I Kill (17 page)

They went around the Bentley and opened the door on the passenger side. Frank pressed a button on the dashboard and the door to the glove compartment slid open noiselessly. He took out a leather
folder. The papers were inside.

‘Here it is. It’s a company car, Zen Electronics.’

‘Jesus Christ, it’s Allen Yoshida.’ The inspector’s voice was a shocked whisper. ‘The owner of Sacrifiles.’

‘Shit, Nicolas. That’s what the clue meant.’

‘How’s that?’

‘The song by Santana, the one we listened to over and over. Live in Japan. Yoshida’s half-American, half-Japanese. And remember the song? It’s called “Soul
Sacrifice”, get it? “Soul Sacrifice”! Sacrifiles is a play on the word sacrifice. And there’s another song on
Lotus
called “Kyoto”. I wouldn’t be
surprised if Yoshida had something to do with that, too.’

Hulot pointed at the body in the car. ‘Do you think it’s him? Allen Yoshida?’

‘I’d bet my life on it. And there’s something else.’

Hulot looked at Frank in surprise. He could see an idea taking shape in his friend’s mind.

‘Nicolas, if Yoshida was killed somewhere else and then brought here to be discovered in the Place du Casino of Monte Carlo, there’s a reason for it.’

‘What reason?’

‘That bastard wants
us
to investigate.’

Hulot realized that if Frank was right, then there was no end to what this man would do. He froze at the thought of what was to come, of who they were up against, and the murders they already
had to solve.

The sound of screeching tyres announced the arrival of an ambulance and the medical examiner. The forensic van was close behind. While Hulot briefed them, Frank stood apart, lost in thought. His
eyes fell on the car radio. There was something sticking out of the tape recorder. He pulled it out.

It was a normal audiocassette that had been recorded and rewound. Frank studied it for a moment, then stuck it in the stereo and pressed PLAY. Suddenly, everyone could hear the jeering notes of
‘Samba Pa Ti’ floating through the still air of the garage.

When they returned to police headquarters, there was a crowd of reporters in front of the building.

‘Fucking vultures.’

‘What did you expect, Nicolas? We steered clear of them at the garage, but you can’t avoid them forever. They’re the least of our problems. Just keep that in mind.’

Lacroix stopped the car at the entrance. Seeing the inspector inside, the horde of reporters shifted position with a single movement, so well synchronized that it looked rehearsed. The barrier
was only halfway up when the car was surrounded by people and questions. Hulot was forced to lower the window on his side. The shouting of the reporters grew louder. One man with red hair and
freckles practically stuck his head in the window.

‘Inspector, do you know the identity of the body found in the garage?’

From behind him: ‘Do you think it’s the same man who killed Jochen Welder and Arianna Parker?’ It was a reporter from
Nice Matin
that Hulot knew well, brusquely shoving
his colleague aside. ‘Is there a serial killer at large in the city?’

‘What can you tell us about the phone call last night to Radio Monte Carlo?’ yelled someone else behind them.

Hulot raised his hands to stop the volley of questions.

‘Gentlemen, please. You’re all professionals and you know very well that I can’t tell you anything right now. There will be a statement from the chief of police later.
That’s all for now. Excuse me. Drive on, Lacroix.’

The driver edged the car forward slowly so as not to hit anyone. At last they passed the barrier, which lowered behind them. When they got out of the car, Hulot rubbed his face with one hand. He
had dark circles under his eyes caused by lack of sleep and the horror he had just witnessed.

He handed Morelli the videotape from the victim’s car. Forensics had checked it for prints and returned it.

‘Claude, make a copy and then give it to us. And bring a monitor and VCR to my office. Then call the people in Nice and talk to Clavert. Tell him to let us know as soon as they analyse the
tape from last night’s phone call. I don’t expect much, but you never know. We’ll be in my office.’

As they went up in the lift, Frank mused that from the moment they had arrived at the radio station the evening before, he and Hulot had not been alone together.

‘What do you think?’ asked the inspector.

Frank shrugged. ‘The problem is that I no longer know
what
to think. This guy is different. In every case I’ve ever been on, there’s always been something left to
chance, some series of clues that showed, first of all, how the serial killer could
endure
his condition. The lucidity of this guy is mind-boggling.’

