‘Café de Turin?’ he asked him.
The Café de Turin was a bare-bones place, just benches and rickety tables in Place Garibaldi. They served excellent coquillage, with bottles of chilled Muscadet. He’d taken Frank and his wife there when they had come to Europe, and the two of them had been in raptures over the huge counter piled with shellfish and the gloved staff busy opening them. They had watched with shining eyes as the waiters passed with huge trays of oysters and Venus clams and gigantic red shrimp. The tiny restaurant had become their culinary sanctum sanctorum. Hulot had hesitated at mentioning the place, afraid that the memory would upset Frank. But he seemed changed, or he was at least trying. If he wanted to pull his head up out of the sand, that was the way to do it. Frank nodded, agreeing with both the choice and Hulot’s good intentions. Whatever he was thinking, it did not show on his face.
‘Café de Turin it is.’
‘You know,’ Hulot said later, relaxing after the food, ‘I’m tired of acting like a TV character. I feel like a caricature of Lieutenant Columbo. I need half an hour off. If I don’t unwind a little, I’ll go crazy.’
It was evening and the city lights had come on. Frank looked out the window at the people milling around, going in and out of houses, restaurants and offices. Thousands of people with anonymous faces. The two men both knew that Hulot was lying. There was a killer in the midst of all these gentle summer people and until it was over, neither of them would be able to think about anything else.
TWELVE
Behind the control room window, Laurent Bedon, the director, did the countdown, turning down the fingers of his raised hand one by one. Then he pointed at Jean-Loup Verdier. The red light behind him lit up. They were on the air. The deejay pulled his chair a little closer to the microphone on the table in front of him.
‘Hello to all of you listening right now and to all of you who will be hearing our voices this evening. There’ll be music and people sharing their lives with us, lives that don’t always beat to the rhythm of the music we’d like to hear.’
He stopped and pulled back slightly. The mixer broadcast the fierce intro of ‘Born to Be Wild’ by Steppenwolf. A few seconds later, there was a fade-in to Jean-Loup’s warm, inviting voice.
‘We’re here and we’re ready, if there’s anything we can do to help. For those who put their hearts into something and got a heartless answer, for those who made mistakes and bad choices, for those who won’t find any peace until they figure out where the spice of life is hidden, for those who risk drowning in a flood of their own tears, we’re here for you and we’re live, just like you. We’re waiting to hear your voice. You can expect our answer. This is Jean-Loup Verdier on Radio Monte Carlo. This is Voices.’
Again, ‘Born to Be Wild’. Once more, the race of discordant guitars down a rocky slope, raising dust and scattering gravel. ‘Wow, he’s good!’ Frank Ottobre, next to Laurent in the control room, could not keep from saying. The director turned to look at him with a smile.
‘Sure is.’
‘I’m not surprised he’s such a success. He’s got a very direct and heartfelt style.’
Barbara, the show’s mixer, sitting on Frank’s right, motioned to him to look behind him. He turned his chair and saw Hulot beckoning at him through the soundproof glass door. He got up and joined Hulot outside the studio.
The inspector looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept for a week. Frank noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the grey hair in need of a trim, and the ring of grime and desolation around his collar. This was a man who had been seeing and hearing things that he gladly would have lived without. He was fifty-five and looked ten years older.
‘How’s it going here, Frank?’
‘Nothing happening. The programme’s a hit. He’s fantastic – a natural. I don’t know how much they pay him, but it’s got to be a lot. But as far as we’re concerned, nothing. Absolute silence.’
‘Want a Coke?’
‘Come on, I know I’m American, but my grandparents were Sicilian. I drink coffee.’
They went over to the machine at the end of the hall. Hulot rummaged for some coins in his pocket.
‘The manager was really impressed by the fact that I’m with the FBI,’ Frank said with a broad smile, pulling out a card. ‘Coffee’s on the house.’
‘Oh, I forgot,’ said the inspector, gulping the black liquid. ‘The handwriting analysis arrived.’
‘And?’
‘Why bother asking if you already know the answer?’
