There is a man sitting in an armchair in the dark, in the large, silent apartment. He had asked to be left alone, he who always had a horror of solitude, of empty rooms, of the dark. The others had left after asking him one last time, with a note of apprehension, if he was really sure he wanted to stay there without anyone to take care of him. He had answered yes, reassuringly. He knew that spacious apartment so well that he could move around freely without having anything to fear.
Their voices fade away in the sound of departing steps, a door that closes, a lift going down. Little by little, the sounds become silence. So now he is alone, he thinks.
The smell of the sea enters through the open window. He outstretches his hand and turns on the light on a table next to him. Almost nothing changes before his eyes, which are now a theatre of shadows. He presses the button again. The light goes off with the hiss of a sigh without hope. The man sitting in the armchair thinks again about what awaits him. He will have to become accustomed to the smell of things, to their weight and to their voices, when they are all drowned in an identical colour.
The man sitting in the armchair is practically blind.
There was once a time when it was not so. There was a time when he lived in the light. A time when his eyes defined a point in front of him to which his body would leap forward, as if dancing on air.
It was so brief, his dance.
From the birth of his passion to the anxious discovery of his talent, to the astonishment of the world at its confirmation, there were more moments of pleasure in the twinkling of an eye than others would ever see in a lifetime.
But time cheated him and suddenly took away with one hand what it had profusely given with the other. He still carried the memories in his extinguished eyes, memories from around the world. An infinite number of curtains opening in silence and closing with the applause of every success. Curtains that would never reopen.
Farewell, idol of the dance.
The man runs his hand through his thick, shiny hair.
His hands are his eyes now.
He touches the armchair’s rough fabric; feels the soft fabric of his trousers, on his muscular legs, the silk of the shirt over the chiselled line of his chest. He feels his smooth cheek shaved by another, until he meets the colourless trickle of a tear that streaks his face. The man had asked to be left alone, he who always had a horror of solitude, of empty rooms, of the dark.
Now suddenly he feels that he is not alone in the apartment. There is not a noise, not a breath, not a footstep. It is a presence he perceives with a sense he did not know he had, like the primitive instinct of a bat. One hand gives, the other hand takes away.
He can sense many more things now.
The presence turns into a light step. Agile, almost noiseless. Calm, regular breathing. Someone is crossing the apartment and coming closer. Now the noiseless step has stopped behind him. He controls his instinct to turn and look. It would be useless.
He smells the perfume, clean skin mixed with good cologne. He recognizes the cologne, but not the person. Eau d’Hadrien, by Annick Goutal. A scent of citrus, sun and sea breeze. You bought it once for Boris in the shop near the Place Vendôme, the day after your triumph at the Opéra. When you still…
The steps resume. The stranger walks past his armchair that has its back to the door. He can make out the shadow of his body as he comes before him. The man sitting in the armchair is not afraid. He is simply curious.
‘Who are you?’
A moment of silence, and then an answer in a deep, resonant voice.
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes, it matters to me, very much.’
‘My name would mean nothing to you. Who I am is unimportant. I want to be certain that you know what I am and why I’m here.’
‘I can imagine. I’ve heard of you. I was waiting for you, I believe. Perhaps, deep down, I was hoping you would come.’
‘I’m here now,’ the same deep voice, so rich and harmonious, answers from the dark.
‘I suppose there is nothing I can say or do.’
‘No, nothing.’
‘So, it’s over. I think it’s better this way, in a certain sense. I would never have had the courage.’
‘Would you like some music?’
‘Yes, I think so. No, I’m sure of it. I want music.’
He hears the hum of the CD player opening and then closing, enhanced by the silent darkness. The man has not turned on the light. He must have the eyes of a cat if the weak glimmer from outside and the display of the CD player are enough to guide him.
A moment later, the notes of a cornet flutter through the room. The man sitting in the armchair does not recognize the music, but the tones of that strange instrument remind him of Nino Rota’s melancholy melody in Fellini’s La Strada. He danced to that music at La Scala in Milan, at the beginning of his career. It was a ballet based on the movie, with a prima ballerina whose name he did not remember, only the incredible grace of her body.
He turns to the darkness where the music comes from, the same darkness that is in the room and in his eyes.
‘Who is it?’
‘His name is Robert Fulton. A great musician…’
‘I can hear that. What does he mean to you?’
After a long, motionless silence, the deep voice comes from the darkness right beside him. ‘An old memory of mine. Now it will be yours as well.’
‘Can I ask a favour?’
‘Yes, if it’s possible.’
‘May I touch you?’
A slight swish of fabric. The man standing bends down. The man sitting feels the warmth of his breath, a man’s breath. A man who, at another time and on another occasion, he might have tried to know better.
He stretches out his hand and places it on that face, running over it with his fingertips until he touches the hair. He follows the line of the face, and explores the cheekbones and forehead with his fingertips. His hands are his eyes now, and they see for him.
The man sitting is not afraid. He is curious. Now he is only surprised.
‘So, it’s you,’he murmurs.
‘Yes,’ answers the other, straightening up.
‘Why do you do it?’
‘Because I have to.’
The man sitting is content with this answer. He, too, did what he felt he had to, in the past. He has only one last question for the other. It is not the end that frightens him, only the pain.
‘Will I suffer?’
He has no way of seeing the man take out a gun with a silencer from a canvas bag slung around his neck. He does not see the burnished metal barrel pointed at him. He does not see the menacing reflection in the weak light coming from the window.
‘No, you won’t suffer.’
He does not see the knuckles whiten as the finger squeezes the trigger. The man’s answer mixes with the smothered hiss of the bullet that pierces his heart.
‘I have no intention of living like a prisoner until this is over. Most of all, I refuse to be used as bait!’
Roby Stricker put down his glass of Glenmorangie and went to look out the window of his apartment. Malva Reinhart, a young American actress sitting on the couch opposite, rolled her magnificent violet eyes, the feature of many a close-up shot, and looked from him to Frank. She was bewildered by the whole thing and didn’t say a word. She seemed to be still playing one of her characters, although her glances were more direct and her cleavage lower. The aggressive attitude she had displayed when Frank and Hulot had stopped them outside Jimmy’z, the most exclusive disco in Monte Carlo, was gone.
They had been standing in the plaza next to Sporting Club d’Été, just outside the glass doors of the club, to the left of the blue neon sign. Malva and Roby were speaking to someone, but as Frank and Hulot had got out of their car and approached them, the person had left and they were alone in the glare of the headlights.
‘Roby Stricker?’ Nicolas had asked.
Stricker had looked at them dubiously.
‘Yes,’ he had said hesitantly.
‘I’m Inspector Hulot of the Sûreté Publique and this is Frank Ottobre of the FBI. We need to speak to you. Could you come with us, please?’
Their credentials seemed to make him uncomfortable. Frank had found out why later on, when he pretended not to notice the young man awkwardly disposing of a bag of cocaine. Stricker had pointed to the young woman next to him who was looking at them, astonished. They were speaking French and she didn’t understand.
‘Both of us, or just me? I mean, this is Malva Reinhart and…’
‘You’d better come with us. It’s in your best interest. We have reason to believe that your life is in danger. The young lady’s too, perhaps.’
They had filled him in soon afterwards, in the car. Stricker had grown deathly pale and Frank knew that if he had been standing, his legs might have collapsed. Frank had translated for Reinhart and it was her turn to go pale. They had reached Stricker’s building, Les Caravelles, a couple of blocks from police headquarters. They couldn’t help being stunned at the madman’s nerve. If he was really aiming for Stricker, the choice was a defiant, mocking challenge. He intended to strike at someone who lived just blocks away from the centre of police operations.
Frank had stayed with him and the girl while Nicolas, after inspecting the apartment, went to give instructions to Morelli and his men stationed below. There was a security net around the building that was impossible to get through. Before he left, Hulot had called Frank into the hallway, given him a walkie-talkie, and asked if he had his gun. Without a word, Frank had opened his jacket to show him the Glock hanging from his belt. He had shivered slightly as he brushed against the cold, hard weapon.
Frank stepped towards the centre of the room and responded patiently to Stricker’s objections.
‘First of all, we’re trying to guarantee your safety. You might not have noticed, but practically all the police in the Principality are stationed outside. Secondly, we have no intention of using you as bait. We simply need your cooperation to try to catch the person we’re after. You’re not running any risk, I assure you. You live in Monte Carlo, so you must know what’s been happening, don’t you?’
‘Listen,’ Roby said, as he turned towards Frank without moving from the window. ‘It’s not that I’m scared, okay? I just don’t like the whole situation. It feels… overblown, that’s all.’
‘I’m glad you’re not afraid, but that doesn’t mean you should underestimate the person we’re dealing with. So please get away from that window.’
Stricker tried to appear nonchalant as he stepped back to the couch. In actuality, he was quite visibly terrified. Frank had been with him for an hour now, and if he’d had any say in the matter he would have walked out of there and left the guy to his fate. Stricker fitted the stereotype of a spoiled rich boy so exactly that it was almost laughable.
Roberto Stricker, ‘Roby’ in the society pages, was Italian, from Bolzano to be precise, but his last name was German and he could pass for English if he wanted. He was just over thirty and very good-looking. Tall, athletic, great hair, great face, total prick. His father was the wealthy owner of, among other things, a chain of discos in Italy, France and Spain called No Nukes, whose symbol was an environmentalist sun. That was what had struck Barbara when she heard the name ‘Nuclear Sun’, the Roland Brant dance track that the killer had played on the radio. Roby Stricker lived in Monte Carlo, doing whatever he wanted with his time and his father’s money – that is to say, absolutely nothing. The tabloids were full of his love affairs and vacations, skiing at St Moritz with the hottest top models or playing tennis at Marbella with Björn Borg. As far as work was concerned, his father probably gave him money just to keep him out of the family business, reckoning that whatever his son cost him was the lesser of two evils.
‘What are you going to do?’ Stricker picked up his glass but put it down again when he saw that the ice had melted.
‘Actually, there’s really very little we can do in cases like this. We just take the right precautions and wait.’
‘What does this nutcase have against me, anyway? Do I know him?’
If he decided to kill you, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did know you. And probably pretty well you little shit. Frank sat down in an armchair.
‘I have no idea. Quite frankly, aside from what we told you, we don’t have much more information on this murderer, except for the criteria he uses to select his victims and what he does after he kills them.’
Frank spoke in Italian, emphasizing the harshness of the word ‘assassino’ for Roby Stricker’s benefit. He didn’t think it was a good idea to frighten the girl sitting on the couch any more. She was gnawing on her finger in fear. Although…
Like attracts like.
The two of them were together for a reason. Like Nicolas and Céline Hulot, like Nathan Parker and Ryan Mosse. And like Bikjalo and Jean-Loup Verdier. Out of love. Out of hate. Out of self-interest. As for Roby Stricker and Malva Reinhart, however, it could be just simple physical attraction between two very shallow human beings.
Frank’s walkie-talkie started to buzz. Strange. They had decided to observe strict radio silence. No precautions seemed excessive with this criminal, who could tap phone lines so easily that he might very well be able to listen in on any police frequency. Frank went into the foyer before answering. He didn’t want Stricker and the girl to hear.
‘Frank Ottobre.’
‘Frank, it’s Nicolas. We may have caught him.’
Frank felt as though a cannon had just fired next to his ear.
‘Where?’
‘Here, down in the basement, by the boiler. One of my men caught a suspicious character who was sneaking down the stairs to the basement and stopped him. They’re still there. I’m on my way over.’
‘I’ll be right there.’ He ran back into the room. ‘Stay here and don’t move. Don’t let anyone in but me.’
He left them to be shocked and scared on their own, and rushed down the stairs two at a time. He reached the lobby just as Hulot was coming in from the street with Morelli behind him. A uniformed cop was guarding the door to the basement.
They went downstairs, guided by the dim light of a series of bulbs set in the wall, protected by grating. All the buildings in Monte Carlo looked alike to Frank. Beautiful exteriors but shoddy on the inside, where most people couldn’t see. It was hot down there and it reeked of dustbins.
The agent led the way. A policeman crouched beside a man sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall with his hands tied behind him. The policeman had a pair of infrared glasses for night vision on top of his head.
‘Everything okay, Thierry?’
‘Here he is, inspector, I-’
‘Christ!’
Frank’s shout interrupted the policeman.
The man sitting on the ground was the redheaded reporter, the one he had seen outside police headquarters when Yoshida’s body had been discovered. The same one who had been standing in front of Jean-Loup’s house that morning.
‘This guy’s a reporter, damn it!’
The journalist took advantage of the moment to make his voice heard.
