The man shuts the heavy sealed door behind him.
It closes silently, fitting perfectly into the metal frame, and becomes one with the wall. The flywheel, similar to that on the hatch of a submarine, turns easily in his hands. The man is strong but he knows that the mechanism needs frequent oiling and he keeps it in perfect working order. The man is meticulous about his belongings. The whole place is in perfect order.
He is alone, locked in his secret lair where men, the light of day and simple reason are excluded. He has the furtive haste of an animal returning to its den and the lucid concentration of the predator who has selected its victim. Images of blood and the red of sunset, screams and whispers, peace and death all crowd together in his mind, finding their rightful place.
The room is a spacious rectangle. The wall to the left is entirely covered by a bookcase filled with electronic equipment. There is a complete sound system consisting of two Alesis 8-track units linked to a Macintosh computer. The system also includes sound equipment piled up to the right of the wall. There are compressors, Focusrite and Pro Tools filters, and some racks of Roland and Korg effects. There is a radio scanner to hear programmes on all frequencies, including the police radio. The man likes to listen to voices in the air. They fly from one spot to another in space and belong to people without faces or bodies. They feed his imagination and give him the freedom to fantasize; the voices on tape communicate with the voice in his head.
The man picks up the watertight box from the floor where he kept it. There is a wooden table resting on two trestles, which runs against the metal wall. The man sets the box on it. He sits down on a swivel chair that allows him to reach the wall opposite the sound equipment with a simple movement. He turns on a table lamp. The glow penetrates the cold brilliance of the neon hanging from the ceiling.
The man feels the growing beat of excitement flood through him as he releases the clasps on the box one by one. The night had not been spent in vain. The man smiles. In the outside world, on a day no different from any other, men were looking for him. Other voices were in the air, flying at each other in a futile chase. Bloodhounds with glass eyes unable to see beyond their own reflection or what was staring them in the face.
In the peace of the shadows, his house is once again a home. Meaning has returned; the sound of his own footsteps, his own reflection. His smile broadens, his eyes shine. In the absolute silence, only his mind perceives the solemnity of the moment as he slowly opens the lid of the box.
In the small space of his secret hiding place, the man inhales the odours of blood and sea that permeate the air. A knot of anguish tightens his stomach. The triumphant beating of his heart suddenly becomes a death knell. He jumps up, thrusts his hands in the box, and with delicate care extracts what is left of the face of Jochen Welder, dripping with blood and salt water. The seal on the box did not hold and water has seeped into the container. He inspects the damage, turning the face in his hands. The skin is rough and spotted with white where it came in contact with the salt. The lifeless hair is damp and tousled.
The man drops his trophy into the box as if it suddenly disgusts him. He slumps into the chair and holds his head in his bloodied, salty hands. Unwittingly, he runs his hands through his hair while drooping his head under the weight of defeat. No use.
The man feels a panting rage rise within him, like a storm coming from far away. The rustle of wind through tall grass, the sky darkening, the first thunderclap. His fury explodes. He jumps up, grabs the container, raises it over his head, and hurls it against the metal wall. It resounds like a tuning fork set to the pitch of death that the man feels inside him. The box bounces and lands in the middle of the room. The lid is half off from the force of the throw. The sorry remains of Jochen Welder and Arianna Parker slide out on to the floor. The man looks at them with contempt, so much spilled garbage on the ground.
The moment of rage is brief. His breath slowly returns to normal. His heart calms down. His arms relax by his sides. His eyes once again become those of a priest who listens in silence to voices that only he can hear. There will be another night. And many more nights to come. And a thousand faces of men whose smiles will be snuffed out like a candle inside a hollow jack-o’-lantern.
He sits down and rolls across towards the sound equipment. Cases packed with records and CDs line the walls. He rummages through them, selecting a CD and slotting it angrily into the player. The sound of strings pours forth from the speakers. It is melancholy, like a cool autumn breeze blowing crumpled leaves in a soft, swirling dance.
The man relaxes against the back of his chair. He smiles again. His failure is already forgotten, dissolved by the sweetness of the music. There will be another night. And many more nights to come. Suddenly a voice is heard, as alluring as the music that swirls through the room.
Isthatyou,Vibo?
‘Merde!’
Nicolas Hulot threw his newspaper on top of the others cluttering his desk. All of them, French and Italian press alike, had the news of the double murder on the front page. In spite of his attempt to keep the information confidential, the whole story had leaked out. While the crime itself would have been enough to excite the voracity of the press like a shoal of piranhas, the fact that the victims were famous had generated a surge of creativity in the headlines. A Formula 1 champion and his girlfriend, who just happened to be a celebrated chess player: it was a a gold mine. Reporters would be willing to dig with their bare hands.
A couple of skilled news hounds had managed to piece together all the information, probably thanks to a statement – probably handsomely compensated – from the yachtsman who had found the bodies. The reporters’ imaginations had really run wild in the writing spread out on the table. Each one gave a personal interpretation, leaving the readers to fill in the gaps.
I kill…
The inspector closed his eyes, but the scene before him didn’t change. He was unable to forget those marks written in blood on the table. Things like that did not happen in real life. Writers only invented them to sell books. They were the plots of movies that successful screenwriters wrote in Malibu beach houses while sipping cocktails. This type of investigation belonged in America with detectives like Bruce Willis and John Travolta, big guys with taut muscles and an easy gun. Not with an inspector who was closer to retirement than to glory.
Hulot got up from his desk and walked across to the window with the steps of a man worn out from the fatigue of a long journey. Everyone had called him, in the proper hierarchical order. He had given the same answers, since they had all asked the same questions. He looked at his watch. There was a meeting scheduled to coordinate the investigation. Along with Luc Roncaille, chief of the Sûreté Publique, there would be Alain Durand, the attorney general who, as investigating magistrate, had decided to lead the investigation in person. The councillor for the Interior Ministry was also planning to attend. The only person missing was Prince Albert himself, supreme head of the police force by internal regulations. Although one never knew who would show up.
At the moment, all Hulot had was a little information and a great deal of diplomacy, and he would use them on anyone who came by.
There was a knock at the door and Frank walked in, looking like he would much rather be elsewhere. Hulot was surprised to see him but could not help feeling a sense of relief. He knew it was Frank’s gesture of gratitude towards him, a little bit of support in the sea of troubles in which Hulot was floundering. And besides, Frank Ottobre, the Frank of the past, was exactly the type of officer who could run an investigation like this, even though Hulot knew that his friend had no desire to be a lawman ever again.
‘Hi, Frank.’
‘Hi, Nicolas. How’s it going?’
‘How’s it going?’ echoed Hulot, knowing that the other man had only asked him that question to keep him from asking it first. ‘I leave it to your imagination. I got hit with a meteorite when I could barely handle a pebble. I’m a total wreck. Everyone’s on to me, like dogs chasing a fox.
Frank said nothing and went to sit down in the armchair in front of the desk.
‘We’re waiting for the autopsy report and the forensic test results. But they haven’t found much. They pored over every inch of the boat but nothing turned up. We had a handwriting analysis done of the writing on the table and we’re waiting for those results, too. We’re all praying that it isn’t what it seems.’
Hulot scrutinized Frank’s face, trying to see if there was any interest in what he was saying. He knew Frank’s story and that it was no easy burden to bear. After he had lost his wife, and in such tragic circumstances, Frank seemed intent solely to destroy himself, as if he bore the guilt for all the troubles of the world. Nicolas had seen people lose themselves to alcohol or worse. He’d even seen people take their own lives in a desperate attempt to erase their remorse. Instead, Frank remained lucid, whole, as if he wanted to keep himself from forgetting. As if he were serving out a sentence, day by day, without remission.
Hulot leaned his elbows on the table. Frank sat in silence, expressionless, his legs crossed. Nicolas had to struggle to continue.
‘We don’t have a thing. Absolutely nothing. Our man was probably wearing a wetsuit the whole time, including shoes, gloves and cap. In other words, no skin, no hair. The handprints and footprints he left are of such a common physical type that it could be anyone.’ Hulot paused. Frank’s black eyes glowed dully like coal. ‘We’ve started looking into the victims. Two people like that, you can imagine the number of people they met in the lives they led, all over the world…’
Suddenly, the inspector’s demeanour changed, struck by the force of an idea.
‘Why don’t you help me, Frank? I can call your boss. I can ask him to call the right people and have you join the investigation. You’re prepared and familiar with the facts. We’ve worked together before, after all. And one of the victims was an American citizen. You’re just the man for a case like this. You speak French and Italian perfectly; you know how us European cops do things and how we think. You’re the right man in the right place.’
‘No, Nicolas.’ His voice was cold and hard. ‘You and I don’t have the same memories any more. I’m not the man I used to be. I’ll never be that again.’
‘Has it never occurred to you,’ said the inspector, getting up from his chair, ‘that what happened to Harriet might not be your fault?’ He went around the desk and leaned against it, standing in front of Frank and leaning towards him slightly, for more emphasis. ‘Or at least not entirely?’
Frank turned his head and looked out of the window. His jaw contracted as if he wanted to bite back an answer he’d already given too many times. His silence increased Hulot’s anger and the inspector raised his voice slightly.
‘God damn it, Frank! You know what happened. You saw it with your own eyes. There’s a murderer out there who has already killed two people and will probably kill again. I don’t know what exactly you’ve got on your mind, but don’t you think that stopping this maniac might be a way out for you? Think about it – could helping others be a way to help yourself? Help yourself to go home?
Frank brought his gaze back to his friend. His look said he felt like a man who could go anywhere and still feel that he did not belong.
‘No.’ That single syllable uttered in such a calm voice erected a wall between them. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
There was a knock at the door and Claude Morelli walked in without waiting for an answer.
‘Inspector…’
‘What is it, Morelli?’
‘There’s someone from Radio Monte Carlo outside.’
‘Tell him I’m not talking to reporters now. There’ll be a press conference later, whenever the chief decides.’
‘He’s not a reporter, inspector. He’s a deejay who hosts an evening radio show. He came with the station manager. They read the papers and they say they have some information on the two crimes at the harbour.’
Hulot did not know how to take the news. Anything useful was like manna from heaven. The thing he was afraid of was a parade of maniacs convinced that they knew everything about the homicides, or even wanting to confess that they were the killers. But he could not afford to leave any stone unturned.
He blew out his cheeks. ‘Show them in.’
Morelli went out and it seemed like a prearranged signal for Frank, who got up and retreated to the door just as Morelli came back, accompanied by a young man with long, black hair, about thirty, and an older man, about forty-five. Frank glanced at them and stood aside to let them in, then took advantage of the occasion to slip through the half-open door.
