Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

‘“Nuclear Sun”, by Roland Brant. Who’s that?’ Frank said, reading the title on the cover of the compilation.

Nobody had heard of him. They all ran to the computer. A quick search on the Internet took them to an Italian site. Roland Brant was the pseudonym of an Italian deejay, a certain Rolando Bragante. ‘Nuclear Sun’ was a dance track that was popular a few years ago.

Meanwhile, Laurent and Jean-Loup had finished the show and joined them. They were beside themselves. Both looked as if they’d been caught in a thunderstorm and part of it had remained inside them.

Laurent gave them the lowdown on dance music, a genre all to itself in the music market.

‘Sometimes the deejays take on assumed names. Sometimes it’s a made-up word but most of the time it’s in English. There are a few of them in France, too. They’re usually musicians who specialize in club music.’

‘What does the term “loop” mean?’ asked Hulot.

‘It’s a way of saying that you’re using sampled music on the computer. A loop is the base, the heart of the track. You take a beat and you let it turn around itself so that it’s always exactly the same.’

‘Just like the bastard said. A dog chasing its tail.’

Frank cut those thoughts short and brought them immediately back to the present. There was something much more important to figure out.

‘Okay, we’ve got a job to do. Come on, can you think of something? Think of a famous person, about thirty, forty, fifty who has something in common with all the elements we have. Here, in Monte Carlo.’

Frank sounded possessed. He walked around to each of them, repeating himself. His voice seemed to be hunting an idea like a howling pack of hounds after a fox.

‘A youngish, attractive, famous man. Who hangs out around here, in the area. Who lives here or is here now. CDs, compilations, “Nuclear Sun”, discotheques, dance music, an Italian deejay with an English name, a pseudonym. Think about the papers, society news, the jet set…’

Frank’s voice was like the whip of a jockey urging his horse to go faster and faster. Their minds were all racing.

‘Come on. Jean-Loup?’ The deejay shook his head. Jean-Loup was worn out and it was clear that they could expect nothing more from him. ‘Laurent?’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t think of anything.’

Barbara started and raised her head, moving her copper hair like a wave. Frank saw her face light up. He went over to her. ‘What is it, Barbara?’

‘I don’t know… Maybe…’

Frank pounced upon her uncertainty. ‘Barbara, there are no maybes. Say a name if you’re thinking of one. Whether it’s right or wrong.’

The girl turned to all those present for an instant, as if apologizing for saying something ridiculous.

‘Well, I think it might be Roby Stricker.’

René Coletti really needed to piss. He breathed deeply through his nose. His full bladder was causing stabs of pain in his stomach and he felt like he was in one of those science-fiction movies where the spaceship starts to fail and the red danger light comes on with a robotic voice repeating, ‘Attention, please. This ship will self-destruct in three minutes. Attention, please…’

It was only normal for a biological need to assert itself at the worst possible moment, in keeping with the logic of cause and effect designed to break the balls of human beings whenever possible. He was tempted to get out of his car and take a leak on the side of the road, regardless of the people hanging around the dock and on the other side of the road. He looked longingly at the wall on his right.

He lit a cigarette as a distraction and blew the smoke from his Gitane out of the car window. The overflowing ashtray showed that he had already been waiting a long time. He reached out to turn off the radio, tuned to Radio Monte Carlo, since the part he had wanted to hear was over now.

He had parked his Mazda MX-5 at the harbour near the Piscine, pointed towards the building where the station was located. It had to be swarming with cops. He had listened to the show and the killer’s phone call as he sat in his car, waiting. At his newspaper, France Soir, a number of colleagues had done the same thing, and now they were probably digging all over the Web or God knows where else, hunting for information. Quite a few brains were working overtime to decipher the new message broadcast over the radio by ‘No One’, as the press had dubbed him. Everyone called him that now. The power of the media. Who knew what the police might have been calling him before some reporter thought up a name that had stuck.

Investigators used logic. Journalists used imagination. But one didn’t necessarily preclude the other. Coletti was a prime example in that sense. Or so he hoped.

The mobile on the seat next to him started to ring. The ringtone was a Ricky Martin song that his niece had downloaded and foisted upon him. He detested it but was too ignorant about how mobile phones worked to be able to change it. Imagination and logic, yes, but with an aversion to technology. He snatched up the phone and answered.

‘Hello?’

‘Coletti, it’s Barthélemy.’

‘What’s up?’

‘We’ve got a tip. A fantastic piece of luck. Giorgio Cassani, our Milan correspondent, is a friend of the guy who wrote the music that No One played on the radio. He called us from Italy a couple of minutes ago. They’ll give us a few more minutes before they call the police.’

A stroke of luck indeed. Let’s hope nobody gets killed by it. And let’s hope I don’t piss my pants.

‘Well?’

‘It’s called “Nuclear Sun”. The guy who wrote it is an Italian deejay named Rolando Bragante, a.k.a. Roland Brant. Got it?’

‘Sure, I got it. I’m not stupid. Text me with the details, though. You never know.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Just outside the station. Everything’s under control. Nothing’s happened yet.’

‘Be careful. If the cops get on to you, we’ll be in fucking hot water.’

‘I know what they’re like.’

‘Be good,’ was Barthélemy’s laconic farewell.

‘You, too. Let me know if there’s any news.’

He clicked off. An Italian deejay with an English pseudonym. Some disco music called ‘Nuclear Sun’. What the hell did that mean?

He felt another stab in his abdomen and made a decision. Throwing the cigarette out the window, he opened the door and got out. He went down a few steps on the other side of the road and hid himself in the semi-darkness, away from the silhouette of the car. He took advantage of a recess in the wall next to the shuttered windows of a store and, with a heavy sigh, unzipped his trousers and relieved himself. He felt like he was flying. He watched the yellow stream of urine splash like a torrent on the downhill slope. Letting yourself go in a case like that was an almost sensual pleasure. The satisfaction was at once physical and something deeper on the human level. Like when he was a child and he and his brother used to pee in the snow, making patterns.

Wait a sec. He had a thought. The snow. What did the snow have to do with it? He could see a magazine photo, a male figure in a ski suit standing next to a ski lift, ready to go, with a pretty girl at his side. There was snow. Lots of snow. He had a sudden flash of intuition and held his breath.

Fuck. Roby Stricker. That’s who it was. And if it was him, he had figured it out.

His physiological needs gave no sign of relenting. The excitement made him nervous. He interrupted the flow and almost peed on his hands. He had covered stories where the risk of getting one’s hands dirty was almost certain. This wouldn’t be any more disgusting. But where was Roby Stricker now?