‘You’re damn right, I’m a reporter. René Coletti of France Soir. I’ve been telling this blockhead that for the last ten minutes. If he had let me get my press card out of my pocket, we could have avoided all this aggravation.’
Hulot was fuming. He crouched down beside Coletti. Frank was afraid he would punch him in the face. If he had, Frank would have defended him before any court.
‘This wouldn’t have happened if you’d stayed out of police business, you stupid jerk. And by the way, you’re in deep shit.’
‘Oh, really? And what’s the charge?’
‘For now, obstruction of a police investigation. We’ll find something else in time. We’re already busting a gut here without you media people making things worse.’ Hulot stood up. He nodded to the two cops. ‘Get him up and take him away.’
They picked Coletti off the floor. Muttering to himself about the power of the press, the reporter managed to stand. He had a graze on his forehead from when he had scraped the wall. The lens had fallen off the camera around his neck.
Frank grasped Hulot’s arm.
‘Nicolas, I’m going back up.’
‘Go on. I’ll deal with this idiot.’
Frank went back upstairs. He felt disappointment grinding in his stomach. All their work – waiting at the radio studio, struggling to decipher the message, all the men stationed there – was useless because of that stupid reporter with his camera. It was his fault if their presence was revealed. If the killer really had meant to get Roby Stricker, he must have changed his mind by now. Okay, they had avoided another murder, but they had also lost any chance of catching him.
When the lift door slid open at the fifth floor, Frank knocked at Stricker’s door.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me. Frank.’
The door opened and Frank walked in. Roby Stricker would have to spend many hours on the beach or at a tanning salon to get rid of his pallor. Malva Reinhart didn’t look any better. She was sitting on the couch and her eyes seemed even bigger and more violet against her ashen skin.
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Did you arrest anyone?’
‘Yes, but not the one we’re looking for.’
Just then the walkie-talkie buzzed. Frank took it off his belt. After his rush down the stairs he was surprised he still even had it.
‘Yeah?’
He heard Hulot’s voice and did not like the sound of it at all.
‘It’s Nicolas. I’ve got some bad news.’
‘How bad?’
‘Very bad. No One screwed us, Frank. All the way. Roby Stricker wasn’t his target at all.’ Frank knew this would be harsh. ‘They just found the body of Gregor Yatzimin, the ballet dancer. Same condition as the other three.’
‘Shit! I’ll be downstairs in a minute.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Frank gripped his walkie-talkie and for a moment he was tempted to hurl it at the wall. He felt the fury well up in him like volcanic lava. Stricker approached him at the front door. He was so nervous that he didn’t even notice the state Frank was in.
‘What’s happening?’
‘I have to go.’
The young man looked at him, stunned.
‘Again? What about us?’
‘You’re not in any danger. You weren’t the target.’
‘What? I wasn’t the target?’ Relief cut the strings of his tension and he slumped against the wall.
‘No. There has been another victim.’
The certainty that he had escaped from death helped Stricker’s transition from fear to indignation.
‘Are you telling me that you practically gave us heart failure by mistake? While you were hanging around here showing off how great you are, that guy was going around killing someone else? You fucking incompetent idiots. When my father hears about this he’ll…’
Frank listened in silence to the beginning of his outburst. He was right. There was an element of truth in what Stricker was saying. No One had made fools of them all over again. But they were being duped by someone who took risks, who went out and fought his battles, evil as he was. Frank couldn’t let that good-for-nothing tell him off, after all they had done to try to save his miserable existence. The ice inside Frank suddenly turned to steam and he exploded with all his might. He grabbed Stricker by the balls and squeezed hard.
‘Listen, you piece of shit…’ Stricker paled and fell back against the wall, turning his head to one side to avoid Frank’s flaming eyes. ‘If you don’t shut your fucking mouth, I’ll make you see your own teeth without your having to look in the mirror.’ He squeezed Stricker’s testicles harder and the young man grimaced in pain. Frank went on in the same hissing voice. ‘If I had anything to say about it, I’d be glad to hand you over to that butcher, you toerag. Fate’s been too good to you. Don’t flaunt it and go looking for trouble.’
He let go. Stricker’s face slowly returned to its normal colour. Frank saw that there were tears in his eyes.
‘I’m going now. I’ve got more important things to do. Get rid of that whore you’ve got in there and wait right here for me. We’ve got some stuff to talk about, you and I. You’ll have to clear up a few things about the people you hang out with here in Monte Carlo.’ Frank backed away from Stricker who slowly slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. He put his head in his hands and started to cry. ‘And if you want to call Daddy in the meantime, go right ahead.’
Frank turned and opened the door. As he waited for the lift, he regretted the fact that he hadn’t been able to ask Stricker about one person in particular. He was about to do so when Nicolas had called.
He’d be back later on. He wanted to find out the person Roby and Malva had been talking to when they had stopped them in front of Jimmy’z, the man who had melted into the night when he saw them drive up. Frank wanted to know why Roby Stricker had been talking to Captain Ryan Mosse, US Army.
The trip to Gregor Yatzimin’s home seemed to take for ever, yet no time at all. Frank sat in the passenger seat staring straight ahead, listening to what Hulot was telling him. His face was a mask of silent fury.
‘You know who Gregor Yatzimin is, I suppose.’ Frank’s silence showed that he did. ‘He lives – lived – here in Monte Carlo and was the artistic director of the ballet company. He was having problems with his eyesight recently.’
Frank suddenly exploded, interrupting as if he had not heard what Hulot had just said.
‘I realized how stupid we were as soon as I heard the name. We should’ve anticipated that the bastard would step it up. The first clue, A Man and a Woman, was relatively easy because it was the first one. He had to give us a method. “Samba Pa Ti” was more complicated. The third one obviously had to be harder still, but he even told us that much, too.’
Hulot could not follow the American’s line of reasoning. ‘What do you mean, he told us?’
‘The loop, Nicolas. The loop that goes round and round and round. The dog chasing its tail. He did it on purpose.’
‘Did what on purpose?’
‘He gave us a clue with a double meaning so it could be misunderstood. He made us spin around on our asses. He knew we’d get Roby Stricker from the deejay’s English name and the No Nukes disco. And while we had every cop in the Principality falling over themselves to protect that little creep, we gave the killer complete freedom to strike his next victim.’
Hulot took up the baton.
‘Gregor Yatzimin, the Russian ballet dancer who was going blind from radiation he was exposed to in Chernobyl in 1986. “Dance” didn’t mean discos, it meant ballet. And “Nuclear Sun” was the radioactivity in Ukraine.’
‘Right. We were completely naive. We should’ve realized that it couldn’t be that easy. And now we have another corpse on our conscience.’ Frank rammed his fist against the glove compartment. ‘Motherfucker!’
Hulot knew what Frank was going through. He felt the same way. He, too, wanted to hit something. Preferably that bastard’s face, again and again until he had the same bloody mask as his victims. He and Frank were both cops with a great deal of experience, and neither was stupid. But now they felt that their adversary had them exactly where he wanted them and could move them as easily as pawns on a chessboard.
Unfortunately, like a good doctor, no conscientious cop ever dwells on the number of lives he has saved, only those he has lost. The praise and blame of the media, and superiors, and society have nothing to do with it. It’s a personal matter, one each cop faces every morning in the mirror.
The car came to a stop in front of an elegant building on Avenue Princesse Grace, not far from the Jardin Japonais. It was the usual scene, one they had met with far too often recently and had hoped not to see again that night. Forensics and the medical examiner were already parked in front of the building. A few uniformed police officers were standing guard at the front door and several media people were already on the scene. More would arrive shortly. Hulot and Frank got out of their car and headed over to Morelli who was waiting for them at the door. His expression was all they needed in order to complete the picture of general outrage and frustration.
‘What do we have, Morelli?’ asked Hulot as they entered the building together.
‘The usual. A skinned face, the words I kill… in blood. Same as the others, pretty much.’ Morelli waved a hand at the lift.
‘What do you mean, pretty much?’
‘This time the victim wasn’t stabbed. He shot him before he-’
‘He shot him?’ Frank interrupted. ‘A gun makes a lot of noise in the middle of the night. Someone must have heard it.’
‘Nothing. Nobody heard anything.’
The lift doors slid open without a sound.
‘Top floor,’ Morelli said to Hulot, who was about to press the button.
‘Who found the body?’
‘Yatzimin’s assistant. Or assistant and confidant. Might also be his lover. He had been out with a group of the victim’s friends, ballet dancers from London, I think. Yatzimin hadn’t felt up to it and insisted that they go without him.’
They stepped out at the top floor to see the door to Gregor Yatzimin’s apartment wide open and all the lights on, in the typical commotion of a crime scene. The forensic people were at work while Hulot’s men were meticulously inspecting the place.
‘Over here.’
Morelli led the way. They walked through the luxurious, understated but glamorous apartment. They reached the door of what was probably the bedroom just as the medical examiner was coming out. Hulot saw with relief that it was Coudin and not Lassalle. The bosses must be very worried if they had sent the top guy. He could imagine the phone calls going on back in the trenches.
‘Good morning, Inspector Hulot.’
‘You’re right, doctor. Good morning,’ Nicolas said, realizing the time. ‘What’ve you got?’
‘Nothing much. As far as the investigation is concerned, I mean. This homicide is completely different to the other three. If you want to take a look…’
They followed Frank, who had already gone in. Once again, they were horrified by the scene. They had all seen the like before, with different methods and in other situations, and yet it was impossible to get used to.
Gregor Yatzimin was lying on the bed, his hands crossed over his chest in the usual position of a dead body. If it were not for his grotesquely mutilated face, he would have looked like a corpse laid out by an undertaker before the funeral. On the wall was the usual mocking message written in blood and fury.
I kill…
They stood in silence before the corpse. Another body. Another murder without motive or explanation, except in the sick mind of the person who had committed the crime. Their anger was a searing blade, sharp as the murderer’s, twisting inside a painful wound.
Sergeant Morelli’s voice shook them from their trance. ‘Something’s different.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s just a feeling, but this isn’t frenzied like the other murders. There isn’t blood everywhere, and there’s no ferocity. Even the position of the body. It’s almost as if there’s… respect… for the victim. That’s what’s different.’
‘You mean the beast can feel pity?’
‘I don’t know. It’s probably bullshit, but that’s what I felt when I came in.’
‘You’re right.’ Frank placed a hand on Morelli’s shoulder. ‘This one is different from the others. What you’re saying isn’t bullshit. It’s the first thing that’s made any sense tonight.’
They glanced at the corpse of Gregor Yatzimin, the eternal dancer, the ‘mute swan’ as critics all over the world called him. Even in that funereal pose, horribly disfigured, he still looked graceful, as if his talent had remained intact even in death.
‘Well, what have you found, Doctor Coudin?’ asked Hulot, with little hope.
The medical examiner shrugged. ‘There isn’t much. Aside from the mutilation, which I think was done with a fairly sharp instrument, a scalpel most likely, there’s nothing to see. We have to examine the wounds on his face in a more appropriate setting. Although, at first glance, I’d say it was done with considerable skill.’
‘Our friend has had some practise.’
‘Cause of death was a firearm, shot at close range. Again, I can only speculate for the moment, but it was large, something like a nine-calibre. A single shot to the heart, almost instantaneous death. From the body temperature, I’d say it was a couple of hours ago.’
‘While we were wasting our breath on that jerk Stricker,’ Frank muttered.
Hulot looked at him in agreement.
‘I’m finished here,’ said Coudin. ‘You can take away the body, as far as I’m concerned. I’ll let you know the results of the autopsy as soon as possible.’
Hulot had no doubt about that. They had probably lit a fire under Coudin’s backside. And that was nothing compared to what he could expect.
‘Fine, doctor. Thank you. Good morning.’
The medical examiner looked at the inspector to see if he was being sarcastic. He met only the dull gaze of a defeated man.
‘You too, inspector,’ he called over his shoulder as he left the apartment. ‘Good luck.’ They both knew how much he needed it.
At Hulot’s nod, two men went into the bedroom with a body bag.
‘Let’s talk to this assistant, Morelli.’
‘I’ll have a look around in the meantime,’ said Frank, pensively.
Hulot followed Morelli to the end of the hall to the right of the bedroom. The apartment was divided into living and sleeping space. They went through rooms covered with posters and images of the apartment’s unfortunate owner. Gregor Yatzimin’s assistant was sitting in the kitchen with a policeman.
His eyes were red; he had obviously been crying. He was practically a boy, a delicate type with pale skin and sandy hair. A box of tissues and a glass with amber-coloured liquid were on the table in front of him.
He stood up when he saw them.
‘I’m Inspector Nicolas Hulot. Sit down, please, Mr…?’