‘Yeah. Meanwhile, three people are dead.’

‘One thing is really puzzling me, Nicolas.’

‘Just the one?’

‘Beyond the fact that we don’t know why he removes the faces of his victims, the first case – Jochen Welder and Arianna Parker – involved a man and a woman. Here, just a
man. What’s the connection? In other words, if we exclude the woman for the moment, what’s the connection between Jochen Welder, twice Formula 1 world champion, and Allen Yoshida,
world-famous computer tycoon?’

‘Well, both are rich and well known and around the same age, thirty-five,’ Hulot mused, leaning against the door of the lift. ‘And, I might add, both rather handsome
men.’

‘That’s fine. Then what does Arianna Parker have to do with it? Why a woman?’

‘The killer was probably interested in Jochen Welder and she just happened to be there. So he had to kill her, too.’

‘I’ll buy that. But why give her the same treatment?’

They walked down the corridor and stopped in front of Hulot’s office. To the people walking by they looked as if they had survived a war.

‘I don’t know, Frank. I don’t know what to say. Three dead and no clues. We couldn’t even figure out the one clue we had, so now there’s one more dead man on our
conscience. And all told, it was rather simple.’

‘All puzzles are simple once you’ve solved them.’

They went into the office, where patterns of sunlight streaked the floor. It was almost summer outside but felt like winter inside the room. Hulot went over to his desk, picked up the phone and
called Froben, the inspector in Nice. Frank slumped down in the chair in the same position he had been in just a few hours before.

‘Christophe? It’s Nicolas. Listen, I have a problem. A new one. We just found another body in a car. Same method as the other two. The face completely flayed. The documents show that
the car was owned by Zen Electronics, Allen Yoshida’s company. You know, the . . .’

The inspector stopped. ‘What? Wait, I’m here with Frank Ottobre. I’m going to put you on loud speaker so he can hear, too. Repeat what you just said.’

He pushed a button on the phone and Froben’s voice blared out, slightly distorted by the phone mike.

‘I said I’m at Yoshida’s house in Beaulieu. Billionaire’s pad, of course. Multibillionaire. Security with armed guards and cameras everywhere. We got a call this morning
about seven. The servants don’t live in – they all come to work around six thirty. Today, after they got here, they started cleaning up from a party the owner hosted last night. When
they went downstairs, they found a room they didn’t know about.’

‘What do you mean, “didn’t know about”?’

‘Exactly that, Nicolas. A room they knew nothing about. A secret room that opens by an electronic lock hidden in the base of a statue.’

‘Sorry, go on.’

‘They went in and found an armchair covered in blood. There was blood on the floor and the walls. A lake, as the security guard who called me put it. He wasn’t exaggerating.
We’ve been here a while and forensics are still working on it. I’ve started questioning but I’m not getting anywhere.’

‘He killed him there, Christophe. He came to Yoshida’s house, killed him, did his disgusting routine, loaded him into the car, and then left the body inside the car at the casino
garage.’

‘The head of security, an ex-cop named Valmeere, told me they saw Yoshida’s car leave last night at 4 a.m.’

‘And they didn’t see who was driving?’

‘No. He said the car has tinted windows and you can’t see in. And it was dark out, so it was even worse with the reflection of the light.’

‘Didn’t he find it strange that Yoshida would go out by himself at that time of night?’

‘That’s exactly what I asked him. Valmeere told me that Yoshida
was
strange. He did things like that. Valmeere had pointed out to him that it wasn’t safe to go around
alone, but he wouldn’t listen. Sure you really want to know
how
strange Yoshida was?’

‘Tell me.’

‘We found a collection of snuff videos in the room, enough to make you sick. There’s stuff here you can’t even imagine. One of my boys who watched spewed up his breakfast. Can
I tell you something?’ Froben continued without waiting for an answer. ‘If Yoshida liked this kind of stuff, he got exactly what he deserved!’

The disgust in Froben’s voice was clear. That was the life of a policeman. You thought you had reached rock bottom, but something happened every time to take you lower.