‘Frank,’ called Hulot after him. ‘Sure you don’t want to stay?’ Frank Ottobre left the room without a word and closed the door behind him.
Outside police headquarters, Frank turned left on Rue Suffren Raymond and soon found himself walking down Boulevard Albert Premier, the road that ran along the coast. A crane moved lazily against the blue sky. The crew was still at work dismantling the Grand Prix bleachers and piling them on to long trucks.
Everything was happening by the rules. Frank crossed the street and stopped on the promenade in front of the harbour to watch the boats coming and going. There was no trace of what had happened on the wharf. The Beneteau had been towed away somewhere safe so that the police could get to it during the investigation. The Baglietto and the other boat that had been rammed were still there, gently nudging each other’s fenders as the waves brought them close. The police barricades had been removed. There was nothing left to see.
The harbour cafe had resumed its normal activity. What had happened was probably attracting more customers, curiosity seekers who wanted to be at the centre of things. Maybe the young sailor who had discovered the bodies was there, enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame and recounting what he had seen. Or maybe he was staring silently into a glass, trying to forget.
Frank sat down on a stone bench. A boy sped past on Rollerblades, followed by a younger girl having trouble with her skates and whimpering for him to slow down. A man with a black labrador was patiently waiting for his dog to finish responding to the call of nature. Then he took out a plastic bag and a little shovel from his pocket and scooped up the evidence, diligently depositing it in the bin.
Ordinary people. Like everybody else, but with a little more money and happiness, or so it seemed. Maybe it was all just a show and nothing more. A cage was still a cage, even if it was made of gold, and every person created his own destiny. Everyone built his own life or destroyed it, according to the rules he alone invented. Or rules he refused to make. There was no escape.
A yacht was motoring out of the harbour. From the stern, a blonde woman in a blue swimsuit waved goodbye to someone on the shore. For a moment the sea and its reflections stirred his memory.
After he had left the hospital he and Harriet had rented a cottage in an isolated spot on the Georgia coast. It was a wooden house with a red-tile roof built about 100 yards from the shore, in the middle of the dunes. There was a veranda with large sliding glass doors that opened in the summer, transforming it into a patio.
At night they listened to the wind blowing through the sparse vegetation and the sound of the waves hitting the beach. In bed, he could feel his wife hold him tightly before falling asleep. Her frantic need to assure herselfofhispresence,asifshecouldnotreallyconvinceherselfthathe was still there with her, alive.
During the day they lay on the beach, sunbathed and swam. The stretch of coastline was practically deserted. People who loved the sea and the life of crowded beaches went elsewhere, to the ‘in’ places, to watch bodybuilders working out or girls with silicon breasts strutting by as if the were auditioning for Baywatch. Lying there on the towel, Frank could expose his thin body to the sun without being ashamed of the red scars or the painful mark of the heart operation where they took out the piece of metal that had nearly killed him.
Sometimes Harriet traced the sensitive flesh of the scars with her fingers, and tears glistened in her eyes. Sometimes silence fell between them, when they both thought the same thing, remembering the suffering of those last months and the toll it had taken. They did not have the courage to look at each other then. They each looked out at their own piece of ocean until one of them silently found the strength to turn and embrace the other.
From time to time, they did some shopping in Honesty, a fishing village that was the nearest town and looked more like Scotland than America. It was a peaceful little place, without the slightest ambition of becoming a tourist resort. The wooden houses all looked more or less alike and were built along a street that ran parallel to the ocean, where a concrete barrier above the rocks stopped the waves during winter storms.
They ate in a restaurant with large windows across from the pier, built on struts with a wooden floor that echoed with the waiters’ steps. They drank chilled white wine that misted their glasses, and they ate freshly caught lobster, staining their fingers and splashing their clothes when they tried to crack open the claws. Harriet and Frank laughed like children. They seemed to be thinking about nothing. They spoke about nothing. Until the phone call.
They were at home and Frank was slicing vegetables for the salad. There was a delicious smell offish and potatoes baking in the oven. The wind outside swirled the sand from the peaks of the dunes; the ocean was covered with white foam. The sails of a few windsurfers cut swiftly through the air. Harriet was sitting in a cane chair on the veranda the whistling of the wind kept her from hearing the phone. He had stuck his head out the kitchen door with a large red pepper in his hand.
‘Phone, Harriet. Can you answer? My hands are dirty.’
His wife had gone over to the old wall phone that was ringing with its old-fashioned sound. She had picked up the receiver and he stood there watching her.
‘Hello?’
Her face had changed, the way faces do when they hear bad news. Her smile had faded and she had stood in silence for a moment. Then, she had put down the receiver and looked at Frank with an intensity that would torment him for a long time.
‘It’s for you. It’s Homer,’ she had said, turning and going back to the veranda without another word. He had gone to the phone and picked up thereceiver,stillwarmfromhiswife’shand.
‘Yes?’
‘Frank, it’s Homer Woods. How’re you doing?’
‘Fine.’
‘Really fine?’
‘Yes.’
‘We got them.’ Homer spoke as if their last conversation had taken place ten minutes before. If he had noticed Frank’s monosyllabic replies, he had not let on.
‘Who?’
‘The Larkins. We caught them red-handed this time. Without any bombs. There was a gunfight and Jeff Larkin got killed. There was a mountain of drugs and a bigger mountain of cash. And papers. We have promising new leads. With a little luck, there’s enough material to nail them all.’
‘Fine.’He had repeated the same word, in the same tone of voice, but his boss hadn’t picked up on it this time either. He imagined Homer Woods in his panelled office, sitting at his desk, phone in hand, his blue eyes framed by gold-rimmed glasses, as immutable as his grey three-piece and blue button-down shirt.
‘Frank, we got to the Larkins mostly because of your work, yours and Cooper’s. Everyone here knows it and I wanted to tell you. When do you think you’re coming back?’
‘I don’t know, to be honest. Soon.’
‘Okay, I don’t want to pressure you. But remember what I said.’
‘Okay, Homer. Thanks.’ He had hung up and gone out to look for Harriet. She was sitting on the veranda watching the two kids dismantle their sailboards and load them on to their jeep.
He had sat down in silence next to her on the wooden bench. They had watched the beach until the jeep was gone. It was as if that outside presence, though far away, had kept them from speaking.
‘He wants to know when you’re coming back to work, doesn’t he?’ Harriet had asked, breaking the silence.
‘Yes.’ There had never been lies between them and Frank had no intention of starting now.
‘Do you want to?’
‘Harriet,’ Frank had said, ‘I’m a policeman.’ He had turned to her but Harriet had carefully avoided meeting his gaze. He, too, had gone back to watching the ocean; the waves chasing each other in the wind, white with foam. I didn’t choose this life because I had to. I like it. I’ve always wanted to do what I do and I don’t know if I could adjust to doing anything else. I don’t even think I’d know how. As my grandfather always said, you can’t fit a square peg into a round hole.’ He had stood up and put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, now slightly stiff. ‘Harriet, I don’t know whether I’m square or round. But I don’t want to change.’
He had gone back into the house and when he had come out a while later to look for her, she had disappeared. Her footprints on the sand in front of the house went in the direction of the dunes. He had seen her walking in the distance by the shore, a tiny figure with hair flying in the wind. He had followed her with his gaze until two other dunes had hidden her from view. He thought she wanted to be alone and that it was only right. He had gone back into the house and sat down at the table, in front of food he would never want to eat.
Suddenly, he had not felt so sure about what he’d said earlier. Maybe there was another life for the two of them. Maybe someone who was born square couldn’t become round, but he could try to round off the edges so that nobody would be hurt. Especially those he loved. He had decided to give himself a night to think it over. He would talk to her about it the next morning. He was sure that together they could find a solution.
There was never to be a next morning for the two of them.
He had waited until late afternoon for Harriet to return. As the sun set and the shadows of the dunes lengthened over the beach like dark fingers, he had seen two figures walking slowly along the shore. The reflection of the fiery sunset had made him narrow his eyes. They were still too far away for him to make them out clearly. Watching through the open window, Frank could see the footprints they left with every step, a trail that started from the dunes on the horizon. Their jackets flapped in the breeze, their silhouettes shimmering in the sea air. When they were near enough for him to see them clearly, Frank realized that one of them was the sheriff from Honesty.
He had felt the anxiety rise up inside him as he finally came face-to-face with the man who he considered more an accountant than a policeman. But Frank’s worst fears were about to become a reality as, holding his hat in his hand and trying to avoid Frank’s eyes as much as possible, the sheriff had told him what had happened.
A couple of hours earlier, some fishermen had been sailing a few hundred yards from the coast and they had seen a woman fitting Harriet’s description. She was standing at the top of a cliff, strangely jutting out above the coastal dunes. She was alone and looking out to sea. When they were just about opposite her, she had jumped. Not seeing her emerge from the water, the fishermen had immediately turned their boat around to go to the rescue. One of them had dived into the ocean right where she had jumped but they could not find her. They had called the police right away and started searching. So far they had found nothing.
The ocean had returned Harriet’s body two days later, when the current had carried it to an inlet a couple of miles south of the coast.
When he had identified her body, Frank had felt like an assassin before his victim. He had looked at the face of his wife lying on the mortuary slab and, nodding, confirmed both Harriet’s identity and his own lie sentence. There had been no inquest thanks to the fishermen’s testimony, but that did not help to free Frank of the remorse consuming him. He had been so busy taking care of himself that he had not noticed Harriet’s deep depression. No one had noticed it. But that was no excuse. He should have noticed his wife s agitation. He was supposed to understand. All the signals had been there, but in his own delirium of self-pity, he had ignored them. And their conversation after Homer’s phone call had been the last straw. When you got right down to it, he was neither square nor round. Just blind.
He had left town with his wife’s body in a coffin without even going back to the house to pack.
‘Mummy, there’s a man crying.’
The child’s voice shook Frank from his trance. Next to him, the mother of the little blonde girl in a blue dress hushed her and smiled at him in embarrassment. She hurried away, pulling her daughter by the hand.