‘I don’t know the details, but I can imagine what you’re going to say,’ Frank replied, shaking his head.
‘That’s right, I forgot. You’re with the FBI. You have quick intuition and a free coffee card. The message wasn’t written by hand.’
‘No?’
‘The bastard used a stencil. He glued the letters on to a piece of cardboard and cut them out. He had it with him and when he needed it, he placed the stencil on the table and spilled the blood on top. How did you know?’
‘I didn’t.’ Frank shook his head. ‘But it seemed strange that a man so goddamn thorough would then make such an obvious blunder.’
Hulot gave in and, with a grimace of revulsion, threw his half-finished coffee into the bin. He looked at his watch with a sigh.
‘Let me go and see if my wife is still married to me. There are two cars downstairs, two cops in each. You never know. The others are at their posts. I’ll be at home if you need me.’
‘Okay, I’ll call you if anything happens.’
‘I shouldn’t say this, but I’m glad you’re here tonight. And here in general. Goodnight, Frank.’
‘Goodnight, Nicolas. Say hi to Céline.’
‘Sure.’
Frank watched his friend leave, his shoulders stooped under his jacket.
With the manager’s support, they’d had the radio station under surveillance for three days, waiting for something to happen. When they had first told him of their plan, Robert Bikjalo had looked at them with half-closed eyes, as if he were avoiding the smoke from the reeking cigarette between his fingers. He had weighed Inspector Hulot’s words as he brushed ashes from his Ralph Lauren shirt, his eyes narrowed to slits.
‘So, you think the guy might call again?’
‘We’re not sure. It’s only a hopeful guess. But if he does, we’ll need your help.’
Hulot and Frank were sitting in front of him, in two leather armchairs. Frank noticed that the height of the chairs was carefully adjusted so that anyone sitting on the other side was looking down on them from above. Bikjalo had turned to Jean-Loup Verdier, sitting on a comfortable couch that matched the armchairs. The deejay had run his hand through his dark, longish hair. He had stared questioningly at Frank with his green eyes and rubbed his hands together nervously. ‘I don’t know if I can do what you want. That is, I don’t know how I’m supposed to act. A show is one thing, talking on the phone with normal people. It’s different with a . . . with a . . .’
‘I know it’s not easy,’ Frank said, coming to his rescue, realizing that Jean-Loup was having a hard time saying the word murderer. ‘It’s not easy for us to try to understand what he has in mind. But we’ll be here, and we’ll help you all we can and we’ll be ready for whatever happens. We’ve even called in an expert.’ He had turned to look at Nicolas who had been silent until then.‘We’ve got a psychiatrist,’ Hulot had said. ‘He’s a police consultant and he helps out handling negotiations with criminals when there are hostages.’
‘Okay. If you tell me what to do, I’ll do it.’ Jean-Loup had looked at Bikjalo to give him the last word. The manager was staring at the filter of another Russian cigarette. He was still noncommittal. ‘It’s a big responsibility, of course . . .’
‘Listen, I don’t know if you really understand the situation,’ Frank had said, knowing what Bikjalo was getting at. He had stood up, upsetting the chair hierarchy. Now he would dominate Bikjalo from above. ‘Just to clarify, let me show you something
.’ Frank had bent down and taken several 5x7 photos from Hulot’s briefcase on the floor. He had thrown them on the desk. ‘We’re hunting a man capable of doing this.’
They were pictures of the bodies and mutilated heads of Jochen Welder and Arianna Parker. Bikjalo had looked at the photos and blanched. Hulot had smiled to himself and Frank had sat back down.
‘This man is still at large and we think he’s going to try it again. You’re our only chance at stopping him. This isn’t a strategy to raise the ratings. This is a manhunt, and people could live or die as a result.’
Bikjalo was mesmerized, as if under a hypnotic spell. Frank had taken the pack of cigarettes on the table and examined it with apparent curiosity. ‘Besides the fact that, if this case is solved thanks to you, it’ll give you and Jean-Loup a popularity you wouldn’t dream of in a million years.’
