I Kill (7 page)

The inspector turned back again to look at the curious crowd gathered between the police and Boulevard Albert Premier, where a team of workers had just finished dismantling the stands set up for
the Grand Prix. He missed the bedlam of the event, the crowds and the inconvenience it always brought.

‘Let’s go see.’

They walked down the unsteady gangway of the
Baglietto
and then on to the Beneteau via another gangway that had been set up. As the inspector climbed on to the boat, he saw the rudder
blocked with the hook and the trail of dried blood that started on deck and continued below where it was lost in darkness. The sun was warm but he felt the tips of his fingers grow suddenly cold.
What the hell had happened on that boat?

‘If you don’t mind, inspector,’ said Morelli, pointing to the steps leading to the cabin below, ‘I’ll wait here. Once was more than enough.’

Going down the wooden steps, Inspector Hulot nearly bumped into Dr Lassalle, the medical examiner, who was leaving. He had a cushy job in the Principality and extremely limited experience. Hulot
had no respect for him whatsoever, as a man or as a physician. He had got the job because of his wife’s connections and he enjoyed life while doing almost none of the work he was paid to do.
Hulot had always thought of him as a luxury doctor. His presence there simply meant that he was the only person around at the time.

‘Good morning, Dr Lassalle.’

‘Ah, good morning, inspector.’ The doctor seemed relieved to see him. It was clear that he was facing a situation he couldn’t handle.

‘Where are the bodies?’

‘In there. Come and see.’

Now that his eyes were accustomed to the gloom, the inspector saw the trail of blood that continued along the floor and disappeared through an open door. To his right, there was a table where
someone had written something in blood.

I kill . . .

Hulot felt his hands turn to ice. He forced himself to breathe deeply through his nose. He was hit by the sweetish smell of blood and death, odours that bring anguish and flies.

He followed the trail of blood and went into the cabin on the left. When he was at the door and could see what was inside, the ice in his hands spread through his entire body. Lying on the bed,
one next to the other, were the bodies of a man and a woman, completely naked. The woman had no apparent wounds, while there was a large red blotch on the man’s chest at his heart, where the
blood had stained the sheet. There was blood everywhere. It seemed impossible that those two lifeless bodies had contained so much blood. The inspector forced himself to look at the faces of the
corpses. But their faces were no longer there. The murderer had completely removed the skin, hair included – the way one skins an animal. He stared, sickened by the wide-open eyes, gazing at
a ceiling they could not see, the muscles of each face red with dried blood, the teeth exposed in a macabre smile that the absence of lips made eternal.

Hulot felt as though his life would stop there, that he would be standing near the door of the cabin staring at that spectacle of horror and death for ever. For an instant he prayed that the
person capable of that slaughter had at least put his victims to death first, before inflicting that torture on them.

He made an effort to shake himself and turned towards the galley, where Lassalle was waiting. Morelli had finally managed to come back down and was there, too. He was standing in front of the
doctor, searching the inspector’s face to see his reaction.

First, Hulot turned to the physician. ‘What can you tell me, doctor?’

Lassalle shrugged. ‘The deaths occurred a few hours ago. Rigor mortis has just set in. Hypostatic testing will confirm that. The man was apparently killed with some kind of knife; a sharp
thrust right to the heart. As for the woman, apart from’ – the doctor paused to swallow his saliva – ‘apart from the mutilation, there is nothing, at least in front. I
haven’t moved the bodies because we’re waiting for forensics. The autopsies should tell us more.’

‘Do we know who they are?’

‘According to the ship’s papers,’ said Morelli, ‘the yacht is the property of a Monte Carlo company. We haven’t done a thorough search yet.’

‘Forensics is going to be furious. With all the people coming and going on this boat, the evidence is contaminated and who knows what we’ve lost.’ Hulot looked at the floor and
the trail of blood. Here and there were footprints he hadn’t noticed earlier. When he turned his gaze to the table, he was surprised to realize that he was doing so in the absurd hope that
those desperate words would no longer be there.

