I Kill (8 page)

Frank saw the traces left by the killer and the familiar marks left by forensics, who had found other less obvious details. There were the signs of a careful examination, of fingerprints taken
and measurements made. The smell of death still lingered, even though all the portholes had been opened.

‘They found the two of them in there, in the bedroom, lying next to each other. The footprints you see were left by rubber shoes, maybe from a wetsuit. There are no fingerprints in the
hand marks. The killer wore gloves at all times.’

Frank walked down the corridor, reaching the bedroom and stopping at the doorway. Outside was calm but inside it was hell. He had often witnessed scenes like this. Blood splashed on the ceiling.
He had seen real slaughter. But that was men fighting other men, ruthlessly, for the things that humans desire: power, or money, or women. They were criminals fighting other criminals. Men against
men, at any rate. Here, floating in the air was someone’s battle against his own personal demons, the ones that devour the mind as rust eats iron. No one could understand that better than
Frank. He couldn’t breathe and turned to leave. Hulot greeted him above deck, then resumed his story.

‘At the port of Fontvieille where they were anchored, we were told that Welder and Parker set sail yesterday morning. They didn’t come back, so we think they dropped anchor off the
coast somewhere. Not far off presumably, since they didn’t have much fuel. We still have to clarify the mechanics of the crime, but we have a plausible hypothesis. We found a bathrobe on
deck. The girl might have gone out for some air. Maybe she went for a swim. The killer must have swum over from land. At any rate, he surprised her, pulled her underwater and drowned her. There
were no wounds on her body. Then he got hold of Welder on deck and stabbed him. He pulled them both into the bedroom and calmly did . . . what I hope God strikes him dead for. Then he pointed the
boat in the direction of the port, blocked the rudder so that it headed towards the dock, and left the way he came.’

Frank didn’t answer. In spite of the dim light, he was still wearing his sunglasses. With his head lowered, he seemed to be staring at the trail of blood that went between them like a
track.

‘So, what do you think?’

‘You need to be fairly cold-blooded to do something like this, if that’s how it happened.’

He wanted to leave, to go back home. He didn’t want to have to say what he was saying. He wanted to return to the pier and resume his peaceful aimless walk in the sun. He wanted to breathe
without realizing that he existed. But he went on talking.

‘If he came from land, then he didn’t do it in a fit of rage. It was premeditated. The whole thing must have been carefully planned. He knew where they were and they were more than
likely the people he wanted to strike.’

The other man nodded, hearing something that had already occurred to him.

‘That’s not all, Frank. He left this as a commentary on what he did.’

Hulot made a gesture that underscored what was behind him. A wooden table and delirious words that could have come from the pen of Satan.

I kill . . .

At last Frank removed his glasses, as if he needed to see better in order to understand the words.

‘If that’s the way things were, these words mean only one thing, Nicolas. It’s not a commentary on what he did. It means he’s planning to do it again.’

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.’