I Kill (28 page)

What he really wanted to do was tell Bikjalo to get the hell out of the way and let them work without breathing down their necks. They had enough pressure without him. But a sense of diplomacy
held Frank back. They were all working together at the station and he didn’t want to ruin anything. There was already too much tension in the air.

‘Okay.’

The station manager shot a last puzzled look at the computer and at Pico, who had already forgotten about him. Excited by this new challenge, his fingers were again flying over the keys.

Bikjalo and Frank left the computer station and went over to Raquel’s desk as Jean-Loup and Laurent came in at the door.

Frank scrutinized the deejay. Jean-Loup looked better than he had that morning, but there was an indelible shadow under his eyes. Frank knew that shadow. When this was all over, he would need a
lot of sun, and a lot of light, to get rid of it.

‘Hey, guys. All set?’

Laurent answered for both of them.

‘Yeah, the outline’s ready. The hard part is thinking that the show has to go on, no matter what. Aside from
those
calls, we’ve still got our normal callers.
How’re things here?’

The door opened again and Hulot came in. He seemed to have aged ten years since Frank had arrived in Monte Carlo.

‘Oh, here you are. Evening, everyone. Frank, can I talk to you for a sec?’

Jean-Loup, Laurent and Bikjalo moved over to let Frank and the inspector have some privacy.

‘What’s up?’

They walked to the other wall, next to the two glass panels covering the switchboard, the satellite connections and the ISDN links that were there in case there was a blackout and the repeater
failed.

‘Everything’s ready. The Crisis Unit’s on call. There are ten men standing by at the police station. They can get anywhere in a flash. There are plainclothes men all over the
streets. Nothing’s going on. People walking dogs, prams, things like that. The whole city’s covered. We can move people in seconds if we need to. If the victim is here, in Monte Carlo,
I mean. If Mr No One has decided to get his victim somewhere else, we’ve alerted the police forces all along the coast. All we can do now is try to be sharper than our friend there.
Otherwise, we’re in the hands of God.’

‘And in the hands of Pierrot, whom God has treated so badly . . .’ Frank pointed to two people walking in with Morelli.

Pierrot and his mother came over to them and stopped. The woman held her son’s hand as if she were clutching a lifesaver. Instead of offering protection, she seemed to be seeking it from
her innocent son who was savouring his personal participation in that moment, something that was usually denied to him.

Pierrot was the only one who knew all the music that was in the room. He liked what had happened last time, when all those bigshots had watched him anxiously, waiting for him to tell them
whether or not it was there and then when he had gone out to find the record. He liked being there every night at the radio station with Jean-Loup, watching him from behind the glass, waiting for
the man who spoke with the devils, instead of staying at home and only listening to the voice coming out of the stereo. He liked this game, even though he realized that it wasn’t really a
game.

Sometimes he dreamt about it at night. For the first time, he was glad he didn’t have a room to himself in their tiny house but that he slept in the large bed with his mother. They woke
and were both afraid and couldn’t fall asleep again until the pink light of dawn filtered through the shutters.

Pierrot freed himself from his mother’s hand and ran to Jean-Loup, his idol, his best friend. The deejay tousled his hair. ‘Hey, handsome. How ya doing?’

‘Fine, Jean-Loup. Know what? Tomorrow I might ride in a police car!’

‘Great. You’re a cop too, then?’

‘Yeah, I’m an
honourable
policeman.’

Hearing Pierrot’s unintentional mistake, Jean-Loup smiled and instinctively pulled the boy towards him. He pressed his face against his chest and tousled his hair even harder.

‘Here’s our
honourable
policeman, engaged in ruthless hand-to-hand combat with his bitter enemy, Dr Tickle.’ As he started tickling, Pierrot burst out laughing. They
headed into the control room, followed by Laurent and Bikjalo.

Frank, Hulot and Pierrot’s mother watched the spectacle in silence. The woman smiled with enchantment at seeing the friendship between Jean-Loup and her son. She pulled a freshly laundered
handkerchief out of her handbag and blew her nose. Frank noticed that the woman’s clothes, though inexpensive, were also perfectly pressed.

‘Madame, we can’t thank you enough for your patience.’