‘Boris Devchenko. I’m Gregor’s assistant. I…’ He spoke French with a heavy Slavic accent. Tears came to his eyes again and he sat back down. He bent his head and reached for a tissue without looking. ‘I’m sorry, but what happened is so horrible.’
‘There’s no reason to apologize,’ Hulot reassured him, pulling up a chair and sitting down. ‘Mr Devchenko, try to calm yourself, if you can. I need to ask you a few questions.’
‘It wasn’t me, inspector.’ Devchenko’s tear-stained face suddenly shot up. ‘I was out with friends. Everyone saw me. I was very attached to Gregor and I could never have… never have done… something like that.’
Hulot felt infinite tenderness for the boy. Morelli was right. They were almost certainly lovers. That changed nothing in his approach. Love was love, however it showed itself. He knew homosexuals who lived their relationships with a delicacy of feeling that was hard to find in more conventional couples.
‘Don’t worry, Boris.’ He smiled. ‘Nobody’s accusing you of anything. I just need some information to help us understand what happened here tonight. That’s all.’
Boris Devchenko seemed to relax at the knowledge that he was not a suspect.
‘Some friends arrived from London yesterday afternoon. Roger Darling, the choreographer, was supposed to come too, but at the last minute he had to stay in England. Gregor was supposed to dance the role of the adult Billy Elliot, but then his vision got worse, suddenly.’ Hulot remembered seeing the movie with Céline. ‘I went to pick them up at the airport in Nice. We came here and had dinner at home. Then we suggested going out, but Gregor didn’t feel up to it. He changed so much when his eyesight got worse.’
He looked at the inspector who nodded, confirming that he knew the story of Gregor Yatzimin. Exposure to the Chernobyl radiation had caused irreversible degeneration of the optic nerve, which had led to total blindness. His career was cut short when he could no longer move across the stage without assistance.
‘We went out and left him alone. If I had stayed at home he might still be alive.’
‘Don’t blame yourself. There’s nothing you could have done in a case like this.’ Hulot did not point out that, if he had stayed at home, there might be two bodies instead of one. ‘Did you notice anything unusual over the last few days? Someone you saw on the street a little too often? A strange phone call? Anything out of the ordinary? Anything at all?’
Devchenko was much too upset to hear the desperation in Hulot’s voice.
‘No, nothing. I was taking care of Gregor all the time and it took all my energy. Caring for a blind man is extremely tiring.’
‘Any servants?’
‘None that lived in. The cleaning woman comes every day, but she leaves in the middle of the afternoon.’
Hulot looked at Morelli.
‘Get her name. Although I doubt it’ll get us anywhere. Mr Devchenko…’ The inspector’s voice softened as he turned back to the boy. ‘We’ll have to ask you to come to headquarters to sign a statement and remain available to help us. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t leave the city.’
‘Of course, inspector. Anything to make sure that whoever killed Gregor pays for what he did.’
From the way he said those words, Hulot was confident that Boris Devchenko would have risked his life to save Gregor Yatzimin, had he been there at the time. And that he would have died for it. Hulot stood up and left the young man to grieve with Morelli. He returned to the living room where the forensic people were finishing up. The two policemen came over to him.
‘Inspector…’
‘What is it?’
‘We questioned the neighbours below. Nobody heard anything.’
‘But there was a shot.’
‘It’s an elderly couple directly below. They take sleeping pills at night. They told me they don’t even hear the fireworks for the Grand Prix, so they wouldn’t have heard a shot. There’s another elderly woman who lives alone in the apartment opposite theirs, but she’s away right now and her grandson from Paris is there. A young guy about twenty-two. He was out all night clubbing. He came back as we were ringing the bell. He didn’t see or hear anything, obviously.’
‘And the apartment opposite this one?’
‘Vacant. We woke the doorman and he gave us the keys. The killer probably got in through there, climbing over the balcony that’s connected to this apartment. But there are no signs of a forced entry. We didn’t want to contaminate anything, so we didn’t go in. Forensics will go over there as soon as they finish in here.’
‘Good,’ said Hulot.
Frank returned from his tour of inspection. Hulot realized that he wanted to be alone for a while to cool off. And to think. He knew that they wouldn’t find any real trace of the killer in the apartment. Instead, he was analysing by instinct, letting his unconscious flow over what the crime scene conveyed, aside from normal sensorial perception. Just then, Morelli came out of the kitchen.
‘Your intuition was right, Morelli.’ They looked at Frank in silence, waiting for him to continue. ‘Aside from a few stains on the bedspread, there’s no trace of blood anywhere in the house. Not a trace. But a job like this produces a lot of blood. As we have seen.’
Frank was back to normal. The night’s defeat seemed to have had no effect on him, although Nicolas knew that it had taken its toll. It could hardly be otherwise. Nobody could forget so soon that he could have saved a life and didn’t.
‘Our man cleaned the house perfectly after doing what he did. A luminal test will show the bloodstains.’
‘But why? Why didn’t he want to leave any blood?’
‘I have no idea. Maybe for the reasons Morelli said.’
‘Why would an animal like that feel pity for Gregor Yatzimin? If pity was really the motive?’
‘It doesn’t change anything, Nicolas. It’s possible, but not important. They say that Hitler loved his dog.’
They fell silent, moving towards the entrance. Through the open door, they could see the assistant medical examiner sealing Yatzimin’s body in a green canvas body bag. They were taking it into the lift to avoid carrying the body down six flights of stairs.
Outside, dawn was breaking. It would be a new day, like all the others they had seen since this story had begun. There would be a sea of reporters in front of Gregor Yatzimin’s building. They would step out into the volley of questions like cannon fire and answer with a flurry of ‘no comments’. The media would go wild again. Hulot’s superiors would explode once more. Roncaille would lose a little more of his tan and Durand’s face would turn green. As they walked down the stairs, Frank Ottobre felt that if anyone blamed them, they deserved it.
Frank had left the inspector and Morelli to face the onslaught of reporters who were swarming around the new murder like flies to shit. When they’d spotted Hulot and the sergeant through the car windows, they started pressing up against the police barricades and the officers on duty had difficulty holding them back. It was a repeat of the scene at the harbour when the bodies of Jochen Welder and Arianna Parker had been discovered and the whole nasty business had begun.
The reporters reminded Frank of locusts. They moved in swarms and consumed everything in their path. True, they were only doing their job, but that excuse could be used by anyone. Even the killer, who kept pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes – and they kept following, like sheep. He, too, was doing his job, and Frank hoped he would burn in hell for it.
He had stopped inside the lobby and glanced out of the window at the crowd.
‘Claude, is there a side entrance?’
‘Of course, the service entrance.’
‘Where is it?’
‘The service lift is behind the stairs. Press S and you’ll be in the courtyard next to the ramp that goes to the garage. Turn right, go up the ramp, and you’re on the street.’
Hulot had looked at him, confused. Frank didn’t want to do too much explaining. Not then, anyway.
‘I’ve got a couple of things to do, Nicolas, and I’d like to do it without half the reporters in Europe at my heels. Can I borrow your car?’
‘Sure. Keep it for now. I won’t be needing it.’
Hulot had handed him the keys without another word. The inspector was so tired that he even lacked the strength for curiosity. All three were unshaven and looked as though they had been through a war, all the worse for the fact that they had just lost another battle.
Frank had left them there and followed Morelli’s directions. He had crossed the basement that smelled of mould and oil and reached the street. He had gone over to the car that was parked on the other side of Avenue Princesse Grace, right behind the reporters who were bombarding poor Nicolas with questions. Luckily, nobody had noticed him.
Frank parked Nicolas Hulot’s Peugeot in a no-parking zone in front of Roby Stricker’s building. He took the POLICE ON DUTY sign out of the glove compartment and placed it on the rear window under the windscreen wiper. A cop walked towards him as he was getting out of the car, but he saw the sign and raised a hand to show that everything was okay. Frank answered with a nod, crossed the street, and headed over to Les Caravelles.
He pushed the glass doors and went into the building. The doorman was not at his post. Looking at his watch, Frank saw that it was exactly 7 a.m. He fought back a yawn. The lack of sleep was beginning to get to him. First the radio station, then the hunt for Roby Stricker, then standing guard at his house. The hope, the disappointment and, finally, the new murder, the disfigured body of Gregor Yatzimin.
Outside, the sky and sea were tinged with the blue of a new day. How he would have liked to forget everything and relax in his comfortable Parc Saint-Roman apartment, close the shutters and his eyes, and stop thinking about blood and words on walls.
I kill…
He remembered the wall in Yatzimin’s bedroom. If they didn’t stop him, that bastard would never stop. There wouldn’t be enough walls to write on or cemeteries for the dead.
It was not yet time to sleep, even if he could. He still had to clear up the unfinished business with Roby Stricker. He wanted to know how and why Ryan Mosse had got in touch with him, although he could probably guess. He had to know how far the general had got with his investigation and what else the soldiers were planning.
Frank looked around. Just then, the doorman came out of what must have been his apartment, buttoning his jacket. He approached, hurriedly chewing something. Caught in the act of eating his petit déjeuner. He went into the guard box and looked Frank over from behind the glass.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Roby Stricker.’
‘My orders are to say that he’s sleeping.’
Frank pulled out his badge. As he removed it from his jacket, he made sure that the doorman saw the Glock hanging from his belt. ‘This says you can wake him.’
The doorman changed his tune immediately. The saliva he swallowed was harder to get down than that last mouthful of food. He picked up the intercom and punched in the number in a single nervous movement, letting it ring for a long time before pronouncing his verdict.
‘No answer.’
Odd. Stricker couldn’t have slept through those rings. Frank didn’t think he had the balls to skip town. He had scared him badly enough to keep him from doing anything rash. Though if he had taken off, it would be more of a nuisance than a tragedy. If they needed him, that asshole would be very easy to find. Even hidden behind his father’s legal protection.
‘Try again.’
The doorman shrugged.
‘Still no answer.’
Frank had a sudden, terrible premonition. He thrust his hand at the guard.
‘Give me the master key, please.’
‘But I’m not authorized-’
‘I said please. If that’s not enough, I can be less polite.’ Frank’s tone was final. The doorman swallowed nervously. ‘And then go outside and tell the policeman there to come up to Stricker’s apartment.’
The man opened a drawer and gave him a key on a BMW key chain. He shifted his weight as if he were about to get up. ‘Get moving!’ Frank headed towards the lift and pressed the button.
Why aren’t lifts ever there when you need them? And why are they always on the top floor when you’re in a hurry? Damn Murphy and his law…
The door finally slid open and Frank got in, hurriedly pressing the button of Stricker’s floor. In the eternity of that ride, he hoped that he was wrong. He hoped that his sudden suspicion would not become a mocking reality.
When he reached the fifth floor, the lift opened with the same soft whoosh. Frank saw that the door to the playboy’s apartment was ajar. Taking out his Glock, he pushed the barrel against the door to avoid touching the handle.
The hallway was the only thing in order. The living room where he had sat with Stricker and the girl was a complete mess. The curtain of the French door was half torn from the rod and hanging down like a flag at half mast. There was a glass on the floor and the bottle of whisky that Stricker had been drinking from earlier lay shattered on the pearl-grey carpet. The contents had spilled on to the floor, leaving a dark stain. A painting had fallen, revealing a small safe in the wall. The glass had slipped off the table, strangely enough without breaking, and lay on the floor beside the crooked frame. Cushions lay scattered on the floor. There was nobody in the room.
Frank crossed the living room and turned right, down the short hallway that led to the bedroom. On the left, a door opened on to the bathroom. Empty. The room was neat and untouched. He reached the doorway of the bedroom and had to catch his breath.
‘Shit. Shit. Shit. Motherfucking shit,’ he uttered.
Frank stepped forward, careful where he placed his foot. Roby Stricker’s body lay on the marble floor in the centre of the room, in a pool of blood. The entire room seemed covered in it. He was wearing the same shirt he had on when Frank had left, except now it was soaked red and glued to his body. There were a number of stab wounds on his back. His face was heavily bruised and there was a deep cut on his cheek. His mouth was a bloody mess and Frank could see that his left arm, bent at an unusual angle, was broken. Frank leaned over and touched his throat. No pulse. Roby Stricker was dead. Frank jumped up and tears of rage obstructed his vision.
Another one. The same night. Another fucking murder just hours later. He silently damned the world, the day, the night, and his role in the whole thing. Damn Nicolas for involving him. Damn himself for letting him do it. He damned everything he could think of.
He removed the walkie-talkie from his belt, hoping they could pick up his signal. He pressed the button.
‘Frank Ottobre for Nicolas Hulot.’
