For the thousandth time, Morris looks at the photo of the man behind those crimes, smiling at the camera, surrounded by hippie friends, including a famous pop musician of the day. They all seem perfectly harmless, talking about peace and love.
HE CLOSES DOWN ALL THE windows. Manson is the closest thing to what is happening now, involving as it does the cinema and well-known victims. A kind of political manifesto against luxury, consumerism, and celebrity. Manson, however, was only the brains behind the killings; he didn't actually murder anyone himself; he left that to his acolytes.
No, that's not it. And despite the e-mails he has sent, explaining that he can't provide answers in such a short space of time, Morris is beginning to experience what all detectives always feel about serial killers: it's becoming a personal matter.
On the one hand, there's a man, doubtless with some other profession, who, given the weapons he uses, has clearly planned the murders in advance, but who is on entirely unfamiliar territory, where he has no knowledge of the competence or otherwise of the local police force. He is, therefore, a vulnerable man. On the other hand, there's the accumulated experience of all kinds of security organizations accustomed to dealing with society's aberrants, but apparently incapable of stopping the bloody trail left by this rank amateur.
He should never have responded to the commissioner's call. He had decided to live in the South of France because the climate was better, the people more amusing, the sea close at hand, and because he hoped that he still had many years ahead of him in which to be able to enjoy life's pleasures.
He had left his job in London with a reputation for being the best. And now this one failure would be sure to reach the ears of his colleagues, and he would lose that reputation earned through hard work and great dedication. They'll say: "He was the first person to insist that modern computers be installed in our department, but despite all the technology at his disposal, he's simply too old to keep up with challenges of a new age."
He presses the off button. The software logo comes up and then the screen goes blank. Inside the machine, the electronic impulses disappear from the fixed memory and leave no feeling of guilt, remorse, or impotence.
His body has no off buttons. The circuits in his brain keep working, always arriving at the same conclusions, trying to justify the unjustifiable, bruising his self-esteem, telling him that his colleagues are right: perhaps his instincts and his capacity for analysis have been affected by age.
He goes into the kitchen, turns on the espresso machine, which has been giving him problems lately. As with any modern domestic appliance, it's usually cheaper to throw the old one out and buy a new one. Fortunately, the machine decides to work this time, and he sips the resulting cup of coffee unhurriedly. A large part of his day involves pressing buttons: computer, printer, phone, lights, stove, coffeemaker, fax machine.
Now, though, he needs to press the right button in his brain. There's no point in rereading the documents sent through by the police. He needs to think laterally and make a list, however repetitive.
(a) The murderer is fairly well educated and sophisticated, at least as regards the weapons he uses. And he knows how to use them.
(b) He's not from the area; if he was, he would have chosen a better time to come, when there were fewer police around.
(c) He doesn't leave any clear signature, so he obviously has no desire to be identified. This may seem self-evident, but such "signatures" are often a desperate way of the Doctor trying to put a stop to the evils committed by the Monster, as if Dr. Jekyll were saying: "Please arrest me. I'm a danger to society, and I can't control myself."
(d) The fact that he was able to approach at least two of his victims, look them in the eye, and find out a little about them, means that he's used to killing without remorse. Therefore, he must, at some time, have fought in a war.
(e) He must have money, a lot of money, not just because Cannes is a very expensive place to stay during the Festival, but because of the high cost of producing the envelope containing the hydrogen cyanide. He must have paid around $5,000 in all--$40 for the poison and $4,460 for the packaging.
(f) He's not part of the drug mafia or involved in arms trafficking or that kind of thing; if he was, Europol would be on to him. Contrary to what most such criminals believe, the only reason they haven't been caught is because it isn't yet the right time for them to be put behind bars. Their groups are regularly infiltrated by agents who are paid a fortune for their work.
(g) He doesn't want to be caught, and so he's very careful. On the other hand, he can't control his unconscious mind and is, unwittingly, following a set pattern.
(h) He appears to be completely normal and unlikely to arouse suspicion; he may even be kind and friendly, capable of gaining the confidence of the people he lures to their death. He spends some time with his victims, two of whom were women, who tend to be more trusting than men.
(i) He doesn't choose his victims. They could be men or women of any age or social class.
Morris pauses for a moment. There's something that doesn't fit with the rest.
He rereads the list two or three times. On the fourth reading, he spots the flaw.
(c) He doesn't leave any clear signature, so he obviously has no desire to be identified.
This murderer isn't trying to cleanse the world as Manson was, or, like Ridgway, to purify his hometown; he's not trying, like Dahmer, to satisfy the appetite of the gods. Most criminals don't want to be caught, but they do want to be identified, some in order to hit the headlines and gain fame and glory, like Zodiac or Jack the Ripper. Others perhaps think their grandchildren will be proud of what they did when, years later, they discover a dusty diary in the attic. Others have a mission to fulfill: for example, driving away prostitutes by making them too afraid to walk the streets. Psychoanalysts have concluded that when serial killers suddenly stop murdering from one moment to the next, it's because they feel that the message they've been trying to send has finally been received.
