Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

‘Well, Morelli?’

‘Inspector, it was a massacre. I’ve never seen anything like it.’ He sighed deeply and Hulot thought for a moment that he was about to vomit.

‘Calm down, Claude, and explain. What do you mean “massacre”? They told me there was a homicide.’

‘Two, inspector. A man and a woman. What’s left of them, anyway.’

Inspector Hulot turned around and looked at the crowd forming behind the police barricades. He had a sinking sense of foreboding. The Principality of Monaco was not a place where this kind of thing happened. The police force was one of the most efficient in the world and the low crime rate was an Interior Minister’s dream. There was a policeman for every sixty inhabitants and CCTV everywhere. Everything was under control. Men got rich or went bankrupt here, but nobody was killed. There were no robberies, no murders, no organized crime. In Monte Carlo, by definition, nothing ever happened.

Morelli pointed to a man of about thirty who was sitting at an outdoor cafe with a policeman and the medical examiner’s assistant. The place, usually swarming with people in designer clothes, was half empty. Anyone who could be useful as a witness had been detained, and anyone else was denied access. The owner was sitting on the doorstep next to a busty waitress, twisting his hands nervously.

‘That guy was on the Baglietto, the yacht that got hit. His name’s Roger something or other. He went on board to confront someone about the collision. He didn’t see anyone on deck so he went down below and found them. He’s in shock and they’re trying to get something out of him. Agent Delmore – he’s new – went on to the boat after he did. He’s in the car now. Not feeling so hot.’

The inspector turned back again to look at the curious crowd gathered between the police and Boulevard Albert Premier, where a team of workers had just finished dismantling the stands set up for the Grand Prix. He missed the bedlam of the event, the crowds and the inconvenience it always brought.

‘Let’s go see.’

They walked down the unsteady gangway of the Baglietto and then on to the Beneteau via another gangway that had been set up. As the inspector climbed on to the boat, he saw the rudder blocked with the hook and the trail of dried blood that started on deck and continued below where it was lost in darkness. The sun was warm but he felt the tips of his fingers grow suddenly cold. What the hell had happened on that boat?

‘If you don’t mind, inspector,’ said Morelli, pointing to the steps leading to the cabin below, ‘I’ll wait here. Once was more than enough.’

Going down the wooden steps, Inspector Hulot nearly bumped into Dr Lassalle, the medical examiner, who was leaving. He had a cushy job in the Principality and extremely limited experience. Hulot had no respect for him whatsoever, as a man or as a physician. He had got the job because of his wife’s connections and he enjoyed life while doing almost none of the work he was paid to do. Hulot had always thought of him as a luxury doctor. His presence there simply meant that he was the only person around at the time.

‘Good morning, Dr Lassalle.’

‘Ah, good morning, inspector.’ The doctor seemed relieved to see him. It was clear that he was facing a situation he couldn’t handle.

‘Where are the bodies?’

‘In there. Come and see.’

Now that his eyes were accustomed to the gloom, the inspector saw the trail of blood that continued along the floor and disappeared through an open door. To his right, there was a table where someone had written something in blood.

I kill…

Hulot felt his hands turn to ice. He forced himself to breathe deeply through his nose. He was hit by the sweetish smell of blood and death, odours that bring anguish and flies.

He followed the trail of blood and went into the cabin on the left. When he was at the door and could see what was inside, the ice in his hands spread through his entire body. Lying on the bed, one next to the other, were the bodies of a man and a woman, completely naked. The woman had no apparent wounds, while there was a large red blotch on the man’s chest at his heart, where the blood had stained the sheet. There was blood everywhere. It seemed impossible that those two lifeless bodies had contained so much blood. The inspector forced himself to look at the faces of the corpses. But their faces were no longer there. The murderer had completely removed the skin, hair included – the way one skins an animal. He stared, sickened by the wide-open eyes, gazing at a ceiling they could not see, the muscles of each face red with dried blood, the teeth exposed in a macabre smile that the absence of lips made eternal.

Hulot felt as though his life would stop there, that he would be standing near the door of the cabin staring at that spectacle of horror and death for ever. For an instant he prayed that the person capable of that slaughter had at least put his victims to death first, before inflicting that torture on them.

He made an effort to shake himself and turned towards the galley, where Lassalle was waiting. Morelli had finally managed to come back down and was there, too. He was standing in front of the doctor, searching the inspector’s face to see his reaction.

First, Hulot turned to the physician. ‘What can you tell me, doctor?’

Lassalle shrugged. ‘The deaths occurred a few hours ago. Rigor mortis has just set in. Hypostatic testing will confirm that. The man was apparently killed with some kind of knife; a sharp thrust right to the heart. As for the woman, apart from’ – the doctor paused to swallow his saliva – ‘apart from the mutilation, there is nothing, at least in front. I haven’t moved the bodies because we’re waiting for forensics. The autopsies should tell us more.’

‘Do we know who they are?’

‘According to the ship’s papers,’ said Morelli, ‘the yacht is the property of a Monte Carlo company. We haven’t done a thorough search yet.’

‘Forensics is going to be furious. With all the people coming and going on this boat, the evidence is contaminated and who knows what we’ve lost.’ Hulot looked at the floor and the trail of blood. Here and there were footprints he hadn’t noticed earlier. When he turned his gaze to the table, he was surprised to realize that he was doing so in the absurd hope that those desperate words would no longer be there.

He heard two voices from the deck above. He climbed up the steps and suddenly found himself in another world, of sunlight and life, of fresh salt air, without the smell of death he had been breathing below. An agent standing on deck was trying to hold back a man of about forty-five who was shouting in French with a strong German accent. The man was trying with all his might to get past the policeman.

‘Let me through, I said!’

‘You can’t. It’s not allowed. Nobody is allowed through.’

‘I have to get in there, I tell you. I have to know what happened.’ The man struggled to shrug off the policeman who was holding his arms. He was red in the face and hysterical.

‘I’m sorry, inspector,’ said the policeman, looking at his superior with relief. ‘We couldn’t stop him.’

Hulot nodded to say that it was all right and the policeman let go. The man straightened his clothes with a gesture of annoyance and approached the inspector as if he were someone he could finally address as an equal. He stopped and removed his sunglasses to look him straight in the eye. ‘Good morning, inspector. Would you kindly tell me what is going on here on this boat?’

‘And may I know to whom I have the pleasure of speaking?’

‘My name is Roland Shatz and I assure you that it’s a name that means something. I am a friend of the owner of this boat. I demand an answer.’