I Kill (37 page)

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.’