I Kill (2 page)

He turned left on to Avenue des Spelugues and glanced at the reflection of the lights in the square, the Hôtel de Paris and the Café de Paris like sentinels on either side of the
casino. The barricades and bleachers set up for the Grand Prix had been taken down in record time. Nothing was allowed to obstruct the sacred cult of gambling, money and superficiality in Monte
Carlo for too long.

The square receded behind him, and he drove at a gentle pace down the hill on which Ferraris, Williamses and McLarens had raced at unbelievable speed just days before. After the curve of the
Virage du Portier, the sea breeze caressed his face. He drove through the tunnel and out into the harbour, where 100 million euros’ worth of boats were illuminated. Above, to the left, the
castle, swathed in a soft glow, seemed to guarantee that the Prince and his family would sleep undisturbed.

Though he was used to the view, Jean-Loup couldn’t help admiring it. He could understand the effect it had on tourists from Osaka, Austin or Johannesburg: it took their breath away and
left them with an amateur photographer’s case of tennis elbow.

By then, he was practically there. He drove past the harbour, the Piscine and then the Rascasse, turned left and drove down the ramp to the underground car park, three levels deep, directly
under the plaza in front of the radio station.

He parked in the first empty spot and went up the stairs and outside. Music reached him through the open doors of Stars’N’Bars, a mandatory stop for habitués of Monaco’s
nightlife. A bar where you could grab a beer or some Tex-Mex while waiting for the night to go by, before heading off to the discos and nightclubs along the coast.

The huge building in which Radio Monte Carlo was located, right in front of the quay, housed a random assortment of establishments: restaurants, yacht showrooms and art galleries, as well as the
studios of Télé Monte Carlo. Jean-Loup rang the video intercom and stood directly in front of the camera so that it shot a close-up of his right eyeball.

The brusque voice of Raquel, the receptionist and secretary, emerged. ‘Who is it?’

‘Good evening. This is Mr Eye for an Eye. Open up, will you? I’m wearing contacts, so the retina print won’t work.’

He stepped back so that the girl could see him. There was a soft laugh from the intercom. ‘Come on up, Mr Eye for an Eye,’ she said, warmly.

‘Thanks. I was coming to sell you a set of encyclopedias, but I think I need some eye drops now.’

There was a loud click as the door unlocked. When the lift door slid aside on the fourth floor, he found himself nose to nose with the chubby face of Pierrot, standing with a pile of CDs in his
hands.

Pierrot was the station mascot. He was twenty-two but had the mind of a child. He was shorter than average, with a round face and hair that stood straight up, which made him always look to
Jean-Loup like a smiling pineapple. Pierrot was a very pure soul. He had the gift, which only simple people have, of making everyone like him at first glance. He himself liked only those he thought
deserved it, and his instinct was rarely wrong.

Pierrot adored music. He became confused when confronted with the most basic reasoning, but he would be suddenly analytical and linear when it came to his favourite subject. He had a
computer-like memory for the vast radio archives and for music in general. All you had to do was mention a title or the tune of a song and he would dash off, soon to return with the record or CD.
He was an absolute obsessive – people at the radio station called him ‘Rain Boy’.

‘Hi, Jean-Loup.’

‘Pierrot, what are you still doing here at this hour?’

‘Mother’s working late tonight. The big guys are giving a dinner. She’s coming to pick me up
when it’s a little more later.’

Jean-Loup smiled to himself. Pierrot had his own special way of expressing himself, a different language that was often the butt of jokes. His mother, the woman who was coming to get him
when
it’s a little more later,
worked as a cleaner for an Italian family in Monte Carlo.

Jean-Loup had met Pierrot and his mum a couple of years earlier, when they had been standing in front of the radio station. He’d paid almost no attention to this strange couple until the
woman had come up to him and spoke timidly, with the air of someone always apologizing to the world for her presence. She had clearly been waiting for him.

‘Excuse me. Are you Jean-Loup Verdier? I’m sorry to bother you, but could I have your autograph for my son? Pierrot always listens to the radio and you’re his
favourite.’

Jean-Loup had looked at her modest clothing and her hair that had gone prematurely grey. She was probably younger than she looked.

He had smiled. ‘Of course, madame. That’s the least I can do for such a faithful listener.’