Frank did not realize that he was crying, nor for how long. His tears came from far away. They were not tears of salvation, nor oblivion, but just relief. A small truce to let him breathe for a moment, feel the heat of the sun, see the colour of the sea, and listen to his heart beating under his shirt without the sound of death, just for once. He was paying the price for Harriet’s death, sitting on a bench in the garden of the St James Clinic where they had admitted him on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He had understood it definitively months later, with the World Trade Center disaster, when he had watched on television as the buildings fell. Men hurtling planes against skyscrapers in the name of God, while someone sitting comfortably in an office knew how to exploit their derangement on the stock market. Other men earned their living by selling land mines, and at Christmas they bought their children presents with money earned by killing and maiming someone else’s children. Conscience was an accessory whose value was tied to fluctuations in the price of oil. And in the middle of all that, it was no surprise if, from time to time, there was someone who wrote his own destiny in blood.
I kill…
Remorse for Harriet’s death was a cruel travelling companion that would never leave his side. It alone would be enough punishment for a lifetime. He would never forget until his dying breath. And he would never be able to forgive himself. He could not end the insanity in the world. He could only try to end his own, hope that those who could would follow his example, and erase those two words or others like them. He sat on the bench and cried, ignoring the curious passers-by until he had no tears left.
Then he got up slowly and headed over to police headquarters.
‘I kill…’
The voice hung in the air and seemed to feed off the faint drone of the car engine, reverberating like an echo. Inspector Hulot pressed a button on the car radio and the cassette stopped on the voice of Jean-Loup Verdier as he’d struggled to end the programme. After Hulot’s conversation with the deejay and Robert Bikjalo, the manager of Radio Monte Carlo, a small, cruel wisp of hope had peeped out from behind the mountain that the investigators were trying desperately to climb.
There was a slight chance that it could have been a crank call, a bizarre accident, a coincidence caused by some one-in-a-million conjunction of the stars. But those two words, ‘I kill,’ hurled like a threat at the end of the show, were the same as those left on the table on the yacht, written in blood.
Hulot stopped his car at a red light. A woman pushing a pram crossed the street in front of him. To his right, a cyclist in a blue tracksuit was leaning against the traffic light, balancing against the pole so he wouldn’t have to take his feet off the pedals. There was colour and warmth everywhere. The city was full of the promise of summer. Outdoor cafes, the streets full of people, the lively boardwalk along the beach where men, women and children asked only that promises be kept. Everything was as it should be, but not for the two men sitting in the car held at the red light. A presence hovered between them, dark and opaque.
‘Any news from forensics?’ Frank asked.
The red light turned to green. Hulot edged the car forward, suddenly aware that the traffic was backed up right along the coastal road. It would be faster on a bike than in a car.
‘We’ve got the pathologist’s report. They did the autopsy in record time. Some big shot must have put a bomb under them. It’s all confirmed. The girl died by drowning, but there was no seawater in her lungs. That means she died without being able to come up for air. The killer must have surprised her in the water, pulled her down, and drowned her before she could take a breath. They went over the body with a fine-tooth comb. No sign, no trace. They examined it every way they could with all the equipment they’ve got.’
‘What about the guy?’
‘That was different.’ Hulot’s face darkened. ‘He was stabbed with a very sharp-pointed instrument. The wound was made from above. The blade penetrated between the fifth and sixth rib and went straight to the heart, rupturing it. Death was almost instantaneous. The killer must have attacked him outside, on deck where the bloodstains were found. He was taken by surprise, but Jochen Welder was a well-built man. He wasn’t that tall, but taller than most racing drivers. And he was in good shape. Spent a lot of time in the gym. So the attacker must have been in even better shape than he was.’
‘Were the bodies raped?’
‘No,’ said Hulot shaking his head. ‘At least he definitely wasn’t. She had just had intercourse. There were traces of semen in her vagina, but it was probably Welder’s. The DNA test confirmed that at ninety per cent.’
‘That would exclude a sexual motive. At least the usual type.’ Frank’s tone was dry, as if he were talking about a napkin that had survived a fire.
‘As far as prints and other organic traces, they found plenty. We’ll send it all for DNA testing, but I doubt it will lead anywhere.’
They passed Beaulieu and the luxury hotels along the beach. The parking lots were full of shiny cars, left in the peaceful shade of the trees. There were flowering bushes everywhere; a thousand colours in the light of such a beautiful day. Frank let himself be distracted by the red hibiscus blossoms in the garden of a villa. Red. Like blood.
‘So we have nothing,’ he said, bringing his mind back to the car. He moved the air-conditioning vent so that the cold air blew on his face.
‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘Body-type measurements on the prints?’
‘Nothing there either. He’s probably about six feet tall, give or take an inch. Weight about 12st. Like millions of other people.’
‘Athletic, in other words.’
‘Yeah, athletic. And very good with his hands.’
Frank had more questions, but his friend seemed to be reflecting and drawing his own conclusions as he described the facts and Frank did not want to interrupt him.
‘The job he did on the bodies is nothing to sniff at. He’s certainly skilled. It definitely wasn’t his first time. Maybe someone with a medical background?’
‘It’s worth a try. You never know.’ Frank didn’t want to dampen his friend’s hopes. ‘But it would be too obvious. Predictable, I’d say. Unfortunately, in some ways, human anatomy is no different from that of animals. All the guy needed to do was practice on a couple of rabbits and he could do the same thing to a person.’
‘Rabbits, huh? People are like rabbits.’
‘He’s smart, Nicolas. A raving lunatic, but smart and cold-blooded. You need a guy with Freon in his veins to do what he did, send the boat ramming into the harbour and go home whistling a merry tune. He’s taunting us, laughing at us, too.’
‘You mean the music?’
‘Yeah. He hung up with the theme song from A Man and a Woman.’
Hulot remembered seeing the Lelouch movie years ago, just after he and his wife Céline had started dating. He remembered the love story perfectly and had taken it as a good omen for their future. Frank reminded him of a detail he had not focused on until then.
‘The man in the movie was a racing driver.’
‘Now that you mention it… And so was Jochen Welder. But-’
‘Exactly. Not only did he announce on the radio the fact that he was planning to kill, he also hinted who the victim would be! And I don’t think it’s over. He killed and he wants to kill again. We have to stop him – I don’t know how, but we have to. Whatever the cost.’
The car stopped for another red light at the brief descent at the end of Boulevard Carnot. The city of Nice lay before them. Faded and less glamorous, far from the glossy shine of Monte Carlo and its population of wealthy retired people and playboys at a loose end. As he drove towards Place Masséna, Hulot turned to look at Frank in the seat next to him. Frank was staring straight ahead with the rapt expression of Ulysses awaiting the song of the Sirens.
Nicolas Hulot parked up at the gate of the Auvare Police Department on Rue de Roquebillière. A uniformed policeman standing next to the guardhouse came over to tell them to move from the entrance reserved for police personnel. The inspector showed his badge from the window.
‘Inspector Hulot, Sûreté Publique, Monaco. I have an appointment with Inspector Froben.’
‘Sorry, inspector, I didn’t recognize you.’
‘Could you let him know I’m here?’
‘Right away, sir. Come on in.’
Hulot drove up a few yards and parked on the shady side of the street. Frank got out and looked around. The rectangular buildings were arranged in a checkerboard layout. There was an outdoor stairway at the shorter end of each building, facing out on to the street.
The inspector wondered what all this looked like to an American. Nice was not just a different city but a different world. To Frank, it might as well be another planet, where he understood the language but not the way of thinking. Small houses, small cafes, small people. No American dream, no skyscrapers to destroy. Just small dreams, often faded by the sea air, like the exteriors of the houses. Small dreams, perhaps, but when they were crushed they, too, brought deep despair.
Someone had pasted an anti-globalization poster right in front of the police department. Men fighting so that everyone could be the same, while others fought to keep from losing their identity. Europe, America, China, Asia. They were only coloured shapes on the map, abbreviations on the list of exchange rates, names in dictionaries in libraries. Now there was the Internet, the media, 24-hour news. These were signs of a world that was expanding, or contracting, depending on your point of view. But the only thing that really erased distances was evil. It was present everywhere; it spoke only one language and it always wrote its messages in the same ink.
Frank closed the car door. He was thirty-eight years old with the eyes of an old man who had been denied life’s wisdom. He had a Latino face, darkened further by the shadow of his eyes and hair and the suggestion of a beard. A strong, athletic man. A man who had killed other men, protected by a badge and the justification of being on the right side. Perhaps there was no cure, no antidote for evil. But there were men like Frank, touched by and immunized against evil itself.
The war never ended.
As Hulot locked his car, they saw Inspector Froben of Homicide, who was taking part in the investigation, coming out of the building in front of them and heading in their direction. He flashed Hulot a wide grin, showing off large, regular teeth that illuminated his face and his rugged features. He had a massive body that filled the jacket of his cheap suit, and the broken nose of someone who’d often climbed through the ropes of a boxing ring. Frank saw confirmation in the tiny scars around his eyebrows.
‘Hi, Nicolas,’ Froben said, shaking Hulot’s hand. His smile grew wider and his grey eyes narrowed, the scars meshing with a web of tiny wrinkles. ‘How’re you doing?’
‘You tell me. In this sea of shit with a storm threatening, I need all the help I can get. This is Frank Ottobre, FBI special agent,’ said Hulot as Froben’s gaze moved to Frank. ‘Very special. His office sent him to join the investigation.’
Froben said nothing, but his eyes showed he was impressed by Frank’s title. He extended his boxer’s hand with its large, strong fingers and grinned again. ‘Christophe Froben, humble inspector of Homicide.’
As he returned Froben’s powerful handshake, Frank felt that the other man could have broken his fingers if he’d wanted to. He liked him immediately. He embodied both strength and grace at the same time. Frank could imagine him with his children after work, making model ships and handling the fragile parts with surprising delicacy.
‘Any news on the tape?’ Hulot asked, coming straight to the point.
‘I handed it over to Clavert, our best technician. A magician, actually. When I left, he was working on it with his gadgets. Come on, follow me.’
Froben went first and they filed in through the same door he had come out of earlier. He led them down a short hallway flooded with diffused light from a window behind them. Hulot and Frank followed Froben’s broad back that seemed to fill the corridor. He stopped in front of a staircase that led down to the left. Froben gestured a generous sweep of his big mitt.
‘After you.’
They went down two flights of stairs and found themselves in a huge room full of electronic equipment. It was lit by cold neon tubes that supplemented the inadequate light from the basement’s street-level skylights.
A thin young man with a shaved head was sitting at a workbench. He was wearing a white lab coat over a pair of jeans and an untucked plaid shirt. A pair of round glasses with yellow lenses was perched on his nose. The three men stopped behind the swivel chair where he was sitting, handling a potentiometer. He turned to look at them. Hulot wondered whether or not the man risked going blind when he went out into the sun wearing those glasses.