A crackle, a sputter, and finally the inspector’s voice. ‘Nicolas here. What’s up, Frank?’
‘Now I’m the one who has to give you some bad news, Nick. Really bad.’
‘What the hell happened now?’
‘Roby Stricker’s dead. In his apartment. Murdered.’
Hulot let loose with a string of curses that ordinarily he would seem incapable of pronouncing. Frank knew exactly how he felt. When his anger cooled down, and after a little more crackling, the inspector asked what he wanted to know most.
‘No One?’
‘No, just plain murdered. His face is still there and there’s no writing on the wall.’
‘Describe it.’
‘I’ll tell you what I see at first glance. Death probably wasn’t instantaneous. He was attacked and stabbed. There are signs of a struggle everywhere and blood all over the floor. His murderer thought he was dead and left while he was still alive. It sounds strange, but that poor bastard Roby Stricker accomplished much more as he was dying than he managed to do in his whole life…’
‘Meaning?’
‘Before he died, he wrote the name of his killer on the floor.’
‘Do we know him?’
Frank lowered his voice slightly, as if he wanted to let Hulot digest what he was about to say.
‘I do. If I were you, I would call Durand and have him issue a warrant for the arrest of Ryan Mosse, captain in the US Army.’
The door opened and Morelli entered the small, windowless room and placed a stack of black-and-white photos, still damp from printing, on the grey Formica table where Frank Ottobre and Nicolas Hulot were sitting. Frank leafed through them, chose one, and turned it in the direction of the man in front of him. Leaning forward, he pushed it to the other end of the table.
‘Here we are. Let’s see what this tells you, Captain Mosse.’
Ryan Mosse, sitting handcuffed, lowered his gaze to the photo with complete indifference. He turned his expressionless hazel eyes back to Frank.
‘So what?’
Morelli, who was leaning against the door beside the one-way mirror that covered the entire wall, shifted at the sound of Frank’s voice. On the other side of the mirror were Roncaille and Durand, who had rushed to headquarters at the news of the two new murders and the arrest.
Frank was conducting the interrogation in English and they were both speaking quickly. Morelli missed a word here and there, but he understood enough to realize that this suspect had steel cables instead of nerves. Confronted with the evidence, he was about as emotional as an iceberg. Even the most hardened criminal would give in and start blubbering in a situation like that. This guy made you feel uneasy despite his being handcuffed. Morelli imagined Roby Stricker face-to-face with this guy holding a knife. It was not pretty.
Frank leaned back in his chair.
‘Well, this here on the floor looks like a dead body, right?’
‘So?’ repeated Mosse.
‘So, doesn’t it seem strange to you that your name is written next to the dead body?’
‘You need a good imagination to get my name out of that scribble.’
Frank leaned his elbows on the table. ‘You’d have to be illiterate not to.’
‘What’s wrong, Mr Ottobre?’ Mosse smiled. ‘The stress getting to you?’ It was the smile of a hangman opening the trap door.
And Frank’s smile was that of a condemned man hanged by a rope that had suddenly broken.
‘No, Captain Mosse. The stress got to you last night. I saw you talking to Stricker in front of Jimmy’z when we came for him. You cleared out when you saw us, but not quite fast enough. If you like, I can guess what happened next. You were watching his house and then you waited a little longer after you saw us leave. You saw Stricker’s girlfriend leave, too, and then you went upstairs. You had an argument. The poor guy must have freaked out and then so did you. There was a fight and you knifed him. You thought he was dead and you left, but he had time to write your name on the floor.’
‘You’re hallucinating, Ottobre, and you know it. I don’t know what drugs you’re on, but you’re taking too much. Obviously, you don’t know me very well.’ Mosse’s eyes turned to steel. ‘If I use a knife on someone, I make sure he’s dead before I go.’
‘Maybe you’re losing your touch, Mosse,’ Frank said with a wave of his hand.
‘Okay. At this point I have the right not to answer without a lawyer present. It’s the same law in Europe, isn’t it?’
‘Sure. If you want a lawyer, you’ve got a right to one.’
‘Okay then. Go fuck yourselves, both of you. That’s all I’m saying.’
Mosse closed himself off. His eyes settled on his reflection in the mirror and went blank. Frank and Hulot looked at each other. They would get nothing more out of him. Frank gathered the photos on the table and they got up and went to the door. Morelli opened it to let them through and followed them out of the room.
In the next room, Roncaille and Durand were on edge. Roncaille turned to Morelli. ‘Give us a minute, would you, sergeant?’
‘Sure, I’ll go and get some coffee.’
Morelli left the four of them alone. On the other side of the mirror they could see Mosse, sitting in the middle of the room like a soldier fallen into enemy hands.
Captain Ryan Mosse, US Army, number…
Durand nodded in his direction. ‘A tough nut to crack,’ he said.
‘Worse. A tough nut to crack, who knows he has all the connections he needs. But even if he’s connected to the Holy Ghost, he can’t get out of this one.’
The attorney general took the photos from Frank’s hand and examined them once more.
The image showed Stricker’s body on the marble floor of his bedroom, his right arm bent at a right angle, his hand on the floor. He died writing the word that nailed Ryan Mosse.
‘It’s a little confusing.’
‘Stricker was dying and his left arm was broken.’ He pointed to the arm bent in the unnatural position. Frank remembered the agility Mosse had displayed during their fight. He had experienced it in person. Mosse knew how to break someone’s arm very easily. ‘In the apartment we found some pictures of Stricker playing tennis. He was clearly left-handed. Here, he was writing with his right hand. It’s obviously not his normal handwriting.’
Durand kept staring at the photo, puzzled.
Frank waited. He looked at Hulot, leaning silently against the wall. He, too, was waiting to see what was coming. Durand made up his mind. He finally took the bull by the horns, as though the study of the picture had helped him find the right words.
‘All hell will break loose because of this. The diplomats will be on to it soon and it’ll sound like the start of the Grand Prix. Right now we’re just holding Captain Mosse. If we actually charge him, we’re going to need incontrovertible proof so we don’t end up with egg on our face. The No One affair has already made us look ridiculous enough.’
Durand wanted to emphasize that the prompt arrest of Roby Stricker’s probable killer did not in any way make up for the murder of Gregor Yatzimin, a new slap in the face for the Principality’s police force in charge of the investigation. Frank’s participation was simply a collaboration between investigative bodies, and the main responsibility still fell on the local police. They were the butts of biting newspaper headlines and caustic op-ed pieces by TV commentators.
‘As far as Mosse is concerned,’ said Frank with a shrug, ‘it’s obviously your decision. In my opinion, for what it’s worth, we have more than enough evidence to go forward. We’ve got proof that Ryan Mosse knew Stricker. I saw them myself last night in front of Jimmy’z. There’s his name in the photo. I don’t see what else we need.’
And General Parker?’
Frank had been there when they had gone to pick up the captain that morning at Beausoleil. On reaching the courtyard of the Parker family’s rented house, the first thing Frank had noticed was that, except for a few small details, the house was almost identical to Jean-Loup’ s. He made a quick mental note of it, soon buried by other considerations. He had expected the general to kick up a fuss, but he realized that he had underestimated him. Parker was too smart to create a scene. He was impeccably dressed when he greeted them, as though he had been expecting their visit. When they had asked, he had simply nodded and called Mosse. When the police had told him to accompany them to headquarters, Mosse was visibly tense and had thrown an enquiring glance at the old man. Waiting for orders, sir.
Frank suspected that, if Parker had asked him, Mosse would have exploded in fury at the men who had come to arrest him. The general had simply shaken his head ever so slightly and the tension in Mosse’s body had relaxed. He had held out his wrists and accepted the indignity of handcuffs without a word.
Parker had found a way to be alone with Frank as they were taking Mosse to the car. ‘This is bullshit, Frank, and you know it.’
‘What your man did last night was bullshit, general. Serious bullshit.’
‘I could testify that Captain Mosse never left this house last night.’
‘If you do and they find out it’s not true, not even the President could get you off charges of aiding and abetting and perjury. Nobody in North America would risk protecting you. Want my advice?’
‘Let’s hear it.’
‘If I were you, general, I’d just keep out of it. Captain Mosse is in deep trouble and not even you can get him out. Military tactics provide for situations like these, don’t they? Sometimes you simply have to cut your losses and leave one of your men to his fate.’
‘No one gives me lessons in military tactics. Especially you, Frank. I’ve taken people who were harder than you’ll ever be and torn them to pieces. You’ll just be one more, mark my words.’
‘Everyone’s got to take his chances, general. That’s the rule of war.’
Frank had turned his back and left. On the way out he had seen Helena standing at the living room door, to the right of the hallway. Frank could not help thinking how beautiful she was, with her luminous eyes and skin. Her blonde hair. Their eyes had met as he passed. Frank had noticed that, contrary to his initial impression, her eyes were blue, not grey. And her gaze held all the sorrow of the world.
Driving downtown, Frank had leaned back in his seat, his eyes studying the plastic lining of the ceiling. He had kept trying to erase two overlapping images from his mind. Harriet and Helena. Helena and Harriet. The same eyes. The same sadness.
Frank had tried to think of something else. As they reached headquarters on Rue Notari, he had pondered the general’s mocking words. No One gives me lessons in military tactics. The general didn’t realize all the implications of what he had said. Just then, there was a killer at large who could give lessons to them all.
‘I said, what do you think General Parker will do?’ repeated the attorney general.
Frank was so deep in thought that he had let Durand’s question go unanswered for a little too long.
‘Sorry. I think Parker will do everything in his power to help Mosse, but he won’t throw himself off a cliff. The consulate will surely get into this, but there’s one important fact to be noted. Mosse was arrested by an American FBI agent. We wash our dirty laundry among ourselves and we save face. We’re the country that came up with impeachment, after all, and we’ve never been afraid to use it.’
Durand and Roncaille exchanged glances. He was right. There were no problems there. Durand took his time getting to the point.
‘Your presence here is a guarantee that everyone has the best intentions. Unfortunately, the road to hell is paved with them. Right now, we – and I mean the Principality police – need results. The Roby Stricker case has apparently nothing to do with the killer we’re after.’
Frank felt Nicolas Hulot standing behind him. They both knew what Durand was driving at. There were dark clouds hanging over them. And behind those clouds, there was an axe raised, ready to strike.
‘There was another victim last night. The fourth. We can’t just sit here letting garbage get dumped on our heads. I repeat, your collaboration is greatly appreciated, Frank.’
Politely tolerated, Durand. Only politely tolerated. Why don’t you use the right words, even if I did just hand you General Parker and his thug on a silver platter?
Durand went on in the same vein, dumping the garbage at Hulot’s door.
‘I’m sure you realize that the authorities simply cannot continue to watch a chain of murders like this without taking steps, unpleasant as they might be.’
Frank watched Nicolas. He was leaning against the wall, suddenly alone on the battlefield. He looked like a man refusing a blindfold before a firing squad. Durand had the decency to look him in the eye as he spoke.
‘I’m sorry, inspector. I know you’re an excellent officer, but at this point I have no choice. You are removed from the case.’
‘I understand, Dr Durand,’ Hulot said, nodding simply. He was probably too tired to protest. ‘There won’t be any problems.’
‘You can take a holiday. This case has been extremely wearing for you. The press, of course-’
‘I said there was no problem. There’s no need for you to sugar the pill. We’re all adults and we know the rules of the game. The department must do as it sees fit.’
If Durand was impressed with Hulot’s reply, he did not let on. He turned to Roncaille. Until then, the police chief had listened in silence.
‘Good. You’ll take over the investigation, Roncaille. As of today. Please keep me informed of every development. Any time of day or night. Goodbye, gentlemen.’ And the ever polite attorney general Alain Durand walked away, leaving a silence behind him that he was relieved not to share.
Roncaille ran a hand through his already smooth hair.
‘I’m sorry, Hulot. I would have liked to avoid this.’
The police chief’s words were not just a formality. The man was genuinely sorry, but not for the reasons he wanted them to believe. Now he was in the lion’s cage, and it was up to him to tame the wild beasts.
‘Get some sleep. You both need it. Then I’d like to see you in my office as soon as possible, Frank. There are some details I’d like to discuss with you.’ With the same apparent composure as Durand, Roncaille escaped from the room as well. Frank and Hulot were left alone.
‘See? I hate to say “I told you so,” but I can’t blame them.’
‘Nicolas, I don’t think either Roncaille or Durand could have done any better than we did. This is politics, not reason. But I’m still in it.’
‘You. And what do I have to do with it?’
‘You’re still a police inspector, Nicolas. You were taken off a case, not suspended from the force. And you’ve got something that nobody else on the case has.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Twenty-four hours a day to work on it, without having to account to anyone, without having to waste your time writing reports.’