As he took the paper and pen, Pierrot had come up to them. ‘You’re just the same.’

Jean-Loup had shrugged. ‘Just the same as what?’

‘The same as in the radio
.’

Jean-Loup had turned to the woman, puzzled. She had lowered her gaze and voice. ‘My son, you know, is . . .’

She had stopped, as if she couldn’t think of the right word. Jean-Loup had looked at Pierrot carefully and felt a stab of pity for the boy and his mother.

The same as in the radio.

Jean-Loup had realized that what Pierrot meant to say, in his own way, was that he was just as he’d imagined him. Pierrot had smiled, and at that moment Jean-Loup was smitten with the
immediate, instinctive liking that the boy always inspired.

‘All right, young man. Now that I know you listen to me, the least I can do is sign an autograph. Hold this for me a minute?’

He had handed the boy the pile of papers and postcards under his arm so that his hands were free to write. As Jean-Loup signed the autograph, Pierrot had glanced at the paper on top of the pile.
He had raised his head with a satisfied air. ‘Three Dog Night,’ he said, calmly.

‘What?’

‘Three Dog Night. The answer to the first question is Three Dog Night. And the second is Allan Allsworth and Ollie Alsall,’ continued Pierrot with his own very unique English
pronunciation of Allan Holdsworth and Ollie Halsall.

Jean-Loup had remembered that the paper on top of the pile contained a list of questions for a pop quiz scheduled for that afternoon’s show. He’d written it a couple of hours before.
The first question was ‘What group from the seventies sang the song “Celebrate”?’ And the second was ‘Who were the guitarists in the group Tempest?’

Pierrot’s answers were spot on. Jean-Loup had stared at the mother in astonishment. She could only shrug her shoulders as if apologizing for him. ‘Pierrot loves music. If I listened
to him, I’d be buying records instead of food. He’s . . . well . . . he is what he is. But with music, he remembers almost everything he reads and hears on the radio.’

‘Try answering the other questions too, Pierrot,’ Jean-Loup had said, pointing to the paper the boy was still holding.

One by one, without any hesitation, Pierrot had gone through the fifteen questions, answering each one correctly as soon as he read it. And they weren’t easy by any means. Jean-Loup was
astonished.

‘Madame, this is much more than simply remembering things. He’s an encyclopedia.’

Jean-Loup had taken back the pile of papers and answered the boy’s smile with a smile. He had gestured towards the Radio Monte Carlo building.

‘Pierrot, would you like to take a tour of the station and see where we broadcast?’

He had shown the boy around the studio and offered him a Coke. Pierrot had looked at everything with fascination, and mother and son’s eyes shone with equal brightness as she observed his
joy. But when they stepped into the basement archives with its sea of CDs and LPs, Pierrot looked as if he’d gone to heaven.

When the employees of the station heard the boy’s life story (the father had bolted as soon as he learned of his son’s disability, leaving the boy and his mother alone and
penniless), and especially when they realized his musical knowledge, Pierrot was invited to join the Radio Monte Carlo staff. His mother was astonished. Pierrot now had somewhere safe to go while
she was out at work and he even received a small salary. But most of all, he was
happy.

Promises and bets, thought Jean-Loup. Occasionally one was kept and sometimes you won. There were better things in the world, but this, at least, was something.

Pierrot stepped into the lift holding the CDs and pressed the button. ‘I’m going into the
room
to put these back. Then I’ll come back, so can I see your
programme.’

The
room
was his own personal description of the archive and
seeing your programme
was not just one of his linguistic inventions. He meant he could stand behind the glass and watch
Jean-Loup, his best friend, his idol, with adoring eyes, instead of sitting at home and listening on the radio as before.

‘Okay. I’ll save you a front-row seat.’

The door closed on Pierrot’s bright smile.

Jean-Loup crossed the landing and punched in the code to open the door. The long desk that was Raquel’s domain was right at the entrance. A petite brunette with a thin but pleasant face,
and who always seemed in command of the situation. Raquel pointed her finger in his direction. ‘You’re taking your chances,’ she said. One of these days, I’m not going to
let you in.’

Jean-Loup walked over and moved her finger as if it were a loaded gun. ‘Didn’t anyone teach you not to point your finger at people? What if it was loaded and went off? Anyway, what
are you still doing here? Even Pierrot’s still here. Is there a party I don’t know about?’