Froben didn’t introduce the newcomers, but the man didn’t seem to mind. Probably, to his way of thinking, if two strangers were there, it was because they were supposed to be.
‘Well, Clavert? What have you got to tell us about the tape?’
‘Not much, inspector,’ the technician said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘No good news. I analysed the recording with everything I’ve got. Nothing. The voice is artificial and there is no way to identify it.’
‘Which means?’
Realizing that not everyone present had his technical knowledge, Clavert backtracked.
‘Every human voice travels along certain frequencies that are part of one’s personal identity. Voices can be identified like fingerprints and the retina. They have a certain number of high, low and medium tones that don’t vary, even if you try to alter your voice, by talking in falsetto, for example. We can visualize these frequencies with special equipment and then reproduce them in a diagram. This is fairly standard kit. They use it in recording studios, for example, to distribute frequencies and keep a song from having too many high or low tones.’
Clavert went over to a Mac computer and moved the mouse. He clicked some icons and a white screen appeared, with parallel lines crossing it horizontally. There were two other jagged lines, one green and one purple, wandering between them.
‘This is the voice of Jean-Loup Verdier, the Radio Monte Carlo deejay,’ the technician said, moving the mouse to point to the green line. ‘I’ve analysed it and this is the phonic pattern.’ He clicked again and the screen turned into a graph highlighting a yellow line that zigzagged over a dark background, caught between parallel blue lines. Clavert pointed at the screen. ‘The blue lines are the frequency. The yellow line is the analysed voice. If you take Verdier’s voice from different points of the recording and overlap them, they match perfectly.’ He looked round to see if his audience were keeping up.
‘This is the other voice.’ Clavert returned to the previous screen, clicking the purple line. The graph appeared again, but this time the yellow line was broken and the field was much smaller. ‘In this case, the caller passed his voice through filters to distort and compress the sound, mixing vocal frequencies and making it unrecognizable. All you have to do is change just one of the filters slightly to get a different graph each time.’
‘Can we analyse the recording to find out the model of the equipment he used?’ Hulot asked. ‘Maybe we could find out who sold it.’
‘I don’t think so,’ the technician said doubtfully. ‘You can buy these machines just about anywhere. There are several brands. Performance varies according to the specification and the brand but they all do basically the same thing. And electronics change all the time so there’s a big second-hand market. All this stuff generally ends up in the hands of home-recording enthusiasts, and almost always without receipts. I really don’t think it’s feasible.’
‘We’ll see what we can do,’ Froben joined in, without seconding Clavert’s pessimism. ‘We’ve got so little solid information that we can’t overlook anything.’
Hulot noticed Frank looking around, apparently absorbed in his own thoughts, as if he already knew all this. Still, the inspector was sure that he had heard every word and was filing it all away. He turned back to Clavert.
‘And what can you tell us about the fact that the phone call didn’t go through the switchboard?’
‘Well, I can’t actually advance a theory about that. I can think of two basic possibilities. All switchboards have numbers that let you through. If you know them, you can avoid the switchboard operators. Radio Monte Carlo certainly isn’t NASA as far as secrecy is concerned, so it wouldn’t be hard for someone to get his hands on the numbers. The second hypothesis is a little more complicated, but it’s not science fiction. Actually, I think it sounds more likely.’
‘And that is?’
‘I made some enquiries,’ Clavert said, leaning back in his chair. ‘The Radio Monte Carlo switchboard, like most stations that run phone-ins, has a computer program with a function that displays the caller’s number, for obvious reasons.’ Again he looked around at the three detectives. ‘When the call came, no number appeared on the display, which means that the person calling had attached an electronic device to the phone that neutralized the switchboard function.’
Hulot shook his head. ‘Is that hard to do?’
‘Anyone who knows electronics and telephones wouldn’t have any problem. Any reasonably competent hacker could do it through the Internet.’
‘Can we find out whether the call came from a land line or a mobile phone?’ Hulot felt like a prisoner with walls everywhere he looked.
‘No, but I’d exclude a mobile. If he used the Web, mobiles are much slower and don’t work as accurately. The person who did all that is too knowledgeable not to be aware of it.’
‘Any more tests you can do on the recording?’
‘Not with the equipment I have. I’m going to send a copy of the DAT to the science lab in Lyons to see if they can get anything out of it.’
‘Good. Top priority,’ Hulot said, resting his hand on Clavert’s shoulder. ‘If Lyons complains, we’ll pressure them.’
Clavert considered the subject closed. He unwrapped a stick of gum and put it in his mouth. There was a moment of silence. The four of them, each in his own way, thought through what had been said. Froben spoke first.
‘Come on, let me get you some coffee.’
He led them up the stairs and turned left at the landing. There was a coffee machine in the corner. Froben took out his card.
‘Coffee, everyone?’ The other two nodded. The inspector inserted his card, pressed a button, and the machine started to hum.
‘What do you think, Frank?’ Hulot asked the American, who was silently watching the small plastic cup fill with black liquid.
‘We don’t have much,’ Frank said, deciding to voice his thoughts, ‘and any direction we take will lead nowhere. I told you, Nicolas, our man is smart, very smart. There are too many coincidences to think that he simply got lucky. For now, our only connection to this bastard is that phone call. If we’re lucky enough, and if he’s enough of a narcissist, he’ll make others. And if we’re very lucky, he’ll make them to the same person. And if we’re even luckier, he’ll make a mistake. It’s our only hope if we want to catch him and stop him before he kills again.’ He swallowed a mouthful of his coffee and grimaced. ‘I think it’s time to have a serious talk with Jean-Loup Verdier and the people at Radio Monte Carlo. I’m sorry to say this, but for the moment we’re in their hands.’ He drained his cup and threw it into the bin.
They headed towards the exit.
‘I imagine there is already a certain amount of… agitation… in the Principality,’ Froben said to Hulot.
‘Calling it “agitation” is like calling Mike Tyson “uptight”. Things are at the point of collapse. Monte Carlo is a picture-postcard city, you know that. Image is everything. We spend tons of money to guarantee two things: elegance and safety. And then you get this nut who has elegantly kicked us in the balls. If this doesn’t end soon, heads are going to roll.’ Hulot paused and sighed. ‘Including mine.’
They reached the front door and said goodbye. Froben stood there watching them as they strolled back to their car. His prizefighter’s face showed solidarity, but also relief that he wasn’t in their place.
Once they were inside the car, the inspector turned to look at Frank. It was almost dinnertime, and he realized he was hungry.
‘Café de Turin?’ he asked him.
The Café de Turin was a bare-bones place, just benches and rickety tables in Place Garibaldi. They served excellent coquillage, with bottles of chilled Muscadet. He’d taken Frank and his wife there when they had come to Europe, and the two of them had been in raptures over the huge counter piled with shellfish and the gloved staff busy opening them. They had watched with shining eyes as the waiters passed with huge trays of oysters and Venus clams and gigantic red shrimp. The tiny restaurant had become their culinary sanctum sanctorum. Hulot had hesitated at mentioning the place, afraid that the memory would upset Frank. But he seemed changed, or he was at least trying. If he wanted to pull his head up out of the sand, that was the way to do it. Frank nodded, agreeing with both the choice and Hulot’s good intentions. Whatever he was thinking, it did not show on his face.
‘Café de Turin it is.’
‘You know,’ Hulot said later, relaxing after the food, ‘I’m tired of acting like a TV character. I feel like a caricature of Lieutenant Columbo. I need half an hour off. If I don’t unwind a little, I’ll go crazy.’
It was evening and the city lights had come on. Frank looked out the window at the people milling around, going in and out of houses, restaurants and offices. Thousands of people with anonymous faces. The two men both knew that Hulot was lying. There was a killer in the midst of all these gentle summer people and until it was over, neither of them would be able to think about anything else.
Behind the control room window, Laurent Bedon, the director, did the countdown, turning down the fingers of his raised hand one by one. Then he pointed at Jean-Loup Verdier. The red light behind him lit up. They were on the air. The deejay pulled his chair a little closer to the microphone on the table in front of him.
‘Hello to all of you listening right now and to all of you who will be hearing our voices this evening. There’ll be music and people sharing their lives with us, lives that don’t always beat to the rhythm of the music we’d like to hear.’
He stopped and pulled back slightly. The mixer broadcast the fierce intro of ‘Born to Be Wild’ by Steppenwolf. A few seconds later, there was a fade-in to Jean-Loup’s warm, inviting voice.
‘We’re here and we’re ready, if there’s anything we can do to help. For those who put their hearts into something and got a heartless answer, for those who made mistakes and bad choices, for those who won’t find any peace until they figure out where the spice of life is hidden, for those who risk drowning in a flood of their own tears, we’re here for you and we’re live, just like you. We’re waiting to hear your voice. You can expect our answer. This is Jean-Loup Verdier on Radio Monte Carlo. This is Voices.’
Again, ‘Born to Be Wild’. Once more, the race of discordant guitars down a rocky slope, raising dust and scattering gravel. ‘Wow, he’s good!’ Frank Ottobre, next to Laurent in the control room, could not keep from saying. The director turned to look at him with a smile.
‘Sure is.’
‘I’m not surprised he’s such a success. He’s got a very direct and heartfelt style.’
Barbara, the show’s mixer, sitting on Frank’s right, motioned to him to look behind him. He turned his chair and saw Hulot beckoning at him through the soundproof glass door. He got up and joined Hulot outside the studio.
The inspector looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept for a week. Frank noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the grey hair in need of a trim, and the ring of grime and desolation around his collar. This was a man who had been seeing and hearing things that he gladly would have lived without. He was fifty-five and looked ten years older.
‘How’s it going here, Frank?’
‘Nothing happening. The programme’s a hit. He’s fantastic – a natural. I don’t know how much they pay him, but it’s got to be a lot. But as far as we’re concerned, nothing. Absolute silence.’
‘Want a Coke?’
‘Come on, I know I’m American, but my grandparents were Sicilian. I drink coffee.’
They went over to the machine at the end of the hall. Hulot rummaged for some coins in his pocket.
‘The manager was really impressed by the fact that I’m with the FBI,’ Frank said with a broad smile, pulling out a card. ‘Coffee’s on the house.’
‘Oh, I forgot,’ said the inspector, gulping the black liquid. ‘The handwriting analysis arrived.’
‘And?’
‘Why bother asking if you already know the answer?’
‘I don’t know the details, but I can imagine what you’re going to say,’ Frank replied, shaking his head.
