Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

‘Roncaille here. Where are you?’ the radio barked.

‘Right behind you, sir. I’m with Frank Ottobre. We’re following you.’

Frank smiled at the idea that the chief of police himself was in the car ahead of them. Nothing in the world would keep that man from being present at No One’s arrest. He wondered whether Durand was with him. Probably not. Roncaille wasn’t stupid. He had no intention of sharing the glory for catching the worst killer in Europe, if he could help it.

‘Frank, can you hear me?’

‘Yes, he hears you. He’s driving but he can hear. He’s the one who figured out who No One is.’

Morelli wanted to make sure that Frank got the credit he was due. Roncaille’s voice again boomed out of the speaker.

‘Good. Excellent. The Menton police are on their way, too. I had to inform them, since Jean-Loup’s house is in France and that’s their jurisdiction. We need them to authorize the arrest. I don’t want any sleazy lawyers using any cheap tricks when this goes to trial… Frank, can you hear me?’

There was a sputter of static. Frank took the mike from Morelli, holding the steering wheel with one hand.

‘What is it, Roncaille?’

‘I hope for all our sakes that you know what you’re doing.’

‘Don’t worry, we have enough evidence to be sure it’s him.’

‘Another misstep after what happened would be inexcusable.’

For sure, especially since the next name to be crossed off the list is yours.

The police chief’s concern did not stop there, apparently. Frank could hear it even in the garbled sound coming through the receiver.

‘There’s one thing I can’t understand.’

Only one?

‘How was he able to commit those crimes when he was practically barricaded in his house, under the constant surveillance of our men?’

Frank had asked himself the same question and couldn’t give Roncaille an answer. ‘That’s a detail I can’t explain. He’ll have to be the one to tell us, once we get our hands on him.’

Frank took it as a bad sign that they hadn’t yet established contact with the agents in the police car outside Jean-Loup’s house. If they’d gone into action, they should have communicated what was happening. He didn’t tell Morelli of his concerns. In any case, Morelli was no fool and had probably come to the same conclusion.

They pulled up in front of the gate of Jean-Loup’s house just as the inspector from Menton was arriving. Frank noticed that there were no reporters. On any other occasion he would have burst out laughing. They’d been constantly watching the house to no avail, only to abandon the hunt right when their story would have been as juicy as a rare steak. They would probably show up again en masse, but the police cars blocking the road in both directions would stop them. There were already men further down, near Helena’s house, to prevent any attempt of escape down the steep descent to the coast.

The blue doors of the police van opened before it came to a stop. A dozen men from the crisis unit, in blue jumpsuits, helmets and Kevlar bulletproof vests and carrying M-16s, jumped out and prepared to storm the house.

The police car was parked outside, empty. Its doors were closed but not locked. Roncaille himself had gone to check. Frank had a bad feeling. Very bad.

‘Try calling them,’ he told Morelli.

The sergeant nodded as Roncaille walked towards them, with the psychiatrist Dr Cluny close behind. Roncaille was not as incompetent as he seemed, after all. Cluny’s presence would be very helpful in case of negotiations involving hostages. Morelli was calling the agents and getting no answer as Roncaille stopped in front of him.

‘What should we do?’

‘The men aren’t responding, which is not good. At this point, I’d have the crisis unit go into action.’

Roncaille turned and nodded to the head of the assault group awaiting instructions in the middle of the road. The man gave an order and everything happened in a flash. Instantaneously, the unit spread out and disappeared from view. A fairly young but prematurely bald plain-clothesman with the lanky gait of a basketball player got out of the Menton police car and walked over to them. Frank thought he had already seen him among the crowd at Hulot’s funeral. He held out his hand.

‘Hello. I’m Inspector Roberts, Homicide in Menton.’

The two men shook hands as Frank wondered where he’d heard that name. Then he remembered. Roberts was the policeman Nicolas had spoken to the evening that Roby Stricker and Gregor Yatzimin were killed. The one who had gone to check on the phone call to the radio station that had been a hoax.

‘What’s happening? Everything under control?’ Roberts asked as he turned to look at the roof of the house just visible through the cypresses.

Frank recalled the tear-streaked face of Pierrot, who at first had helped but then had destroyed everything that Frank had so laboriously constructed. At the cost of human life.

He wanted to lie to Roberts, but forced himself to tell the truth and to appear calm.

‘Afraid not. Unfortunately the suspect was alerted and the surprise was foiled. There are three men inside who haven’t answered our calls and we don’t know what’s going on.’

‘Hmm. That’s not good. But if it’s three against one-’

Roberts was interrupted by the crackling of Morelli’s two-way radio. The sergeant hurried to answer as he joined the group.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Gavin. We’re inside. We’ve searched the place from top to bottom. It’s safe now but there’s been a slaughter. Three officers are dead. Other than their bodies, there’s no one here.’

The press conference was completely packed. Because they were expecting so many of the media, they had decided to hold it in the auditorium at the Centre Congrès. The hall at headquarters on Rue Notari simply wasn’t big enough.

Durand, Roncaille, Dr Cluny and Frank were sitting before microphones at a long table covered with a green tablecloth. Everybody involved in the investigation was present. In front of them, representatives from the newspapers, radio and television sat in rows of plastic chairs. Frank found the spectacle ridiculous, but the prestige of the Principality of Monaco and of the United States, which he represented as an FBI agent, made it necessary.

It didn’t matter that No One, a.k.a. Jean-Loup Verdier, was still at large. It didn’t matter that when they had entered the house after the attack by the assault unit, they had found it empty and Agent Sorel’s throat cut like a sacrificial lamb. The other two, Gambetta and Megéne, had been shot with the same gun used in the murder of Gregor Yatzimin.

Ubi major, minor cessat – the weak capitulates before the strong .

Certain embarrassing facts could not be revealed and were kept hidden behind the convenient screen of confidentiality. What was being emphasized was the success of the investigation. The identification of the killer, the brilliant joint operation of the Monaco police and the FBI, the criminal’s diabolical mind and the unwavering determination of the investigators, etc., etc., etc.

Camouflaged by that series of etceteras was the killer’s escape, due to unforeseeable events, and his current unknown whereabouts. But it would only be a matter of hours until the man responsible for those horrible murders was captured. All the police forces of Europe were alerted and news of the arrest was expected at any moment.

Frank admired the skill with which Roncaille and Durand steered the tumult of questions. They were both adept at taking centre stage whenever they possibly could and at changing the focus whenever they found themselves on the sidelines.