Crimes of Winter

by Philippe Georget

  Julie pointed to the computers.

  “So while we wait we just look at images as if nothing were up?”

  “Precisely. We pretend to be working, we’re friendly with the staff, and we chat. I think if you handle it well, you could probably worm a little information out of the special agent. And also the boss!”

  Julie elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Nothing escapes you, does it? And what are you going to do?”

  “I like the redhead. I’ll deal with the blonde, too.”

  “You’re pretty greedy.”

  Sebag made sure that no municipal agent was nearby before taking a sheet of paper out of his hip pocket. He unfolded it. It was a copy of a photo taken by the corbeau. The one that showed Christine Abad and Éric Balland going into the Hôtel du Gecko together.

  “I have to check a little detail. Can you call up on the screen the images from the camera on the Place des Poilus?”

  “A recorded image or the live ones?”

  “Live ones are better.”

  Julie typed on the keyboard and the Rue des Augustins came to life on the screen. Stopped in the middle of the street, an artisan’s van was blocking traffic. But that wasn’t what interested Sebag.

  “Can you aim the camera wherever you want?”

  “Of course.”

  Julie worked the joystick. The image shifted toward the north side of the Place des Poilus. A gray blur covered part of the screen.

  “Protection of private life,” she explained. All the cameras are set so that you can’t see inside the apartments.”

  “That’s normal . . . Pivot left as far as you can. OK, that’s good. Now all the way to the right. Perfect. Now move downward. Great . . .”

  After glancing over his shoulder, Gilles showed the copy of the photo to his colleague.

  “What do you say about this?”

  Julie didn’t need to examine it very long.

  “That it was taken in from a position this camera doesn’t cover.”

  “Are there other cameras in this sector?”

  “Definitely. We’re right in the middle of the high-priority security zone: there are about fifty just in this part of downtown.”

  With one click, Julie brought up a map studded with red dots representing all the cameras. Another click and the image of the Place des Poilus appeared from a different angle. Julie zoomed in and pivoted the camera from right to left again, then downward.

  “There’s a blind spot. The same one. The photographer couldn’t be seen while he was taking pictures.

  She added in a lower voice:

  “And he knew that. Our lead might be the right one. There were other photos, weren’t there? Of Christine and her lover each alone?”

  “Yes. All from the same angle.”

  She put her hands on the armrests of her chair and raised herself to look at the video-surveillance room.

  “So who here could be a talented photographer? If it’s a guy we’re looking for, there aren’t many candidates.”

  Except for Agent Martinez, who had taken a seat before a wall of screens, only one other man was working in the room. He was handling radio communications with the patrols.

  “You don’t put too much stock in the hypothesis that the person we’re looking for is a woman?“ she asked again.

  “No, I don’t. All this time we’ve been operating on the premise that the corbeau was a man and it’s always hard to start over from zero.”

  Julie nodded. Gilles went on:

  “In spite of everything, I have a hard time thinking it was a woman. So let’s stick to Castello’s instructions: give first priority to men. Out of a staff of twenty-five, only nine men work here.”

  “For the moment, there are only two.”

  “They relay one another 24/7. In my estimation, there are never more than two or three at a time. By the way, are you still not smoking?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because if you went out for a smoke, I’m sure that the special agent would follow you . . .”

  “There’s a coffee machine in the corridor, that might work, too.”

  “It might. Have you got change?”

  “Yes. But I think I’m going to have to ask someone to give me some . . .”

  Julie walked over to the desk occupied by Laurent Martinez. She whispered a few words in his ear and he rose instantly. The head of the center watched them disappear into the hallway.

  Sebag took over the joystick. He’d understood generally how it worked, and he moved from one camera to another, following random people in the street, zooming in on this or that person to examine a body type or clothing. He stopped on a group of young people who were talking around a public bench. If he’d been able to read their lips, he could have known everything they said. The discomfort he’d felt at the beginning had already disappeared. See without being seen. He found that amusing. He felt omnipotent.

  “You’ve already mastered it, that’s good.”

  Josiane Masson had come up to him.

  “I’m impressed by the quality of your cameras,” Gilles congratulated her.

  “It varies a lot depending on the model. The development of video-surveillance in Perpignan has proceeded by stages, and in each new phase, the cameras are more effective. The definition of the images is improving, which is particularly important on rainy days and at night.”

  “I’d never come here. It’s impressive.”

  At the same time that he was saying this, Sebag realized that if he had been better acquainted with this cavern of Big Brother, he wouldn’t have lost twenty-four hours wondering how their corbeau could be so well informed. That said, even if the man he was looking for worked here, that didn’t answer all his questions.

  The head of the center was continuing to talk to him about technology, but he’d lost the thread. She was discussing a new generation of revolutionary cameras.

  “I didn’t understand very concretely how that works.”