‘Me? Patient with you? But I’m the one who should thank you for all you’re doing for my son. He’s completely changed. If it weren’t for this horrible business, I
would be very happy.’

‘Don’t worry, madame,’ said Hulot in a soothing voice, although he was anything but calm at that moment. ‘It will all be over soon, with Pierrot’s help. We’ll
be sure that he gets the attention he deserves. Your son has become something of a hero.’

The hero’s mother started walking down the hall with slow, timid steps, her shoulders slightly bent. Frank and Hulot were alone.

Just then, the theme song of
Voices
filled the air and the show started. But it had no spark that evening and Jean-Loup felt it as well as the others. There was palpable tension in the
air, but not the kind to lend any energy to the programme. The listeners did phone in, but they were routine calls that Raquel had screened beforehand with the help of the police. The callers were
asked not to mention the murderer. If someone did, Jean-Loup ably steered the conversation to other, easier topics. Everyone knew that millions of listeners tuned in to Radio Monte Carlo every
night. Along with Italy and France, the show was broadcast in many other European countries through networks that had bought the rights. They listened to it, translated it and talked about it. And
everyone was waiting for something to happen. It meant a huge amount of money for the station. A triumph of Latin wisdom.

Mors tua, vita mea.
It’s a dog-eat-dog world.

Everyone died a little in experiences like this, Frank thought. No one really won. He was struck by the meaning of what he had just thought.
No one really won.

He was even more convinced that they were dealing with an exceptional man who had set them a scornful challenge and that they had to catch him as soon as possible. At the very first opportunity.
He instinctively touched the gun in its holder under his jacket. That man’s death, real or metaphorical, would
really and truly
mean life for someone else.

The red light lit up on the phone. Laurent sent the call to Jean-Loup.

‘Hello?’

Silence. Then a simulated voice came out of the speakers.

‘
Hi, Jean-Loup. My name’s someone and no one.
’

Everyone froze in unison. Behind the glass of the broadcast booth, Jean-Loup turned, the blood drained from his face. Barbara, sitting at the mixing desk, moved quickly away from the machine as
if it were suddenly extremely dangerous.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, taken aback.

‘
It don’t matter who I am. What’s important is that I’m gonna strike again. Tonight, whatever happens.’

Frank jumped up as if from an electric chair.

Cluny, sitting on his left, stood up too and grabbed his arm. ‘It’s not him, Frank,’ he whispered.

‘What do you mean, “It’s not him?”’

‘It’s wrong. This one said, ‘My name’s someone and no one.’ The other says,
“I’m
someone and no one.”’

‘Does it make a difference?’

‘In this case, it makes a big difference. And the person on the phone is uneducated. Some bastard’s playing a really sick joke.’

As confirmation of the psychiatrist’s words, a laugh that pretended to be satanic swept out of the loudspeakers and the line went dead.

Morelli rushed into the control room.

‘We’ve got him!’

Frank and Cluny followed him out into the corridor. Hulot, who was in the director’s booth just then, was also running towards them, followed by Bikjalo.

‘You’ve got him?’

‘Yes, inspector. The phone call came from somewhere on the outskirts of Menton.’

Frank dashed their hopes. And his own, unfortunately.

‘Dr Cluny says that it might not be him, that it might be a hoax—’

‘The voice could be disguised in the same way,’ the psychiatrist broke in, compelled to speak up. That phrase left an opening that he hurried to close. ‘But he doesn’t
use the same language as the man who made the other calls. It’s not him.’

‘Damn him, whoever he is. Have you contacted the police in Menton?’ the inspector asked Morelli.

‘As soon as we located the call. They took off like lightning.’

‘Of course, they wouldn’t miss the chance to get him themselves.’ The inspector avoided looking at Cluny as if not having him in his line of vision could exclude the
psychiatrist’s theory.

Fifteen minutes dragged by. They heard the music playing through the speakers at the other end of the corridor and Jean-Loup’s voice continuing the broadcast in spite of everything. There
must have been dozens of calls coming in and the switchboard was probably flooded. The mike that Morelli was wearing around his neck buzzed. The sergeant almost snapped when the call arrived.

‘Sergeant Morelli.’

