Conversation · Abandoned Lorry

"So it would seem." The lieutenant examines the maps with a furrowed brow.

"The RCM patrols most of these auxiliary roads, though apparently not all of them."

"Where does the contraband end up?"

"Hard to say. This distribution network looks certainly large, yet still vague enough... It doesn't reveal much about the besmertie behind it."

"Besmertie? That sounds vaguely familiar."

"A besmertie is a Revacholian crime syndicate. They see themselves as the inheritors of the 14 Revacholian indotribes, but really they're just violent gangs vying for control on the West side of Revachol..."

"...with cool names," he adds with contempt. "Like La Puta Madre and Ahura Mazda. It's a dark parody."

Return the stack of papers under the seat. (Conclude.)

"Who do you think is behind this?"

"It's definitely not the Union. They just do some logistics. This operation has spread everywhere in Jamrock. If it's that widespread, then Madre remains the most likely suspect."

"He's bad news." The lieutenant removes his glasses and polishes them with a handkerchief. "There have been attempts at a serious investigation before, but they... haven't ended well for those involved."

Lieutenant Kitsuragi is a brave man for saying Madre's name without the winces and whispers that usually accompany it.

Especially bad news for cops who may have something in their past they don't even know is there.

Somewhere on a hidden field, a flash of light, a whirring sound. Camera lenses focus on a man in a ragged police uniform standing in a field of blood-red poppies. A blurry figure dressed in white stands right by the camera...

The bedraggled cop is holding a manure fork. "Don't hurt me," he whimpers.

"But why... why would I hurt my own peone?" asks the man in white. "What kind of an animal would do such thing?"

The cluttered cabin of the abandoned lorry offers no reply.

If only Lieutenant Kitsuragi were here to help you piece together the evidence.

Return the stack of papers under the seat.

You stuff the maps back under the seat cover. Better not to leave traces of you being here yet... the movie stars look silently by.

"What does all this mean?"

"It means that the smugglers are secretly using the motorway to transport their goods and materials. They've infiltrated East Motor Tract, most likely..."

Return the papers under the seat.

What is that sound...

The rattle of motor carriages and lorries driving through long forgotten tunnels. Lit by gas lights.

Admire the posters.

These are movie posters featuring starlets from long-forgotten films -- from the Twenties, the Teens, even the Nineties of the last century.

One of them particularly catches your eye: a centrefold of an ingénue attached right above the back seat.

There's definitely perfume in the air. It's spicy, with a hint of ambrette, wafting through the bitter air of the cabin.

Study the centrefold.

The actress is draped in a sheath dress, one of her shoulders bared. The faded remains of an autograph run across the poster. She's looking past the camera.

A feeling of tenderness washes over you -- a longing even, perhaps. And gentle tragedy.

Wait, this actress really does look a lot like Klaasje. She may have been right about this Ruby after all...

This is Tippe Tijonne, a starlet from the dawn of cinematography. Less known for her talent, than her tragic, untimely death.

What happened to her?

She wasted away in a drug den called 'The Door to the River', not far from here on Boogie Street. A mixture of cocaine and morphine. She was a afraid of the world. And the camera too.

Wait, doesn't she... resemble someone you know? But you can't put a finger on whom exactly.

She's delicate, yet lost. Ruined underneath it all.

Stop and wonder: What's that smell?

The remnants of a sweet juniper-scented perfume. Probably 'Granate No 5'.

Enough of the posters.

The actresses -- and the rare actor -- all smile you a warm good bye. A radio transmitter is attached to the dashboard and a toolbox sits under the driver's seat.

Pull out the pull-out toolbox.

A metallic drawer slides out from the seat: It's empty, except for a folded newspaper.

Push in the pull-out toolbox.

The pull-out toolbox slides back into its nest. The rest is as it was: radio, posters, a trace of motor oil smell under all the cigarettes.

Unfold the newspaper.

It's an issue of 'Périphérique' from last Wednesday. A piece of paper falls out from its pages.

Pick up the note.

It looks like an article ripped out from a radio-enthusiast magazine. Complex mathematical equations explain the basics of something called 'the ULAN frequency system'.

These formulas look oddly painful. Maybe it's the hangover, but they give you a headache.

Adapting a high-quality radio-transmitter to emit this frequency may make it powerful enough to transmit a signal from isola to isola. But that's just a guess.

The lieutenant leans over your shoulder to examine the note: "The ULAN frequency system? I've never heard of that before. I know of FM, AM, UKV, but..." His thought trails off.

Remove the radio transceiver.

It takes a few moments, but eventually the transceiver slides from its greased socket mount with an eminently satisfying chhhnk.

Nearly the same sound produced by the action on a good breechloader, you can't fail to notice.

As you take the transceiver in your hands, the lieutenant bites his lower lip, apparently deep in thought.

"Funny, isn't it?"

"I don't really get jokes."

"It's not really a joke, per se. Just ironic that you're using the lady driver's radio to contact the very authorities she was so keen to evade."