Merle: A French murder mystery (A Jacques Forêt Mystery Book 2) Page 6

  Hélène’s face brightened. “Naturally. How else can I keep moving from post to post and keep improving my prospects? It’s also really important to keep on top of the latest information about current business practices, what’s new that’s coming up and what’s old that’s—”

  “You’re openly admitting that you discuss your work with people outside the company, is that right?”

  “No. But I do like to debate—”

  “So, you do talk about company business with non-company employees.”

  “Look, Jacques, I discuss business policies and practices, that’s all.”

  He noticed the grating sound in her voice and decided to push her further. “Have you discussed the policies within this company that relate to costing up tenders for work?”

  “No. Well, perhaps, but—”

  “Who with?”

  “There’s no need to shout.”

  “I’m not. Just answer the question.”

  Hélène squirmed. “I may have mentioned to people in the smoking area that we sometimes build in a narrow margin on our costings.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t remember who and it would have just been as part of a general discussion.”

  Jacques contained a sigh of frustration, noted the details and flipped his notebook shut.

  “If we’re finished I’ll get back to—”

  “We’re not. I want to move on to something else.” Jacques put in front of Hélène the letter that Nicolas Durand had received, terminating his employment, alongside the letter that had been in his personal file which stated that his contract was not being renewed. “What can you tell me about these two documents?”

  “Nothing. I’ve not seen these before.” Hélène looked up and smiled.

  “But you do you know Nicolas Durand, don’t you?”

  “He worked for me for a while, but I wouldn’t say that I know him.” She sat back and crossed her arms.

  Jacques picked up a second file of papers, sifted through them and, resting the file against the edge of the table so that she couldn’t see the contents, continued. “According to the records I have here, you interviewed him, you signed the letter offering him a post, you were his designated line manager in his contract of employment, you completed his probationary report, you signed his letter acknowledging he had passed his probationary period, you completed two subsequent reports, both lengthy and detailed, about issues you discussed with him and it was to you that Personnel sent the final letter not renewing his contract for signature. I would say that you knew Monsieur Durand.”

  “Well, I didn’t understand that was what you meant.”

  “I spent some time with the HR Director, one of her managers, and Mademoiselle Lapointe yesterday, Hélène, and they explained to me how personnel services operate within these two companies. So, looking at these letters and these references here, I know that this letter was drafted by one of the Personnel staff who then passed it to her manager for approval, JS, who then emailed it to Mademoiselle Lapointe, EML, who then emailed it to you to sign and issue, HH.” Jacques paused to check her reaction, but she shook her head, her face expressionless.

  “No. I’ve never seen this before.”

  “Mademoiselle Lapointe’s record keeping is exemplary, Hélène.” He consulted his notes. “That letter was emailed to your inbox at 15.32 on Monday, July 20th because Nicolas was going on leave with effect from Monday July 27th. As far as HR and Mademoiselle Lapointe were concerned, it was important to let him know, before he took leave, that his contract would not be renewed.”

  Hélène shook her head. “I don’t remember that.”

  “Let’s look at the second, but very different letter.” He placed it over the first letter so that the references on both were next to each other. “These sets of initials tell me that this second letter took exactly the same route from HR to you. HH are your initials, aren’t they?”

  “I’ve never seen this before.”

  “That’s what HR and Mademoiselle Lapointe said, too. But look at the date, Hélène. It’s July 20th.”

  “As I said, Jacques, I’ve never seen it before. I get a hundred emails a day, sometimes more. I can’t remember all of them.”

  “But it seems that you can be quite definite about not having seen these letters.”

  Her face was still but her defiance was plain to see in her eyes. Jacques wondered how difficult it might be to follow the electronic trail. He decided he would seek out and talk to someone in IT.

  “OK. What about the signature on that second letter? Look at it closely please and tell me if you recognise it?”

  “I can’t be sure, but I think that might be Aimée’s initials on behalf of the HR Director.” She looked up at Jacques and smiled.

  And I’m expected to believe that, am I?

  He picked up the evidence, collected the various files together and stood. “Thank you, Hélène. If I need to talk to you again, I will email you to arrange a convenient time and day.” He strode out of the room and left the door open wide for Hélène to follow or not as she chose. He wasn’t going to wait for her. As he walked through the operations area, he noticed that Aimée was not at her desk. He pulled out his phone and as he reached the landing he stopped and sent her a text.

  Call me asap, please. Need to talk. Jacques Forêt

  “…and you’re absolutely certain you have not seen that letter nor signed it?”

  Aimée cast her eyes over the document again. “I’m sure, Jacques, one hundred percent sure.” She pushed it back across the table to him. “I would never change a letter that HR had drafted unless I could see a misspelling or a misuse of grammar or something of that nature. As for these extra paragraphs, I would never add in such details unless it was specifically requested. These detailed comments about inability to communicate effectively and quoting a specific example… That is wholly inappropriate. I would never do that. It’s the sort of thing that should only be discussed in private as part of the performance review process. The only situation when that kind of information might be useful is when a prospective employer is asking for a reference from me about a past employee, and even then, I would not include the details of specific examples. I would just say that I’d identified areas of concern or that I’d spoken to the individual about weaknesses in his ability to communicate effectively, for example. Then I would make a comment about improvements identified or not, as required. That’s about as specific as I would get. And no, that is not my annotation at the bottom of the letter on behalf of HR.”

