’s
dead,
it’s
too

late, and hastens his step, while Aisha runs on in the direction of the offices. He goes into the finishing workshop and the first person he sees, in the opposite doorway, is Nourredine, the packaging foreman. A good worker, fair enough, but a real troublemaker, always protesting, wanting to put forward his own ideas. What the hell’s he doing here? The place stinks. He immediately spots the scorch marks caused by the short circuit running from floor to ceiling. He looks down and sees Émilienne’s body lying at his feet, and, kneeling beside her, Rolande and Réjane, who is shaking, sobbing and wailing:

‘She’s been electrocuted, she’s dead.’

Émilienne, unconscious, pale, her lips blue, her body racked with spasms accompanied by groans. Right,
she’s
not
dead.
Women
always
exaggerate.
I
need
to
take
charge
of
the
situation
and
show
that
bloody
Arab. A quick glance around the room. The girls are all there, pinned against the walls, white as ghosts. Rolande looks less shaken and anyway, she’s the production-line supervisor, a good worker, she’ll lead the others. He leans towards her:

‘Everything’s fine, the ambulance is on its way. Move away, you need to give your friend air. Until the ambulance arrives you must all go back to your places. Once the ambulance is here, we’ll see what has to be done.’

Rolande is still holding Émilienne’s head. Nobody’s paying any attention to the foreman. Rolande’s mesmerised by the puddle of water spreading between Émilienne’s legs.

Maréchal bends down and takes her arm.

‘Her waters have broken.’ Her head is bowed, her voice husky.

Maréchal doesn’t understand what she’s saying.

‘Ms Lepetit, do set an example. Go back to your seat. We must calm everyone down, let the paramedics do their job, and then get back to work. It’s nothing to worry about, you’ll see.’

Rolande seems to be waking from a nightmare, it’s
nothing
to
worry
about,
bastard,
get
back
to
work,
swine,
don’t
you
dare
touch
me. She suddenly stands up, thrusts his hand from her arm and gives him a resounding clout that sends him sprawling on his back amongst the girls’ legs. Not one of them holds out a hand to help him to his feet. He gets up, crimson with rage. Nourredine has come into the room and he leaps over the conveyor, grabs the foreman’s shoulders and marches him outside.

‘Calm down! You’ve no idea what they’ve just been through. The short circuit was so powerful that next door we could see the flash through the partition. And the woman’s scream …’ he has difficulty finding the words ‘… was like something from beyond the grave.’

The fire brigade arrives at the double, led by Aisha. Nourredine continues to push Maréchal out of the way. Within seconds, Émilienne is hooked up to a drip, placed on a stretcher and carried away.

 

Aisha’s lying in the dark, in a cubicle in the medical room. Her production line has been halted, electricians have been called out urgently from Pondange to carry out repairs. The foreman said that everything would be sorted in time for the second shift. Meanwhile, the girls on the opposite line, supervised by Rolande, have gone back to work. To work. Aisha faints.

Between these sheet-metal walls, white from the flash of electricity, resonating with the scream, Émilienne’s body, a few feet away from Aisha, keeling over backwards, rigid, entangled in her chair. And the other accident, no more than a month ago, right in front of her, the headless body, standing there for ages before collapsing, blood spurting out of the neck, the warmth of the blood on her hands, her face. I
am

cursed.
Forget
Forget.
Think
about
something
else.
I
don’t
want
to
go
home
before
clocking-off
time.
My
father
at
home
with
all
his
questions.
Why
aren’t
you
at
the
factory?
I
shan’t
tell
him
anything.
Not
a
word.
Nothing
happened.
I
can’t
talk
any
more.


Maréchal draws back the curtain around the cubicle and comes in, almost on tiptoe.

‘How do you feel, Miss Saidani?’ No reply. ‘I realise what a shock this has been for you. The nurse told me you were feeling a lot better.’

Clumsy, bumbling Maréchal. Definitely not bright.

‘What do you want?’

‘OK. Ms Lepetit has gone upstairs to talk to management and as you’re the only one from the other production line to have stayed, I wondered whether you’d kindly take her place. Just while she’s upstairs. It shouldn’t be for long.’

Aisha sits bolt upright. To face all that right now – the sheet-metal walls, the production line, the neon lights, the dangling wires, the handle of the soldering iron in the palm of her hand – is to face her own death. But whether she does it today, or tomorrow … the
girls
will
be
around
me,
supportive,
their
eyes
saw

what
I’ve
seen.
If
I
have
to
choose
between
the
production
line
and
going
home
to
my
father,
I
prefer
the
production
line.
Besides,
I’m
doing
it
for
Rolande.


‘All right.’

‘The nurse will give you a little pick-me-up.’

In the admin section, Rolande is trying to walk straight and slowly. They’re
probably
going
to
ask
me
about
the
accident.
That’s
going
to
be
difficult.
Because
right
now,
what
I
need
more
than
anything
is
to
forget,
completely,
for
a
few
days,
until
I’ve
got

over

my
fear.

Then
talk
about
it …
I
must
ask
for
a
few
days
off
for
the
girls. Flashback to the girls’ faces, ashen against the sheet metal. The
shock
was
too

brutal.
Get
them
to
understand.
Find
the
words …
and
I’ll

find
out
how

Émilienne

is.
Miscarriage?
Dead?
Be
prepared
for
the
worst,
and
above
all,
don’t
break
down
in
front
of
‘them’.


She is immediately shown into the office of the Head of HR himself. It’s the first time she’s set eyes on him. A quick glance to size him up. Young, flashy. Not my type.

‘Ms Lepetit, I have very little to say to you. After your inexcusable behaviour towards Mr Maréchal, your section foreman, you are being dismissed for serious misconduct, and this decision takes effect as of now. You may not return to your work station. You will be accompanied to the cloakroom to remove your personal belongings, and then to the exit. You will receive your final pay cheque tomorrow.’