‘Through the back door, huh?’
‘Right. There’s still something we have to check out, and you seem the best person to do it now. Actually, I don’t think it was I who noticed that record sleeve in the video.’
‘Frank, you’re a son of a bitch. A real son of a bitch.’
‘I’m your friend. And I owe it to you.’
Hulot changed his tone. He stretched his neck to relieve the tension. ‘I think I’ll get some shut-eye. I guess I can now, right?’
‘Yeah, and I can’t have heard Roncaille say he wants to see me “as soon as possible”. I’m practically asleep already.’
Frank rubbed his eyes and looked up at the blue rectangle framed by the window. When he had returned home to his apartment he had been too tired even to shower. He had collapsed on the bed after peeling off his clothes, leaving the shutters open.
I’m not in Monte Carlo, he thought. I’m still in that house on the beach, trying to pull myself together. Harriet is sunbathing next to me, lying on a towel, the wind in her hair and a smile on her face. Now I’m getting up and going to her, and there will be no one dressed in black. There will be no one between us.
‘No One…’ he said aloud.
The two deaths of the night before came back to him and he got up reluctantly. Through the window he could see a strip of sea where gusts of wind had formed whitecaps far offshore. He went over to open the window. A gust of warm air rushed in and swept what was left of the nightmares from the room. He had slept only a few hours and felt as though he could have slept for ever.
He showered, shaved and put on fresh clothes. As he made himself some coffee, he mused over the new developments. Now that Nicolas was out of the game, things would be a lot more complicated. Roncaille wasn’t capable of handling things on his own, at least not from an investigative point of view. He might be a genius at PR and talking to the media, but field investigations were not his cup of tea. Maybe a long time ago they had been, but now he was more politician than cop. However, he had a good team working for him. The Principality’s police force wasn’t considered one of the best in the world for nothing… blah blah blah…
His own presence in Monaco was becoming a diplomatic necessity. As with everything, it had advantages and disadvantages. Frank was sure that Roncaille would try to maximize the first and minimize the second. He was well acquainted with the methods of the Monte Carlo police. Nobody ever said anything, but they knew everything.
Everything except the name of the killer…
He decided not to worry about the police. He had felt that way all along. This was not a joint police investigation. Even if Roncaille and Durand represented authority, it didn’t matter. Neither did America nor the Principality. This was a personal matter between him, Nicolas Hulot and a man dressed in black who collected the faces of his victims in a gory, delirious carnival. All three of them had put their lives on hold, waiting to see how this no-holds-barred struggle between three dead men pretending to be alive would end.
They had to change.
He sat down at the computer and opened an e-mail from Cooper. The attachments held the information he had found on Nathan Parker and Ryan Mosse. It wasn’t much use now that Mosse was in jail and Parker was temporarily harmless. Temporarily, he repeated. He had no illusions about Parker. The general was a man you couldn’t rule out until there were worms in his dead body.
There was a note from Cooper in his e-mail.
Give me a call after you’re done sailing the seas with your new cruiser and have a free second. At any time. I need to talk to you. Coop.
He wondered what was so urgent and looked at his watch. At this hour, he could call him at home. He wouldn’t be disturbing anyone. Cooper lived alone in a loft overlooking the Potomac.
His friend’s sleepy voice answered after a few rings. ‘Hello?’
‘Coop? It’s Frank.’
‘Oh, it’s you. How’s it goin’?’
‘A huge oil tanker just crashed and you wouldn’t believe the size of the spill.’
‘What happened?’
‘Two more murders last night.’
‘Oh, man!’
‘You said it. One was killed according to the usual ritual – he’s the fourth. My friend the inspector was politely kicked off the case. The other guy’s dead thanks to our dear friend Ryan Mosse. They’ ve got him in jail now and the general is raising hell to get him out.’
‘Jesus, Frank.’ Cooper was fully awake now. ‘What the fuck’s going on over there? Next, you’ll tell me it’s nuclear war.’
‘Don’t rule that out. What did you have to tell me that was so urgent?’
‘There’ve been some new developments here. The Larkin case, I mean. The things we’re finding out make us think they’ve got a good cover somewhere, a joint venture with something big. But we don’t know what it is yet. And Hudson McCormack’s in from New York.’
‘Who’s he? What does he have to do with Larkin?’
‘That’s what we want to know. Officially, he’s a lawyer, defence counsel for Osmond Larkin. That surprised us because the bastard could get himself someone better. He has done in the past. This McCormack’s a mediocre thirty-five-year-old attorney from the Big Apple. He’s better known for being on the Stars and Stripes ocean yachting team at the Louis Vuitton Cup than for his legal success.’
‘Checked him out?’
‘Sure. Turned him inside out. Nothing doing. Lives within his means, not a penny more. No vices, no women, no coke. All he cares about besides work is sailing. And now he comes out like a jack-in-the-box to show us what a small world it is.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I mean that right now Hudson McCormack is on his way to Monte Carlo.’
‘Great. This isn’t the best time to visit.’
‘Apparently he’s going for a pretty important regatta. But…’
‘But?’
‘Frank, doesn’t it seem strange that a modest New York lawyer, unknown and unproven, gets the first important case of his career and takes off, even for a few days, to go sailing in Europe? Anyone else would have thrown himself into it 24/7.’
‘When you put it that way… But what’s it got to do with me?’
‘You’re there and you know the story. Right now this guy is Osmond Larkin’s only link to the rest of the world. Maybe he’s just his lawyer, but it might be more than that. There’s a lot of money and a lot of drugs at stake. We all know what goes on in Monte Carlo and the money that goes through there, but in cases of terrorism and drugs we could get a few safes opened. You’re in with the police there – it wouldn’t be difficult for you to have McCormack watched, discreetly and efficiently.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
He didn’t tell Cooper that in Monte Carlo almost everyone, including him, was being discreetly and efficiently watched.
‘I attached a photo of him to the e-mail, and there’s some other info on McCormack’s visit to Monaco.’
‘Okay. Go back to sleep. Guys with low IQs need sleep so their brains can function in the morning.’
‘Thanks, asshole. Break a leg.’
Another lap, another race, another mess. He saved the Hudson McCormack attachment on to a floppy disk without even opening it. He found a label in the drawer and wrote ‘Cooper’.
His brief conversation had taken him home for a moment, although home was an elusive concept. He felt displaced from the ruins of his existence, like an invisible ghost who sees without being seen.
He closed his eyes and in his mind returned to a conversation he had once had with Fr Kenneth, a priest who was also a psychologist at the private clinic where Frank had been admitted after Harriet’s death. When Frank had been pulled down as far as he could go. The time when, if he hadn’t been in therapy or analysis, he’d sat on a bench in the park of that luxury asylum, staring into the void and fighting the desire to follow Harriet. One day, Fr Kenneth had walked silently across the grass and sat down next to him on the bench, wrought-iron with dark wooden slats.
‘How’s it going, Frank?’
Frank had looked at him carefully before answering. He’d studied his long, pale face, that of an exorcist, aware of the contradiction between his role as man of science and man of faith. He hadn’t been wearing his collar and could easily have passed as a relative of any of the patients.
‘I’m not insane, if that’s what you want to hear.’
‘I know you’re not insane and you know that’s not what I was asking. When I asked you how it was going, I really wanted to know how things were going.’
Frank had spread out his arms in a gesture that could mean many things.
‘When do I get out of here?’
Fr Kenneth had answered his question with a question. ‘Are you ready?’
‘If you ask me, I’ll never be ready. That’s why I asked you.’
‘Do you believe in God, Frank?’
He’d turned to the priest with a bitter smile. ‘Please Fr, try to avoid clichés like “Seek God and He will hear you.”’
‘Stop offending my intelligence and, most of all, stop offending yours. If you insist on assigning me a role to play, maybe it’s because you’ve decided to play one yourself. There’s a reason that I asked you if you believe in God.’
Frank had raised his eyes to stare at a gardener who was planting an oak sapling.
‘I don’t care. I don’t believe in God, Fr Kenneth. And that’s not to my advantage, whatever you might think.’ He’d turned to look at him. ‘It means there’s no one to forgive me for the evil that I do.’
And I never thought I had done any. But it turns out, I did a great deal. Bit by bit, I took life away from the person I loved, the person whom I should have protected more than anyone else.
As he slipped on his shoes, the ring of the phone brought him back to the present.
‘Hello.’
‘Frank, it’s Nicolas. Are you out of bed?’
‘Awake and ready for action.’
‘Good. I just phoned Guillaume Mercier, the kid I was telling you about with the video analysis skills. He’s waiting for us. Want to come?’
‘Sure. It might help me face another night at Radio Monte Carlo. Have you read the papers yet?’
‘Yes. They went wild. You know the sort of thing.’
‘Sic transit gloria mundi. Who gives a shit? We’ve got other things to do. Come pick me up.’
‘I’ll be there in two minutes.’
Frank went to put on a clean shirt. The intercom rang as he was unbuttoning the collar.
‘Monsieur Ottobre? There’s someone here to see you.’
At first Frank thought that Nicolas was being literal when he said two minutes. ‘I know, Pascal. Tell him I need another minute and to come up if he doesn’t want to wait downstairs.’
As he slipped on the shirt, he heard the lift stop at his floor. He went to open the door and found her outside.
Helena Parker was standing in front of him, with her blue-grey eyes that were meant to reflect starlight, not pain. She was in the shadow of the hallway, looking at him. Frank was holding his shirt open over his bare chest. It was the scene with Dwight Bolton, the consul, all over again, except that the woman’s eyes lingered over the scars on his chest before moving up again to his face. He hurriedly buttoned up his shirt.
‘Hello, Mr Ottobre.’
‘Hello. Sorry I’m not dressed. I thought you were someone else.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Helena’s brief smile resolved any awkwardness. ‘I suspected that from the doorman’s answer. May I come in?’
‘If you like.’
Frank stood aside to let her in. Helena entered, brushing him with one arm and a delicate perfume, soft as a memory. For an instant, the room was filled with nothing but her.
Her eyes fell on the Glock that Frank had placed on the table next to the stereo. Frank quickly hid it in a drawer.
‘I’m sorry that’s the first thing you had to see.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I grew up surrounded by weapons.’
Frank had a brief image of Helena as a child in the home of Nathan Parker, the inflexible soldier whom fate had dared to cross by giving him two daughters.
‘I can imagine.’
Frank felt slightly uncomfortable. The presence of this woman in his apartment was a source of questions for which Frank was unprepared. Nathan Parker and Ryan Mosse were his real concern – they were people with voices, weight, feet that left tracks and arms that could strike. Until then, Helena had been a silent presence, nothing more. A mournful beauty. Frank was not interested in the reason she was there and hoped there was no reason in particular. He interrupted the silence with a voice that sounded harsher than he had intended.
‘There must be a reason you’re here.’
Helena Parker had eyes and hair and a face and a smell, and Frank turned his back on her as he tucked his shirt into his trousers, as if turning his back on everything she represented. Her voice came from behind him as he slipped on his jacket.
‘Of course. I need to talk to you. I’m afraid I need your help. That is, if anyone can help me.’
When he turned around again, Frank had shielded himself with a pair of dark glasses.
‘My help? You live in the house of one of the most powerful men in America and you need my help?’
‘I don’t live in my father’s house. I’m a prisoner in my father’s house.’ A bitter smile flitted over Helena Parker’s lips.
‘Is that why you’re so afraid of him?’
‘There are many reasons to be afraid of Nathan Parker. But I’m not afraid for myself. I’m worried about Stuart.’
‘Stuart is your son?’
Helena hesitated a moment. ‘Yes, my son. He’s the problem.’
‘And what does that have to do with me?’
Without warning, the woman went over to him, raised her hands and removed his Ray-Bans. She looked into his eyes with an intensity that pierced Frank harder than the sharpest knife Ryan Mosse could ever find.
‘You’re the first person I’ve ever seen who can stand up to my father. If anyone can help me, it’s you.’
Before Frank could say anything, the cordless phone rang again. He picked it up with the relief of someone who finally has a weapon to wield against an enemy.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Nicolas. I’m downstairs.’
‘Okay, I’m coming down.’
‘This probably isn’t a good time,’ Helena sighed, handing him back his sunglasses.
‘I have to do a few things right now. I’ll be out late and I don’t know-
‘You know where I live. You can come see me whenever you like, even if it’s late.’
‘Do you think Nathan Parker would appreciate a visit from me?’
‘My father’s in Paris. He went to speak to the ambassador and to find a lawyer for Captain Mosse.’ A brief pause. ‘He took Stuart with him as… as a companion. That’s why I’m here alone.’