  Jacques thought for a moment. “All right, and thanks for that detailed response. One last thing, then. Can I ask you for a sample of your handwriting? A simple sentence and a signature is all I require.”

  As Aimée swiftly copied out the first short paragraph of the letter under discussion, Jacques wondered about the electronic route of the letter. Aimée signed the sheet and passed it to Jacques. When Aimée had left the room, he compared the writing with the initials on the letter that Nicolas had actually received and nodded, then he picked up his phone and rang Philippe Chauvin.

  ***

  Having unlocked the door, the estate agent took a step back and nodded to Jacques. Beth walked in first followed by Jacques whilst the agent remained on the landing. The octagonal vestibule was large and one of the doors hid a small cloakroom. Beth stood in the centre and slowly turned around, letting her photographer’s eye take in the space. Finally, she looked up as her attention was drawn to the domed glass ceiling above, the only source of natural light.

  “This space needs up-lighters. Probably one on every other wall,” she said, her face impassive as she waited for Jacques to take the lead.

  Jacques smiled and opened the door to the main living space. Before he had time to say anything, she had walked into the middle of the large room. Floor to ceiling retractable windows on two sides looked out onto hills and over the houses around the edge of the development below. Beth let her gaze s
weep over the emptiness. Moving close to the back wall, she strolled along the perimeter of the space, breathing in the newness, taking in every centimetre, every shadow, every particle of dust that had accumulated during the relatively short time since the workmen had vacated the apartment.

  “What an amazing space! There’s so much you could do with this. This wall can take a single large piece of art or a photograph or a series of smaller pictures. And a sweeping balcony along two sides! This is fabulous, Jacques.”

  Beth turned and went to the corner of the room where the two windowed walls met. “This space here would be perfect for the dining area, I think, with patio chairs and a table outside, too.”

  She moved again into the kitchen area and started looking in cupboards and drawers. “Wow!”

  As she stood looking into a large double pantry cupboard, she felt Jacques put his arms around her waist.

  “I knew you would like it,” he whispered into her ear. “The bedrooms and bathroom are this way.” Taking her by the hand, he led her back out into the vestibule. Opening a door on his left, he stood back to let her enter the master bedroom. A weak sun was streaming through the windows, bathing the room in a soft, ivory light. Again, she walked the perimeter of the space. By the windows, she asked, “Will these open, and can we go out onto the balcony?”

  “I’ll get the agent,” said Jacques as he disappeared out of the room. Beth moved closer to the windows to take in the view. The agent, followed by Jacques, unlocked and opened the one nearest to him and then left them alone. Beth stepped out into the sharp chill of the air. She leaned against the steel railings and looked back into the room.

  “Blue,” she said. “If I were going to choose a colour for the walls in this room, I think it would be blue. The same pale blue that the sky is today, with a mirror on that wall to reflect the light and to bring the external scenery into the room.”

  “Does this mean you like it?”

  “Yes. I do. It’s a wonderful space. There’s so much you could do with it.” As she walked towards him, her arms outstretched, she saw what she thought was a flicker of disappointment on his face. As she hugged him, it turned to smile. “I mean, there’s a lot that we could do…”

  ***

  “…that’s not good enough, Jacques,” Alain Vaux shouted as he walked back behind his desk. “I want to see results.” He threw down a copy of an email for Jacques to read. “That article is going to appear in tomorrow morning’s paper. I need to be able to say publicly that the cyber-attack was not as the result of internal action or leaks of information.”

  Jacques carefully replaced the pages in front of Alain and took a deep breath. “These accounts that have been copied or hacked or accessed… Do we know how many?”

  “About 100,000, and that represents just under a third of that particular pension payroll that our HR directorate administers and has administered for the last four years. We cannot afford to lose that contract. That’s why I need results, Jacques.”

  Jacques, hands behind his back, spoke calmly. “It’s not that simple, and I can’t guarantee that I can give the assurances you want.”

  “Why not?” Alain thumped his fist into the nearby wall.

  “Because any current company employee can arrange for anyone – a hacker, a master criminal – to legitimately visit either of these buildings for the day, and if they have with them a memory stick, are IT-skilled and given time and access to one of the computers on the network, they can just about copy any damn thing they want.”

  Alain glared and lent across the desk. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Jacques matched Alain’s stance. “Exactly what I’ve just said, Alain. I’ve checked the list of company employees involved in each of the bids lost, along with day visitors and then matched that to the records of who has had system access. There are a number of visitors, visitors who have had authorised access to these buildings by company employees, who have also had system access, Alain. On my arrival, I advised both you and the board of my concerns about internal security, but you decided not to act.”

  Breaking the tension, Alain scraped his fingers across his forehead and let out a sigh and, hands in his trouser pockets, he walked over to the windows. “Which probably means there is someone within the company, who has uninterrupted access, who might be behind this.”