He listened. Disappointment swept over his face like clouds covering the sun. Even before he handed over the earpiece, Hulot knew it was all over.

‘Inspector Hulot.’

‘Hi, Nicolas. Roberts, from Menton.’

‘Hi. Let’s hear it.’

‘I’m there right now. False alarm. This fucker’s high as a kite and he wanted to impress his girlfriend. Even called from his own place, the idiot. When we caught them, him and
the girl, they practically pissed their pants with fright.’

‘Those fools should
die
of fright. Can you arrest them?’

‘Of course. Wasting police time, and we found a nice hunk of cheese.’ By that, he meant marijuana.

‘Okay. Take them in and scare the shit out of them. And make sure the press knows about it. We have to set an example; otherwise we’ll be swamped with calls like this. Thanks,
Roberts.’

‘Don’t mention it. Sorry, Nicolas.’

‘Yeah, so am I. Goodbye.’

The inspector hung up. ‘You were absolutely right, doctor. False alarm.’ He looked at them with suddenly hopeless eyes.

‘Well . . . I . . .’

‘Excellent work, doctor,’ interrupted Frank.

They headed slowly to the control room at the end of the hall. Gottet came up to them.

‘Well?’

‘Nothing. A false lead.’

‘I thought it was weird that it would be so easy. But in a case like this, how can you—’

‘It’s fine, Gottet. What I just told Dr Cluny goes for you as well. Excellent work.’

They went back into the control room where everyone was waiting to hear what had happened. They saw their disappointed faces and didn’t even need to ask. Barbara relaxed in her chair and
leaned on the mixer. Laurent ran a hand through his hair in silence. Just then, the red light started flashing. The deejay looked exhausted. He took a sip of water from the glass on the table and
moved closer to the mike.

‘Hello?’

At first, there was only silence. The silence they had all learned to recognize. Then the muffled sound, the unnatural echo.

And, finally, the voice. Everyone turned their heads slowly towards the speakers, as if that voice had stiffened the muscles in their necks.

‘Hello, Jean-Loup. I have the feeling that you’ve been waiting for me.
’

Cluny bent closer to Frank.

‘Hear that? Perfect grammar; correct language.
That’s
him.’

Jean-Loup didn’t hesitate this time. His hands gripped the table so hard that his knuckles whitened, but there was no trace of that tension in his voice.

‘Yes, we were waiting for you. You know we were waiting for you.’

‘So here I am. The bloodhounds must be worn out from chasing shadows. But the hunt must go on. Mine and theirs.’

‘Why do you say “must”? What does all this mean?’

‘The moon belongs to everyone and we all have the right to howl.
’

‘Howling at the moon means pain. But you can sing to the moon, too. You can be happy in the dark sometimes when you see the moon. For heaven’s sake, you can be happy in this world.
Believe me.’

‘Poor Jean-Loup. You think that the moon is real when it’s only an illusion . . . Do you know what the darkness of that sky contains, my friend?’

‘No. But I think you’re going to tell me.’

The man on the phone didn’t notice Jean-Loup’s bitter sarcasm. Or perhaps he did, but felt above it.

‘No moon and no God, Jean-Loup. The correct term for it is “nothing”. There is absolutely nothing. And I’m so used to living in it that I no longer notice. Everywhere,
wherever I turn, there is nothing.
’

‘You’re crazy,’ Jean-Loup blurted out, in spite of himself.

‘
I, too, have wondered about that, often. It is quite likely true, although I read somewhere that the insane do not wonder if they are or are not. I don’t know what
wanting
to be crazy means, which is what sometimes happens to me.’

‘Even insanity can end. It can be cured. What can we do to help you?’

The man ignored the question as if it were not a solution.

‘Ask me instead what I can do to help you. Here, I’ll throw you another bone. For the bloodhounds who keep chasing their tail in a desperate attempt to bite it. It s a loop. A
loop that goes round and round and round . . . Like in music. When there’s a loop that goes round and round and round
. . .’

The voice faded out. Music poured from the speakers, like the last time. No guitars tonight, no classic rock, but some contemporary dance music. A feat of electronics and sampling. The music
ended as suddenly as it had begun. The silence that followed lent Jean-Loup’s question even more weight.