He heard two voices from the deck above. He climbed up the steps and suddenly found himself in another world, of sunlight and life, of fresh salt air, without the smell of death he had been
breathing below. An agent standing on deck was trying to hold back a man of about forty-five who was shouting in French with a strong German accent. The man was trying with all his might to get
past the policeman.

‘Let me through, I said!’

‘You can’t. It’s not allowed. Nobody is allowed through.’

‘I have to get in there, I tell you. I have to know what happened.’ The man struggled to shrug off the policeman who was holding his arms. He was red in the face and hysterical.

‘I’m sorry, inspector,’ said the policeman, looking at his superior with relief. ‘We couldn’t stop him.’

Hulot nodded to say that it was all right and the policeman let go. The man straightened his clothes with a gesture of annoyance and approached the inspector as if he were someone he could
finally address as an equal. He stopped and removed his sunglasses to look him straight in the eye. ‘Good morning, inspector. Would you kindly tell me what is going on here on this
boat?’

‘And may I know to whom I have the pleasure of speaking?’

‘My name is Roland Shatz and I assure you that it’s a name that means something. I am a friend of the owner of this boat. I demand an answer.’

‘Mr Shatz, my name is Hulot and it probably means much less than yours, but I’m a police inspector, which means, that until otherwise informed, I am the person who asks the questions
and demands the answers on this boat.’

Hulot clearly saw the anger rise in Shatz’s eyes. The man took a step closer and lowered his voice slightly.

‘Inspector,’ he whispered, just a few inches from the other man’s face. There was infinite contempt in his voice. ‘This boat belongs to Jochen Welder, twice Formula 1
world champion, and I’m his manager and personal friend. I am also a personal friend of His Highness, Prince Albert. So will you please tell me in detail exactly what has happened on this
boat and to the people on it?’

Hulot left those words suspended between them for a moment. Then, his hand shot out with lightning speed and he grabbed Shatz by the knot of his tie, pulling it until he couldn’t breathe.
The man’s face turned purple.

‘You want to know? Okay, I’ll make you happy. Come with me and I’ll show you what happened on this boat.’

He was furious. He pulled violently at the manager and practically dragged him below deck.

‘All right, my personal friend of Prince Albert. Come and see with your own eyes what happened.’

He stopped at the door of the cabin and finally let Shatz go. He waved his hand at the two bodies on the bed.

‘Look!’

Roland Shatz regained his breath, and then lost it again. As the reality of the scene before him began to sink in, his face grew deathly pale. The whites of his eyes flashed in the dim light and
then he fainted.

As he walked towards the port, Frank saw a group of people watching police cars and uniformed men work their way among the boats moored along the quay. He heard a siren
approaching behind him and he slowed his step. All those police meant that something more than a mere boating accident had occurred.

And then there were the reporters. Frank had too much experience not to recognize them at first sight. They were wandering around, sniffing out news with a frenzy only caused by something big.
The siren, far away at first like a premonition, now wailed ever closer.

Two police cars raced along the coast from the Rascasse, pulling up in front of the barricades. A policeman hurried over to let them through. The cars stopped behind the ambulance, its back
doors open like the jaws of a beast ready to swallow its prey.

Several uniformed and plainclothes policemen got out of the cars and headed towards the stern of a yacht anchored not far away. Frank saw Inspector Hulot standing in front of the gangway. The
newcomers stopped to talk to him and then they all boarded the vessel and crossed the deck on to the boat wedged, listing, between the two either side of it.

Frank wandered slowly through the crowd and ended up at the wall to the right of the cafe. He found a position from which he could watch the scene comfortably. From the hold of the twin-masted
vessel, several men emerged, carrying two plastic body bags. Frank observed with indifference the transfer of the bodies to the ambulance. Years ago, crime scenes had been his natural habitat. Now
the spectacle was foreign to him, neither a professional challenge for a policeman, nor a scene of horror that offends his sense of humanity.

