Franck Thilliez: Syndrome E

“You can come closer—I’m not contagious.”

Lucie stepped forward and took his hand.

“It’ll be okay.”

“It’s funny I dialed your number, isn’t it? It could have been anybody.”

“It’s also funny that I happened to be in the neighborhood. At the moment, hospitals and I are old pals.”

She explained about Juliette. Ludovic had known the twins, who were very fond of him. Lucie felt nervous, thinking of the horror that might have been growing in the head of her ex.

“They’ll find what’s wrong.”

“I suppose they told you about the tumor?”

“It’s just a theory.”

“There is no tumor, Lucie. It’s because of the film.”

“What film?”

“The one with the little white circle. The one I found yesterday at a collector’s. It was…”

Lucie noticed his fingers clutching the sheets.

“It was weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Weird enough to make me lose my sight, for Christ’s sake!”

He had shouted. Now he was trembling. He felt around him and gripped his visitor’s hand.

“I’m sure it was this film the owner was looking for in his attic. He broke his skull as he was climbing the ladder. Something must have… I don’t know, made him need to climb up those steep rungs to watch it.”

Lucie sensed he was on the verge of a breakdown. She hated seeing friends or loved ones in distress.

“Why don’t I have a look at this film?”

He shook his head energetically.

“No, no. I don’t want you to—”

“What, go blind? Can you tell me how simple images projected on a screen can make me blind?”

No answer.

“Is the reel still on the projector?”

After a silence, Ludovic finally gave in.

“Yes. You just have to follow a few steps, the way I showed you. Do you remember?”

“Yes—with A Touch of Evil , I think.”

“ Touch of Evil … Orson Welles…”

He sank into a pained sigh. Tears had run down his cheeks. He pointed a finger at the void.

“My wallet must be on the nightstand. There are some business cards inside. Take the one with the name Claude Poignet. He restores old films, and I want you to bring him the reel. I want him to look it over, all right? I want to know where that footage comes from. And take the want ad—it has the name and address of the collector’s son. Luc Szpilman.”

“What do you want me to do with it?”

“Take it… take it all. You want to help me? Then help me, Lucie.”

Lucie let out a silent sigh. She opened the wallet and took out the card and newspaper ad.

“Okay, done.”

He seemed more at peace. He was now sitting up, feet resting on the floor.

“Aside from all this, Lucie, how are you?”

“Same old, same old. Still just as many murders and assaults. No danger of running out of work in the police.”

“I meant you, not the job.”

“Me? Oh, well…”

“Skip it. We’ll talk later.”

He held out the keys to his house and tightly squeezed her wrist. Lucie shivered when he stared straight into her eyes, his face mere inches from hers.

“Watch out for that film.”

Midafternoon, Notre-Dame-de-Gravenchon. A small, picturesque town lost somewhere in the Seine-Maritime region. Cute shops, peace and quiet, greenery and fields as far as you could see, if you were facing in the right direction. Because if you looked southwest, not a mile distant the banks of the Seine were obstructed by a kind of giant steel vessel, which spewed so much grayish smoke and gas effluvia that it discolored the sky.

Sharko headed where he’d earlier been told by the police lieutenant, whom he was now hoping to find on site. Even though the bodies had been removed the day before—it had taken them a good day to dig them out of the ground without contaminating the crime scene, a real archaeology job—the chief inspector liked to trace his cases back to the start. Three hours on the road, with the sun smacking him in the face, had set him on edge—especially since he’d pretty much stopped driving years ago. These days he mainly took public transportation.

A road sign up ahead. He veered off, crossing the Port-Jérôme industrial zone with his windows shut and the AC going full blast. Even so, the air smelled viscous, heavy with metal shavings and acid. Here, embedded in nature, the big names parceled out the empire of fossil fuels and oils. Total, Exxon Mobil, Air Liquide. The inspector drove nearly two miles in this magma of smokestacks, finally crossing past it into a quieter area, a full-on industrial wasteland. Frozen bulldozers shredded the landscape. He parked just short of the construction site, got out, and loosened his shirt collar. To hell with his jacket—he abandoned it on the passenger seat, along with the sports bag that contained his effects for the hotel. He stretched his legs, which cracked when he bent them.

“Jesus…”

He slipped on his sunglasses, one arm of which had been reattached with glue, and took in his surroundings. The Seine on the right, a haze of trees to the left, the industrial site behind. Over it all reigned a vast impression of emptiness and abandonment. Not a house to be seen, just unused roads and barren lots. It was as if the area were dead, scorched by the fires of heaven.

In front of him, farther down, two or three men in hard hats were chatting. At their feet, a wide ocher scar split the earth in two, stretching along the riverbank for miles. It stopped dead right where the yellow-and-black tape of the national police flapped limply in the breeze. The air smelled of warm clay and humidity.

The cop immediately spotted his colleague from Rouen waiting for him, just from the holster on his belt. His piece shone in the sun like a beacon. The guy disappeared into a pair of low-waisted jeans, a black tee, and old canvas shoes. Dark, tall, lean; twenty-five, twenty-six at most. He was talking with a cameraman and what looked like a reporter. Sharko pushed his shades back into his short hair and showed his ID.

“Lucas Poirier?”

“You the profiler from Paris? Nice to meet you.”

It would have taken too long to get into details and explain that his job, all things considered, had very little to do with profiling.

“Call me Sharko. Or Shark. No first and last names, no rank.”

“I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, but I can’t do that.”

The newswoman came closer.

“Chief Inspector Sharko, we’ve been told about your visit and—”

“At the risk of seeming rude, kindly take your cameraman and get lost.”

He gave her his darkest stare. Journalists were one thing he couldn’t abide. The woman retreated a few paces, but nonetheless told her partner to get some footage. They’d no doubt cobble together some bit of fluff, with lots of continuity shots, stressing the fact that a real, live profiler was on the case. It would be a sensation.

Sharko pushed them farther away with his eyes and turned to Poirier.

“Do you know if my hotel room has been reserved? Who takes care of that at your place?”

“Umm, I have no idea. Probably the—”

“I want a large one, with a bathtub.”

Poirier nodded, like most people from whom Sharko demanded something. The chief inspector gazed over his surroundings again.

“Right, let’s not waste time. Explain the situation?”

The young lieutenant downed most of the mini water bottle he held in his hand and waved toward the Algeco prefab in the background.

“The site started up last month. They’re building a pipeline to carry chemical products from the factory in Gonfreville to the Exxon refinery over there. Twenty miles of underground piping. They had only about five or six hundred yards to go, but with what they’ve just dug up the work’s been shut down for now. They’re not happy about it, and that’s putting it mildly.”