The thing now was to make an arrest.
Criminal Investigations Division, Lille. Eyelids heavy, Lucie finished her third coffee of the morning, black, no sugar, sitting at a table with the main investigators involved in the case, which internally had been given the sober label “Deadly Reel.” The film had just been shown in its two versions: first the “official” one, then the variant with the children and rabbits. Following this was a presentation of stills depicting the more evident subliminal images: the nude woman, then the same woman mutilated, fat black eye on her stomach.
The jokey atmosphere that normally characterized task forces, especially in the summer months, had quickly soured. Sighs, whispers, closed faces. Everyone gauged the complexity of the case, measured the killers’ perversity, and provided his own commentary. Captain Kashmareck restored order:
“We have a digitized copy of the film, which is something the killers don’t know. I am therefore requesting you not let that information get out. These people killed to get hold of this film, which means that its hidden content must lead somewhere. Any ideas about what you’ve just seen?”
A hullabaloo broke out. Among all the remarks offered, from the very constructive “It’s disgusting!” to “Those children are completely nuts,” there wasn’t really anything worth the climax of a Columbo episode. Kashmareck cut short the chatter.
“Two things to note here. First, we’re in touch with a historian specializing in films from the fifties, someone Claude Poignet had contacted. The man had set the old restorer’s request aside, but when he learned of his death he immediately got back to work trying to identify the actress. We’re keeping our fingers crossed. On our side, we’re going to make prints of the actress, who I still want us to think of as an actress, and spread it around the film societies and revival houses—you never know. Second, in a minute I’m going to bring in a former expert in psychomorphology, who today specializes in lip-reading. She knows how to read silent films and will help us get down every last word that comes from the girl’s mouth. Madelin, did you check with Kodak and the lab that manufactured the film stock?”
The young go-getter opened his notepad with a sigh.
“It no longer exists—these days it’s a McDonald’s. I was able to trace the former owners, but they’re dead.”
“Fine. Morel, you get hold of young Szpilman and issue a warrant to come here and try to establish a composite portrait of the fellow in combat boots. Crombez, you get on forensics to keep them moving with the DNA and the rest. We’ve got the warrant from the international court for a search of Szpilman’s place with the Belgians at two o’clock. We need someone there. Henebelle, you on it?”
“Sure. Belgium seems to be my thing these days. Have they questioned the film archive to find out which donor had given them the deadly reel?”
“They’re working on it.”
Lucie spoke to Madelin: “And what about the phone numbers of our Canadian caller?”
“Once again, I reached out to Quebec Sûreté to get the info. For the two numbers you provided, the first one came from a phone booth in the center of town, and the other, the mobile, ended up at a fictitious name and address.”
Lucie nodded. The informant had displayed exemplary distrust. The captain, who was nervously twiddling a cigarette, took the floor again:
“I’ve got a meeting in Paris with the top brass tomorrow morning. Péresse from Rouen, Leclerc from Violent Crimes, and Sharko, a behavioral analyst.”
Sharko… Lucie squeezed her lips shut. He hadn’t even bothered to call her back.
“Anything new from Egypt?” she asked.
“Not for the moment—this Sharko probably didn’t get anything from his trip over there. In any case, I want to have something to tell them tomorrow. After we hear from Caroline Caffey, our lip-reading specialist, everyone gets to work.”
Kashmareck went out, returning a few moments later with a woman who set all the men’s eyes ablaze. About forty, she had long legs, blond hair, and the face of a Russian doll. She quickly scanned the group, settled into a chair that seemed to be reaching out for her, and opened a memo pad. With her firm, decisive movements, she must have been used to subduing the troops. She explained briefly, in discursive tones, that she worked for the military, customs, and the police, especially in antiterrorism and hostage negotiations. A heavyweight in her field. Lucie had never felt such attention around her. The testosterone level was rising. At least this bombshell had the power to capture their minds.
Caroline Caffey took control of the laptop, its contents displayed on a wide screen via a rear projector.
“Doing a lip-reading analysis of this film was not easy. In Canada as in France, there are various dialects, from street slang to formal discourse. The little girl is probably part of the country’s French-speaking community, as she speaks Quebec French, or more precisely Joual, an urban working-class sociolect from the Montreal area. It’s a way of speaking very similar to what you hear in the north of Bordeaux. Lots of long vowels, for instance.”
Straight as a ruler in her Chanel suit, she used the mouse to advance the film to the adult actress from the beginning. It was just before she had her eye slit with a scalpel. Her lips began to move. Caffey let it run and translated simultaneously:
“She’s speaking to the cameraman and saying, ‘Open the door of secrets to me.’”
“Is that in French French or Quebec French?” asked Lucie.
Caffey accorded her a look heavy with indifference.
“Miss?”
“Henebelle. Lucie Henebelle.”
She’d called her Miss. Damned observant.
“Hard to say, Miss Henebelle. Those are her only words. But I think French French. Especially because of the word ‘secrets,’ which she would have pronounced with her mouth open wider in Canadian French.”
Lucie jotted in her Moleskin: “Adult actress: French” and “Little girl on swing: Montreal.” Caffey forwarded the film a bit and came to the girl on the swing set. Explosion of joy on the child’s face. Camera focused in tightly enough so that you couldn’t see the surroundings. The filmmaker didn’t want anyone to recognize the place. As soon as the little girl started talking, Caroline imitated her:
“Can we play on the swings again tomorrow?… Will you come see me again soon?… Lydia wants to play on the swings too… Why can’t she go outside?”
The girl rose toward the sky, filled with joy. The camera lingered on her face and eyes, played with different shots, establishing a dynamic. There was an evident closeness between the cameraman and the little girl; they knew each other well. The more she watched these images, the more Lucie felt herself gripped in the gut by that innocent kid. An incomprehensible bond, a kind of maternal affection. She did her best to push away this kind of dangerous sentiment.
Next relevant scene. Close-up on the child’s lips as she ate potatoes and ham at a long wooden table. Caffey began decoding:
“…I heard them talking. A lot of people are saying mean things about you and the doctor… I know they’re lying—they’re just saying that to hurt us. I don’t like them. I’ll never like them.”
Caroline Caffey’s sentences rang out in the silence. The words and the tone she used gave the images a baleful character. You could feel the unease growing, the storm about to break. Lucie jotted down and circled the word “doctor.”