Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

I kill…

Frank bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted the semi-sweetness of blood. It was exactly what Jean-Loup had announced during the brief phone call the day before. There would be no more clues, only bodies. This poor human being in a car boot was proof that the war was still on and that this man’s battle had been lost. The car parked right there in front of headquarters was the latest travesty of all their efforts. Frank thought back to the voice of Jean-Loup, finally free and unmuffled, with the noise of the traffic in the background. He had made the call on a cheap mobile phone with a card purchased in some discount electronics store. Then he had left it on a bench. The kid they had stopped had been passing by when he had seen it and picked it up. He had started making phone calls and they had got to him as he was telling his older brother what he had found. He hadn’t seen the person who’d left the phone and there were no prints on it except those of the boy.

Frank looked at the body in the boot. He couldn’t even imagine the media’s reaction this time. How could they explain this new crime?

He didn’t give a damn about Durand and Roncaille, or their jobs. All he wanted was to stay on the case until he caught No One.

‘Do we know who the guy is?’

Morelli, standing on the other side of the car, came around and joined him. ‘No, Frank. He had no documents on him. Nothing at all.’

‘Well, we’ll find out soon enough. He’s young, judging from the skin. If the bastard followed his usual pattern, he’ll be someone well known, about thirty or thirty-five and good-looking. A guy whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some VIP will be along soon to report a missing person and then we’ll know who it is. Let’s try to figure it out first.’

An agent approached them.

‘Sergeant.’

‘What is it, Bertrand?’

‘Just an idea, sir. Probably wrong, but…’

‘What is it?’

‘His shoes, sergeant.’

‘What about them?’

The agent shrugged his shoulders.

‘They’re sailing shoes, sir. I know, because I have a pair.’

‘There are tons of shoes like that, and I don’t think…’

Frank, who was beginning to see where the agent was headed, interrupted Morelli. ‘Let him finish, Claude. Go on, Bertrand.’

‘Next to the logo, these shoes also have a cigarette brand name on them. It might be a sponsor. And since right now…’

Frank suddenly remembered the regatta. He put his hand on the agent’s shoulder. ‘… Since the Grand Mistral, or whatever it’s called, is on now, he might be involved in that. Nice work, Bertrand. Nice work.’

Frank made the comment in a voice loud enough for the other agents to hear him. Bertrand returned to them as if he were the sailor on the Santa Maria who had cried ‘Land ahoy’ to Christopher Columbus.

‘Claude, it sounds plausible,’ Frank said, taking Morelli aside. ‘Let’s look into it. We’ve played all our other cards already. There’s nothing to lose.’

The blue forensic van turned the corner of Rue Raymond and a policeman moved the barricades to let it through. Frank nodded towards the van.

‘I don’t think I need to tell you, but remind them to get the victim’s fingerprints first. In that condition, it’s the only way we can identify him. His dentist might not be available right away to provide his dental records.’

Morelli looked despondent. It was hard to accept that another murder had taken place. Frank let him give the forensic people instructions and headed up to his office. He thought of Helena, summoning up the sound of her voice on the phone, frightened but so confident when she had told him she loved him. The woman who was his salvation was only a few miles way. The world he was striving for was just within reach, but there were two men blocking his way.

First, there was No One, whose homicidal fury meant that he would keep on killing innocent victims until he was stopped. Second, there was General Parker, who killed everything good that stood in his way, until someone did the same to him.

And Frank wanted to be that someone.

Durand, Roncaille, the Minister of State, the Prince, and even the President of the United States could think whatever they liked. Frank felt like a mere workman, far from the rooms where the plans were made. He was the one who stood before the walls to be demolished and rebuilt, in the midst of the cement dust and the smell of mortar. He was the one who had to see the mutilated, flayed bodies and smell the stench of gunpowder and blood. He didn’t want to write immortal pages. All he wanted to do was write a report explaining how and why the man who had committed so many murders was locked in jail.

Then he would think about Parker. With all his psychotic delirium, No One had taught Frank something important. To be ferocious in the pursuit of his goals. And that is exactly how he would pursue the general. With a ferocity that would surprise even Parker, a master of it.

When he got back to the office, he sat down at the desk and tried to call Helena. Her mobile was off. She was probably no longer alone and didn’t want to risk the phone suddenly ringing and revealing that she had one. He imagined her in the house with her jailers, Nathan Parker and Ryan Mosse, and Stuart, her only consolation.

He sat thinking for quite some time, his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. Wherever he turned, he found a closed door. Still, he felt that the solution was right there, within reach. There was no doubt as to the effort they were making, or their capabilities. Every one of the men involved in the investigation had a long record of experience. All they were missing was that tiny speck of luck, that crucial ingredient for success. And it was absurd that their relentless bad luck kept happening right there in Monaco, the city of casinos, where WINNING IS EASY is written on every slot machine. Frank wished he could stand in front of a machine and insert enough coins to spin the wheels until the name of the place where Jean-Loup Verdier was hiding would appear.

The door of the office opened suddenly and Morelli burst in, so excited that he forgot to knock.

‘Frank, a stroke of luck.’

Speak of the Devil and let’s hope it really is the Devil this time and not just a ghost.

‘What is it?’

‘A couple of people have come to file charges – well, not really charges, but to express their concern.’

‘Meaning?’

‘A member of the team of Try for the Sun, a boat in the Grand Mistral, is missing.’

Frank took his hands from behind his head and waited for the rest. Morelli went on.

‘He had a date with a girl last night, at the Fontvieille pier. When she drove by to pick him up, he wasn’t there. The girl is a hardass type and this morning she went back to the sponsor’s yacht he’s on to give him a piece of her mind – he can’t treat a woman like her that way, etcetera… Faced with her female fury, a sailor went to call him in his cabin but it was empty. The bed hadn’t been slept in.’

‘Couldn’t he have made it before he went out this morning?’

‘Maybe, but not likely. The sailors on the yacht get up early and someone would have seen him. And his clothes from last night were scattered all over the cabin. It was the official uniform of the Try for the Sun team that he had been wearing at last night’s ceremonies, a sign that he had gone back to change…’

‘It’s not conclusive evidence, but we have to follow everything. Compare the prints of the corpse with those in the cabin. That’s the surest way…’

‘I already gave the orders. And I told an agent in the area to isolate the cabin. Someone from forensics is on his way to Fontvieille.’