Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, it’s Frank Ottobre.’

There was a brief pause. ‘I’m glad you called.’

‘Have you eaten yet?’ Frank asked, without replying.

‘No, not yet.’

‘Is that something you’ve given up, or do you think you might consider it this evening?’

‘Sounds like a reasonable idea.’

‘I could pick you up in an hour, if that’s enough time.’

‘More than enough. I’ll be waiting.’

Frank hung up and stood looking at the phone. He couldn’t help wondering what kind of trouble he was getting himself into now.

Frank parked by the dirt road that led to General Parker’s house and turned off the engine of the unmarked Mégane the police had given him. The only thing conspicuous about it was the radio for communication with headquarters. Morelli had shown him how to use it and had given him the police frequencies.

Earlier, he’d taken Morelli to the radio station and they had both checked to make sure everything was in place. Before leaving, Frank had taken Pierrot aside in the tiny office next to the glass doors at the entrance.

‘Pierrot, can you keep a secret?’

The boy had looked at him timidly, his eyes half closed, as if wondering whether the request was within his capacities. ‘A secret means that I can’t tell anyone?’

‘Exactly. And now that you’re a policeman, you’re taking part in a police investigation and policemen don’t want their secrets getting out. It’s top secret. Do you know what that means?’

Pierrot had nodded vehemently, shaking hair that badly needed a trim.

‘It means it’s so secret that we’re the only ones who can know. Okay, Agent Pierrot?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He had brought his hand to his forehead in a sort of salute, as he had probably seen on TV. Frank had pulled out the A4 print of the album sleeve that Guillaume had enlarged from the video.

‘I’m going to show you a picture of a record cover. Can you tell me if it’s in the room?’

He had held the image up to Pierrot, who had squinted the way he did when he was concentrating. When the boy raised his head and looked at him, he had shown no sign of satisfaction on his face, the way he usually did when he knew the answer.

‘It’s not there.’

Frank had masked his disappointment so that Pierrot wouldn’t notice, treating him as if he’d given the right answer. ‘Very good, Agent Pierrot. Excellent. You can go now, but don’t forget. Top secret!’

Pierrot had crossed his forefingers over his lips in a vow of silence and left the room, heading towards the director’s booth. Frank had put the printout back in his pocket and left the station in Morelli’s hands. On his way out he had seen Barbara wearing a particularly attractive black dress, speaking to Morelli.

Frank was still thinking about the sergeant and his human inclinations when the gate opened and he saw Helena Parker slowly emerge from the shadows thrown by the indirect light of the reflectors.

First, he saw her graceful figure and heard her steps on the gravel, her movements fluid despite the uneven ground. Then he saw her face under the mass of blonde hair, streaked with copper and lighter shaders, and then those sorrowful eyes. Frank wondered what lay behind them: what kind of suffering, how many moments of unwanted solitude or uninvited company, how much bare survival instead of real life.

He would probably find out soon enough, and he asked himself just how much he really wanted to know. He suddenly realized what this woman represented for him and he had trouble admitting, even to himself, that he was afraid her story would make him act like a coward. If it did, then however many arrests he made or men he killed, however far he could run, he would never be able to reach himself. But if he did nothing, that fear would have no end.

He got out of the car and walked around to the other side to open the door. Helena Parker was wearing a dark trouser suit with a mandarin collar, an Asian style reinterpreted by some famous designer. Still, her clothes were not a conspicuous display of wealth but rather of good taste. Frank noticed that she wore almost no jewellery and, as on the other occasions he had seen her, makeup so light that it was almost invisible. She walked up to him and he got a whiff of her perfume, as fresh as the night itself.

‘Hello, Frank. Don’t feel you have to open the door for me.’ Helena got into the car and raised her face to Frank, still standing at the open door.

‘I’m not just being polite.’ Frank nodded towards the front of the Mégane. ‘This is a French car. Without a certain savoir faire, it refuses to start.’

Helena seemed to appreciate his attempt at levity and laughed. ‘You surprise me, Mr Ottobre. Men with a sense of humour are an endangered species.’ Frank thought her smile more precious than any jewel. So close to it, he suddenly felt alone and disarmed.

As he started the engine, he wondered how long that kind of banter would last before they came to the real reason for their meeting. He also wondered which of them would have the courage to bring it up first.

He glanced at Helena’s profile, a blend of light and darkness in the early evening. She turned and they exchanged a look. The attempt at cheerfulness disappeared from her eyes and the sadness returned. And Frank realized that she would be the one to press the START button.

‘I know your story, Frank. My father forced it on me. I have to know everything he knows, just like I have to be everything he is. I’m sorry. I feel like an intruder in your life and it’s not a pleasant feeling.’ Frank thought of the popular belief that men are hunters and woman their prey. With Helena Parker, the roles were somehow reversed.

‘The only thing I can give you in exchange is my own story. There is no other justification for the fact that I am with you and that I represent a series of questions for which you cannot find the answers.’

Frank listened to Helena’s voice and drove slowly, following the flow of traffic as they rode down from Roquebrune towards Menton. Life buzzed all around them. Bright lights. Normal people walking along the bright stretch of coast in search of frivolous amusement, whose only motivation was the perhaps futile pleasure of the search itself.

There are no treasures, no islands, no maps. Only their illusion, so long as it lasts. And sometimes the end of the illusion is a voice that murmurs two simple words: I kill…

Without realizing what he was doing, Frank put out his hand to turn off the radio, as though he feared an unnatural voice would call him back to reality. The light music in the background fell silent.

‘The fact that you know my story doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is the story itself. I hope yours is better.’

‘How can you compare the misery of two people?’ Helena’s voice was suddenly very gentle. It was the voice of a woman in the midst of turmoil who sought peace and offered it in return. ‘What was your wife like?’

Frank was surprised at the spontaneity of her question. And by his own straightforward answer.

‘I don’t know what she was like. She was two people at the same time, like all of us. I could tell you how I saw her, but that’s useless now.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Harriet.’

Helena absorbed it like an old friend. ‘Harriet. I feel like I know a great deal about her, although I never met her. You’re probably wondering why I’m so presumptuous.’ There was a short pause, and then Helena’s voice again, full of bitterness. ‘A fragile woman can always recognize another.’

Helena looked out of the window. Her words were a journey that was coming to its destination.