After that, she’d been transferred to Criminal Investigations in Lille, with a rank of lieutenant. Nice promotion. She’d opted for the big city, where she’d have many more opportunities to come face-to-face with the worst. Spotless record so far. A driven, punctilious woman, according to her supervisors, but with an increasing tendency to go off the rails. Rushing in without backup, frequent shouting matches with the brass, and a worrisome habit of zeroing in on violent cases, especially murders. Kashmareck, her superior officer, described her as “encyclopedic, possessed, a good psychologist in the field, but sometimes out of control.” Sharko dug deeper into the file. It was like reading his own story. In 2006, she had apparently taken a tumble: an intense manhunt to the far end of Brittany that in the end had put her on medical leave for three weeks. The official reason was “overwork.” In cop speak, that meant depression.
Depression… And yet this woman seemed fairly solid, at least on paper. Why had she fallen so far down the hole? Depression grabs hold of you when an investigation kicks you in the teeth, when other people’s pain suddenly becomes your own. What had happened to her that was so personal? Could it have anything to do with her two girls?
Sharko raised his eyes, a hand gripping his chin. She was only in her thirties, and the darkness already had such a hold that it was controlling her life. How old had he been when he’d started to tip over? Possibly well before that. And this was the result. Anyone watching could have guessed his situation in the blink of an eye: a guy bloated on meds who’d grow old alone, marked with the stamp of a fragmented life, encrusted along his wrinkles like a river of sorrow.
He stepped off the train at Gare du Nord at 7:20, less sweaty than usual. In July, the commuters were replaced by tourists, better behaved and much less sticky. The pulse of Paris beat more slowly.
Platform 9. Sharko waited among the pigeons, in a current of sullen air, arms crossed, in tan Bermudas, a yellow polo shirt, and docksiders. He hated station platforms, airports, anything that reminded him that every day people left each other. Behind him, parents were bringing their children to trains, packed for holiday camp. That kind of separation had its good side, promising the joy of reunion; but for Sharko, there would be no more reunions.
Suzanne… Eloise…
The mass of passengers surged like a single entity from the TGV arriving from Lille. Colors, a tempest of voices, and the noise of suitcases dragging along on wheels. Sharko craned his neck among the taxi drivers holding up signs with names on them. Making the obvious connection, he immediately spotted the right party. She came up with a smile. Small, slim, hair to her shoulders, she struck him as fragile, and without her damaged smile and that fatigue you see on certain cops, he might have taken her for just some broad coming to Paris to look for seasonal work.
“Inspector Sharko? Lucie Henebelle, Lille CID.”
Their fingers met. Sharko noted that in their handshake, she looped her thumb on top. She wanted to control the situation or express a kind of spontaneous dominance. The inspector smiled back at her.
“Is the Nemo still on Rue des Solitaires in Old Lille?”
“I think it’s up for sale. Are you from the north?”
“For sale? Damn… The best things always disappear. Yes, I come from the north, but that goes back a way. Let’s go to the Terminus Nord—not very glamorous, but it’s nearby.”
They left the station and went to the large café, finding a sidewalk table in the shade. In front of them, the taxicabs lined up in an endless colored queue. It was as if the station were regurgitating the entire world: whites, Arabs, blacks, Asians were dispatched in an indistinguishable swarm. Lucie set down her backpack and ordered a Perrier; Sharko, a Weissbier with a slice of lemon. The young lieutenant was impressed by the fellow, especially his bearing: trim hair, eyes of an old vet, and a solid build. He gave off the ambiguity of a composite material, something indefinable. She tried to keep any of this from showing.
“They tell me you’re an expert in criminal behavior. It must be fascinating.”
“Let’s cut to the chase, Lieutenant—it’s getting late. What have you got for me?”
The guy was direct as a boxer’s fist. Lucie didn’t know who she was dealing with, but she knew he’d never give without getting something in return. That’s how everyone worked in this profession: you scratch my back, I scratch yours. So she took her story from the top. The death of the Belgian collector, the discovery of the film, the violent, pornographic images buried in it, the fellow in the Fiat who seemed to be hunting for the same film. Sharko betrayed not a hint of emotion. He was the kind of guy who must have seen it all in his career, withdrawn behind his thick shell. Lucie didn’t forget to tell him about the mysterious phone call to Canada that afternoon. She jabbed her finger on the table as the waiter brought their drinks.
“I went online and watched all the newscasts from that week. Monday morning, the builders find the five bodies, and that evening it’s the lead story on the news. They talk about several bodies found buried with their skulls open.”
She pulled a memo book from her backpack. Sharko noted her attention to detail, and the dangerous passion she harbored. A cop’s eyes should never shine, and hers gleamed way too much when she talked about her case.
“I wrote it down: that Monday night, the report on the corpses started at 8:03 and ended at 8:05. At 8:08, old Szpilman placed a call to Canada. I got the length of the call from his phone log: eleven minutes, which means he hung up at 8:19. At around 8:25, he died trying to get hold of that film.”
“Were you able to check Szpilman’s other calls?”
“I haven’t yet put my unit on the case. It would have taken forever to explain it all. The most urgent thing was to meet you first.”
“Why’s that?”
Lucie put her cell phone down in front of her.
“Because the mysterious caller is supposed to ring back in less than fifteen minutes, and if I don’t have something meaty for him by then, that’ll be it.”
“You could have gotten info from headquarters over the phone. But you wanted to see a real one, right?”
“A real what?”
“A real profiler. Somebody who’s been there.”
Lucie shrugged. “I’d love to flatter your ego, Inspector, but that has nothing to do with it. I’ve told you what I know. Now it’s your turn.”
She was a straight shooter, with no tricks. Sharko liked the unspoken contest she was proposing. Still, he had to needle her a bit.
“No, seriously, you think I’m going to just hand over confidential information to some stranger from the land of the caribous? Shall we put up notices at the bus stops too, while we’re at it?”
Lucie nervously emptied her Perrier into a glass. Skinned alive, thought Sharko.
“Listen, Inspector. I’ve spent my day on the road and I pissed away almost a hundred euros in train tickets to come drink a Perrier. A friend of mine is locked away in a mental hospital because of this nonsense. I’m hot, I’m tired, I’m supposed to be on vacation, and to top it off, my daughter is very ill. So with all due respect, spare me your lousy jokes.”
Sharko bit into his lemon slice, then licked his fingers.
“We’ve all got our little woes. Some time ago I had to stay in a hotel without a bathtub. Last year, I think it was… Yes, last year. Now that was a real problem.”
Lucie couldn’t believe her ears. A round-trip from Lille to Paris just to listen to this shit?
“So what am I supposed to do? Just get up and go home?”
“The brass has been briefed on this case of yours, at least?”