Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

Frank nodded vaguely as he walked away. He was at the gate when Rouget called out to him. ‘Young man?’

Frank turned back, wishing he could tell him to fuck off. He was held back by a sense of gratitude for what the old man had unwittingly shown him. ‘What is it?’

The old man grinned. ‘If you should ever be in need of a lovely house on the coast’ – he waved with a gesture of triumph at the house behind him – ‘this is the place!’

Frank went through the gate without answering. He stopped next to his car, his head hanging down, studying his shoes against the gravel. He had to make a choice, and fast. Finally, he decided to do what was right. But there was no reason why he shouldn’t try, or at least make one attempt, to do both. He pulled out his phone and called the Nice police and asked for Inspector Froben. Moments later, he was connected.

‘Hi, Frank. What’s up?’

‘Christophe, I need a favour, a huge one.’

‘Well, I’ll do my best.’

‘At Nice airport there should be some people departing. General Nathan Parker, his daughter Helena and his grandson Stuart. There’s probably someone else with them, a certain Captain Ryan Mosse.’

‘That Ryan Mosse?’

‘That’s right. You have to stop them. I don’t know how; I don’t know what excuse you can use, but you have to keep them from taking off until I get there. They’re transporting the body of one of No One’s first victims, Arianna Parker. Maybe that could be the excuse. Some bureaucratic red tape or something. It’s a question of life or death. For me, anyway. Can you manage it?’

‘For you, anything.’

‘Thanks, man, you’re the best. Talk to you in a bit.’

Frank then dialled another number, Sûreté headquarters. He asked to speak to Roncaille and they put him on immediately. ‘Chief? Frank Ottobre.’

Roncaille, who had probably been through a hellish two days, came down on him like a tornado. ‘Frank, where the fuck are you?’ Foul language in the mouth of the chief of police was not an everyday occurrence. It meant the storm of the century. Frank held the phone away from his ear. ‘All hell breaks loose here and you disappear? We put you in charge of the case and instead of getting any results, we have more dead bodies on the street than birds in the trees. Before long there won’t be anyone working at Sûreté at all! I’ll be lucky to get a job as a night guard.’

‘Calm down, chief. If you haven’t lost your job yet, I don’t think you will. It’s all over.’

‘What does that mean, it’s all over?’

‘Just that. I know where Jean-Loup Verdier is hiding.’

Now there was silence after the storm. A pause, for reflection. Frank could almost hear Roncaille doubting him. To be or not to be, to believe or not to believe…

‘Are you sure?’

‘Ninety-nine per cent.’

‘That’s not enough. I want 100.’

‘There is no such thing as 100 per cent. Ninety-nine seems more than adequate to me.’

All right, where is he?’

‘First I want something in exchange.’

‘Don’t push it, Frank.’

‘Chief, maybe I should clarify the situation. I don’t give a damn about my career. You’re the one worried about yours. If you say no to what I’m asking, I’ll end this call right now and I’ll be on the first plane out of Nice. And to be perfectly clear, you and your friend Durand can go screw yourselves for all I care. Have I made myself understood?’

Silence. An endless pause. Then Roncaille’s voice again, full of suppressed rage. ‘What is it you want?’

‘I want your word of honour that Inspector Nicolas Hulot will be considered fallen in the line of duty, and that his widow will get the pension that a hero’s wife deserves.’

Third pause. The most important one. To see who had more balls. When Roncaille answered, Frank knew that he did.

‘Okay. Request granted. My word of honour. Now it’s your turn.’

‘Get the men out and tell Sergeant Morelli to call me on my mobile. And start shining up your uniform for the press conference.’

‘Address?’ And Frank finally said what Roncaille had paid to hear.

‘Beausoleil.’

‘Beausoleil?’

‘That’s right. That bastard Jean-Loup Verdier has been in his house this whole time.’

Pierrot looked embarrassed as he took the plastic cup of Coke from Barbara and started drinking.

‘Want some more?’

Pierrot shook his head. He handed her back the empty cup and turned, red-faced, to the table where he was sorting through a pile of CDs.

He liked Barbara, but at the same time she made him feel shy. The boy had a crush on her, which explained his secret looks, long silences and quick escapes as soon as she appeared. He turned scarlet every time she spoke to him. The girl had noticed what was going on some time ago. It was puppy love – if that term could be used with someone like Pierrot – and it deserved respect like all feelings. She knew how deeply this strange boy, who seemed so afraid of the world, could love. Such candour and sincerity could be found only in children. It was the expression of a complete, honest affection, without needing to be returned.

Once Barbara had found a daisy on her mixing desk. When she had realized that Pierrot was the anonymous giver of that simple wild flower, she was overwhelmed with tenderness.

‘Do you want another sandwich?’ she asked, from behind Pierrot’s back.

Again the boy shook his head without turning around. It was lunchtime and they had had a tray of sandwiches sent up from Stars’N’Bars. Aside from the voices and the music being sent out over the airwaves, the radio station had become a realm of silence since the revelation about Jean-Loup. Everyone wandered around like shadows. The station was still being assaulted by reporters like the Alamo by the Mexican army. Every employee was followed, chased and spied on. They all had microphones shoved in their faces, cameras pointed at them and reporters waiting for them at their homes. Yet it had to be said that what had happened more than justified the tenacity of the mass media.

Jean-Loup Verdier, the star of Radio Monte Carlo, had turned out to be a psychopath and a serial killer who was still at large. His unseen presence haunted the Principality of Monaco. Thanks to the morbid curiosity of the public and the media onslaught, the number of listeners had practically doubled the day after the identity of the serial killer was revealed.

Robert Bikjalo – at least the Robert Bikjalo of old – would have done triple somersaults at those ratings. But now he went about his work like a robot, smoked like a chimney and spoke in monosyllables. The rest of the staff were no better. Raquel sounded as mechanical as an answering machine when she took phone calls. Barbara could not stop to think for a moment without feeling like she would burst into tears. Even the owner of the station only called in when absolutely necessary, which was seldom.

And that had been the state of things when they had heard the news of Laurent’s tragic death two days earlier, during a street robbery. It had been the final blow for everyone. They were like the crew of a ghost ship drifting at the mercy of evil currents.

But Pierrot was hit the hardest. He retreated into a worrisome silence and answered questions with only a nod or a shake of his head. While he was at the station, he did his job without seeming to be present. He holed himself up in the archive for hours and Barbara went down from time to time to see if he was okay. At home, he spent all his time listening to music with his headphones on, completely isolated. He no longer smiled. And he no longer turned on the radio.

His mother was desperate over the change in his behaviour. For Pierrot, spending time at Radio Monte Carlo, feeling that he was part of something, earning a little money (his mother never failed to point out to him how important his earnings were to their finances, which filled him with pride), was his door to the world.