For a moment, Frank thought she was going to use the word hostage. Maybe that’s what she had meant.
‘Okay. But I have to go now. There are a number of reasons why I don’t want the person downstairs to see us leaving together. Would you mind waiting a couple of minutes before going down?’
Helena nodded. The last thing he saw before he closed the door were her shining eyes and the suggestion of a smile, with all the bitterness gone.
As he rode down in the lift, Frank looked at himself in the artificial light of the mirror. The reflection of his wife’s face was still in his eyes. There was no room for others, for other eyes, other hair, other pain. And, most of all, he did could not help anyone – and no one could help him.
He went out though the glass doors and crossed the marble lobby of Parc Saint-Roman into the sunlight. Hulot was waiting for him in his car. There was a pile of newspapers on the back seat. The top headline read ‘My Name Is No One’, with references to the bluffing game of the night before. The other headlines were probably similar. Nicolas didn’t seem to have slept any better than Frank.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey, Nick. Sorry to make you wait.’
‘That’s okay. Did anyone call you?’
‘Total silence. I don’t think your department is dying to see me, even though Roncaille is officially expecting me for a briefing.’
‘You’ll have to check in sooner or later.’
‘Of course. For more reasons than one. But meanwhile, we have some private business to take care of.’
Hulot started the car and drove down the short driveway to the plaza where he could make a U-turn. ‘I stopped in at the office. One of the things I took from my desk was the original videotape, which was still there. I left the copy in its place.’
‘Think they’ll notice?’
‘I can always say I made a mistake,’ Hulot said with a shrug. ‘I don’t think it’s too serious. It’ll be a lot worse if they find out we have a lead and haven’t told them about it.’
All Frank saw when they drove back past the glass doors of Parc Saint-Roman was a reflection of the sky. He turned his head to look out the rear window. As the car turned right on to Rue des Giroflées, he had a fleeting vision of Helena Parker leaving the building.
Guillaume Mercier was waiting in the garden when they reached his house in Eze-sur-Mer. As soon as he saw the Peugeot drive up, he pressed the remote on the gate and it opened slowly. Behind him was a white single-storey house. It had a dark roof and blue shutters with a Provençal look. Nothing fancy, but solid and functional.
The garden was quite large. On the right, past the house, there was a tall pine tree surrounded by a cluster of small evergreens. Beyond the shadow of the tree were some yellow and white lantana in full bloom, planted around a lemon tree. Laurel bushes ran around the property, over the grating set into the top of the wall, thus hiding the view from the road completely. Flower beds and bushes were clambering everywhere, contrasting skilfully with the neatly mowed lawn and flagstone footpath that matched the patio where Guillaume was standing. The house had a calm, peaceful air about it, a sense of comfort without the ostentation that often seemed obligatory on the Côte d’Azur.
Inside the gate, Hulot turned right and parked the car under a wooden carport next to a Fiat and a large motorcycle, a BMW Enduro.
Guillaume walked over to them with a lanky gait. He was an athletic-looking guy with a pleasant if not handsome face, and the muscular arms and sun-bleached hair of someone who plays outdoor sports. He was wearing a sky-blue T-shirt over khaki Bermuda cargo shorts and had on yellow sailing shoes without socks.
‘Hello, Nicolas.’
‘Hi, Guillaume.’ The boy shook the inspector’s hand and Nicolas nodded towards his companion. ‘This strong silent type is Frank Ottobre, FBI special agent.’
Guillaume put out his hand and pretended to whistle. ‘So the FBI actually exists – not just in the movies. Nice to meet you.’
As he shook the kid’s hand, Frank felt relieved. He looked into his eyes, dark and deep-set in a face freckled by the sun. He could tell that Guillaume was the right guy for the job. He had no idea if he was any good, but he knew he’d keep his mouth shut if they asked nicely and told him the seriousness of the situation.
‘That’s right, we’re very important in American movies and culture. And now we’ve gone global, as you can see.’
Guillaume smiled, but the grin barely masked his curiosity. He had probably guessed that they were there for something very important, since Nicolas Hulot had come as a policeman, not a friend of the family.
‘Thanks for helping us out.’
Guillaume nodded, shrugged his shoulders as if to say ‘don’t mention it’, and led the way.
‘I don’t have much work right now. I’m editing a couple of underwater documentaries. Easy stuff. Doesn’t take much time. And I could never say no to this man here.’ He pointed his thumb at the inspector.
‘You said your parents are out?’
‘Out? Out of their minds is more like it. After Dad stopped working, they blew on the embers and found out there was still some life in there. They’re on their tenth honeymoon, or something like that. Last time they called, it was from Rome. They should be back tomorrow.’
They continued along the flagstone path, crossed the neat green lawn and reached the side entrance. To their right was a wooden gazebo with a blue canvas roof over a patio table. The remains of a dinner, most likely from the night before, were still on the table. ‘While the cat’s away the mice play, I see.’
Guillaume followed Nicolas’s gaze and shrugged. ‘Some friends came over last night and the cleaning woman didn’t show up today.’
‘Friends, eh? I’m a cop. Think I can’t see the table’s set for two?’
Guillaume opened his arms wide to say that anything was possible.
‘Listen, old man. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, and I’m not tempted by any artificial paradise. Can’t I have a little fun?’
He slid open the wooden door and invited them in. He followed and closed the door behind him. Once inside, Hulot felt the cool air through his light jacket. ‘Chilly in here.’
Guillaume pointed to the equipment lining the wall opposite, where two air-conditioners were humming.
‘This stuff is sensitive to heat, so I have to keep the air on high. If your rheumatism’s acting up, I can lend you one of Dad’s winter coats.’
Nicolas grabbed his neck and gave him a bear hug.
‘Respect your elders or what you’ll hear cracking will be your neck, not my joints.’
Guillaume raised his arms in surrender.
‘Okay, okay. I give up.’
When Hulot let go, Guillaume collapsed on to a leather armchair in front of the machines. He smoothed down his ruffled hair and waved them on to the couch against the wall between the two windows. He pointed an accusing finger at Nicolas. ‘Don’t forget that I surrendered only out of respect for your age.’
Hulot sat down and leaned back against the padded cushions of the couch, pretending to be out of breath. ‘Thank goodness. Between you and me, you might be right about the rheumatism.’
Guillaume spun around in his chair and faced Frank and Hulot. His expression was suddenly serious.
Good, thought Frank. The boy knows when enough is enough.
He was even more convinced that this was the right person. Now he just hoped that Guillaume was an expert, like Nicolas said he was. He had other hopes as well. Now that they were coming to the point, Frank realized that his heart was beating faster. He looked out the window for a moment at the the dappled sunlight below the swaying lemon tree. The peace and quiet of that place made everything seem far away.
His mind momentarily reflected on his own story, and Helena’s, and that of a general who refused to lose at any cost, of an inspector who wanted only to find a reason for outliving his son, of an insatiable killer acting out his madness and ferocity. If only it were all so far away.
‘Have you been following the No One story?’ Frank asked, returning to the present. His voice barely rose above the sound of the air-conditioning.
Guillaume eased back in his chair.
‘The murders in Monaco, you mean? Who hasn’t? I listen to the programme every night on Radio Monte Carlo or Europe 2. Their ratings must be incredible by now.’
Frank turned back to the garden. A faint breeze rustled the laurel bushes against the wall.
‘Yeah. Five people have been killed. Four of them were horribly defaced. And we haven’t made much progress because we don’t have the faintest idea of who the killer might be or how to stop him. Aside from the little information he gave us himself, that madman hasn’t left the slightest clue. Except perhaps for one tiny detail.’
His pause gave Nicolas the floor. The inspector sat up on the edge of the couch and handed Guillaume the videotape he pulled from his jacket pocket.
‘This is really the only trace we have. There’s something on this tape that we want you to look at for us. It’s very important, Guillaume, and people’s lives may depend on it. So we need your help and your discretion. This is confidential. Absolutely confidential. Do you understand?’
Nodding gravely, Guillaume took the cassette from Hulot and held it in his hand as if it might explode.
‘What’s on this?’
Frank looked at him carefully. There was no irony in the boy’s voice.
‘You’ll see. But I have to warn you that it’s not easy to watch. Just so you know what to expect.’
Guillaume said nothing. He got up and went over to draw the curtains to keep the glare off the screen. In the deep-gold diffused light he sat back down and turned on the flat screen and the computer monitor. He inserted the tape and the coloured bars appeared on the screen, then the first images.
As Guillaume took in the scene of Allen Yoshida’s murder, Frank decided to let him watch the whole thing. He could have skipped directly to the point that interested him without any further explanation, but now that he knew him, he wanted the boy to understand who they were dealing with and how important his own role was. He wondered whether Guillaume felt the same horror that he, Frank, had when he had seen it for the first time. He had to admit in spite of himself that the movie was a sort of diabolical work of art, for the purpose of destruction not creation, and yet it did convey emotion.
A minute later, Guillaume reached out and paused the tape. The killer and his bloodied victim were stopped in the position that fate and the camera had dictated.
‘Is this real or fake?’ he asked in a low voice, looking at them wide-eyed.
‘Unfortunately it’s very real. I told you it wasn’t pretty.’
‘Yes, but this butchery is beyond belief. How can this be possible?’
‘It’s possible. It really happened, as you can see for yourself. And we’re trying to stop this butchery, as you rightly call it.’
Frank could see two dark patches of sweat under the boy’s arms that hadn’t been there before. He was sweating despite the cold in the room, a physical reaction to what he had just seen.
Death is hot and cold, both at the same time. Death is sweat and blood. Death is unfortunately our only true reminder that life really exists. Come on, kid. Don’t let us down.
As if he could hear Frank’s thoughts, Guillaume leaned back his chair with a little squeak, as if to get further away from the images he was seeing. He pressed the button and the figures resumed their dance, up to the mocking final bow and the ending static. Guillaume stopped the tape.
‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.
Frank could tell from his voice that he wished he were elsewhere; he wished he had not just seen that figure of death and his surreal bow, soliciting the applause of an audience of the damned. Frank went over and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
‘Rewind it, but slowly so we can see.’
Guillaume turned a wheel and the images started flowing swiftly in reverse. In spite of the rapid backward motion, usually an entertaining caricature of human movement, the vision lost none of its horror.
‘Here, slow down. Now stop.’
At Guillaume’s careful touch, the image stopped a few frames too soon. ‘Go forward, just a little bit. Very slowly now.’
Guillaume moved the handle gently and the film advanced frame by frame like a series of overlapping photographs.
‘Stop!’ Frank stood next to Guillaume and pointed at the screen, touching it with his finger. ‘There, right there, on the cabinet. There’s something leaning there that looks like a record sleeve. We can’t see that. Can you isolate it and enlarge it so we can read what it says?’
Guillaume moved over to the computer on his desk, still looking where Frank was pointing.
‘I can try. Is this the original or a copy?’
‘It’s the original.’
‘Good. VHS isn’t the greatest support, unless it’s the original. First I’ll have to make a digital image. We’ll lose a little quality, but I can work better that way.’
His voice was steady and calm. Now that he was in his element, Guillaume seemed to have overcome his shock. He started clicking the mouse at the computer screen. The same image that was in front of Frank appeared on the monitor. Guillaume typed for a second and the image grew clearer.
‘Okay. Now, let’s see what happens if we highlight that part.’
He used his mouse to draw a square with a broken line around the part of the frame that Frank had indicated. Guillaume pressed a button on his keyboard and the screen was filled with an electronic mosaic of coloured pixels.
‘You can’t see anything.’ The words escaped Frank’s lips and he immediately regretted them.
Guillaume turned to him and raised his eyebrows. ‘Keep calm, ye of little faith. We’ve only just begun.’
He typed a flurry of commands and an image appeared on the monitor, sharp enough to make out a dark record sleeve. In the centre of the picture was the silhouette of a man playing a trumpet. He was bending backwards in the stance of a musician reaching an impossibly high note, to his own and the audience’s amazement. It was the supreme moment, when an artist forgets time and place and is possessed by music itself, as both its victim and executioner. The white letters below the picture read:
Robert Fulton-Stolen Music.
Frank said the words on the screen aloud, as if he were the only one in the room who knew how to read. ‘Robert Fulton – Stolen Music. What does that mean?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Nicolas, standing behind them now. ‘Have you heard of it, Guillaume?’
The boy continued to stare at the picture on the monitor.
‘Never seen it before. Never heard of Robert Fulton. But I would guess it’s an old jazz record. It’s not really the kind of music I listen to.’
Nicolas went back to the couch and Frank scratched his chin. He paced back and forth with his eyes half closed. Then he started to talk, but he was obviously thinking out loud: the monologue of a man with a heavy burden on his shoulders.