Her insides turn to liquid, her mind goes blank, not a word, not a coherent thought, only images, violent feelings, the flash, the white light, the scream, the smell, the fear. And
then
my
son’s
smile,
in
his
boarding
school
uniform,
my
mother,
drunk,
asleep
on
the
kitchen
floor,
who’s
going
to
pay?
Work,
pain,
broken
body,
hands
numb,
hard,
yes,
but
better
than
no
job.
Tomorrow,
on
the
streets,
homeless?


Half unconscious, she’s shoved out into the corridor. She leans against the wall, her eyes closed, dizzy, feels like throwing up. When she opens her eyes, Ali Amrouche is standing in front of her. He’s holding her hands, tapping them, a concerned expression on his face. Amrouche, the union rep, always hanging around management, that’s him.

‘Rolande, don’t you feel well? Rolande, talk to me.’

He places a hand on her shoulder, a gesture he’s never made, or dared make before. He has nothing but respect for Rolande, but she’s distraught. She feels the warm contact of his hand on her shoulder, it does her good, less alone, and the words return, jumbled at first. She leans against him, lets herself go, then the words come tumbling out and she tells him about the accident, in great detail – her every movement, Émilienne’s body, lifeless, rigid: ‘I touched death, Ali.’ The helplessness, not knowing what to do to save a life, and the violent contractions, the groans as if Émilienne were in immeasurable pain and a hope, the baby that died, almost as if that would bring the mother back to life. With the words come tears, what a relief. ‘And they fired me, Ali, because I knocked Maréchal to the floor.’ A hint of a smile. ‘For that price, I should have killed him, the fat bastard.’

‘I’m taking you home, Rolande, and I’ll come back and talk to management, straight away. It isn’t possible, it’s a mistake. It has to be a mistake.’

‘Thank you, but no. See me to the exit, that’ll help. I’ll go home by myself, it’s only a couple of minutes away.’

In the Head of HR’s office, Ali Amrouche tries to explain.

‘You can’t fire Ms Lepetit. The whole factory will be up in arms. She’s a courageous woman, everybody looks up to her. We all know that she has to support her son and her penniless mother single-handed. Everyone was shaken up by the accident this morning in her section.’

‘She’s not the one who had the accident, it was Émilienne Machaut who, let me take the opportunity to inform you, is safe and sound.’

‘What about the baby?’

‘Miscarriage. It happens. None of that in any way justifies Ms Lepetit’s behaviour in physically attacking her foreman.’ He straightens his upper body, pushes his shoulders back. I’m here to restore order and discipline in this factory, both of which are sadly lacking. I will not stand for this behaviour.’

The Head of HR shuffles a file around his desk, taps the telephone, folds his hands. ‘Mr Amrouche, my predecessor told me you were a reasonable man, a man of compromise, able to make allowances. So I am keen for you to be the first to know this: in one week, the works council will meet and the question of the last nine months’ unpaid bonuses will once again be on the agenda. If the company were to pay those bonuses today, plus the arrears, its financial stability would be jeopardised. The financial situation is still precarious, as you well know, and there’s a risk the factory will have to close. So, management is going to suggest – and when I say suggest, you know what I mean – that all bonuses be cancelled for this year and paid from next January.’ He spreads his hands and raises his eyebrows.

‘We’ve examined the figures from every angle. There’s no other solution. We are relying on people like you to get everyone to accept it.’

Amrouche stares at the Head of HR. What does this man know about it? Weariness. How to explain the poverty, suffering, fear, and then the eruption of consuming anger and hatred to this fine gentleman with his smart shoes about to be blown to pieces?

‘Does Maréchal approve of Rolande Lepetit’s dismissal?’

The Head of HR stands up and turns to face the window.

‘The matter is closed.’

 

Seated alone at a table in the empty cafeteria, Amrouche is drinking a coffee and thinking things over. The
Head
of
HR,
what
a
shit.

‘My
predecessor
spoke
to
me
about
you’ …
and
drops
two
bombshells,
without
even
being
aware
of
it.
What
do
I
do? ‘You’re
a
reasonable
man’.
So
what?
The
bonuses
can
wait

until
the
works
council
meeting,
I’m
not
supposed
to
know
about
that.
As
for
Rolande,
by
the
end
of
the
lunch
break
the
whole
factory
will
have
heard.
If
the
guys
find
out
that
I
knew
and
that
I
didn’t
say
or
do
anything,
they
won’t
forgive
me.
Rolande,
a
woman
who’s
been
through
the
mill
like
me,
and
who
gets
on
with
things.
Never
off
sick,
a
hard
worker,
tough,
proud,
honest.
Better
than
me.
A
man
of
compromise,
huh! A bitter taste of coffee on his tongue and at the corners of his mouth. A
man
who
compromises?
True
enough:
because
I’m
a
broken
man. Images of the nearby Pondange iron and steelworks where he worked for ten years flood back. He loved the heat, the noise, the physical exertion, the danger too, and the sense of comradeship that went with it. Not like here. And then the exhilarating struggle to save the works. They’d felt so powerful, all united. Followed by total failure. The works dismantled, obliterated from the valley. A working class dynamited, like the blast furnaces. Tears welled up in his eyes each time he walked along the swollen river banks, the concrete bases where the blast furnaces once stood now overgrown with grass. One thing was certain: they were the winners, them, the other side. You
have
to
live
with
it.
Be
shrewd,
hold
out.
For
now,
get
Rolande
reinstated.
At
least
do
that
much.
Go
and
see
Maréchal,

a
racist
bastard,
but
a
former
steelworker
and
capable
of
und. . .