“So in your view, the same perps who killed the girls in Egypt also killed the five men here?”
“I believe so, even though there’s a huge difference with the MO used in Egypt. There, the victims were still alive when the heinous acts were committed—there was torture and postmortem mutilation. Here, they were killed much faster.”
Kashmareck had snapped his cigarette in half from too much fidgeting.
“What are these killers really after?”
“I’m not sure yet, but I think it’s linked to these outbreaks of mass hysteria. In any case, I get the sense we’re not dealing with isolated individuals working on their own. People paid Atef Abd el-Aal to kill his brother, and the bodies in Gravenchon bear the mark of a real professional.”
Sharko looked at his boss.
“By the way, if you could also get someone to look into the term ‘Syndrome E’… It was the doctor at the Salaam Center who mentioned it, along with the collective hysterias. Just a term he remembered, without knowing what it meant.”
Leclerc jotted down some quick notes.
“Very well. Right, then… I’ll write up the minutes of this meeting. Our priorities are: get the list of humanitarian aid workers present in Cairo in March 1994. I can take care of that. Inspector Péresse, you pursue the lead of human trafficking—you never know.”
“Fine.”
“You, Captain Kashmareck…”
“I’ll keep working with the Belgians. And I have a serious murder case on my hands as well, with Claude Poignet. My teams are working full tilt. And vacations aren’t helping.”
“Understood.” He turned to Sharko. “And you…”
The inspector looked at his watch, then nodded toward Lucie.
“We’re heading off to Marseille. The actress in the film has been identified. Her name is Judith Sagnol and she’ll certainly have something to say. Henebelle? Anything to wrap it up?”
Lucie leafed through her memo book.
“She’s now seventy-seven. She lives in Paris, but these days she spends a lot of her time at the Sofitel in the Old Port. She’s the widow and heiress of a former corporate attorney who became her husband in 1956, a year or two after the film was made. She appeared in a few pornos from the fifties and posed for nudie photos, calendars, and some 8 mm ‘home movies.’ According to the historian who identified her, she was no angel; she performed rather explicit sex acts in closed circles.”
“Did this historian have any ideas about who owned the film?”
“None. He doesn’t know where our reel came from or who made it. For the moment, that remains a mystery.”
Sharko stood up, picking up his folder and his shoulder bag.
“In that case, let’s hope Sagnol still has her faculties intact.”
34
Later that afternoon, the mistral was blowing hard over Marseille, a hot slap that deposited the Mediterranean ocean spray onto tanned faces. Sharko and Lucie walked down the Canebière, patched sunglasses and shoulder bag for him, small backpack for her. At that time of day and year, it was impossible to approach the Old Port in a car because of the mass of tourists. The sidewalk cafés were overflowing, faces and yachts paraded by, the atmosphere was festive.
Or almost. Not for a second, during their trip down from Paris, had the two cops talked about anything but the case. The deadly reel, Szpilman’s paranoid behavior, the mysterious Canadian informant… An inextricable tangle of knots, where the leads and their conclusions never quite seemed to match up.
Their hopes of unraveling the mess were now pinned on Judith Sagnol.
She was living at the Sofitel, a four-star hotel that offered a fabulous view of the entrance to the Old Port and the magnificent minor Catholic basilica called Bonne Mère. In front of the establishment were palm trees, porters, and luxury cars. At the reception desk, the hostess informed the two “reporters” that Judith Sagnol had gone for a walk but had asked them to wait for her in the hotel bar. Lucie glanced anxiously at her watch.
“Less than two hours before we have to head back… The last train to Lille leaves Paris at eleven. If we miss the 6:28 at Saint-Charles, I won’t be able to get home.”
Sharko headed toward the bar.
“These people like to make you wait. Come on, we can at least enjoy the view.”
The receptionist came to find them around 5:30 at the poolside terrace to let them know Mme. Sagnol was expecting them in her room. Lucie was boiling mad. She went off to get some privacy, cell phone at her ear. The conversation with her mother was less difficult than she’d feared: Juliette had eaten well and her digestive system was more or less back to normal. If everything kept on like this, she’d be out the day after tomorrow. Finally, the end of the tunnel.
“Will you manage by yourself until tomorrow?” Marie Henebelle asked her daughter.
That was just like her mother. Lucie looked around toward Sharko, who was sitting alone at their table.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Where will you sleep?”
“I’ll figure it out. Can I talk to Juliette?”
She exchanged a few affectionate words with her daughter. A smile now on her lips, Lucie returned to Sharko just as he was taking out his wallet.
“Leave it,” she said. “This is on me.”
“Suit yourself. I had just enough to cover it.”
She paid for the beer and mint soda with a grimace: twenty-six euros and fifty cents. No standing on ceremony in this joint! They headed for the elevator.
“How’s the kid?”
“She should be out soon.”
The inspector nodded slowly; he almost managed to smile.
“That’s good.”
“Do you have children?”
“Nice elevator, this…”
They did not exchange a look or another word on the way up. Sharko stared at the buttons as they progressively lit, and seemed relieved when the door finally slid open. They walked down a long, muffled hallway, still silent.
Lucie felt a shock when Judith appeared in the doorway. At almost eighty, the 1950s pinup had kept that dark, penetrating gaze she displayed in the film. Her irises were deep black, and her wavy, steel-colored hair fell onto bare, tanned shoulders. Plastic surgery had wreaked havoc, but couldn’t hide the fact that this woman had once been beautiful.
Dressed lightly—plain blue silk dress, bare feet with nails polished cherry red—she invited them onto the balcony and ordered up a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. The bedsheets were unmade, and Lucie noted the presence of a man’s underwear at the foot of a sink. No doubt a gigolo whose services she paid for.
Once seated, Judith crossed her legs in the manner of a bored starlet. She did not apologize for keeping them waiting. Sharko didn’t beat around the bush and showed his official ID.
“We’re not reporters but police. We’ve come to ask you about an old film you appeared in.”
Lucie sighed discreetly, while Judith gave a mocking smile.
“I figured as much. The reporter interested in my career hasn’t been born…”
She looked at her manicured nails for a few seconds.
“I quit acting in 1955. That goes back quite a way for stirring up old memories.”
Sharko took a DVD out of his bag and put it on the table.
“Nineteen fifty-five is perfect. It’s about the film burned onto this DVD. My colleague got the original from a collector named Vlad Szpilman. Does the name mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing.”
“I noticed a DVD player and TV in your living room. May we show you the film?”
She gave Sharko the once-over, with the same arrogant expression she’d used on the cameraman at the beginning of the famous short.
“You’re not really leaving me a choice, are you?”