‘That’s right, I forgot. You’re with the FBI. You have quick intuition and a free coffee card. The message wasn’t written by hand.’
‘No?’
‘The bastard used a stencil. He glued the letters on to a piece of cardboard and cut them out. He had it with him and when he needed it, he placed the stencil on the table and spilled the blood on top. How did you know?’
‘I didn’t.’ Frank shook his head. ‘But it seemed strange that a man so goddamn thorough would then make such an obvious blunder.’
Hulot gave in and, with a grimace of revulsion, threw his half-finished coffee into the bin. He looked at his watch with a sigh.
‘Let me go and see if my wife is still married to me. There are two cars downstairs, two cops in each. You never know. The others are at their posts. I’ll be at home if you need me.’
‘Okay, I’ll call you if anything happens.’
‘I shouldn’t say this, but I’m glad you’re here tonight. And here in general. Goodnight, Frank.’
‘Goodnight, Nicolas. Say hi to Céline.’
‘Sure.’
Frank watched his friend leave, his shoulders stooped under his jacket.
With the manager’s support, they’d had the radio station under surveillance for three days, waiting for something to happen. When they had first told him of their plan, Robert Bikjalo had looked at them with half-closed eyes, as if he were avoiding the smoke from the reeking cigarette between his fingers. He had weighed Inspector Hulot’s words as he brushed ashes from his Ralph Lauren shirt, his eyes narrowed to slits.
‘So, you think the guy might call again?’
‘We’re not sure. It’s only a hopeful guess. But if he does, we’ll need your help.’
Hulot and Frank were sitting in front of him, in two leather armchairs. Frank noticed that the height of the chairs was carefully adjusted so that anyone sitting on the other side was looking down on them from above. Bikjalo had turned to Jean-Loup Verdier, sitting on a comfortable couch that matched the armchairs. The deejay had run his hand through his dark, longish hair. He had stared questioningly at Frank with his green eyes and rubbed his hands together nervously. ‘I don’t know if I can do what you want. That is, I don’t know how I’m supposed to act. A show is one thing, talking on the phone with normal people. It’s different with a… with a…’
‘I know it’s not easy,’ Frank said, coming to his rescue, realizing that Jean-Loup was having a hard time saying the word murderer. ‘It’s not easy for us to try to understand what he has in mind. But we’ll be here, and we’ll help you all we can and we’ll be ready for whatever happens. We’ve even called in an expert.’ He had turned to look at Nicolas who had been silent until then.‘We’ve got a psychiatrist,’ Hulot had said. ‘He’s a police consultant and he helps out handling negotiations with criminals when there are hostages.’
‘Okay. If you tell me what to do, I’ll do it.’ Jean-Loup had looked at Bikjalo to give him the last word. The manager was staring at the filter of another Russian cigarette. He was still noncommittal. ‘It’s a big responsibility, of course…’
‘Listen, I don’t know if you really understand the situation,’ Frank had said, knowing what Bikjalo was getting at. He had stood up, upsetting the chair hierarchy. Now he would dominate Bikjalo from above. ‘Just to clarify, let me show you something.’ Frank had bent down and taken several 5x7 photos from Hulot’s briefcase on the floor. He had thrown them on the desk. ‘We’re hunting a man capable of doing this.’
They were pictures of the bodies and mutilated heads of Jochen Welder and Arianna Parker. Bikjalo had looked at the photos and blanched. Hulot had smiled to himself and Frank had sat back down.
‘This man is still at large and we think he’s going to try it again. You’re our only chance at stopping him. This isn’t a strategy to raise the ratings. This is a manhunt, and people could live or die as a result.’
Bikjalo was mesmerized, as if under a hypnotic spell. Frank had taken the pack of cigarettes on the table and examined it with apparent curiosity. ‘Besides the fact that, if this case is solved thanks to you, it’ll give you and Jean-Loup a popularity you wouldn’t dream of in a million years.’
Bikjalo had relaxed. He had pushed the photos towards Frank, touching them with only the tips of his fingers, as if they were on fire. He had leaned back in his armchair looking relieved. The conversation was back to a subject he could understand.
‘Okay. If we have a chance to help the law, a chance to be useful, Radio Monte Carlo certainly isn’t going to back down. That’s what Voices is all about, after all. Help for people needing help. There’s only one thing I would like to ask you in return, if you will.’ He had paused. Frank was silent, so he had continued. ‘An exclusive interview with you, by Jean-Loup, as soon as it’s all over. Before the others. Here on the radio.’
Frank had looked at Hulot, who had agreed with an imperceptible nod of his head.
‘It’s a deal.’ Frank had stood up again. ‘Our technicians will be coming with their equipment to tap the phones. There are a few other things, but they’ll explain all that. We’ll start tonight.’
‘Okay. I’ll tell our people to do all they can to help.’
The meeting was over. Everyone had stood up. Frank had found himself facing the bewildered stare of Jean-Loup Verdier. He had grabbed his arm reassuringly.
‘Thanks, Jean-Loup. You’re doing a great thing. I’m sure you’ll be fine. How do you feel?’
The deejay had looked at him with two clear eyes, green as the sea. ‘I’m terrified.’
Frank looked at the time. Jean-Loup was announcing the last commercial before the end of the programme. Laurent gestured towards Barbara. The mixer turned some knobs to fade out the deejay’s voice. They had a five-minute break. Frank got up and stretched.
‘Tired?’ asked Laurent, lighting a cigarette. The smoke rose and was absorbed by the exhaust fan.
‘Not really. I’m used to waiting.’
‘Lucky you! I’m a nervous wreck,’ said Barbara as she stood up, tousling her red hair with her hands. Sergeant Morelli, sitting on a padded chair near the wall, raised his eyes from the sports page he was reading. He was suddenly more interested in the girl’s body under her light summer dress than in the World Cup.
‘Maybe it’s none of my business,’ Laurent remarked, turning his swivel chair to face Frank, ‘but I want to ask you something.’
‘Ask, and I’ll tell you if it’s your business or not.’
‘What’s it like to do a job like yours?’
Frank stared at him for a second as if he couldn’t see him. Laurent assumed he was thinking about how to answer. He didn’t know that Frank Ottobre was seeing a woman lying on a marble slab in a morgue, a woman who for better or for worse had been his wife. ‘What’s it like?’ Frank repeated, as if he needed to hear it again before he could answer. ‘After a while, all you want to do is forget.’
Laurent turned back to the control board. He didn’t really like the American with the athletic build and cold eyes, who seemed so removed from the world around him. His demeanour made any type of contact impossible. He was a man who gave nothing because he asked for nothing. But he was there, waiting, and not even he knew what he was waiting for.
‘One more commercial,’ said Barbara, sitting back down at the mixer. Her voice interrupted the awkward silence. Although Morelli had returned to his sports page, he kept looking up at the girl’s hair falling over the back of her chair.
Laurent gestured to Jacques, the console operator. Fade-out. They played a classic by Vangelis. A red light went on in Jean-Loup’s cubicle. His voice again spread through the room and over the airwaves.
‘It’s eleven forty-five here at Radio Monte Carlo. The night is young. We’ve got the music you want to hear and the words you want to listen to. Nobody’s judging but everybody’s listening. This is Voices. Give us a call.’
The music swelled again in the director’s booth, slowly and rhythmically, like the waves of the sea. Behind the glass, Jean-Loup moved easily – he was on his own turf. In the control room the phone display started to flash. Frank felt a strange tremor. Laurent gestured to Jean-Loup. The deejay nodded in response.
‘Someone’s on line one. Hello?’
A moment of silence, then unnatural noise. The music in the background suddenly sounded like a funeral march. Everyone recognized the voice that emerged from the amplifier: it was seared permanently in their brains.
‘Hello, Jean-Loup.’
Frank straightened up in his chair as if shocked by an electric current. He snapped his fingers in Morelli’s direction. The sergeant roused himself immediately. He stood up and took the mike from the walkie-talkie hanging on his belt.
‘Okay, guys. This is it. Contact. Keep your wits about you.’
‘Hi. Who is this?’ asked Jean-Loup.
‘You know who I am, Jean-Loup. I’m someone and no one.’ There was a hint of a smile in the muffled voice.
‘You’re the one who called once before?’
Morelli rushed out of the room. He came back a moment later with Dr Cluny, the criminal psychiatrist who was in the corridor, waiting like everyone else. The doctor sat down next to Frank. Laurent turned on the intercom that allowed him to speak directly into Jean-Loup’s headphones without broadcasting his voice.
‘Yes, my friend. I called once before and I will call again. Are the bloodhounds there?’
The electronic voice contained both fire and ice. The room felt stuffy, as though the air-conditioning was sucking air in instead of blowing it out.
‘What bloodhounds?’
A pause. Then the voice again.
‘The ones hunting me. Are they there with you?’
Jean-Loup raised his eyes, lost. Dr Cluny moved a little closer to the mike. ‘Agree with him. Tell him whatever he wants to hear, but get him talking.’
‘Why do you ask?’ Jean-Loup resumed, with a leaden voice. ‘You knew they’d be here.’
‘I don’t care about them. They don’t matter. You’re the one I care about.’
Another pause.
‘Why me? Why are you calling me?’
Another pause.
‘I told you. Because you’re like me, a voice without a face. But you’re lucky. Of the two of us, you’re the one who can get up in the morning and go out in the sun.’
‘And you can’t?’
‘No.’
That sharp syllable was utter negation, a denial that allowed no contradiction.
‘Why is that?’ asked Jean-Loup.
‘Because someone decided it that way. There’s very little I can do.’ The voice changed. It became suspended, softer, as if crossed by gusts of wind.
Silence. Cluny turned to Frank and whispered, surprised: ‘He’s crying.’
‘There’s very little I can do. But there is one way to repair the evil, and that is to fight it with the same evil.’
‘Why do evil when there are people all around you who can help?’
Another pause. A silence like a thought, then the voice again, and the fury of blame.
‘I asked for help, but the only help I had killed me. Tell that to the bloodhounds. Tell everyone. There will be no pity because there is no pity. There will be no forgiveness because there is no forgiveness. There will be no peace because there is no peace. Just a bone for your bloodhounds...’
‘What does that mean?’
A longer pause. The man on the phone had mastered his emotions. The voice was once again a breath of wind from nowhere.
‘You like music, don’t you, Jean-Loup?’
‘Of course. Don’t you?’
‘Music doesn’t let you down. Music is the end of the journey. Music is the journey.’
