‘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.
‘What does that mean? What are you saying?’
‘I asked the question. It’s up to you to answer. That’s what life is made of, my friend. Questions and answers. Every man drags his questions along behind him, starting with the ones he has written inside him when he’s born.’
‘What questions?’
‘I’m not fate. I’m someone and no one, but I’m easy to understand. When someone who sees me realizes who I am, his eyes ask the question in a split second: he wants to know when and where. I am the answer. For him I mean now. For him, I mean here.’
He stopped. Then the voice hissed another sentence.
‘And that is why I kill . . .’
A metallic click ended the conversation, leaving an echo like the snap of a guillotine. In his mind, Frank saw another head roll.
For Christ’s sake no, not this time!
‘Did you get him?’ Frank asked Sergeant Gottet who’d turned his back and was already talking to his men.
His answer took all the breath from his lungs
‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No signal whatsoever. Pico says that whoever’s handling the calls must be really great. He didn’t see anything. If the call came from the Internet, the signal’s so well hidden that our equipment can’t visualize it. The bastard fooled us again.’
‘Damn him. Did anyone recognize the music?’ Silence usually means consent. But in this case the general silence was a no. ‘Shit. Barbara, get me a tape with the music as soon as possible. Where’s Pierrot?’
Barbara was already making a copy.
‘In the conference room,’ said Morelli.
There was feverish anxiety in the room. They all knew they had to hurry, hurry, hurry. At this very moment, the caller might be going out to start his hunt. And someone else, somewhere else, did not know that he was living out the last minutes of his life. They went to get Rain Boy, the only one who would recognize the music right away.
Pierrot was in the conference room, sitting at a table next to his mother, his head hanging down. When they got there, he looked at them with tears in his eyes, then bowed his head again.
Like the last time, Frank went over and crouched next to the chair. Pierrot raised his face a little, as if he didn’t want to be seen crying.
‘What is it, Pierrot? Something wrong?’ The boy nodded. ‘Did it frighten you? There’s nothing to be scared of. We’re here with you.’
‘No, I’m not scared,’ Pierrot sniffed. ‘I’m a policeman too, now.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘I don’t know the music,’ he cried mournfully. There was real pain in his voice. He looked around as if he had failed the great moment of his life. The tears rolled down his cheeks.
Frank felt his last hopes vanish, but he forced himself to smile at Pierrot.
‘Hey, calm down. Don’t worry. We’ll let you listen to it again and you’ll recognize it, you’ll see. It’s hard, but you can do it. I’m sure that you can.’
Barbara ran into the room holding a DAT. She slipped it in the recorder and turned it on.
‘Listen carefully, Pierrot.’
The electronic percussion cranked into the room. The 4/4 pulse of the dance music sounded like a heartbeat. One hundred and thirty-seven beats per minute. A heart racing with fear, a heart somewhere that could stop at any moment.
Pierrot listened in silence, his head hanging down. When the music stopped, he looked up and a timid smile broke out on his face.
‘It’s there,’ he said softly.
‘Did you recognize it? Is it in the room? Go get it, please.’
Pierrot nodded and got up from the chair. He took off with his loping gait. Hulot nodded to Morelli who got up to go with him. They returned after what seemed like an endless wait. Pierrot held a CD in his hands.
‘Here it is. It’s a complication.’
They slid the CD into the player and went through the tracks until they found it. The music was exactly what the killer had played a little while earlier. Pierrot was a hero. His mother went over to embrace him as if he had just won the Nobel Prize. The pride in her eyes broke Hulot’s heart. br />
‘“Nuclear Sun”, by Roland Brant. Who’s that?’ Frank said, reading the title on the cover of the compilation.
Nobody had heard of him. They all ran to the computer. A quick search on the Internet took them to an Italian site. Roland Brant was the pseudonym of an Italian deejay, a certain Rolando Bragante. ‘Nuclear Sun’ was a dance track that was popular a few years ago.
Meanwhile, Laurent and Jean-Loup had finished the show and joined them. They were beside themselves. Both looked as if they’d been caught in a thunderstorm and part of it had remained inside them.
Laurent gave them the lowdown on dance music, a genre all to itself in the music market.
‘Sometimes the deejays take on assumed names. Sometimes it’s a made-up word but most of the time it’s in English. There are a few of them in France, too. They’re usually musicians who specialize in club music.’
‘What does the term “loop” mean?’ asked Hulot.
‘It’s a way of saying that you’re using sampled music on the computer. A loop is the base, the heart of the track. You take a beat and you let it turn around itself so that it’s always exactly the same.’
‘Just like the bastard said. A dog chasing its tail.’
Frank cut those thoughts short and brought them immediately back to the present. There was something much more important to figure out.
‘Okay, we’ve got a job to do. Come on, can you think of something? Think of a famous person, about thirty, forty, fifty who has something in common with all the elements we have. Here, in Monte Carlo.’
Frank sounded possessed. He walked around to each of them, repeating himself. His voice seemed to be hunting an idea like a howling pack of hounds after a fox.
‘A youngish, attractive, famous man. Who hangs out around here, in the area. Who lives here or is here now. CDs, compilations, “Nuclear Sun”, discotheques, dance music, an Italian deejay with an English name, a pseudonym. Think about the papers, society news, the jet set . . .’
Frank’s voice was like the whip of a jockey urging his horse to go faster and faster. Their minds were all racing.