Of course, that's it! Why hadn't he thought of it before?
For one simple reason: because it would have sent the police hunt off in two different directions, in search of the murderer and the person to whom he was sending the messages. And this Cannes murderer is killing people very fast. Morris is almost sure that he will stop soon, once the message has been received. In two or three days at most. And as with other serial killers whose victims appear to have nothing in common, the message must be intended for one person, just one.
He goes back to the computer, turns it on, and sends a reassuring e-mail to the commissioner.
"Don't worry, the murders will stop soon, before the Festival is over."
Just for the hell of it, he copies the e-mail to a friend in Scotland Yard, as a way of letting him know that the French authorities respect him as a professional, have asked for his help and received it; that he's still capable of reaching conclusions which will, later on, prove correct; that he's not as old as they would like to think.
His reputation is at stake, but he's sure his conclusion is the right one.
10:19 P.M.
Hamid turns off his mobile phone. He isn't the slightest bit interested in what's going on in the rest of the world, and in the last half hour, his phone has been inundated with grim messages.
It's a sign that he should ditch the whole absurd idea of producing a film. He had clearly allowed himself to be carried away by vanity instead of listening to the advice of the sheikh and of his own wife. He's starting to lose touch with himself; the world of luxury and glamour is beginning to poison him, something he had always believed would never happen.
Tomorrow, when things have calmed down, he'll call a press conference for the world media present in Cannes and tell them that, despite having already invested a large amount of money in the project, he's decided to pull out because it was "a dream shared by all those involved, one of whom is no longer with us." A journalist is bound to ask if he has other projects in m
ind, and he'll reply that it's still too early to discuss such things and that "we need to respect the memory of the departed."
Like anyone with even a minimum of decency, he deeply regrets the fact that the actor who was going to appear in his first film should have died of poisoning and that his chosen director is still in hospital--although not now in danger of losing his life--but both these events carry a clear message: keep away from cinema. It isn't his world and he's bound to lose money and gain nothing in return.
Leave cinema to the filmmakers, music to the musicians, and literature to the writers. Ever since he first embarked on this adventure two months before, he has met with nothing but problems: wrestling with gigantic egos, rejecting outlandish budgets, editing a script that seemed to get worse with every new version, and putting up with condescending producers who treated him as if he knew absolutely nothing about films.
His intentions had been impeccable: to make a film about the culture of his home country, about the beauty of the desert and the Bedouins' ancient wisdom and code of honor. He felt he owed this to his tribe, although the sheikh had warned him not to stray from his original path.
"People get lost in the desert because they're taken in by mirages. You're doing an excellent job as a couturier; focus all your energies on that."
Hamid, however, wanted to go further, to show that he could still surprise people, go higher, take risks. He had committed the sin of pride, but that wouldn't happen again.
THE JOURNALISTS BOMBARD HIM WITH questions--news, it seems, is traveling even faster than usual. He says he doesn't yet know any details, but that he'll make a full statement tomorrow. He repeats the same answer over and over, until one of his own security guards comes to his aid and asks the press to leave the couple alone.
He summons an assistant and asks him to find Jasmine in the crowd of people in the garden and bring her to him. They need to have a few photos taken together, a new press release confirming the deal, and a good PR person to keep the issue alive until October and the Fashion Week in Paris. Later on, he'll try to persuade the Belgian designer to join him; he genuinely liked her work and is sure she would bring money and prestige to his group; however, he knows that, at the moment, she'll be thinking that he was only trying to buy her because he wanted her principal model. Approaching her now would not only up the price, it would seem inelegant. To everything its proper time; it would be best to wait for the right moment.
Ewa appears troubled by the journalists' questions. She says:
"I think we should leave."
"Absolutely not. I'm not hard-hearted, as you know, but I can't get upset over something that only confirms what you always told me, that I shouldn't get involved in cinema. Now, though, we're at a party, and we're going to stay here until the end."
His voice sounds sterner than he intended, but Ewa doesn't appear to notice, as if she were as indifferent to his love as to his hate. In a more equitable tone of voice, he adds:
"This party's just perfect, don't you think? Our host must be spending a fortune to be here in Cannes, what with the travel and accommodation expenses of the celebrities who've all been specially selected to be present at this lavish gala supper. But you can be sure that all the free publicity will send his profits soaring: full-page spreads in magazines and newspapers, TV airtime and hours of coverage on the cable channels that have nothing else to show. Women will associate his jewels with glamour; men will wear his watches as proof that they're powerful and wealthy; and young people will flick through the fashion pages and think: 'One day, I want to be there too, wearing exactly that.'"
"Please, let's leave now. I just have a really bad feeling about this party."
This was the last straw. He's put up with his wife's bad mood all day without complaint. She keeps turning on her mobile phone to see if there's another text message, and now he's beginning to think that there really is something strange going on. Another man perhaps? Her ex-husband, who he saw in the hotel bar, and who is perhaps doing everything he can to arrange a meeting? If that's the case, though, why doesn't she just tell him what she's feeling instead of withdrawing into herself?