Suddenly, just like the time before, the sound of an electric guitar, slow and seductive, was heard through the phone. A few notes, suspended and isolated, of a musician communicating with his instrument. Frank recognized the notes of ‘Samba Pa Ti’, in the mastery of the fingers and imagination of whoever was playing. It was just guitar in a furious introduction, an explosion ending in thunderous applause. And as suddenly as it had come, the music was turned off.
‘Here’s the bone your bloodhounds want. I have to go now, Jean-Loup. I have things to do tonight.’
‘What do you have to do tonight?’ the deejay asked in a shaking voice.
‘You know what I’m doing tonight, my friend. You know very well.’
‘No, I don’t. Tell me.’
Silence.
‘It wasn’t my hand that wrote it, but now everyone knows what I do at night…’
Another pause that felt like a drum roll.
‘I kill…’
The voice clicked off the line but its tone reverberated in their ears. His last words were like the flash of a camera: for an instant, they all felt disorientated, as if momentarily blinded in white light. Frank was the first to come to his senses.
‘Morelli, call the guys and see if they found out anything. Laurent, did you get all that on tape?’
The director was leaning on the table with his face in his hands. Barbara answered for him. ‘Yes. Can I faint now?’
Frank looked at her. Her face was deathly pale under that mass of red hair. Her hands were shaking.
‘No, Barbara. I still need you. Make a tape of that phone call right away. I need it in five minutes.’
‘I already have it. I had a second recorder ready on pause and I started it right after the phone call came in. All I have to do is rewind.’
Morelli shot an admiring glance at the girl and made sure she noticed.
‘That’s great. Morelli?’
‘One of the guys is coming,’ Morelli said. He stopped staring at Barbara and blushed, as if caught in the act. ‘I doubt there’s any good news.’
‘Well?’ Frank said to a swarthy young man who had just entered.
‘Nothing.’ The technician shrugged. He looked disappointed. ‘We couldn’t trace the call. That bastard must have some pretty good equipment.’
‘Mobile or land line?’
‘We don’t know. We even have a satellite unit, but we found nothing.’
‘Dr Cluny?’ Frank asked, turning to the psychiatrist, still sitting in his chair. The doctor was pensive, biting the inside of his cheek.
‘I don’t know. I have to listen to the tape again. The only thing I can say is that I have never heard anything like this in my entire life.’
Frank pulled out his phone and dialled Hulot’s number. The inspector answered right away. He obviously was not asleep.
‘Nicolas, this is it. Our friend had shown up again.’
‘I know. I heard the programme. I’m getting dressed and I’ll be right there.’
‘Good.’
‘Are you still at the radio station?’
‘Yes. We’ll wait for you.’ Frank hung up. ‘Morelli, as soon as the inspector gets here, I want a meeting. Laurent, I need your help, too. I think I saw a conference room near the manager’s office. Can we use it?’
‘Sure. There’s a DAT machine and anything else you need.’
‘Great. We don’t have much time and we have to fly.’
In the confusion, they had completely forgotten about Jean-Loup. His voice reached them through the intercom.
‘Is it all over, now?’ They saw him leaning on his chair, immobile, a butterfly pinned to a piece of velvet. Frank pressed the button to talk to him.
‘No, Jean-Loup. I’m sorry to say that this is only the beginning. You were great.’
In the silence that followed, they saw Jean-Loup slowly rest his arms on the table and cover his face.
Hulot arrived soon after, along with Bikjalo. The manager was clearly upset. He lagged behind the inspector, as if he wanted nothing at all to do with the nasty business. Only now was he beginning to realize what it all meant. Armed men were wandering around the radio station, which was in the grip of a new, unfamiliar tension. There was a voice, and with that voice, an awareness of death.
Frank and Morelli were waiting for them in silence. They went into the conference room together, where the others were sitting around the long table, waiting. The panel curtains were drawn and the windows were open. The faint noise of the Monte Carlo night traffic filtered through from outside.
Hulot sat down to Frank’s right, leaving him the seat at the head of the table and tacitly the job of chairing the meeting. He was wearing the same shirt as when he’d left earlier and seemed no more rested.
‘We’re all here now,’ Frank began. ‘Aside from Mr Bikjalo and Inspector Hulot – who heard the programme at home – we were all here this evening. Everyone heard what happened. We don’t have many facts to work with. I regret to say that we couldn’t trace the call.’ He paused for a moment. The young technician and his colleague shifted with embarrassment. ‘It’s nobody’s fault. The man knows what he’s doing and how to avoid being traced. The technology we generally use for this kind of thing was used against us today. So there’s no help that way. Since it might give us some clues, I suggest we listen to the recording of the call before making any hypotheses.’
Dr Cluny nodded and everyone else seemed to agree. Frank turned to Barbara who was standing at the back of the room next to a table with a stereo. She started the tape.
The room was filled with a macabre presence. Again, they listened to Jean-Loup’s voice on the radio show and then the voice of the man from his place of darkness. Everyone at the table was silent as the tape played to the last words.
‘I kill…’
‘The man’s out of his mind!’ Bikjalo couldn’t help crying out when it was over.
Dr Cluny took the remark personally. His narrowed eyes were hidden behind gold-and-tortoiseshell glasses resting on a pointed, aquiline nose that resembled the beak of an owl. The psychiatrist addressed Bikjalo but, really, he was speaking to everyone:
‘In the strict sense of the word, he is certainly insane. Remember that this man has already killed and mutilated two people. That indicates an explosive inner fury but he also displays a lucidity rarely found when a crime is committed. He calls and we cannot trace his phone. He kills and leaves absolutely no significant clue. He shouldn’t be underestimated. That is clear from the fact that he doesn’t underestimate us. He’s challenging us, but not underestimating us.’ He removed his glasses, revealing two red marks at the bridge of his nose, and hastily put them back on, as if he felt naked without them. ‘He knew very well that we would be here; he knows that the hunt has begun and he is probably better informed than most. And he knows that we are groping in the dark, because we are missing the key needed to solve any crime.’
He paused. Frank noticed that Cluny was very good at getting people’s attention and then holding it. Bikjalo was probably thinking the same thing, because he started to look at the doctor with almost professional interest. The psychiatrist continued.
‘We have absolutely no idea as to his motive. We don’t know what moved him to kill and to do what he did afterwards. It’s clearly a ritual that has special meaning for him, though we don’t know what that meaning is. His insanity alone is no clue because it isn’t obvious. This man lives in our midst, like a normal person. He does the things that normal people do: he has a drink, buys the paper, goes to restaurants, listens to music. Above all, he listens to music. And that’s why he calls this radio station. In a programme that offers help to people in trouble, he seeks help he doesn’t want where there is music he likes to listen to.’
‘Why do you say “help he doesn’t want”?’ Frank asked.
‘His “no” to the offer of help was adamant. He has already decided that nobody can help, whatever his problem. The trauma inside him must have conditioned him terribly until the point when it detonated the latent rage that people like him carry inside. He hates the world and he probably thinks the world owes him. He must have suffered what seemed horrendous humiliations. Music seems to provide the only clues. The only pointers we get from him are when he talks about the language of music. That’s a message. He gave us another clue that we should combine with the clue from the first message. It is a challenge but also an unconscious prayer. In reality, he’s begging us to stop him, if we can, because he’ll never stop of his own accord.’
Everyone in the room could feel a world of shadows. A place that had never seen the light of day.
‘Barbara, let’s hear the part about music again.’
The girl pushed a button. At once the room was filled with the keening of a guitar, lost in a version of ‘Samba Pa Ti’. It was less meticulous than usual, less staccato, a softer interpretation. There was applause from the audience at the first notes, as in a live concert when the audience recognizes a hit song. When it was over, Frank made a point.
‘Remember that the piece of music in the first call was a clue about who his victims would be. The soundtrack of a movie about a racing driver and his girlfriend. A Man and a Woman. Jochen Welder and Arianna Parker. Does anyone have any idea what this song might mean?’
‘Well, I think we all know it,’ said Jacques, the sound technician sitting at the end of the table. He cleared his throat as if he found it difficult to speak up in that setting.
‘Don’t take anything for granted,’ Hulot scolded politely. ‘Pretend that nobody in this room knows anything about music, even if that sounds ridiculous. Sometimes there are clues where you least expect them.’
‘I just meant to say that it’s a very famous song,’ Jacques continued, blushing and raising his right hand as though apologizing. ‘It’s “Samba Pa Ti”, by Carlos Santana. It’s a live performance because there’s an audience. And it must have been a huge audience, like in a stadium, for that type of response – although live recordings are sometimes reinforced in the studio by adding recorded applause.’
‘That’s it?’ asked Laurent, lighting a cigarette. The smoke circled in the air and wound its way towards the open window, then disappeared into the night. The smell of sulphur from the match lingered behind.
Jacques blushed again and sat quietly, not knowing what to add. Hulot realized that he felt awkward and smiled at him.
‘Good. Thank you. That’s a fine start. Does anyone have anything else to say? Does the song have any special meaning? Was it ever associated with any strange event or person? Is it connected to a story of any kind?’
The people in the room looked at one another, as if trying to help each other remember.
‘Does anyone remember this version?’ Frank asked, suggesting another train of thought. ‘If it’s a live recording, does anyone have any idea where it was made? Or what album it’s from? Jean-Loup?’
The deejay was sitting absent-mindedly next to Laurent, without saying a word, as if the conversation had nothing to do with him. He still seemed to be in shock after speaking to that unknown voice on the phone. He looked up and shook his head.
‘Could it be a bootleg recording?’ asked Morelli.
‘I don’t think so,’ Barbara said, shaking her head. ‘It sounds kind of dated to me. Artistically and technically. It’s an old recording, analogue, not digital. And it’s on vinyl, an old LP. The quality’s great. It doesn’t sound like an amateur recording on lo-fi equipment, given the period’s technical limitations. So it must be a commercial LP, unless it’s an old lacquer disc that was never released.’
‘A lacquer disc?’ asked Frank, looking at the girl. He could not help but share Morelli’s admiration. Barbara had a great mind and a body to match. If the sergeant was interested in her, he’d better be up topar.
‘A lacquer disc was a trial disc that record companies used to make, before there were CDs,’ Bikjalo explained for her. ‘Generally, there were only a few copies in circulation and they deteriorated easily. Some lacquer discs are collector’s items. But since lacquer doesn’t hold up, the quality of the sound gets much worse every time it’s played. That’s not what we’re dealing with here.’