‘Okay, Christophe. Let me know the results of your investigation: photos, prints – if there are any – and so on. And leave everything there so that we can come and take a look
later, if necessary. Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it. Nicolas?’

‘Yes?’

‘The last time I thought it to myself, but this time I’ll say it out loud. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, believe me!’

‘I believe you, my friend. And how.’

Frank was leaning back in the chair looking at the blue patch of sky without seeing it. His voice seemed a thousand miles and a thousand years away.

‘You know something, Nicolas? Whenever I think about the things that happen in the world – 9/11, this business here, wars and everything else – I start thinking about
dinosaurs.’

The inspector looked at him, not understanding what he was getting at.

‘For a long time now, everyone’s been trying to figure out why they became extinct. They wonder why these animals that dominated the earth suddenly disappeared. Maybe they died
because they all went crazy. Just like us. That’s what we are, you know, tiny dinosaurs. And sooner or later, this madness will be the end of us.’

Morelli pushed the cassette into the VCR and the coloured bars at the beginning of the tape filled the screen. As Hulot went to lower the blinds in order to reduce the glare
from the windows, Frank sat in his armchair and turned in the direction of the monitor. Next to him was Luc Roncaille, chief of Sûreté Publique of the Principality of Monaco. He had
unexpectedly dropped by Hulot’s office while Morelli and a policeman were getting the monitor and VCR ready on a small table they had wheeled in.

Roncaille was a tall, suntanned man with hair greying at the temples, a modern-day Stewart Granger. Frank looked at him with instant suspicion. The man looked more like a politician than a cop.
A handsome face and a career that was more PR than fieldwork. He was the perfect poster boy to exhibit on official occasions. When Hulot introduced them, he and Frank looked each other over for a
second, each sizing up the other. Judging by the look in Roncaille’s eyes, Frank decided, he was not a stupid man. An opportunist, maybe, but not stupid. Frank could tell that if Roncaille
had to throw someone overboard in order to save himself, he wouldn’t hesitate for a second. And he would never get thrown overboard himself.

Roncaille had rushed over after hearing about the Yoshida killing. For the moment there had been no complaints, but he was obviously there to get enough information to cover his own backside
with his superiors. The Principality of Monaco was a tiny speck of land, but it was no fairytale kingdom. There were strict rules and a first-rate government, the envy of many other countries. And
the Monaco police force was considered one of the best in the world.

At last an image appeared on the screen. First, they saw a man tied to a chair, tape over his mouth, eyes wide with terror, looking at something to his left. There was no mistaking the face of
Allen Yoshida. His photograph had been on magazine covers worldwide. Then a man in black came into the frame. Hulot held his breath. Looking at the man and his clothing, Frank thought for a moment
that there was something wrong with the tape or the shot, given the bulges on his elbows and knees. Then, he saw that it was part of the disguise and realized the sophistication of the person he
was watching.

‘Fucking bastard,’ he muttered.

The others flashed a look at him and Frank nodded, as if apologizing for the disturbance. Everyone turned back to the video. They watched in horror as the figure in black repeatedly stabbed the
man tied to the chair, methodically, so that none of the stab wounds would be fatal. They saw his movements, hampered by his clothes, opening wounds that would never heal. They saw the blood ooze
and drip slowly down Yoshida’s white shirt, like a blossoming scarlet flower. They saw death itself dancing around the man, tasting his pain and terror before taking him away for all
eternity.

After what seemed like hours, the man in black stood still. Yoshida’s face was dripping with sweat. The man stretched out an arm and wiped Yoshida’s brow with the sleeve of his
shirt. On the forehead of the prisoner there remained a reddish smudge, a comma of life in that ritual of death.

There was blood everywhere. On the marble floor, on the clothes, on the walls. The man in black went over to the VCR to his left. He reached for one of the machines. Suddenly, he stopped and
leaned his head to one side, as if struck by a thought. Then he turned towards the cameras and bowed, pointing with an elegant flourish of his right arm at the man dying in the chair. He turned
again, pressed a button, and the freezing snow of winter covered the screen.

The silence in the room had a different meaning for each of them.