"Don't talk to me about bad feelings. I'm trying to explain to you why people put on parties like this. If you ever decide to go into fashion as you always dreamed of doing or of once again owning a shop selling haute-couture clothes, you could learn something. By the way, when I told you that I'd seen your ex-husband in the bar last night, you told me that was impossible. Is he the reason you keep checking your mobile phone?"
"Why on earth would he be here?" she says, when what she feels like saying is: "I know who ruined your film project. And I know that he's capable of far worse. We're in danger here; please, let's leave."
"You didn't answer my question."
"The answer is yes. That's why I keep checking my mobile phone because I know him, and I know he's here somewhere, and I'm afraid."
Hamid laughs.
"But I'm here too."
Ewa picks up a glass of champagne and drinks it down in one. He says nothing, feeling that she's simply being provocative.
He looks around him, trying to forget the recent news that flashed up on his phone, and still hoping for a chance to have a few photos taken with Jasmine before they're all called into the room where supper will be served. The death of the actor couldn't have come at a worse moment. Now no one is asking about the big contract he's signed with an unknown model, and yet, half an hour earlier, it was all the press were interested in. Not anymore.
Despite his many years of working in this glamorous world, he still has a lot to learn: the contract he signed has been quickly forgotten, but the host of this party has managed to keep the media interest alive. None of the photographers and journalists present has left the party to go to the police station or the hospital to find out exactly what has happened. They are, admittedly, fashion journalists, but their editors wouldn't have dared order them to leave, for the simple reason that murders don't appear on the same pages as social events.
Makers of expensive jewelry don't get themselves mixed up in cinematographic adventures. Big promoters know that regardless of how much blood is being spilled in the world right now, people will always prefer photos depicting an ideal and inaccessible life of luxury.
Murders can take place next door or out in the street, but parties like this only occur at the very top of society. What could be of more interest to mere mortals than this perfect party, which would have been advertised months before in press releases, confirming that the jeweler would be holding his usual event in Cannes, and that all the invitations had already gone out. Not quite true; at the time, half of the guests would have received a kind of memorandum, politely asking them to keep the date free.
They would, of course, respond at once and reserve the date and buy their plane tickets and book their hotel room for twelve days, even if they're only staying for forty-eight hours. They need to prove to everyone that they're still members of the Superclass, membership of which is invaluable in making business deals, opening doors, and feeding egos.
The lavish invitation card would arrive two months later. The women would start worrying about which dress to wear for the occasion, and the men would contact a few acquaintances to ask if they could meet in the bar to discuss business before supper. This was the male way of saying: "I've been invited to the party. Have you?" Even if the acquaintance claimed he was too busy and wasn't sure he'd be able to travel to Cannes on that date, the message had been sent loud and clear: that "full diary" was just an excuse for not yet having been invited.
Minutes later, that "very busy man" would start mobilizing friends, advisors, and associates to wangle him an invitation. This meant that the host could then choose the second half of his guest list, basing himself on three things: power, money, contacts.
The perfect party.
A professional team of caterers would be signed up. On the day itself, the order will go out to serve as much alcohol as
possible, preferably plenty of France's legendary and unbeatable champagne. Guests from other countries don't realize that they're being served a drink produced in the country itself and which is, therefore, much cheaper than they might think. The women feel--as even does Ewa at that moment--that the golden liquid in the glass is the best possible complement to dress, shoes, and bag. The men are all holding a glass as well, but they drink much less; they've come to make peace with a competitor, to cement relationships with a supplier, or to meet a potential distributor of their products. Hundreds of business cards are exchanged on such nights, most of them among professionals. A few, of course, are given to pretty women, who know they're not worth the paper they're printed on; no one has come here hoping to find the love of their life, but to make deals, to shine, and, possibly, to enjoy themselves a little. Enjoying yourself is optional and not of great importance.
The people here tonight come from three points of an imaginary triangle. At one point are those who have it all and spend their days playing golf or having lunch or hanging out at some exclusive club, and who, when they go into a shop, can buy anything they want without first asking the price. Having reached the top, they have realized something that had never even occurred to them before: they cannot bear to be alone. They can't stand the company of their husband or wife and they need to be on the go all the time, in the belief that they can still make a difference to humanity, although they've discovered, since they retired, that their day-to-day life is as dull as that of any other middle-class person: eat breakfast, read the newspapers, eat lunch, take a nap, eat supper, watch TV. They accept most of the supper invitations they receive. They go to social and sporting events at the weekend. They spend their holidays in fashionable places (even though they no longer work, they still believe in something called "holidays").
At the second point on the triangle are those who haven't yet achieved anything and who are doing their best to row in very choppy waters, to break the resistance of the have-it-alls, to look happy even if one of their parents happens to be in hospital, and they are having to sell off things they don't even own.