There was silence again, indicating that they had said all they could. Hulot stood up, signalling the end of the meeting. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it goes without saying that even a minor detail could be of the utmost importance in this case. We have a killer at large who is mocking us. He even throws us clues about his intention, and we know what that is: to kill again. Whatever comes to mind, at any time of day or night, don’t hesitate to call me, Frank Ottobre or Sergeant Morelli. Take our phone numbers before you go.’
One by one, they all got up and left the room. The two police technicians left first, to avoid any direct dealings with Hulot. The others stopped long enough to take a card with the phone numbers from Morelli. The sergeant took extra time giving his card to Barbara, who did not seem to mind at all. Frank went over to Cluny who was whispering to Hulot. The two men stepped aside to let him into their conversation.
‘That phone call had an important clue that’ll keep us from getting confused or wasting time…’
‘What?’ asked Hulot.
‘It proved that the call wasn’t a trick and that he really is the man who killed those two people on the boat.’
‘It wasn’t my hand that wrote it...’ quoted Frank, nodding.
‘That’s right,’ Cluny continued, looking at him, pleased. ‘Only the real killer could know that the writing was done mechanically and not by hand. I didn’t mention it to the others because it’s apparently one of the few things regarding the investigation that is not public knowledge.’
‘Exactly. Thank you, Dr Cluny. Excellent work.’
‘Thank you. There are some things I have to analyse,’ said Dr Cluny. ‘Language… language, vocal stress, syntax and so forth. I need a copy of the tape.’
‘It’s yours. Goodnight.’
The psychiatrist left the room.
‘Now what?’ asked Bikjalo.
‘You’ve all done everything you can,’ answered Frank. ‘Now it’s our turn.’
Jean-Loup seemed dazed. The experience had definitely taken a toll on him. Perhaps what had happened had not been as exciting as he had imagined.
Death is never exciting. Death is blood and flies, thought Frank.
‘You’re good, Jean-Loup. I couldn’t have done any better. Radio experience had nothing to do with it. When you’re dealing with a killer, it’s always the first time. Go home now and try not to think about it for a while.’
I kill…
Everyone knew that sleep would be impossible that night. While someone was out there searching for a pretext for his ferocity, so that the whispers in his mind would merge with the screams of his next victim.
‘Thanks. I think I’ll go home,’ Jean-Loup said, stooping his shoulders in defeat. He said goodnight and left, carrying a burden that could crush a much stronger man. When you got right down to it, he was just a deejay who broadcast music and words on the radio.
‘Let’s go. There’s no point hanging around here any more.’ Hulot headed to the door.
‘I’ll go with you. I’m leaving too. Although I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight,’ said Bikjalo, stepping aside for Frank.
When they reached the door, they heard someone click out the code. The door opened and Laurent appeared. He was very excited.
‘Thank goodness. I was hoping I’d find you still here. I have an idea. I know who can help us!’
‘With what?’ asked Hulot.
‘With the music. I know who can help us identify it.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Pierrot!’
Bikjalo’s face lit up. ‘Of course! “Rain Boy”.’
‘Rain Boy?’ Hulot and Frank looked at each other.
‘Pierrot’s a kid who helps out at the radio station and takes care of the archive,’ explained the station manager. ‘He’s twenty-two with the mental age of a child. He’s Jean-Loup’s discovery and the boy adores him. He would jump off a cliff if Jean-Loup asked him to. They call him “Rain Boy” because he’s like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man. He’s limited, but he’s a human computer when it comes to music. It’s the only gift he’s got, but it’s phenomenal.’
‘Where does this Pierrot live?’ asked Frank, looking at his watch.
‘I don’t really know. His last name’s Corbette and he lives with his mother just outside Menton. The father was an arsehole who took off when he found out the boy was retarded.’
‘Does anyone have his address or phone number?’
‘Our secretary’s got the number,’ Laurent replied, going over to Raquel’s computer. ‘Their home number and the mother’s mobile.’
‘I feel badly for Mme Corbette and her son,’ Inspector Hulot said, looking at the time, ‘but I’m afraid we’re going to have to wake them in the middle of the night.’
Everything about Pierrot’s mother was grey, and she was wearing a dress to match.
Sitting in a chair in the conference room, she watched with dazed eyes the men standing around her son. Their phone call had woken her in the middle of the night and she had been terrified when they had said it was the police. They had made her wake Pierrot and dress quickly, and then they had pushed them into a police car that had taken off at a speed that frightened her to death.
Pierrot and his mother lived in a block of flats in a working-class area. The woman was worried about her neighbours, seeing them bundled in the back of a police car like common criminals. Her life was already hard enough, with all the whispering and lowered voices when she passed. She didn’t need to go looking for trouble.
The inspector, the older man with the nice face, had assured her that she had nothing to worry about, that they needed her son for something important. And now they were there and she was wondering how someone like her Pierrot could possibly help them, her son whom she loved as if he were a genius but whom others considered stupid.
She looked anxiously at Robert Bikjalo, the manager of Radio Monte Carlo, who had allowed her son to stay there in a safe place and work with what he loved most in the world: music. What did the police have to do with it? She prayed that Pierrot, simple as he was, hadn’t done anything wrong. She couldn’t bear the idea that they might find some pretext to take her son away from her. The idea of their being separated was terrifying. She felt the cold fingers of anxiety creep into her stomach and squeeze tightly.
Bikjalo flashed her a reassuring smile, a sign that everything was fine. She turned back to watch the younger man, the one with the hard face and the stubble, who spoke French with a slight foreign accent. He squatted down on the floor so that he was at the same level as Pierrot who was sitting in a chair.
‘I’m sorry we woke you, Pierrot, but we need your help for something important. You’re the only one who knows how to do it.’
The woman relaxed. The man’s face might be frightening, but his voice was calm and gentle. Pierrot was not afraid of him in the least. Actually, he was proud about that unexpected nocturnal adventure, the trip in the police car, and liked being the centre of attention for once. She felt a sharp stab of love and protectiveness for that strange son of hers who lived in a world all his own, made of music and pure thoughts.
‘We’re going to play some music for you, a song,’ the younger man continued in his soothing voice. ‘Listen to it. Listen carefully. See if you recognize it and if you can tell us what it is or what record it’s from. Want to try?’
Pierrot was silent. Then he gave a slight nod.
The man stood up and pressed the button on a tape recorder behind him. The notes of a guitar suddenly pierced the air. The woman observed her son’s face, taut with concentration, engrossed in listening to the sound from the speakers. The music ended a few seconds later. The man crouched down next to Pierrot again.
‘Do you want to hear it again?’
The boy shook his head silently.
‘Do you recognize it?’
‘It’s there,’ Pierrot said softly, turning his eyes to Bikjalo as if he were the only person who mattered.
‘You mean we have it?’ The manager came closer. Pierrot nodded again, with emphasis.
‘It’s there, in the room.’
‘What room?’ asked Hulot, coming near.
‘The room is the archive, downstairs in the basement. That’s where Pierrot works. There are thousands of records and CDs and he knows each and every one of them.’
‘If you know where it is in the room, can you go and get it for us?’ Frank asked gently. He was desperate not to press him too hard.
Pierrot looked at the manager again, as if asking permission. ‘Go on, Pierrot. Bring it here, please.’
Pierrot got up and crossed the room with his odd loping gait. He disappeared from view, followed by his mother’s worried gaze.
Inspector Hulot went up to her. She recoiled with shame at the cheap dress she had hurriedly pulled on over her nightie.
‘Madame, excuse me again for the brutal way in which we woke you and brought you here. I hope you weren’t too frightened. You can’t imagine how useful your son could be tonight. We are truly grateful to you for allowing him to help us.’
Now her momentary embarrassment melted into a surge of pride for her son.
Pierrot returned a few minutes later. He was holding a somewhat worn record sleeve under his arm. He placed it on the table and removed the vinyl record with extreme care to avoid touching it with his fingers.
‘Here it is,’ said Pierrot.
‘Can we hear it, please?’ asked the younger policeman with his thoughtful voice.
The boy went over to the stereo, handling it like an expert. He pressed a couple of buttons, raised the lid, and put on the record. He pushed PLAY and the turntable began to spin. Then he delicately took the arm and rested it on the LP. The notes that played were the same ones that an unknown man had sent them a little while before, daring them to put a stop to his wanderings through the night.
There was a moment of general euphoria. Everyone found a way of applauding Pierrot’s small personal triumph as he turned around with an innocent smile. His mother looked at him with a dedication in her eyes that his success could only partly repay. A moment, only one moment, when the world seemed to remember her son and give him some of the satisfaction it had always denied. She started to cry. The inspector gently put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Thank you, madame. Your son was magnificent. Everything is fine now. I’ll have someone take you straight home in one of our cars. You go out to work, don’t you?’
The woman raised her face streaked with tears, smiling in embarrassment again for that moment of weakness. ‘Yes, I keep house for an Italian family here in Monte Carlo.’
‘Leave the family’s name with Sergeant Morelli, that man in the brown jacket,’ said the inspector, smiling back. ‘We’ll arrange for you to have a couple of days’ paid leave for tonight’s disturbance. That way you can spend some time with your son, if you like.’ The inspector went over to Pierrot. ‘As for you, young man, would you like to spend the day in a police car, talk on the radio with the switchboard, and become an honorary policeman?’
Pierrot probably didn’t know what an honorary policeman was, but the idea of driving around in a police car made his eyes light up.
‘Will you give me handcuffs, too? And can I work the siren?’
‘Of course, whenever you like. And you’ll have your own pair of bright shiny handcuffs if you promise to ask our permission before you arrest anyone.’
Hulot nodded to a policeman who would take Pierrot and his mother home. As they left, he could hear the boy say to his mother, ‘Now that I’m an honourable policeman, I’m going to arrest Mme Narbonne’s daughter who’s always laughing at me. I’ll put her in prison and…’ They never did find out what would happen to Mme Narbonne’s unfortunate daughter because the three of them reached the end of the hallway and Pierrot’s voice faded away.
‘Carlos Santana, Lotus,’ Frank mused, leaning against the table looking thoughtfully at the record sleeve that the boy had brought from the archive. ‘Recorded live in Japan, 1975…’
‘Why did that man want us to listen to a song recorded in Japan thirty years ago?’ Morelli wondered, picking up the sleeve. ‘What did he want to tell us?’ He looked at it carefully and turned it over.
Hulot watched out the window as the car with Pierrot and his mother drove away. He turned and looked at his watch. Four thirty.
‘I don’t know, but we’d better try to find out as soon as possible.’ He paused before expressing everyone’s thought. ‘Unless it’s already too late.’