‘Stolen Music. Robert Fulton. Why did No One need to listen to that music during the murder? Why did he take it with him? What’s so special about it?’
The room was filled with the silence of unanswered questions, the silence on which the mind feeds as it devours infinite distances searching for a sign, a trace, a clue. Chasing an answer that keeps receding to the horizon.
The clatter of Guillaume’s fingers running over the keyboard marked the end of that momentary pause, during which the only sound had been the hum of the air-conditioning.
‘There’s something here, maybe.’
‘What?’ Frank spun back towards him as if he had just been released from a hypnotic trance.
‘Just a minute. Let me check.’
Guillaume rewound the tape to the beginning and started watching it very slowly, stopping the images occasionally and using the zoom to make out a particular detail that interested him. It was cold in the room, but Frank could feel his temples throbbing. He didn’t know what Guillaume was doing, but whatever it was, he wished he could do it faster.
The boy stopped the image at the point where the killer was bending over Yoshida in a position that could be interpreted as confiding. He was probably whispering something into his ear and Frank was sorry there was no soundtrack. No One was far too smart to give them a sample of his natural voice, even through a ski mask.
Guillaume returned to the computer and transferred the fragment he had captured from the video to the LED monitor. He used the arrow of the mouse to select a portion of the image and typed something on the keyboard. There was another blotch, as the first time, that seemed to be made of coloured pieces placed haphazardly by a drunken artist.
‘What you see here are the pixels. They’re like the tiny mosaic tiles that make up the image, the pieces of a puzzle, basically. If you enlarge them a great deal, the picture is very confused and illegible. But I -’ his fingers flew over the keyboard, alternating with the mouse – ‘I have a program that examines the pixels damaged by enlargement and reconstructs them. There was a reason that I paid a fortune for this junk. Come on baby, don’t let me down.’
He hit the RETURN key. The image resolved a little but was still confused and indecipherable.
‘Shit, no. Let’s see who’s smarter now, you or me!’
Guillaume leapt over to the monitor, threateningly. He ran his hand through his hair and then his fingers went back to the keyboard. He typed furiously for a few seconds and then stood up and started fiddling with the equipment on the shelves in front of him, pressing buttons and turning levers. Red and green lights started flashing.
‘Here we are. I was right.’
He went back to his chair and moved it in front of the screen where he had stopped the image. A couple of buttons were pressed and suddenly there were two images side by side, the picture of the LP cover and the one he was examining now. He touched the first with his finger.
‘Here, see this? I checked, and this is the only place where you can see the entire album cover. Not completely though, because, if you look here, the top left corner is covered by the sleeve of the man with the knife. We didn’t notice it in the enlargement because the sleeve is dark, like the cover. But there are mirrors on the opposite sides of the room and the record’s reflection is bounced from one to another. I thought I saw a slight difference in colour compared to the picture I got from the video.’ Guillaume’s fingers again flew over the keyboard. ‘I thought that, in the image reflected in the mirror, the complete one here in the centre, we might see the label on the cover.’
He pressed the RETURN key with the cautious finger of someone launching a missile to destroy the world. Slowly, before their eyes, the confused blotch on the monitor blended together and took shape. Dark letters, slightly distorted and out of focus but legible, appeared against a gold background.
‘The label of the shop that sold the record, perhaps. Here we are: “Disque à Risque”, Cours Mirabeau something or other, Aix-en-Provence. Can’t read the building number. Or the phone number. Sorry, you’ll have to find that out yourselves.’
There was a note of triumph in Guillaume’s voice. He turned to Hulot with the gesture of an acrobat acknowledging the audience after a triple somersault.
Frank and Nicolas were speechless.
‘Guillaume, you’re fantastic!’
The boy shrugged and smiled. ‘Come on, don’t overdo it. I’m just the best there is, that’s all.’
Frank leaned down on the chair and bent closer to the monitor. Incredulously, he read the writing on the screen. After so much nothing, they finally had something. After so much aimless sailing on the sea, they finally had, far on the horizon, a dark line that could be land, but might simply be a mass of dark clouds. They were looking at it now with the fearful eyes of someone expecting another deception.
Nicolas stood up. ‘Can we print these out?’
‘Sure, no problem. How many copies?’
‘Four should do it, I think. Just in case.’
Guillaume turned back to the computer and a printer started working. He got up as the pages fell on to the tray, one by one.
Frank stood in front of the boy and sought his gaze, thinking that sometimes, with some people, words weren’t really necessary.
‘You have no idea how much you’ve helped us and so many others this afternoon. Is there anything we can do for you?’
Guillaume turned away without speaking. He ejected the tape from the VCR and handed it to Frank. He held it firmly, without hiding his gaze.
‘Just one thing. Catch the guy who did that.’
‘You can count on it. And it’ll be partly thanks to you.’
As Nicolas removed the copies from the tray, there was a positive note in his voice for the first time in a long while.
‘Okay, we’ve got work to do. A lot of work. You don’t have to show us out if you’re busy. I know the way.’
‘Go on. I’ve worked enough today. I’m closing up shop and going for a ride. After what I just saw, I have to get out of the house.’
‘Bye, Guillaume. And thanks again.’
Outside, they were greeted by a languorous sunset in the garden that seemed enchanted after the vile images they had just seen. There was a warm, early-summer breeze, splashes of colour from the flower beds, the brilliant emerald lawn and the darker green of the laurel bushes. Frank noted with a sense of relief that none of the flowers were blood red. He took that as a good omen and smiled.
‘Why are you smiling?’ asked Nicolas.
‘A silly thought. Forget it. A touch of optimism after what Guillaume just gave us.’
‘Great kid,’ Hulot said. ‘He was my son’s best friend. They were very much alike. Every time I see Guillaume, I can’t help thinking that if Stéphane had lived, he would probably be very much like him. A crazy way to continue being proud of your son.’
Frank didn’t need to look at him to know that there were tears in Nicolas’s eyes.
They walked the short distance to the car in silence. When they were inside, Frank took the printouts that the inspector had placed on top of the glove compartment and looked at them, in order to give Nicolas a moment to recover. When Hulot started the engine, Frank put the pages back and leaned against the seat. As they buckled their seat belts, he realized that he was excited. ‘Know your way around Aix-en-Provence, Nicolas?’
‘Not in the least.’
‘Then you’d better get a map, my friend. You’re about to take a little trip.’
Hulot pulled up at the corner of Rue Princesse Florestine and Rue Suffren Raymond, just a few dozen yards from police headquarters. Ironically, there was an advertisement just ahead that said ‘PEUGEOT 206 – BAD BOY.’
Nicolas nodded towards the ad with a derisive grin. ‘There you go, the right car for the right man.’
‘Okay, bad boy. It’s in your hands now. Go for it.’
‘I’ll let you know if I find anything.’
Frank opened the door and got out. He pointed a finger at the inspector through the open window.
‘Not if you find anything. When. Or did you buy that story about a vacation?’
Hulot saluted him as a sign of farewell. Frank closed the door and stood there an instant, watching the car as it drove away and disappeared in the traffic.
The lead from the video was a gust of optimism to stir the stagnant investigation, but as yet it was too weak to mean a great deal. All Frank could do now was keep his fingers crossed.
He turned down Rue Suffren Raymond and started walking towards headquarters. On their way back from Eze-sur-Mer, Roncaille had called, telling him to come to the office for ‘important planning’. From his voice, Frank could imagine what the meeting would be like. He had no doubt that Roncaille and Durand had also paid dearly for last night’s failure, the new victim – victims – that had led to Nicolas’s removal from the case.
Frank entered headquarters. The guard let him through without a glance. He was at home now, here in France. He wasn’t sure how long it would last, but that was how he felt at that moment. He reached Roncaille’s office and knocked. The Sûreté chief’s voice told him to come in.
Frank opened the door and was not surprised to see Attorney General Durand there as well. What he hadn’t expected was the presence of Dwight Bolton, the US Consul. It was justified, of course, but Frank thought that diplomacy would be involved on a much higher level than his own status as mere adjunct investigator. Bolton’s presence in that office was a very strong signal both that Nathan Parker had been pulling some powerful strings through his personal connections, and that the US government was concerned because American citizens were being murdered on Principality territory. And then there was also, as a finishing touch, the unwholesome idea of a US Army captain being held in the Monaco jail on a murder charge.
Roncaille stood up when he entered, something he was in the habit of doing for everyone. ‘Come in, Frank. Good to see you. I suppose you had trouble sleeping after last night, like all of us.’
Frank shook the hand he held out. Bolton’s rapid, surreptitious glance in his direction was full of implied meanings, which he immediately grasped.
The office was slightly larger than Hulot’s and there was a couch as well as an armchair. Basically, though, it was no different from the other offices at headquarters. Only the couple of paintings on the walls marked it out as that of the department’s big cheese. The paintings were certainly authentic, but Frank couldn’t tell if they were worth anything. Roncaille sat back down at his desk.
‘I also imagine you’ve seen what the papers are saying after the latest episodes.’
Frank shrugged. ‘No, actually, I didn’t need to. The media has its own logic. They’re usually on the side of the citizens and the publisher, and not very useful for investigators. Reading the papers isn’t my job. Giving them something to write about, at any cost, isn’t my job either.’
Bolton brought his hand to his mouth to hide his smile. Durand probably realized that Frank was referring to the head of the investigating team being taken off the case, which the press were having a field day with. He wanted to clarify things.
‘Frank, I know of your regard for Inspector Hulot. Believe me, I deeply dislike taking steps that I know are unpopular. I also know how much Hulot is admired by the police force, but you must understand-’
‘Of course I understand,’ Frank interrupted with a slight smile. ‘Perfectly. And I don’t want it to be a problem.’
Roncaille saw that the conversation had taken a downward spin, which could end badly. He hurried to smooth things over and distribute portions of ambrosia in the doses he deemed appropriate.
‘There aren’t – and there mustn’t be – any problems between us, Frank. The request for and offer of collaboration are comprehensive, unquestioning and complete. Mr Bolton is here to confirm that.’
The consul leaned back in his chair and placed his forefinger on the tip of his nose. He was in a position of power and was doing everything he could to play it down, while at the same time letting Frank know that he was not alone. Frank had the same impression of him as a decent, likeable person as he’d had during Bolton’s brief visit to Parc Saint-Roman.
‘Frank, it’s no use pretending. The situation is very messy. And now there’s this… uh… business with Captain Mosse. But that chapter is finished and the diplomats will take care of it as they see fit. As for Mr No One, as the press calls him… well…’
Roncaille turned to Durand, leaving him the job of completing his sentence. The attorney general looked at Frank, who could tell that he would rather take his clothes off on TV than have to say what he was saying now.
‘We have all agreed to put the investigation in your hands. Nobody is better qualified. You’re a first-class agent with an excellent record. Exceptional, I’d say. You’ve been on the case since the beginning, you know everyone involved and everyone admires and respects you. Sergeant Morelli will be working with you as representative of the police and to liaise with Principality authorities. But otherwise you’ve got a free rein. Please keep Roncaille and myself informed on any developments, keeping in mind that your goal is the same as ours: to catch this criminal before he kills anyone else.’
Durand finished his speech and stared at Frank as if he had just been forced to make an unbelievable concession, like a parent who allows a naughty child a second helping of cake. Frank was particular in expressing his thanks, as Roncaille and Durand expected of him, though what he really would have liked was to tell them both to kiss his ass.
Fine. I suppose I should be honoured by this appointment, and really, I am. Unfortunately, the serial killer we’re after is astoundingly intelligent. So far, he hasn’t made the slightest error, in spite of the fact that he’s been operating in such a tiny, well-policed area.’
Roncaille took this acknowledgement of the local police as personal praise. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table.
‘You can use Inspector Hulot’s office. As I mentioned, Sergeant Morelli is at your disposal. You’ll find all the documentation there, and the forensic report on the last two murders, including Roby Stricker’s. The autopsy report is on its way and should be on your desk tomorrow morning. If you need it, you’ll be given a car and a POLICE ON DUTY sign.’
‘That would help.’
‘Morelli will have the car waiting when you leave. One last thing: are you armed?’
‘Yes, I’ve got a gun.’
‘Good. We’ll get you a badge so you can work in Principality territory. Good luck, Frank.’
Frank realized that the meeting was over, at least as far as he was concerned. Perhaps they still had things to discuss that involved him, but he couldn’t have cared less. He got up, shook hands all round the table and left the room. As he walked down the corridor to Hulot’s office, he thought about the events of the afternoon.