Bikjalo had relaxed. He had pushed the photos towards Frank, touching them with only the tips of his fingers, as if they were on fire. He had leaned back in his armchair looking relieved. The conversation was back to a subject he could understand.
‘Okay. If we have a chance to help the law, a chance to be useful, Radio Monte Carlo certainly isn’t going to back down. That’s what Voices is all about, after all. Help for people needing help. There’s only one thing I would like to ask you in return, if you will.’ He had paused. Frank was silent, so he had continued. ‘An exclusive interview with you, by Jean-Loup, as soon as it’s all over. Before the others. Here on the radio.’
Frank had looked at Hulot, who had agreed with an imperceptible nod of his head.
‘It’s a deal.’ Frank had stood up again. ‘Our technicians will be coming with their equipment to tap the phones. There are a few other things, but they’ll explain all that. We’ll start tonight.’
‘Okay. I’ll tell our people to do all they can to help.’
The meeting was over. Everyone had stood up. Frank had found himself facing the bewildered stare of Jean-Loup Verdier. He had grabbed his arm reassuringly.
‘Thanks, Jean-Loup. You’re doing a great thing. I’m sure you’ll be fine. How do you feel?’
The deejay had looked at him with two clear eyes, green as the sea. ‘I’m terrified.’
THIRTEEN
Frank looked at the time. Jean-Loup was announcing the last commercial before the end of the programme. Laurent gestured towards Barbara. The mixer turned some knobs to fade out the deejay’s voice. They had a five-minute break. Frank got up and stretched.
‘Tired?’ asked Laurent, lighting a cigarette. The smoke rose and was absorbed by the exhaust fan.
‘Not really. I’m used to waiting.’
‘Lucky you! I’m a nervous wreck,’ said Barbara as she stood up, tousling her red hair with her hands. Sergeant Morelli, sitting on a padded chair near the wall, raised his eyes from the sports page he was reading. He was suddenly more interested in the girl’s body under her light summer dress than in the World Cup.
‘Maybe it’s none of my business,’ Laurent remarked, turning his swivel chair to face Frank, ‘but I want to ask you something.’
‘Ask, and I’ll tell you if it’s your business or not.’
‘What’s it like to do a job like yours?’
Frank stared at him for a second as if he couldn’t see him. Laurent assumed he was thinking about how to answer. He didn’t know that Frank Ottobre was seeing a woman lying on a marble slab in a morgue, a woman who for better or for worse had been his wife. ‘What’s it like?’ Frank repeated, as if he needed to hear it again before he could answer. ‘After a while, all you want to do is forget.’
Laurent turned back to the control board. He didn’t really like the American with the athletic build and cold eyes, who seemed so removed from the world around him. His demeanour made any type of contact impossible. He was a man who gave nothing because he asked for nothing. But he was there, waiting, and not even he knew what he was waiting for.
‘One more commercial,’ said Barbara, sitting back down at the mixer. Her voice interrupted the awkward silence. Although Morelli had returned to his sports page, he kept looking up at the girl’s hair falling over the back of her chair.
Laurent gestured to Jacques, the console operator. Fade-out. They played a classic by Vangelis. A red light went on in Jean-Loup’s cubicle. His voice again spread through the room and over the airwaves.
‘It’s eleven forty-five here at Radio Monte Carlo. The night is young. We’ve got the music you want to hear and the words you want to listen to. Nobody’s judging but everybody’s listening. This is Voices. Give us a call.’
The music swelled again in the director’s booth, slowly and rhythmically, like the waves of the sea. Behind the glass, Jean-Loup moved easily – he was on his own turf. In the control room the phone display started to flash. Frank felt a strange tremor. Laurent gestured to Jean-Loup. The deejay nodded in response.
‘Someone’s on line one. Hello?’
A moment of silence, then unnatural noise. The music in the background suddenly sounded like a funeral march. Everyone recognized the voice that emerged from the amplifier: it was seared permanently in their brains.
‘Hello, Jean-Loup.’
Frank straightened up in his chair as if shocked by an electric current. He snapped his fingers in Morelli’s direction. The sergeant roused himself immediately. He stood up and took the mike from the walkie-talkie hanging on his belt.
