I Kill (13 page)

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?’