First, the lead that Guillaume Mercier had uncovered. The clue he had found by analysing the video was worth its weight in gold. In an investigation with so little evidence and so much guesswork, a name and an address might mean the difference between life and death. But unlike Nicolas, Frank was anxious rather than hopeful at the thought of the new lead. What if this scrap of hope turned to ashes? It seemed a fanciful weapon to combat such monumental evil. And yet there was a chance that Hulot would be more likely to find out something in his spare time than while he’d been officially working on the investigation.
Second, there was Helena Parker. What did she want from him? Why was she so frightened of her father? What was her relationship to Captain Mosse? Given the way he had treated her the day of the fight, they were more than just a general’s daughter and his subordinate, even if he was almost a member of the family. And most important, did the story of an emotionally unstable woman in her father’s care have any truth to it?
Questions kept running through Frank’s mind, although he was trying to consider Helena Parker irrelevant, a distraction that would only take his concentration away from No One and the investigation in which he was now directly involved.
He opened the door to Nicolas’s office without knocking. Now it was his, and he could do as he pleased. Morelli was sitting at the desk and jumped up when he saw him. There was a moment of embarrassment and Frank knew they needed to stop and figure out exactly where each of them stood.
‘Hey, Claude.’
‘Hello, Frank.’
‘Did you hear the news?’
‘Yes. Roncaille told me everything. I’m glad you’re the one running the investigation now, although…’
‘Although?’
‘I think they treated Hulot like shit.’ Morelli did not hold back when he said these words.
‘To be honest, Claude, so do I.’ Frank smiled.
If that was a test, they had both passed. The tension in the room eased considerably. When the time had come to choose, Morelli had done as Frank expected. He wondered whether he could trust him enough to let him know about the latest news and Nicolas’s secret pilgrimage. Morelli was an efficient, experienced officer, but he was still part of the police force of the Principality of Monaco. Revealing too much might mean getting him in trouble if anything happened. That was something Morelli did not deserve.
The sergeant pointed to a file on the desk. ‘Here’s the forensic report.’
‘Did you read it?’
‘I glanced through it. There’s nothing we don’t already know. Gregor Yatzimin was killed just like the others, without a trace. No One’s still out there and there’s nothing to stand in his way.’
That’s not so, Claude. Not exactly. There’s stolen music in the air…
‘All we can do right now is keep the radio station under control. That means maximum alert, special teams ready, and so on. Agreed?’
‘Sure.’
‘There’s one favour I’d like to ask of you,’ said Frank.
‘Name it.’
‘If you don’t mind, I’ll let you monitor the situation at the radio station by yourself tonight. I don’t think anything’s going to happen. Last night’s killing wore down his batteries and he’ll lie low until he recharges. That’s what usually happens with serial killers. I’ll be listening to the show and you can reach me on my cell, but I need the night off. Can you handle it?’
‘Not a problem, Frank.’
Frank wondered how things were going between Morelli and Barbara. The sergeant’s interest in the girl seemed to be mutual, but then other things had happened. Morelli did not seem the type to neglect his work for romantic reasons, even if the reason was as good-looking as Barbara.
‘They promised me my own car. Mind finding out if they kept their word?’
‘Right away.’
The sergeant left the room and Frank was alone. He took his wallet from his jacket pocket and pulled out a card folded in half. It was a piece of the letter that General Parker had left him at the hotel after their first meeting in the main square of Eze. His phone numbers were on it. Frank stared at it for a moment, then made a decision, dialling the home number on his mobile. Helena Parker answered after two rings.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, it’s Frank Ottobre.’
There was a brief pause. ‘I’m glad you called.’
‘Have you eaten yet?’ Frank asked, without replying.
‘No, not yet.’
‘Is that something you’ve given up, or do you think you might consider it this evening?’
‘Sounds like a reasonable idea.’
‘I could pick you up in an hour, if that’s enough time.’
‘More than enough. I’ll be waiting.’
Frank hung up and stood looking at the phone. He couldn’t help wondering what kind of trouble he was getting himself into now.
Frank parked by the dirt road that led to General Parker’s house and turned off the engine of the unmarked Mégane the police had given him. The only thing conspicuous about it was the radio for communication with headquarters. Morelli had shown him how to use it and had given him the police frequencies.
Earlier, he’d taken Morelli to the radio station and they had both checked to make sure everything was in place. Before leaving, Frank had taken Pierrot aside in the tiny office next to the glass doors at the entrance.
‘Pierrot, can you keep a secret?’
The boy had looked at him timidly, his eyes half closed, as if wondering whether the request was within his capacities. ‘A secret means that I can’t tell anyone?’
‘Exactly. And now that you’re a policeman, you’re taking part in a police investigation and policemen don’t want their secrets getting out. It’s top secret. Do you know what that means?’
Pierrot had nodded vehemently, shaking hair that badly needed a trim.
‘It means it’s so secret that we’re the only ones who can know. Okay, Agent Pierrot?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He had brought his hand to his forehead in a sort of salute, as he had probably seen on TV. Frank had pulled out the A4 print of the album sleeve that Guillaume had enlarged from the video.
‘I’m going to show you a picture of a record cover. Can you tell me if it’s in the room?’
He had held the image up to Pierrot, who had squinted the way he did when he was concentrating. When the boy raised his head and looked at him, he had shown no sign of satisfaction on his face, the way he usually did when he knew the answer.
‘It’s not there.’
Frank had masked his disappointment so that Pierrot wouldn’t notice, treating him as if he’d given the right answer. ‘Very good, Agent Pierrot. Excellent. You can go now, but don’t forget. Top secret!’
Pierrot had crossed his forefingers over his lips in a vow of silence and left the room, heading towards the director’s booth. Frank had put the printout back in his pocket and left the station in Morelli’s hands. On his way out he had seen Barbara wearing a particularly attractive black dress, speaking to Morelli.
Frank was still thinking about the sergeant and his human inclinations when the gate opened and he saw Helena Parker slowly emerge from the shadows thrown by the indirect light of the reflectors.
First, he saw her graceful figure and heard her steps on the gravel, her movements fluid despite the uneven ground. Then he saw her face under the mass of blonde hair, streaked with copper and lighter shaders, and then those sorrowful eyes. Frank wondered what lay behind them: what kind of suffering, how many moments of unwanted solitude or uninvited company, how much bare survival instead of real life.
He would probably find out soon enough, and he asked himself just how much he really wanted to know. He suddenly realized what this woman represented for him and he had trouble admitting, even to himself, that he was afraid her story would make him act like a coward. If it did, then however many arrests he made or men he killed, however far he could run, he would never be able to reach himself. But if he did nothing, that fear would have no end.
He got out of the car and walked around to the other side to open the door. Helena Parker was wearing a dark trouser suit with a mandarin collar, an Asian style reinterpreted by some famous designer. Still, her clothes were not a conspicuous display of wealth but rather of good taste. Frank noticed that she wore almost no jewellery and, as on the other occasions he had seen her, makeup so light that it was almost invisible. She walked up to him and he got a whiff of her perfume, as fresh as the night itself.
‘Hello, Frank. Don’t feel you have to open the door for me.’ Helena got into the car and raised her face to Frank, still standing at the open door.
‘I’m not just being polite.’ Frank nodded towards the front of the Mégane. ‘This is a French car. Without a certain savoir faire, it refuses to start.’
Helena seemed to appreciate his attempt at levity and laughed. ‘You surprise me, Mr Ottobre. Men with a sense of humour are an endangered species.’ Frank thought her smile more precious than any jewel. So close to it, he suddenly felt alone and disarmed.
As he started the engine, he wondered how long that kind of banter would last before they came to the real reason for their meeting. He also wondered which of them would have the courage to bring it up first.
He glanced at Helena’s profile, a blend of light and darkness in the early evening. She turned and they exchanged a look. The attempt at cheerfulness disappeared from her eyes and the sadness returned. And Frank realized that she would be the one to press the START button.
‘I know your story, Frank. My father forced it on me. I have to know everything he knows, just like I have to be everything he is. I’m sorry. I feel like an intruder in your life and it’s not a pleasant feeling.’ Frank thought of the popular belief that men are hunters and woman their prey. With Helena Parker, the roles were somehow reversed.
‘The only thing I can give you in exchange is my own story. There is no other justification for the fact that I am with you and that I represent a series of questions for which you cannot find the answers.’
Frank listened to Helena’s voice and drove slowly, following the flow of traffic as they rode down from Roquebrune towards Menton. Life buzzed all around them. Bright lights. Normal people walking along the bright stretch of coast in search of frivolous amusement, whose only motivation was the perhaps futile pleasure of the search itself.
There are no treasures, no islands, no maps. Only their illusion, so long as it lasts. And sometimes the end of the illusion is a voice that murmurs two simple words: I kill…
Without realizing what he was doing, Frank put out his hand to turn off the radio, as though he feared an unnatural voice would call him back to reality. The light music in the background fell silent.
‘The fact that you know my story doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is the story itself. I hope yours is better.’
‘How can you compare the misery of two people?’ Helena’s voice was suddenly very gentle. It was the voice of a woman in the midst of turmoil who sought peace and offered it in return. ‘What was your wife like?’
Frank was surprised at the spontaneity of her question. And by his own straightforward answer.
‘I don’t know what she was like. She was two people at the same time, like all of us. I could tell you how I saw her, but that’s useless now.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Harriet.’
Helena absorbed it like an old friend. ‘Harriet. I feel like I know a great deal about her, although I never met her. You’re probably wondering why I’m so presumptuous.’ There was a short pause, and then Helena’s voice again, full of bitterness. ‘A fragile woman can always recognize another.’
Helena looked out of the window. Her words were a journey that was coming to its destination.
‘My sister, Arianna, was the stronger one. She understood it all and she left – she fled our father’s madness. Or maybe she just wasn’t interested enough to lock herself in the same prison. I couldn’t escape.’
‘Because of your son?’
Helena hid her head in her hands. Her voice was muffled by her fingers, covering her face in a tiny prison of grief.
‘He’s not my son.’
‘He’s not your son?’
‘No, he’s my brother.’
‘Your brother? But you said-’
‘I told you that Stuart was my son,’ Helena said, looking up. Nobody could bear all that pain without dying, without having died long ago. ‘He is. But he’s also my brother.’
As Frank held his breath and tried to understand, Helena burst into tears. Her voice was a whisper, but in the tiny space of the car it sounded like a scream of liberation held in for far too long.
‘Damn you. Damn you to hell, Nathan Parker. May you burn for a million years!’
Frank pulled in to a parking spot beside the road. He turned off the engine, leaving the lights on.
He turned to Helena. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, the woman slid into his embrace to find protection: the fabric of his jacket for her tear-streaked face, his hand to stroke the hair that had hidden a face full of shame for so long. They stayed that way for what seemed an eternity.
A thousand images flew through his mind. A thousand stories of a thousand lives, mixing real with imaginary, the present with the past, the true with the plausible, light with dark, the sweet scent of flowers with the stench of rotting earth.
He saw himself in his parents’ home. He saw Nathan Parker’s hand as it stretched out to his daughter. Harriet’s tears with a dagger raised over a man tied to a chair. The flash of a blade in his nostril and the blue-eyed gaze of an innocent ten-year-old boy living among depraved beasts.
The blinding light of hate in Frank’s mind slowly became a silent scream that smashed to pieces all the mirrors where human evil could be reflected, all the walls that could hide it, all the closed doors where the fists of those seeking desperately to escape their torture pounded in vain.
Helena wanted only to forget. And that was exactly what Frank needed. Right there in that car parked next to the empty road. In that embrace. In the meaning of that encounter, which he had needed for so long and which had come, finally.
Frank couldn’t tell who withdrew first. When their eyes met again, they both knew with the same incredulity that something important had happened. They kissed, and in that first kiss their lips joined in trepidation, not love. The fear that it was only desperation disguised as love, that loneliness had led to these words, that nothing was as it seemed.
They had to kiss again and keep kissing before they could believe it. And the suspicion became a tiny hope, for neither of them could yet afford the luxury of certainty.
Afterwards, they looked at each other, breathless. Helena recovered first, caressing his face.
‘Say something silly. Something silly and alive.’
‘I think we lost our table reservation.’
Helena embraced him again and Frank listened as her giggles of relief were lost in tiny tremors against his neck.
‘I’m ashamed of myself, Frank Ottobre, but I can only think well of you. Turn this car around and go back to my house. There’s food and wine in the fridge. I can’t share you with the rest of the world. Not tonight.’
Frank started the car and drove back along the same road. When had this happened? Maybe an hour or maybe a lifetime ago. He had lost his sense of time. But there was one thing he was sure of. If he had seen General Nathan Parker at that moment, he would have killed him.