‘No parties, just overtime. And it’s all your fault. You’re stealing all the ratings and we have to scramble to catch up.’ She motioned with her head to the room behind
her.

‘Go and see the boss. There’s news.’

‘Good? Bad? So-so? Is he finally going to ask me to marry him?’

‘He wants to tell you himself. He’s in the president’s office,’ Raquel answered, vague but smiling.

Jean-Loup padded across the soft blue carpet patterned with small cream-coloured crowns. Stopping in front of the last door on the right, he knocked and entered without being invited. The boss
was sitting at his desk and – as Jean-Loup might have guessed – was on the phone. The office was clouded with cigarette smoke. Radio Monte Carlo’s manager was the only person
Jean-Loup knew who smoked those toxic Russian cigarettes, the ones with the long cardboard filters that had to be folded in a solemn ritual before they could be used.

Robert Bikjalo nodded at him to sit down.

Jean-Loup took a seat in one of the black leather armchairs in front of the desk. As Bikjalo finished his conversation and closed the case of his Motorola phone, Jean-Loup fanned his hand in the
smoky air. ‘Are you trying to make this a place for people nostalgic for fog? London or die? No, London
and
die? Does the big boss know you pollute his office when he’s not here?
If I wanted, I could blackmail you for the rest of your life.’

Radio Monte Carlo, the Italian-language station of the Principality, had been taken over by a company that ran a clutch of private stations. Its headquarters were in Milan. Robert Bikjalo was
the man in charge of running things in Monaco; the president only appeared for important meetings.

‘You’re a bastard, Jean-Loup. A dirty, gutless bastard.’

‘How can you smoke that stuff? You’re approaching the border between smoke and nerve gas. Or maybe you crossed it years ago and I’m talking to your ghost.’

‘I’m not even going to bother answering,’ said Bikjalo, expressionless and as unaffected by Jean-Loup’s sense of humour as by the smoke from the cigarettes. ‘I
haven’t been here waiting for you to park your precious ass so I can listen to you make snide remarks about my smoking.’

This exchange was a routine they’d shared for years, but Jean-Loup knew they were still far from calling each other friends. The sarcasm disguised the fact that it was nearly impossible to
get to the bottom of things with Robert Bikjalo. Okay, he was intelligent, perhaps, but he was definitely a shrewd cookie. An intelligent man sometimes gives the world more than he gets back in
return; a cunning one tries to take as much as he can while giving back as little as possible. Jean-Loup was well aware of the rules of the game, in the world in general and in his milieu in
particular: he was the deejay of
Voices,
a hit radio show. People like Bikjalo showed interest in you only in proportion to your ratings.

‘I just want to tell you what I think of you and your show before I throw you out on the street for good.’ Bikjalo leaned back in his chair and finally extinguished the cigarette in
an overflowing ashtray. Silence fell between them. Then, like someone with a good hand who says, ‘I’ll see you!’ Bikjalo continued. ‘I got a phone call today about
Voices.
It was someone very close to the palace. Don’t ask me who, because I can’t tell you . . .’

The manager’s tone of voice suddenly changed. A forty-carat grin flashed across his face as he laid down a royal flush. ‘The Prince in person has expressed his pleasure at the
show’s success!’

Jean-Loup stood up from his chair with an equally wide smile, high-fived the hand held out to him, and sat back down. Bikjalo was still flying on the wings of his triumph.

‘Monte Carlo has always had an image of being a place for the rich, a haven to escape taxes from just about everywhere else. Recently, with all the shit happening in America, and the
economic crisis practically worldwide, we seem a bit dull.’

He said ‘we’ with an air of sympathy, but he was someone who didn’t seem very involved in the problems of others. He pulled out another cigarette, bent the filter and lit
it.

‘A few years ago, there were 2,000 people in the casino at this time of night. These days, some evenings there’s a really scary morning-after feeling. The jump start you gave to
Voices,
using it to confront social issues, has brought something fresh and new to the city. A lot of people now think of Radio Monte Carlo as a place where they can solve problems, where
they can call for help. It’s been great for the station, too, I don’t deny it. There’s a whole group of new sponsors just waiting in line, and that’s a measure of the
programme’s success.’