The Readers' Room by Antoine Laurain

Author:Antoine Laurain
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Gallic Books
Published: 2020-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

Sophie Tanche took a deep breath. At the same time, one of the forensics officers finally turned the key in the ignition. The engine went quiet and the headlights went out. Since arriving on the scene at 5 a.m., the engine had been humming constantly and exhaust fumes had filled the air. How many litres of petrol had the Renault got through while the engine had been on? Perhaps an entire tankful, Sophie guessed, which led her to thinking it was about time she filled up her own car, and got the horribly squeaky right windscreen wiper fixed. She drove these thoughts from her mind and forced herself to focus on the scene in front of her: the dirt road, the entrance to the forest, the car, the body.

The forensics officers were moving about in hooded white overalls and masks like the ones surgeons wear, as if protecting themselves from radiation. Inspector Tanche had made this observation numerous times at crime scenes. The brain is on maximum alert but briefly focuses on insignificant details to transport you far away from the here and now, filling your mind with the most mundane thoughts – this time petrol and a windscreen wiper.

‘Thanks!’ shouted Sophie, and the technician in white, of whom she could see only his eyes above the mask, gave her a thumbs up to show that he too was happier now that damned engine had been switched off. A young woman, also dressed in white, was moving slowly around them, filming the scene on a digital camera. Carefully placing one foot in front of the other, she circled the body, taking great care not to shake the lens. Sophie couldn’t remember the girl’s name – Valérie or Virginie or Nathalie was in charge of taking pictures of crime scenes while her colleagues went round taking swabs. She always took very good images – slow, precise: horrifying. She was said to keep copies of the pictures and put them to hypnotic music like Barber’s Adagio for Strings or Angelo Badalamenti’s theme for Mulholland Drive.

Sophie’s phone had rung at 4.40 a.m. that morning, rousing her from a bad dream which she promptly forgot.

‘It’s starting again,’ Chief Superintendent Malier had stated plainly.

‘Is it the taxi driver?’ Sophie asked, sitting up in bed.

‘Got it in one. So, this theory of yours about the book that’s up for some prize – I’m going to need you to get hold of that author, because this has gone beyond a joke, and I’m going to have to put in a report about this, Sophie. I’m two months off retirement, I’ve been on the squad thirty-eight years and I’m not about to get myself chucked out in my last sixty days. Got it?’

‘Got it, sir.’

‘Alain’s on his way. He’ll pick you up.’

Eight days had passed since she had asked Violaine for Camille Désencres’s details. After lengthy contemplation of the waxed parquet floor of her office, Violaine had looked up at her.

‘I don’t have them. I don’t know who Camille is,’ she admitted.

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