As the ambulance doors closed on their cargo, Inspector Hulot and the people with him walked single file down the
Baglietto
gangway. Hulot went directly towards the small crowd of
newspaper, radio and TV reporters, which two policemen were now trying to hold back. Before he even reached them, Frank could hear the clamour of overlapping questions and see the microphones
thrust up Hulot’s nose to force some scrap of information out of him, even a fragment that they could manipulate to arouse interest. When reporters couldn’t offer the truth, they were
content to stir up speculation.

As Hulot dealt with the press with a robotic repetition of ‘no comment’, he turned to look in Frank’s direction. Frank realized that Hulot had seen him. The inspector abandoned
the group of reporters with their unanswerable questions and waved Frank over to the barricade. Reluctantly, Frank detached himself from his vantage point and made his way through the crowd towards
Hulot. The two men looked at each other. The inspector had probably only been up for a little while, but he already looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours.

‘Hi, Frank. Come inside.’

He motioned to a policeman nearby to move the barricade so Frank could pass through. They sat down at one of the cafe’s outdoor tables, under a parasol. Hulot’s eyes wandered as if
he couldn’t explain to himself what had just happened. Frank removed his Ray-Bans and waited to make eye contact.

‘What’s up?’

‘Two dead, Frank. Murdered,’ he said, without looking at him. Hulot paused. Then he finally turned and looked at Frank. ‘And not just any two. Jochen Welder, the Formula 1
racing driver. And his girlfriend, Arianna Parker, a famous chess champion.’ Frank said nothing. He knew, instictively, that it wasn’t over. ‘They have no faces left. The killer
flayed them like animals. It’s horrible. I have never in my life seen so much blood.’

In the distance, the plaintive siren of the ambulance and the forensics van receded into the city. The curiosity seekers gradually straggled off, overcome by the heat and bored by the dwindling
activity on the quay. The reporters had gleaned all they could possibly get and they, too, were starting to pack up.

Hulot paused again. He stared at Frank, saying a great deal with his silence. ‘Want to take a look?’

Frank wanted to say no. Everything inside him said no. He would never again look at a trace of blood or overturned furniture, or touch the throat of a man lying on the ground to see if he was
dead. He was no longer a policeman. He was no longer even a man. He was nothing.

‘No, Nicolas. I don’t feel like it.’

‘I’m not asking for you. I’m asking for me.’

Although Frank Ottobre had known Nicolas Hulot for years, he felt as though he were seeing him for the first time. They had once collaborated on an investigation that had involved the Bureau and
the Sûreté Publique – some international money-laundering story tied to drugs and terrorism. The Monaco police, given their nature and efficiency, were in constant contact with
police forces all over the world, including the FBI. Because of his perfect French and Italian, Frank had been sent to follow the investigation on the ground. He had got on well with Hulot and they
had quickly become friends. They had stayed in touch, and he and Harriet had come to Europe once as guests of Hulot and his wife.

The Hulots had been planning a return visit to the States when the business with Harriet had happened. Frank still couldn’t give the events their proper name, as though not saying the
actual words, Harriet’s suicide, kept the darkness at bay. In his mind, what had happened was still ‘the business with Harriet’.

When he had heard, Hulot had called almost every day for months. He had finally convinced Frank to end his isolation and come to Monte Carlo to visit him. With the discretion of a true friend,
he had found him the apartment where he was staying. It belonged to André Ferrand, a company executive who was spending several months in Japan.

At that moment, Hulot was looking at him like a drowning man in need of a lifeboat. Frank couldn’t help but ask himself which of them was drowning and which was the lifeboat. They were two
people alone against the cruelty of death.

‘Let’s go,’ said Frank, replacing his sunglasses and getting up suddenly, before he could give in to the impulse to turn and flee.

He followed his friend to the Beneteau, feeling his heart beating faster and faster. The inspector pointed to the steps on the twin-mast that led below deck, and let Frank go first. Hulot saw
that his friend noticed the blocked rudder, but said nothing. When they were below, Frank looked around, keeping his eyes behind his shades.

‘Hmm . . . Luxury boat. Everything’s computerized. This is the boat of the lone sailor.’

‘Yeah, money was not an issue. Just think, he earned it by risking his life for years in a racing car and then ended up like this.’