Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

‘Roby Stricker?’ Nicolas had asked.

Stricker had looked at them dubiously.

‘Yes,’ he had said hesitantly.

‘I’m Inspector Hulot of the Sûreté Publique and this is Frank Ottobre of the FBI. We need to speak to you. Could you come with us, please?’

Their credentials seemed to make him uncomfortable. Frank had found out why later on, when he pretended not to notice the young man awkwardly disposing of a bag of cocaine. Stricker had pointed to the young woman next to him who was looking at them, astonished. They were speaking French and she didn’t understand.

‘Both of us, or just me? I mean, this is Malva Reinhart and…’

‘You’d better come with us. It’s in your best interest. We have reason to believe that your life is in danger. The young lady’s too, perhaps.’

They had filled him in soon afterwards, in the car. Stricker had grown deathly pale and Frank knew that if he had been standing, his legs might have collapsed. Frank had translated for Reinhart and it was her turn to go pale. They had reached Stricker’s building, Les Caravelles, a couple of blocks from police headquarters. They couldn’t help being stunned at the madman’s nerve. If he was really aiming for Stricker, the choice was a defiant, mocking challenge. He intended to strike at someone who lived just blocks away from the centre of police operations.

Frank had stayed with him and the girl while Nicolas, after inspecting the apartment, went to give instructions to Morelli and his men stationed below. There was a security net around the building that was impossible to get through. Before he left, Hulot had called Frank into the hallway, given him a walkie-talkie, and asked if he had his gun. Without a word, Frank had opened his jacket to show him the Glock hanging from his belt. He had shivered slightly as he brushed against the cold, hard weapon.

Frank stepped towards the centre of the room and responded patiently to Stricker’s objections.

‘First of all, we’re trying to guarantee your safety. You might not have noticed, but practically all the police in the Principality are stationed outside. Secondly, we have no intention of using you as bait. We simply need your cooperation to try to catch the person we’re after. You’re not running any risk, I assure you. You live in Monte Carlo, so you must know what’s been happening, don’t you?’

‘Listen,’ Roby said, as he turned towards Frank without moving from the window. ‘It’s not that I’m scared, okay? I just don’t like the whole situation. It feels… overblown, that’s all.’

‘I’m glad you’re not afraid, but that doesn’t mean you should underestimate the person we’re dealing with. So please get away from that window.’

Stricker tried to appear nonchalant as he stepped back to the couch. In actuality, he was quite visibly terrified. Frank had been with him for an hour now, and if he’d had any say in the matter he would have walked out of there and left the guy to his fate. Stricker fitted the stereotype of a spoiled rich boy so exactly that it was almost laughable.

Roberto Stricker, ‘Roby’ in the society pages, was Italian, from Bolzano to be precise, but his last name was German and he could pass for English if he wanted. He was just over thirty and very good-looking. Tall, athletic, great hair, great face, total prick. His father was the wealthy owner of, among other things, a chain of discos in Italy, France and Spain called No Nukes, whose symbol was an environmentalist sun. That was what had struck Barbara when she heard the name ‘Nuclear Sun’, the Roland Brant dance track that the killer had played on the radio. Roby Stricker lived in Monte Carlo, doing whatever he wanted with his time and his father’s money – that is to say, absolutely nothing. The tabloids were full of his love affairs and vacations, skiing at St Moritz with the hottest top models or playing tennis at Marbella with Björn Borg. As far as work was concerned, his father probably gave him money just to keep him out of the family business, reckoning that whatever his son cost him was the lesser of two evils.

‘What are you going to do?’ Stricker picked up his glass but put it down again when he saw that the ice had melted.

‘Actually, there’s really very little we can do in cases like this. We just take the right precautions and wait.’

‘What does this nutcase have against me, anyway? Do I know him?’

If he decided to kill you, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did know you. And probably pretty well you little shit. Frank sat down in an armchair.

‘I have no idea. Quite frankly, aside from what we told you, we don’t have much more information on this murderer, except for the criteria he uses to select his victims and what he does after he kills them.’

Frank spoke in Italian, emphasizing the harshness of the word ‘assassino ’ for Roby Stricker’s benefit. He didn’t think it was a good idea to frighten the girl sitting on the couch any more. She was gnawing on her finger in fear. Although…

Like attracts like.

The two of them were together for a reason. Like Nicolas and Céline Hulot, like Nathan Parker and Ryan Mosse. And like Bikjalo and Jean-Loup Verdier. Out of love. Out of hate. Out of self-interest. As for Roby Stricker and Malva Reinhart, however, it could be just simple physical attraction between two very shallow human beings.

Frank’s walkie-talkie started to buzz. Strange. They had decided to observe strict radio silence. No precautions seemed excessive with this criminal, who could tap phone lines so easily that he might very well be able to listen in on any police frequency. Frank went into the foyer before answering. He didn’t want Stricker and the girl to hear.

‘Frank Ottobre.’

‘Frank, it’s Nicolas. We may have caught him.’

Frank felt as though a cannon had just fired next to his ear.

‘Where?’

‘Here, down in the basement, by the boiler. One of my men caught a suspicious character who was sneaking down the stairs to the basement and stopped him. They’re still there. I’m on my way over.’

‘I’ll be right there.’ He ran back into the room. ‘Stay here and don’t move. Don’t let anyone in but me.’

He left them to be shocked and scared on their own, and rushed down the stairs two at a time. He reached the lobby just as Hulot was coming in from the street with Morelli behind him. A uniformed cop was guarding the door to the basement.

They went downstairs, guided by the dim light of a series of bulbs set in the wall, protected by grating. All the buildings in Monte Carlo looked alike to Frank. Beautiful exteriors but shoddy on the inside, where most people couldn’t see. It was hot down there and it reeked of dustbins.

The agent led the way. A policeman crouched beside a man sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall with his hands tied behind him. The policeman had a pair of infrared glasses for night vision on top of his head.

‘Everything okay, Thierry?’

‘Here he is, inspector, I-’

‘Christ!’

Frank’s shout interrupted the policeman.

The man sitting on the ground was the redheaded reporter, the one he had seen outside police headquarters when Yoshida’s body had been discovered. The same one who had been standing in front of Jean-Loup’s house that morning.

‘This guy’s a reporter, damn it!’

The journalist took advantage of the moment to make his voice heard.

‘You’re damn right, I’m a reporter. René Coletti of France Soir. I’ve been telling this blockhead that for the last ten minutes. If he had let me get my press card out of my pocket, we could have avoided all this aggravation.’

Hulot was fuming. He crouched down beside Coletti. Frank was afraid he would punch him in the face. If he had, Frank would have defended him before any court.