Inspector Speech Quotes

They spoke in semaphore, all punctuation unnecessary. “You?” “Great.” They’d trimmed the language to its essentials. Before long it would just be consonants. Then silence.

Several hours later, 125 miles from Lille, Martin Leclerc, head of the Violent Crimes unit, pondered a three-dimensional representation of a human head on the screen of a Mac. You could clearly see the brain and several salient parts of the face: tip of the nose, outer surface of the right eye, left tragus…Then he pointed to a green area, located in the left superior temporal gyrus. “So that lights up every time I say something?” Half reclining on a hydraulic chair, head squeezed under a hood containing 128 electrodes, Chief Inspector Franck Sharko stared at the ceiling without moving a muscle. “It’s called Wernicke’s area, linked to hearing speech. For you and me both, blood rushes there the moment you hear a voice. Hence the coloration.” “Impressive.” “Not half as much as seeing you here.” Sharko spoke softly beneath the bonnet. “I don’t know if you recall, Martin, but the invitation was for a drink at my place. The only thing you’ll get here is watery coffee.” “Your shrink didn’t have any problems with me sitting in on a session. And you’d suggested it yourself—or am I not the only one having memory lapses?

Despite the absence of speech, the green area on the upper part of the gyrus was glowing. “If it’s lighting up, it means she’s talking to me at this very moment.” “Eugenie?” Sharko grunted. Leclerc felt a chill. To see his chief inspector’s meninges react to speech like this, when you couldn’t even hear a fly buzzing, made him feel like there was a ghost in the room. “What’s she saying?” “She wants me to buy a pint of cocktail sauce and some candied chestnuts next time I go shopping. She loves those miserable chestnuts. Excuse me a second…” Sharko closed his eyes, lips pressed tight. Eugenie was someone he might see and hear at any moment. On the passenger seat of his old Renault. At night when he went to bed. Sitting cross-legged, watching the mini-gauge trains run around the tracks. Two years earlier, Eugenie had often shown up with a black man, Willy, a huge smoker of Camels and pot. A real mean son of a bitch, much worse than the little girl because he talked loud and tended to gesticulate wildly. Thanks to the treatment, the Rasta had disappeared for good, but the other one, the girl, came and went as she pleased, resistant as a virus.

Hello. Special Infirmary, please.’ He was surprised to hear Journe’s voice. The professor had turned out in person. ‘Have you had time to examine my customer? What do you think of him?’ A clear reply would have relieved him somewhat, but old Journe was not a man to provide clear answers. He launched into a long speech at the other end of the line, full of technical terms, the upshot of which was that it was 60 per cent likely that Lagrange was play-acting, but unless he slipped up, it might be a few weeks before they would be able to prove this scientifically. ‘Is Doctor Pardon still there?’ ‘He’s about to leave.’ ‘What’s Lagrange doing now?’ ‘He’s quite meek and mild. He allowed himself to be put to bed, and started talking to the nurse in a childish voice. He burst into tears and told her people had threatened to hit him, that everyone was against him, and it had been like this all his life.’ ‘Can I see him tomorrow?’ ‘Yes, whenever you like.’ ‘I’d just like a quick word with Pardon.’ And to the latter: ‘So, what do you think?’ ‘Nothing new to report. I’m not entirely of the same mind as the professor, but he’s more competent than me, and it’s years since I practised psychiatry.’ ‘But you have your own idea?’ ‘I’d prefer to wait a few hours before talking about it. The case is too serious to give a snap judgement. Aren’t you going home to bed now?’ ‘Not yet. I don’t think I’ll be getting any sleep tonight.

Jacques was not ostentatious in his religion. He said grace over the tea, but his speech was free from evangelical fuss.

I’m expecting another friend,” said Beasley. “I’m not sure when he’ll get here, but . . .” “If I’m not mistaken,” said Sara, who was facing the door, “he’s here now.” Andrew and Beasley both turned as Wyatt came in. He saw them at the same time that they saw him, scowled as he approached the table. “What the blue blazes are the two of you doing here?” he asked. “They’re having lunch with me,” said Beasley. “Why today?” “Why not today? They know they’re welcome anytime. Meet my friend, Keegee Clipson. Inspector Peter Wyatt of Scotland Yard.” “What?” said Clipson, bouncing to his feet. “Is this the friend you was talking about? I ain’t having lunch with no poxy slop, specially not a crusher!” “Ah, language!” sighed Beasley. “What riches we can find in common speech. Do you know what he’s talking about, Sara?” “Of course. Used this way, poxy is a derogatory adjective like blinking and blooming. A slop is back-slang for a copper or policeman and a crusher is a plainclothes policeman.” “Well done,” said Beasley. Then to Clipson, “Are you impressed?” “No, I’m leaving!” “You are not,” said Beasley, catching him by the sleeve. “Sit down.” “I told you . . .” said Clipson. “I know. But you’re not having it with him. You’re having it with Sara, Andrew and me.