  He was satisfied with his vague formula, which allowed him to avoid admitting that he hadn’t followed anything at all. Josiane Masson smiled indulgently.

  “I’ll show you.”

  She sat down in the chair Julie had occupied and took over the system.

  “This is a camera that films live.”

  She manipulated the joystick, making the camera move.

  “As you’ve already been able to see with your colleague, you can do almost anything—pivot, zoom in, et cetera.”

  She typed on the keyboard, clicked with the mouse. Another image appeared. The Place Arago at night.

  “This is an image recorded last night.”

  A plastic bag was flying through the air and got caught on the extended arm of the statue of the French physicist,38 who had been born in Northern Catalonia. The few passersby were hurrying along, their heads down and their collars pulled up to protect their necks. The tramontane was blowing through the heart of the city. The image moved from one side of the square to the other and enlarged certain details, not always for any good reason. It took Sebag a while to realize that the brigadier’s hand was no longer on the joystick.

  “The movement of the camera is programmed, and you’re no longer controlling it, right?”

  The brigadier nodded. She put a finger on the screen.

  “If a crime is committed in front of the Palmarium at the moment that the camera is pivoting, we won’t see anything in the recording.”

  “Does that happen?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. It even happens frequently.”

  Sebag made a quick calculation. With five operators on average (not including breaks) in front of the screens and sixteen screens per operator, most of the cameras were thus functioning automatically.

  “We will no longer have this problem with the
new little marvel we’re going to receive soon. And the quality of the images will be spectacular.”

  Josiane Masson stopped the recorded image.

  “You see the car there, the one that’s heading for the Castillet?”

  Sebag spotted a white Audi. The chief enlarged the image so that they could read the license plate. But the more the plate was enlarged, the blurrier the numbers became.

  “On an image filmed live, the camera refocuses automatically but here, that is no longer possible. It’s like you on your screen, when you want to see a detail better.”

  “That must be frustrating, too.”

  “Fortunately, it’s not a hopeless situation. We have “20/15 . . .”

  “Excuse me?”

  The brigadier smiled:

  “One of our agents has particularly sharp eyes. I’m sure he could have deciphered that plate. He’ll be here this afternoon, we’ll show it to him if you want.”

  “That would be great.”

  Josiane Masson got up to give her seat to Julie, who was returning with a coffee cup in her hands. They exchanged a few more words, and then the brigadier let them work.

  “So?” Sebag asked as soon as Masson was far enough away.

  “Special Agent Martinez is thirty-five, he has two daughters, eleven and eight years old. He’s a regular cyclist and the tramontane doesn’t keep him from riding, on the contrary, he takes advantage of the wind to perfect his position on his bike. It seems that’s as good as the champion racers’ training in wind tunnels.”

  “You don’t say . . .”

  “He began working on the streets, but had to stop because of a heart problem. He got divorced eight months ago . . .”

  “Ah, ah.”

  “Don’t get too excited! He made it clear with a wink that it was his cheating that had led his wife to ask for a divorce. ‘You understand, a man has needs that women don’t have,’ the asshole even added. I swear you’ve got some real specimens among you.”

  “Among us?”

  “Among you men!”

  “Ah . . .”

  Sebag didn’t want to get into that debate, he didn’t really feel that it concerned him personally. He turned back to the screens.

  “We’re going to view a few recordings, anyway. Did you look at the camera on the Quai Vauban yesterday?”

  “No, not that one.”

  “Then let’s have a look at the film. All we need is popcorn.”

  Julie handed him the last cream puffs.

  “Here, stuff yourself!”

  “Thanks.”

  They ran through at high speed the fourteen days of recording and followed in particular the dismantling of the Christmas market stands, then the removal of the decorations. Gilles noticed that the strings of Christmas light spotted the image with white haloes that made the night recording partially unusable. From time to time, they slowed down the film to look more carefully at a tourist who was taking photos. It was a false alarm each time. On January 9, they spotted Molina walking along the quay with a pal of his.

  “Can you imagine a woman working here who sees her husband buying her Christmas gift in a stand?” Julie said. “Good-bye, surprise . . .”

  “And if she didn’t find it under the tree because he was buying it for another woman . . . Merry Christmas!”

  “You’re right. I wouldn’t like to work here!”

  After the camera on the Quai Vauban, they moved to the one on the Rue de Sully. They lingered in this part of downtown where the corbeau had made his calls. They were interrupted by a radio alert.

  “A woman has had her purse stolen in front of the cathedral. Description: two young men in jeans, sweatshirts, and caps. Probably minors.”

  Julie and Gilles got up to help find the thieves. They stood behind the desk that Laurent Martinez was sharing with the attractive redhead.

  “Talk about an identikit picture!” the “special agent” laughed. “Two teenagers in caps who are surely going to head for Cassanyes . . .”

  The heart of working-class Perpignan was the Place Cassanyes, a junction point between the gypsy quarter and a few “Arab streets.” Every morning, there was a colorful market there.

