Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

The moment of rage is brief. His breath slowly returns to normal. His heart calms down. His arms relax by his sides. His eyes once again become those of a priest who listens in silence to voices that only he can hear. There will be another night. And many more nights to come. And a thousand faces of men whose smiles will be snuffed out like a candle inside a hollow jack-o’-lantern.

He sits down and rolls across towards the sound equipment. Cases packed with records and CDs line the walls. He rummages through them, selecting a CD and slotting it angrily into the player. The sound of strings pours forth from the speakers. It is melancholy, like a cool autumn breeze blowing crumpled leaves in a soft, swirling dance.

The man relaxes against the back of his chair. He smiles again. His failure is already forgotten, dissolved by the sweetness of the music. There will be another night. And many more nights to come. Suddenly a voice is heard, as alluring as the music that swirls through the room.

Isthatyou,Vibo?

‘Merde! ’

Nicolas Hulot threw his newspaper on top of the others cluttering his desk. All of them, French and Italian press alike, had the news of the double murder on the front page. In spite of his attempt to keep the information confidential, the whole story had leaked out. While the crime itself would have been enough to excite the voracity of the press like a shoal of piranhas, the fact that the victims were famous had generated a surge of creativity in the headlines. A Formula 1 champion and his girlfriend, who just happened to be a celebrated chess player: it was a a gold mine. Reporters would be willing to dig with their bare hands.

A couple of skilled news hounds had managed to piece together all the information, probably thanks to a statement – probably handsomely compensated – from the yachtsman who had found the bodies. The reporters’ imaginations had really run wild in the writing spread out on the table. Each one gave a personal interpretation, leaving the readers to fill in the gaps.

I kill…

The inspector closed his eyes, but the scene before him didn’t change. He was unable to forget those marks written in blood on the table. Things like that did not happen in real life. Writers only invented them to sell books. They were the plots of movies that successful screenwriters wrote in Malibu beach houses while sipping cocktails. This type of investigation belonged in America with detectives like Bruce Willis and John Travolta, big guys with taut muscles and an easy gun. Not with an inspector who was closer to retirement than to glory.

Hulot got up from his desk and walked across to the window with the steps of a man worn out from the fatigue of a long journey. Everyone had called him, in the proper hierarchical order. He had given the same answers, since they had all asked the same questions. He looked at his watch. There was a meeting scheduled to coordinate the investigation. Along with Luc Roncaille, chief of the Sûreté Publique, there would be Alain Durand, the attorney general who, as investigating magistrate, had decided to lead the investigation in person. The councillor for the Interior Ministry was also planning to attend. The only person missing was Prince Albert himself, supreme head of the police force by internal regulations. Although one never knew who would show up.

At the moment, all Hulot had was a little information and a great deal of diplomacy, and he would use them on anyone who came by.

There was a knock at the door and Frank walked in, looking like he would much rather be elsewhere. Hulot was surprised to see him but could not help feeling a sense of relief. He knew it was Frank’s gesture of gratitude towards him, a little bit of support in the sea of troubles in which Hulot was floundering. And besides, Frank Ottobre, the Frank of the past, was exactly the type of officer who could run an investigation like this, even though Hulot knew that his friend had no desire to be a lawman ever again.

‘Hi, Frank.’

‘Hi, Nicolas. How’s it going?’

‘How’s it going?’ echoed Hulot, knowing that the other man had only asked him that question to keep him from asking it first. ‘I leave it to your imagination. I got hit with a meteorite when I could barely handle a pebble. I’m a total wreck. Everyone’s on to me, like dogs chasing a fox.

Frank said nothing and went to sit down in the armchair in front of the desk.

‘We’re waiting for the autopsy report and the forensic test results. But they haven’t found much. They pored over every inch of the boat but nothing turned up. We had a handwriting analysis done of the writing on the table and we’re waiting for those results, too. We’re all praying that it isn’t what it seems.’

Hulot scrutinized Frank’s face, trying to see if there was any interest in what he was saying. He knew Frank’s story and that it was no easy burden to bear. After he had lost his wife, and in such tragic circumstances, Frank seemed intent solely to destroy himself, as if he bore the guilt for all the troubles of the world. Nicolas had seen people lose themselves to alcohol or worse. He’d even seen people take their own lives in a desperate attempt to erase their remorse. Instead, Frank remained lucid, whole, as if he wanted to keep himself from forgetting. As if he were serving out a sentence, day by day, without remission.

Hulot leaned his elbows on the table. Frank sat in silence, expressionless, his legs crossed. Nicolas had to struggle to continue.

‘We don’t have a thing. Absolutely nothing. Our man was probably wearing a wetsuit the whole time, including shoes, gloves and cap. In other words, no skin, no hair. The handprints and footprints he left are of such a common physical type that it could be anyone.’ Hulot paused. Frank’s black eyes glowed dully like coal. ‘We’ve started looking into the victims. Two people like that, you can imagine the number of people they met in the lives they led, all over the world…’

Suddenly, the inspector’s demeanour changed, struck by the force of an idea.

‘Why don’t you help me, Frank? I can call your boss. I can ask him to call the right people and have you join the investigation. You’re prepared and familiar with the facts. We’ve worked together before, after all. And one of the victims was an American citizen. You’re just the man for a case like this. You speak French and Italian perfectly; you know how us European cops do things and how we think. You’re the right man in the right place.’

‘No, Nicolas.’ His voice was cold and hard. ‘You and I don’t have the same memories any more. I’m not the man I used to be. I’ll never be that again.’

‘Has it never occurred to you,’ said the inspector, getting up from his chair, ‘that what happened to Harriet might not be your fault?’ He went around the desk and leaned against it, standing in front of Frank and leaning towards him slightly, for more emphasis. ‘Or at least not entirely?’

Frank turned his head and looked out of the window. His jaw contracted as if he wanted to bite back an answer he’d already given too many times. His silence increased Hulot’s anger and the inspector raised his voice slightly.

‘God damn it, Frank! You know what happened. You saw it with your own eyes. There’s a murderer out there who has already killed two people and will probably kill again. I don’t know what exactly you’ve got on your mind, but don’t you think that stopping this maniac might be a way out for you? Think about it – could helping others be a way to help yourself? Help yourself to go home?

Frank brought his gaze back to his friend. His look said he felt like a man who could go anywhere and still feel that he did not belong.