‘Okay, guys. This is it. Contact. Keep your wits about you.’
‘Hi. Who is this?’ asked Jean-Loup.
‘You know who I am, Jean-Loup. I’m someone and no one.’ There was a hint of a smile in the muffled voice.
‘You’re the one who called once before?’
Morelli rushed out of the room. He came back a moment later with Dr Cluny, the criminal psychiatrist who was in the corridor, waiting like everyone else. The doctor sat down next to Frank. Laurent turned on the intercom that allowed him to speak directly into Jean-Loup’s headphones without broadcasting his voice.
‘Yes, my friend. I called once before and I will call again. Are the bloodhounds there?’
The electronic voice contained both fire and ice. The room felt stuffy, as though the air-conditioning was sucking air in instead of blowing it out.
‘What bloodhounds?’
A pause. Then the voice again.
‘The ones hunting me. Are they there with you?’
Jean-Loup raised his eyes, lost. Dr Cluny moved a little closer to the mike. ‘Agree with him. Tell him whatever he wants to hear, but get him talking.’
‘Why do you ask?’ Jean-Loup resumed, with a leaden voice. ‘You knew they’d be here.’
‘I don’t care about them. They don’t matter. You’re the one I care about.’
Another pause.
‘Why me? Why are you calling me?’
Another pause.
‘I told you. Because you’re like me, a voice without a face. But you’re lucky. Of the two of us, you’re the one who can get up in the morning and go out in the sun.’
‘And you can’t?’
‘No.’
That sharp syllable was utter negation, a denial that allowed no contradiction.
‘Why is that?’ asked Jean-Loup.
‘Because someone decided it that way. There’s very little I can do.’ The voice changed. It became suspended, softer, as if crossed by gusts of wind.
Silence. Cluny turned to Frank and whispered, surprised: ‘He’s crying.’
‘There’s very little I can do. But there is one way to repair the evil, and that is to fight it with the same evil.’
‘Why do evil when there are people all around you who can help?’
Another pause. A silence like a thought, then the voice again, and the fury of blame.
‘I asked for help, but the only help I had killed me. Tell that to the bloodhounds. Tell everyone. There will be no pity because there is no pity. There will be no forgiveness because there is no forgiveness. Th
ere will be no peace because there is no peace. Just a bone for your bloodhounds . . .’
‘What does that mean?’
A longer pause. The man on the phone had mastered his emotions. The voice was once again a breath of wind from nowhere.
‘You like music, don’t you, Jean-Loup?’
‘Of course. Don’t you?’
‘Music doesn’t let you down. Music is the end of the journey. Music is the journey.’
Suddenly, just like the time before, the sound of an electric guitar, slow and seductive, was heard through the phone. A few notes, suspended and isolated, of a musician communicating with his instrument. Frank recognized the notes of ‘Samba Pa Ti’, in the mastery of the fingers and imagination of whoever was playing. It was just guitar in a furious introduction, an explosion ending in thunderous applause. And as suddenly as it had come, the music was turned off.
‘Here’s the bone your bloodhounds want. I have to go now, Jean-Loup. I have things to do tonight.’
‘What do you have to do tonight?’ the deejay asked in a shaking voice.
‘You know what I’m doing tonight, my friend. You know very well.’
‘No, I don’t. Tell me.’
Silence.
‘It wasn’t my hand that wrote it, but now everyone knows what I do at night . . .’
Another pause that felt like a drum roll.
‘I kill . . .’
The voice clicked off the line but its tone reverberated in their ears. His last words were like the flash of a camera: for an instant, they all felt disorientated, as if momentarily blinded in white light. Frank was the first to come to his senses.
‘Morelli, call the guys and see if they found out anything. Laurent, did you get all that on tape?’
The director was leaning on the table with his face in his hands. Barbara answered for him. ‘Yes. Can I faint now?’
Frank looked at her. Her face was deathly pale under that mass of red hair. Her hands were shaking.
‘No, Barbara. I still need you. Make a tape of that phone call right away. I need it in five minutes.’