  “I think I’ve got them,” the redhead contradicted him. “There, Rue du Figuier.”

  On her screen, two young men were trotting along, frequently looking up at the sky. Or at the cameras. One of the two seemed to be holding something hidden under his sweatshirt.

  “We’ve got a patrol not far away,” cried the man who was handling the radio connection. Keep guiding us.”

  The two operators moved from one camera to another and followed the pursuit.

  “It’s like in the movies,” Sebag murmured.

  “Almost,” the brigadier corrected him behind his back. “It’s not as easy in reality. It requires a great knowledge of the map of Perpignan and the positions of the cameras. Pauline has been working here for seven years, and Laurent has joined us more recently. But he got to know the area earlier, and that’s a terrific advantage. He has a feeling for the street.”

  A patrol intercepted the two teenagers at the foot of the Rue des Quinze Degrés. The officers lifted up the sweatshirts and found only a little backpack. No purse!

  “They played us,” Martinez understood immediately. “They decoyed us and we fell for it like greenhorns. I’m going to find those little bastards.”

  He switched over to the images recorded a few minutes earlier by the cameras in the area. Pauline spoke to Sebag.

  “Are you the one who arrested a drug dealer about two weeks ago?”

  Sebag said he was.

  “We followed you live. I have to say that you really amused us. At first, nobody was betting on you, you didn’t look to be in very good shape, and then you were . . . uhh . . . less young. But finally you took over, little by little. I was the first to put my bet on you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m the one who should be thanking you. Chantal a little less: she had to pay up.”

  Three meters farther on, the blond Chantal gave her a forced smile over her computers. “There! I’ve got them!”

  On Martinez’s screen, two teenagers, crouching on a pedestrian street, were examining the contents of the stolen purse. They opened the wallet and the card-holder and took out only cash. After removing the SIM card, they also took the mobile phone. Then they threw the purse into a nearby trash bin. Finally, they moved off, their heads still hidden in their hoodies. Martinez managed to follow them as far as the Place Cassanyes, where they disappeared into the crowd in the market.

  “We’ll find the purse,” Masson said, putting the best face on the situation. “The victim won’t have to stop payment on her credit cards. She’ll even keep all her telephone contacts on her SIM card.”

  “It’s frustrating all the same,” Julie said regretfully.

  “That’s part of the game. The video-surveillance system sometimes gives us the impression that we’re all-powerful, and sometimes it makes us feel completely powerless: we’re in front of our screens and we can’t do a thing.”

  “How does one move from the street to this room?” Julie asked.

  Josiane took several steps backward to let the operators work. Or so they wouldn’t hear. She replied in a low voice:

  “A few joined the municipal police solely in order to work here. I don’t have to tell you that working on the street is hard. Even unbearable for some people.”

  “Is that why most of them are women?”

  “Absolutely. In general, for men this is a stage, either the beginning or the end of a career. It can even be a way of taking a break.”

  “Laurent Martinez has heart problems, I think.”

  “Heart problems . . . What do you mean by that?”

  Julie realized that her formulation had
been ambiguous.

  “A cardiac malformation, he told me.”

  The head brigadier frowned.

  “Everyone has his own reasons that are his own business.”

  Sebag felt his hair stand on end. Her tone was too vague, there was a movement of her body that was not under her control: Josiane Masson had just evaded the question. Maybe she was astonished that her agent had already told the pretty young lieutenant so many details about his private life.

  They left the video-surveillance center shortly before noon and went for a run along the Têt. Sebag’s body already felt tired from having remained sitting all morning in front of the computer screens. They trotted along at a good pace for about forty minutes.

  “I feel better,” Julie said.

  “I think I’m on the right track. I’m getting a grip on myself.”

  “And at home?”

  “Let’s say that I’m managing to avoid subjects that lead to conflict.”

  Since his return from Bayonne and the call to his father, questions hadn’t miraculously stopped flowing into his brain, but he had been able to keep them to himself. An initial victory. Claire had also gotten back into stride to a certain extent. Not too much, either. Just as much as was necessary.

  They took a quick shower at Julie’s place, gulped down a sandwich, and returned to headquarters. Using his computer, Gilles printed the first information Castello had received from the adjunct in charge of security. They read the documents at the Carlit over cups of coffee. Among the nine men at the center, two were divorced and three were bachelors. The others were assumed to be happily married.

  “Well, well, well . . .”

  Julie handed Sebag a sheet of paper.

  “Does our ‘special agent’ have a secret?”

  Gilles read the note and learned that Laurent Martinez had been stabbed eighteen months earlier during an incident on the streets. Nothing serious, however. But he had later taken leave because he was depressed. When he went back to work, he’d been assigned to the video-surveillance center.

  “Cardiac malformation, my ass,” Sebag exclaimed after reading the document.