Allen Yoshida signed the cheque and handed it to the caterer. He had brought the staff of his favourite Parisian restaurant, Le Pré Catelan in the Bois de Boulogne, down for the party. It had cost him a fortune, but it was worth it. He still had the rarefied taste in his mouth of the frog and pistachio soup from that evening’s menu.
‘Thank you, Pierre. It was all magnificent, as usual. As you can see, I added a tip for you on the cheque.’
‘Thank you, Mr Yoshida. You’re very generous, as always. You don’t have to show me out, I know the way. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, my friend.’
Pierre gave a slight bow that Yoshida returned. The man walked out silently and disappeared behind the dark wooden door. Yoshida heard his car start. He picked up a remote control and pointed it at the panel on the wall to his left. The panel opened silently, revealing a series of screens, each connected to a closed-circuit camera located in different corners of the house. He saw Pierre’s car drive out the front gate and his security guards close it after him.
He was alone.
He crossed the large room with remains of the party everywhere. The catering staff had removed what they were supposed to and left discreetly, as usual. His servants would arrive the next day to finish the job. Allen Yoshida didn’t like having people in his house. His help came in the morning and left at night. He asked them to stay over only when necessary, or else he used an outside company. He preferred to be alone at night, without the fear that indiscreet eyes and ears might accidentally discover something he wanted to keep to himself.
He went out into the night through the enormous French doors that opened on to the garden. Outside, a skilful play of coloured lights created shadows among the trees, bushes and flower beds, the work of a landscape architect he had brought down from Finland. He loosened the bow tie of his elegant Armani tuxedo and unbuttoned his white shirt. Then he slipped off his patent leather shoes without untying them. He bent down and removed his silk socks as well. He loved the feeling of his bare feet on the damp grass. He walked over to the illuminated swimming pool. In daylight it seemed to stretch to the horizon, and now at night it looked like an enormous aquamarine glowing in the dark.
Yoshida lay down on a teak chaise longue by the pool and stretched his legs. He looked around. There were a few lights out at sea and the moon was on the wane. In front of him, he could make out the glare of Monte Carlo, the home of most of his guests that evening.
He turned to look at his house. He loved the place and felt privileged to own it. He loved its old-fashioned lines, the elegance of its construction combined with its functional severity. It had been built in the early thirties for the screen goddess of the era, Greta Garbo. When he purchased it, the house had been closed up for years and he had had it renovated by a brilliant and eye-wateringly expensive architect.
He had given him free rein, asking only that he retain the spirit of the house. The result was a resounding success: impeccable style married to the most advanced technology. A residence that left everyone dumbfounded, just as he had been the first time he had crossed the threshold. The fee had contained a seemingly endless number of zeros, and he had paid it without batting an eye.
He leaned against the back of the chaise longue, moving his head to stretch his neck. He slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a tiny gold bottle. Unscrewing the cap, he tapped a pinch of white powder on to the back of his hand. He brought his hand to his nose and sniffed the cocaine directly, then rubbed his nostrils with his fingers to remove the residue of powder.
Everything around him was proof of his success and power. Still, Allen Yoshida had no illusions. He remembered his father who used to break his back unloading crates of fish on to his truck from the refrigerated cars when they came in from the coast, and then drove around to supply New York’s Japanese restaurants. He remembered when he came home from work, preceded by the stench of fish that he could never get rid of, however much he washed his hands. He remembered their dilapidated house in the rundown neighbourhood of the city and he remembered as a child hearing his parents talk about how they needed to repair the roof and the plumbing. He could still hear the pipe gurgling every time they turned on a faucet, and the rush of rusty water that poured out. You had to wait a couple of minutes before the water ran clear enough so that you could wash. He had grown up there, the son of a Japanese man and an American woman, straddling two cultures, a gaijin in the Japanese community’s limited way of thinking and a Jap for white Americans. For everyone else – blacks, Puerto Ricans, Italians – he was just one more half-breed on the city streets.
He felt the lucid rush of the cocaine start to circulate and he ran a hand through his thick, shiny hair.
It had been a long time since he had had any illusions. Actually, he’d never had any. Everyone who had come to his home that evening was there not for the man he was but for what he owned. For those billions of dollars. None of them were really interested in knowing whether or not he was a genius. What they cared about was the fact that his genius had helped him amass a personal fortune that made him one of the world’s ten richest men.
Nothing else counted very much for anyone. Once you achieved the result, it did not matter how. Everyone knew him as the brilliant creator of Sacrifiles, the operating system that competed with Microsoft on the world computer market. He’d been eighteen when he had launched it, when he’d created Zen Electronics with a loan from a bank that believed in the project after he had shown a group of astonished investors his system’s simple operations.
Billy La Ruelle should have been with him to share in the success. Billy, his best friend, who had studied with him at the same computer school, and who had come home one day with the dazzling idea for a revolutionary operating system that ran in a DOS environment. They had worked on it in absolute secrecy, he and Billy, for months, day and night, on their two computers linked via a network. In a tragic accident, Billy had fallen from the roof when they had gone up to fix the TV aerial the day before the Bulls-Lakers play-off. He had slipped on the sloping roof like a sled on ice and had found himself hanging from the drainpipe. Yoshida had stood there watching, immobile, as Billy begged him for help. His body was suspended in the air and the left side of the metal sheeting was giving way under his weight. Yoshida had seen his friend’s knuckles grow white in the effort to hold on to the sharp edge of the drainpipe, and to his life.
Billy had fallen with a scream, looking at Yoshida with desperate, widening eyes. He had landed with a thud on the concrete in front of the garage and lain there motionless, his neck bent in an unnatural position. The piece of drainpipe that had broken off had ironically fallen right into the basketball net attached to the wall outside the house where he and Billy let off steam during their breaks. As Billy’s mother ran out of the house screaming, Yoshida had gone into his friend’s bedroom and downloaded everything on the hard drive on to floppy disks before erasing it so that nothing remained. He had slipped the disks into his back pocket and then run out into the courtyard, over to Billy’s lifeless body.
Billy’s mother was sitting on the ground. She had her son’s head in her lap and was stroking his hair. Allen Yoshida had cried his crocodile tears. He had knelt down beside her, feeling the hard surface of the disks in his pocket. A neighbour had called an ambulance. It had arrived in record time, preceded by a siren that was strangely similar to the cries of Billy’s mother, and stopped with a screech of tyres and brakes. Paramedics had calmly carried off his friend’s body, covered with a white sheet.
An old story. One to forget. Now his parents lived in Florida and his father had finally managed to rub his hands clean of the stench of fish. And even if he hadn’t, anyone would swear that the stench was perfume – thanks to Allen’s dollars. He had paid to put Billy’s mother through rehab for her drinking and had bought his parents a house in a nice neighbourhood where they lived without any hassle, thanks to the money he sent them every month. No rusty water, no boarded-up stores. Once, when they had met, his friend’s mother had kissed his hands. As often as he washed them, he had felt that kiss burning on his flesh for a long time.
Yoshida got up and went into the house. He took off his jacket and threw it over one shoulder. The dampness of the night penetrated his thin shirt, making it stick to his skin. He picked a white gardenia from a bush and brought it to his nostrils. The cocaine had numbed his nose, but he could still smell its delicate fragrance.
He went back into the living room and took the remote control out of his pocket. He pushed and the shatterproof windows closed without a sound, sliding down on perfectly oiled hinges. He turned off the lights in the same way, leaving a glimmer in a few hall lights set into the wall. He was alone, finally. It was the moment to dedicate a little time to himself and to his pleasure, his secret pleasure.
The models, the bankers, the rock stars, the actors who flocked to his parties were only splashes of colour on a white wall, faces and words to be forgotten as easily as they were noticed. Allen Yoshida was a handsome man. He had inherited his Yankee proportions and height from his American mother and the tight, well-defined Asian bone structure from his father. His face was a mixture of the two races, with the arrogant charm of all accidents. His money and his looks had universal appeal. And everyone was intrigued by his solitude. Women, especially, showed off breasts and bodies full of promises so simple to fulfil in that obsessive search for life-affirming contact. Faces that were so open, so easy to read, that even before he got started he could already read the words ‘The End’. To Allen Yoshida, sex was strictly the pleasure of the stupid.
He stopped in front of a surface of curved briarwood. When he pushed a button on the right, the surface slid into the wall, revealing steps leading downstairs. He walked down impatiently. He had a new video to watch that had been delivered the day before. This was his first chance to do so comfortably, sitting in his projection room with his flat screen, enjoying every minute, with a glass of chilled champagne.
When he had let Billy La Ruelle fall off the roof, Allen Yoshida not only became one of the richest men in the world, but he had discovered something else that would change his life. Seeing his friend’s widened eyes and terrified face as he fell through the air, hearing the desperation in his voice as he’d pleaded, had given him pleasure. He had only realized later, at home, when he had undressed to take a shower and discovered that his pants were soiled with semen.
Ever since then, since the very moment of his discovery, he had attained pleasure without hesitation, just as he had attained riches without regret. He smiled. That smile was like a luminous cobweb on an indecipherable face. Money did buy everything. Complicity, silence, crime, life and death. For money, men were willing to kill, and to give and receive suffering. He knew that well, every time he added a new video to his collection and paid an exorbitant price for it.
He had films of real torture and killings, of men, women and sometimes children. They were taken from the street to secure places and then filmed as they were subjected to every type of torture and rape before being burned alive. A black man was flayed until he literally became a red mass of blood. The screams of pain were music to his ears as he sipped the chilled wine and waited for the conclusion of his pleasure.
And it was all real.
A large, illuminated room lay at the bottom of the stairs. On the right were two Hermelin billiard tables, one traditional and one American, built especially for him and imported from Italy. The cues and everything else needed for the game were hanging from the wall. There were armchairs and couches around a bar, one of many scattered throughout the house.
Passing the billiard room he stopped. To his right, on a wooden pedestal about four feet high, was a marble statue of Venus playing with Eros, from the Hellenic period. It was lit by halogen from the ceiling. He didn’t stop to gaze at the delicacy of the work, or the tension between the two figures that the sculptor had artfully depicted. Instead, he put his hands on the base of the statue and pushed. The wooden lid turned on itself, revealing the hollow centre of the base. On the bottom was the dial of an electronic combination lock.
Yoshida punched out the code that only he knew and the wall slid noiselessly aside, disappearing into the wall on the left. This was his realm. Pleasure awaited him, in secret, as absolute pleasure always did.
He was about to cross the threshold when he felt a violent blow between his shoulders, the flash of a sharp pain and the immediate chill of darkness.