Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

Frank thought that in different circumstances, he and Bolton could have been great friends. ‘You know I will, Dwight. I’ll do it, but not for any of those reasons. Heads and tails maybe, but we’re only the same coin in the same pocket by accident. I’ll catch the killer, and you can give it any meaning you like. Just one thing.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t say that your meaning has to be mine, too.’

Bolton didn’t say a word. Either he didn’t understand or he understood too well, but that was enough. He stood up and hitched up his trousers. The conversation was over.

‘Okay, Frank. I think we’ve covered everything.’

Frank stood up as well. They shook hands in the waning light of the late spring afternoon. Night would soon fall. Voices and killers in the darkness. And everyone would try to grope his way to a hiding place.

‘Don’t show me out. I know the way. Bye, Frank. Good luck.’

‘Luck’s not a lady tonight. She’s going down kicking and screaming.’

Bolton went to the door and opened it. Malcolm could be seen standing outside as he closed the door behind him.

Frank was alone again. He decided he deserved another beer. He went into the kitchen to get it and sat down on the couch that his guest had occupied.

We’re the same coin… Heads or tails, Dwight?

He relaxed and tried to forget Bolton and their meeting. Diplomacy, wars, legal battles. He took a swig of beer and began to do something he had not done in a long time. He called it ‘opening’. When an investigation came to a dead end, he sat down by himself and tried to release his mind, letting all his thoughts free-associate, like a mental puzzle fitting together on its own. His only aim was to give free rein to his unconscious. Lateral thinking in images. Sometimes it brought excellent results. He closed his eyes.

Arianna Parker and Jochen Welder.

The boat, wedged into the dock, the masts listing slightly to the left.

The two of them lying on the bed, their faces skinned, their teeth

uncovered in a scowl without rage.

The voice on the radio.

The writing, red as blood.

I kill…

Jean-Loup Verdier. His wide eyes. Harriet’s face.

No, no. Not now!

The voice on the radio again.

The music, the cover of the Santana record.

Allen Yoshida.

His head leaning against the car window.

The light-coloured seat with the red writing again.

The man, the knife, the blood.

The video.

The man in black and Allen Yoshida.

The photos of the room without them.

The video. The photos. The video. The photos. The vid-

Suddenly, with an involuntary jump, Frank Ottobre found himself standing in front of the couch. It was such a tiny detail that his mind had recorded it and filed it away as if it was of no importance.

He had to go over to headquarters immediately and check on what he had remembered. Maybe it was just an impression, but he grasped at that scrap of hope. If he had a thousand fingers, he would have crossed them all.

The sun was setting as Frank reached police headquarters on Rue Notari. He had walked there from Parc Saint-Roman, slipping through the early evening crowds on the streets without even noticing them. He was on edge. When he was chasing a criminal, he always felt that same anxiety. That frenzy. An inner voice pushing him to run faster. Now that the investigation was at a dead end and their leads had gone nowhere, he had a small gleam of inspiration. There was something shining just below the surface and Frank couldn’t wait to dive down and see whether it was a real light or just a mirage.

The cop standing guard let him in without a word. As he climbed the steps to Nicolas Hulot’s office, Frank wondered if they used his name when they talked about him, or just called him ‘the American’. He walked down the corridor to Hulot’s door. He knocked a couple of times and turned the knob. The office was empty. He stood back a moment, puzzled, then decided to go in. He was feverishly impatient to see if his hunch was true. Nicolas wouldn’t mind.

The file with all the reports and papers on the case was lying on the desk. He opened it and looked for the envelope with the pictures of Allen Yoshida’s house that Froben had brought over after they checked the place. He studied them carefully. He sat down at the desk, picked up the phone, and called the inspector in Nice.

‘Froben?’

‘Yes. Who is it?’

‘Christophe, it’s Frank.’

‘Hi, Americano. How’s it going?’

‘Do I have to answer that?’

‘I read the papers. Is it really so bad?’

‘Yeah, really bad. Which means we’re just relieved it’s not worse.’

‘Great. And what can I do for you in this mess?’

‘Answer a couple of questions.’

‘Shoot.’

‘As far as you know, did anyone touch anything at Allen Yoshida’s place? Maybe accidentally move something before you came and took the photos?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Froben. ‘The maid who discovered the crime didn’t go in. She practically fainted at the sight of all that blood and called security right away. Valmeere, the head of Yoshida’s security team, is a former cop, remember? He knows the rules. No one touched anything, for sure. The photos I gave you are exactly what we found at the house.’

‘Okay, Christophe. Sorry, but I needed to be absolutely sure of that.’

‘Any leads?’

‘I don’t know. I hope so. I have to check one detail but I don’t want to raise a false alarm. Just one more thing…’ There was silence on the other end as Froben waited.

‘Do you remember if there were any vinyl LPs in Yoshida’s music collection?’

‘This one I can answer for sure. No, there were not. I can tell you that, because one of my men, who’s into this stuff, mentioned that there was a record player in the sound system but only CDs in the collection. He commented on it.’

‘Great, Froben. I didn’t expect anything less of you.’

‘Okay. I’m here if you need me.’

‘Thanks, Christophe. You’re a great help.’

Frank hung up and was lost in thought for a moment. Now he could find out if that bastard had made one tiny mistake, the first since it had all started. Or if he was the one making the mistake.

He opened the desk drawer. Inside, there was the copy of the video-cassette they had found in Yoshida’s Bentley. Frank knew that Nicolas kept it there with the radio tapes. He took it out of the drawer and slipped it into the VCR. He turned on the equipment and pressed PLAY.

The coloured bars appeared on the screen and the sequence started. If he lived 100 years and watched those images once a day, he would still never get used to them. He saw the man in black wave the dagger in his hand. Frank felt a knot in his stomach and his throat seized up. His rage would not go away until he caught him.

Here we go. We’re almost there … He was tempted to fast-forward, but was afraid that the detail would elude him. The video finally reached the point he was waiting for. He shouted to himself.

Yes, yes, yes…

He paused the image. It was such a tiny detail that he couldn’t have discussed it with anyone, for fear that it might be another false lead. Yet here it was, right in front of his eyes, and it was worth trying to see if it could mean something. Sure, it was so insignificant that it might be nothing. But it was all they had.

He looked carefully at the scene on the monitor before him. The killer was motionless, with the dagger raised over Allen Yoshida. His victim was staring at him, wide-eyed, his arms and legs bound with wire, his mouth covered with tape, a grimace of pain and fear on his face. The man would die anew, whenever someone watched that tape. And from what they knew about him, he deserved his fate each and every time.