  Jacques relaxed and drew up a chair. “I’m sorry to tell you that I no longer think this investigation is just about lost contracts, Alain. Over the last week, I’ve come across other internal matters that lead me to believe that your whole organisation is not as tightly managed as you and your brother think. I’m not yet ready to present detailed findings, but I think that Édouard has internal management issues that need addressing. I have some concerns about the stability of the central project management team and I need to delve deeper. As for links to, and with, C and C Consulting, there are many. I still need to talk to Édouard and the Finance and IT directors. I cannot say yet who may have leaked information – if that is what has been happening.”

  Alain thought for a moment. “When will you be able to present your findings, even if they are only initial thoughts?”

  “Tuesday morning, at the latest, I expect.”

  Alain frowned his disappointment but remained silent for a moment. “And will this new surveillance camera you’ve had set up help you to come to a fuller conclusion sooner?”

  “Who told you about that?” Jacques clenched his jaw as he waited for an answer.

  “I authorised the expenditure.”

  saturday, october 17th

  In Messandrierre, Guy Delacroix hadn’t wanted to get up at such an early hour. But a job transporting cattle to the abattoir was a job, and the fact that he was doing it for Fermier Rouselle made it all the sweeter. A chill wind whistled through the barn as he stood looking at his four motors. All of them were haphazardly stood where they had been stopped when last used and most of them had not been used for the last three months. Two had bald tyres and the third had a back light out and brakes that needed adjusting. All things that he’d been meaning to get around to. But then there had not been much point as the requests to take cattle to the abattoir in Langogne from the other farmers in the area had stopped during the summer. That is, until Rouselle called to ask for his help the day before.

  As he looked from one vehicle to the other, his still-fogged brain struggled to calculate the possible combined weight of the open trailer plus two of Rouselle’s Aubrac cattle balanced against the recommended tow-weight for his only street-legal vehicle, the white Lada. The previous night’s drinking session with his life-long friend, Douffre, had taken its toll. He attempted to frown away his hang-over as he marshalled his wits to cope with the maths, but failed on both counts.

  Deciding to take the risk, he reversed the Lada up to the trailer. As he bent to fix the coupling to the tow-bar, his head began to swim and fine beads of sweat began to dot his forehead. He grabbed hold of one of the flat metal bars half way up the side of the trailer and pulled himself upright. It took a moment or two before he felt steady on his feet. He wiped the sleeve of his blue overalls across his brow. His eyesight still bleary, he only glanced at the coupling to assure himself it was secure.

  Settled behind the wheel he started the engine and didn’t bother with his seat belt. He was only going down the track to Ferme Rouselle and he reasoned that, for such a short distance, it didn’t matter, and Gendarme Clergue was unlikely to be patrolling around the village this early. He moved the vehicle off his property onto the top road and trundled in second towards the chateau. Just as he reached Ferme Sithrez – now empty with the windows boarded up and the remains of the police tape flapping in the breeze – he turned right down the steep path and then right again onto the narrow track towards Ferme Pamier and the bottom road that dissected the village. The track was muddy and slippery from the overnight rain, and Delacroix almost lost control of the vehicle. He brushed his sweaty right hand down his thigh and t
hen shifted into first and turned onto the track to Ferme Rouselle.

  “You’re late,” barked Fermier Rouselle as Delacroix pulled up at the gate to the holding pen. “You were supposed to be here one half hour ago.”

  “I’m here now, aren’t I?” Delacroix’s tone held its usual venom.

  Rouselle marched over to the pen and unlatched the large wooden gate and anchored it in position. He then moved a section of free-standing fencing and placed it opposite the open gate to create a path for the cattle that led directly to the trailer.

  “Open it, then.” He shot Delacroix an annoyed and pointed look.

  “The money first.” Delacroix rubbed his chest and frowned at the stabbing pain but did not change his stance.

  Rouselle pulled out an envelope and handed it across to his neighbour. “Now, get that trailer open and let’s get these beasts loaded.”

  A few minutes later, the beasts were secured in the trailer, the farmer strode back to his barn, Delacroix started the engine and turned the Lada in a wide arc to leave the way he had come. He was about to reach for the seatbelt when a sudden pain hit him in the centre of his chest and radiated down his left arm. He braked hard. The cattle lowed their complaints. Another pain lunged at him, but Delacroix ignored it and shifted into first and set off again. This time he made it to the track. With the trailer moving unsteadily over the uneven and soggy ground, he progressed up the incline to the top road and turned left. Accelerating on the wet and slippery tarmac, the trailer began to sway as he rounded the bend where the road forked to Rieutort. He progressed down the slope and passed the chalets, the trailer swaying with increasing force. Delacroix tried to compensate and put his foot down hard on the brake as he felt another pain slam into his chest. He keeled over the steering wheel and blacked out.

  ***

  The slide show of photos that Beth had partially put together for her website was scrolling round and round in a loop on her laptop. The two-thirds full cup of coffee on her left had been untouched for so long, it was tepid. Her chin resting on her left hand, her right hand covering her mouse, unmoving, she had remained silent and motionless for almost half an hour. Sitting at her desk and staring out of the glass fronted loft area, her mind had been consumed by one complex thought.