Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

‘Any news from Froben?’

‘No,’ replied Hulot with a sigh. ‘They didn’t find anything in Yoshida’s house. All the prints in the room where he was killed are his. The footprints on the floor are the same size as the ones on Welder’s boat so we have the dubious consolation of knowing that the killer wears a size nine. The hair on the chair belonged to the victim. The blood is his too, type O negative.’

‘Did they find anything in the Bentley?’

‘Same thing there. Lots of Yoshida’s prints and other prints on the steering wheel that we’re comparing with those of the bodyguard who occasionally drove the car. I ordered a handwriting test on the words on the seat. But you probably noticed it was very similar to the first writing. Probably stencilled again, I’d say.’

‘Yeah.’

‘The only thing we have is the hope that he keeps on calling Jean-Loup Verdier and that he’ll make a mistake that leads us to him.’

‘Think we should put Verdier under protection?’

‘I already did, just to be sure. He called me and said his house was overrun by reporters. I asked him not to talk to them and I sent a car and two officers to keep an eye out. Officially, it’s to take him back and forth to the station without letting him fall into the clutches of the press. Actually, I feel safer that way, though I decided not to say anything that would alarm him. Otherwise, all we can do is keep the station under close watch. Which is exactly what we’re doing.’

‘Good. Anything on the victims?’ Frank asked.

‘We’re looking into it with the German police and your pals at the FBI. We’re digging into their lives but nothing’s come up so far. Three famous people, two Americans and a European. They all had intense lives but nothing aside from what we already know. The only common factor is the guy who killed them.’

Frank finished his Pastis and placed the glass down on the wrought-iron balustrade. He seemed puzzled.

‘What is it, Frank?’

‘Nicolas, do you ever feel like you have something on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t know what it is? Like when you want to remember the name of an actor you know well, but just then, try as you might, it won’t come to you?’

‘Sure, quite often. At my age, it’s normal.’

‘There’s something I saw or heard, Nicolas. Something that I should remember but I can’t think of it. And it’s driving me crazy because I can feel that it’s important.’

‘I hope you remember soon, whatever it is.’

Frank turned his back on the magnificent view and crossed his arms over his chest. Fatigue and the feverish nervous energy that kept him going were etched on his face.

‘Let’s see. We have a killer who likes music. A connoisseur who calls the deejay of a hit show on Radio Monte Carlo to announce his intentions to murder. He leaves a musical clue that nobody recognizes and then kills two people, a man and a woman, right after. He leaves them for us to find, in a horrible state, as if he is laughing at us. He signs the crimes “ I kill …” written in blood. He leaves absolutely no trace. He is cold-blooded, cunning, expert and ruthless. Cluny talks about above-average intelligence. I would say way above average. He’s so sure of himself that he gives us a second clue in the next call. Again, it’s music-related and again we don’t get it. And he kills again. Even more ruthlessly than the first time, and now the crime has a sense of justice about it. But he’s even more contemptuous. The tape in the car, the video of the murder, the same writing as the last time. None of the victims shows signs of sexual violation, so he’s not a necrophiliac. But in each case he removes all the skin of the victim’s face. Why? Why does he do that to them?’

‘I don’t know, Frank. I hope Cluny has some ideas. I’ve been hitting my head against the wall, but I can’t even come up with a plausible idea. How can you fathom the mind of a psycho?’

‘We have to try, Nicolas. If we manage to figure out why he does it, I’m sure we can find out who and where he is!’

‘Now you two stop talking shop.’ Céline’s warm voice and the aroma of her cooking suddenly penetrated their dark speculation. She set a steaming tureen on the table. ‘Here’s some bouillabaisse for you. Only one course tonight, but there’s lots of it. Frank, if you don’t have at least two helpings I’ll be personally offended. Nicolas, you’ll take care of the wine, please?’

Frank realized that he was starving. The sandwiches he had eaten in the office without even tasting them were a distant memory. He sat down and unfolded his napkin.

‘They say that food is the true culture of the people. If that’s true, then your bouillabaisse is immortal poetry.’

‘You’re a shameless flatterer, Frank.’ Céline laughed, illuminating her dark, lovely Mediterranean complexion. The tiny lines around her eyes only heightened her charm. ‘But it’s nice to hear.’

Hulot looked at Frank across the table. He knew what his friend was holding inside, but in spite of it all, his affection for Céline and for Hulot made him behave with a natural kindness that few people shared. Nicolas didn’t know what Frank was looking for, but he hoped that he would find it soon, whatever it was, so that he could find some peace.

‘You’re made of gold, Frank,’ said Céline, raising her glass to toast him. ‘And your wife is a lucky woman. I’m sorry she couldn’t make it tonight. But she’ll come next time. And I’ll take her out shopping, to cut into your retirement fund.’

Frank didn’t flinch and his smile didn’t change. A brief shadow passed quickly over his eyes and then disappeared in the warmth around the table. He raised his glass and responded to Céline’s toast.

‘Sure. I know you’re not serious. You’re a cop’s wife, so you know that after three pairs of shoes it’s grounds for divorce.’

Céline laughed again and the moment passed. One by one, the lights along the coast lit up the border between land and sea. They sat eating the excellent food and drinking good wine in the shadow of the terrace, with darkness all around them.

Frank stood at the taxi rank in the main square of Eze, but there were no cabs in sight. He looked around. There were people on the street despite the fact that it was almost midnight. Summer was coming and tourists were beginning to flock to the coast, searching for picturesque images to take home with them.

He saw a large, dark limousine drive slowly through the square and head towards him. The car pulled up beside him, the door opened, and a man got out. He was at least a few inches taller than Frank, powerful but agile in his movements. He had a square face and fair hair in a crew cut. The man walked around the car and stopped in front of him. Frank could tell that he was carrying a gun under his well-cut jacket. He had no idea who the man was, but he already seemed dangerous.

The man looked at him with expressionless brown eyes. He seemed more or less Frank’s age, maybe a year or two older. ‘Good evening, Mr Ottobre,’ he said in English.

‘Good evening. I see you already know my name.’ Frank showed no surprise. A flash of respect passed over the man’s eyes and then they returned to neutral.

‘I’m Ryan Mosse. American. Like you.’ Frank thought he could detect a Texas accent.

‘Nice to meet you.’ The statement contained an implicit question.

‘If you’d be so kind as to accept a ride to Monte Carlo,’ said Mosse, pointing to the car, ‘there’s someone inside who’d like to talk to you.’

Without waiting for an answer, he opened the back door on his side. Frank saw someone else in the back seat, on the other side. He could see the legs of a man in dark trousers, but not his face.