Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

Inside the gate, Hulot turned right and parked the car under a wooden carport next to a Fiat and a large motorcycle, a BMW Enduro.

Guillaume walked over to them with a lanky gait. He was an athletic-looking guy with a pleasant if not handsome face, and the muscular arms and sun-bleached hair of someone who plays outdoor sports. He was wearing a sky-blue T-shirt over khaki Bermuda cargo shorts and had on yellow sailing shoes without socks.

‘Hello, Nicolas.’

‘Hi, Guillaume.’ The boy shook the inspector’s hand and Nicolas nodded towards his companion. ‘This strong silent type is Frank Ottobre, FBI special agent.’

Guillaume put out his hand and pretended to whistle. ‘So the FBI actually exists – not just in the movies. Nice to meet you.’

As he shook the kid’s hand, Frank felt relieved. He looked into his eyes, dark and deep-set in a face freckled by the sun. He could tell that Guillaume was the right guy for the job. He had no idea if he was any good, but he knew he’d keep his mouth shut if they asked nicely and told him the seriousness of the situation.

‘That’s right, we’re very important in American movies and culture. And now we’ve gone global, as you can see.’

Guillaume smiled, but the grin barely masked his curiosity. He had probably guessed that they were there for something very important, since Nicolas Hulot had come as a policeman, not a friend of the family.

‘Thanks for helping us out.’

Guillaume nodded, shrugged his shoulders as if to say ‘don’t mention it’, and led the way.

‘I don’t have much work right now. I’m editing a couple of underwater documentaries. Easy stuff. Doesn’t take much time. And I could never say no to this man here.’ He pointed his thumb at the inspector.

‘You said your parents are out?’

‘Out? Out of their minds is more like it. After Dad stopped working, they blew on the embers and found out there was still some life in there. They’re on their tenth honeymoon, or something like that. Last time they called, it was from Rome. They should be back tomorrow.’

They continued along the flagstone path, crossed the neat green lawn and reached the side entrance. To their right was a wooden gazebo with a blue canvas roof over a patio table. The remains of a dinner, most likely from the night before, were still on the table. ‘While the cat’s away the mice play, I see.’

Guillaume followed Nicolas’s gaze and shrugged. ‘Some friends came over last night and the cleaning woman didn’t show up today.’

‘Friends, eh? I’m a cop. Think I can’t see the table’s set for two?’

Guillaume opened his arms wide to say that anything was possible.

‘Listen, old man. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, and I’m not tempted by any artificial paradise. Can’t I have a little fun?’

He slid open the wooden door and invited them in. He followed and closed the door behind him. Once inside, Hulot felt the cool air through his light jacket. ‘Chilly in here.’

Guillaume pointed to the equipment lining the wall opposite, where two air-conditioners were humming.

‘This stuff is sensitive to heat, so I have to keep the air on high. If your rheumatism’s acting up, I can lend you one of Dad’s winter coats.’

Nicolas grabbed his neck and gave him a bear hug.

‘Respect your elders or what you’ll hear cracking will be your neck, not my joints.’

Guillaume raised his arms in surrender.

‘Okay, okay. I give up.’

When Hulot let go, Guillaume collapsed on to a leather armchair in front of the machines. He smoothed down his ruffled hair and waved them on to the couch against the wall between the two windows. He pointed an accusing finger at Nicolas. ‘Don’t forget that I surrendered only out of respect for your age.’

Hulot sat down and leaned back against the padded cushions of the couch, pretending to be out of breath. ‘Thank goodness. Between you and me, you might be right about the rheumatism.’

Guillaume spun around in his chair and faced Frank and Hulot. His expression was suddenly serious.

Good, thought Frank. The boy knows when enough is enough.

He was even more convinced that this was the right person. Now he just hoped that Guillaume was an expert, like Nicolas said he was. He had other hopes as well. Now that they were coming to the point, Frank realized that his heart was beating faster. He looked out the window for a moment at the the dappled sunlight below the swaying lemon tree. The peace and quiet of that place made everything seem far away.

His mind momentarily reflected on his own story, and Helena’s, and that of a general who refused to lose at any cost, of an inspector who wanted only to find a reason for outliving his son, of an insatiable killer acting out his madness and ferocity. If only it were all so far away.

‘Have you been following the No One story?’ Frank asked, returning to the present. His voice barely rose above the sound of the air-conditioning.

Guillaume eased back in his chair.

‘The murders in Monaco, you mean? Who hasn’t? I listen to the programme every night on Radio Monte Carlo or Europe 2. Their ratings must be incredible by now.’

Frank turned back to the garden. A faint breeze rustled the laurel bushes against the wall.

‘Yeah. Five people have been killed. Four of them were horribly defaced. And we haven’t made much progress because we don’t have the faintest idea of who the killer might be or how to stop him. Aside from the little information he gave us himself, that madman hasn’t left the slightest clue. Except perhaps for one tiny detail.’

His pause gave Nicolas the floor. The inspector sat up on the edge of the couch and handed Guillaume the videotape he pulled from his jacket pocket.

‘This is really the only trace we have. There’s something on this tape that we want you to look at for us. It’s very important, Guillaume, and people’s lives may depend on it. So we need your help and your discretion. This is confidential. Absolutely confidential. Do you understand?’

Nodding gravely, Guillaume took the cassette from Hulot and held it in his hand as if it might explode.

‘What’s on this?’

Frank looked at him carefully. There was no irony in the boy’s voice.

‘You’ll see. But I have to warn you that it’s not easy to watch. Just so you know what to expect.’

Guillaume said nothing. He got up and went over to draw the curtains to keep the glare off the screen. In the deep-gold diffused light he sat back down and turned on the flat screen and the computer monitor. He inserted the tape and the coloured bars appeared on the screen, then the first images.

As Guillaume took in the scene of Allen Yoshida’s murder, Frank decided to let him watch the whole thing. He could have skipped directly to the point that interested him without any further explanation, but now that he knew him, he wanted the boy to understand who they were dealing with and how important his own role was. He wondered whether Guillaume felt the same horror that he, Frank, had when he had seen it for the first time. He had to admit in spite of himself that the movie was a sort of diabolical work of art, for the purpose of destruction not creation, and yet it did convey emotion.

A minute later, Guillaume reached out and paused the tape. The killer and his bloodied victim were stopped in the position that fate and the camera had dictated.

‘Is this real or fake?’ he asked in a low voice, looking at them wide-eyed.

‘Unfortunately it’s very real. I told you it wasn’t pretty.’

‘Yes, but this butchery is beyond belief. How can this be possible?’

‘It’s possible. It really happened, as you can see for yourself. And we’re trying to stop this butchery, as you rightly call it.’