‘Sick, sick . . . They don’t know who they’re dealing with . . .’
‘Well . . . it takes a truly twisted mind to kill all those women, doesn’t it? And to think that Mitterrand has abolished the—’
‘We don’t know much about him.’
‘We know enough to know he’s evil though, don’t we?’
‘Yes, of course, but who knows? If we find him, I reckon we’ll all be surprised. He’ll be your average man, whom no one suspected.’
‘Brrr . . . It sends a shudder right though me, but you’re right, we don’t know much about him. Hey, did you know that the man who killed all those girls over in the United States turned out to be . . .’
I’ve spaced out again. Far away; far away from here, within the deepest convolutions of my brain. While Sandrine is carrying on with her nonsense – miscellaneous facts that the TV news likes to dwell on to frighten the rabble – I plunge into the ocean of my own doubt. She thinks I’m Pothos when I’m just Achilles.
‘Hey, Achilles, you’re not looking too good! You sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. It’s work. Problems at work. Nothing big.’
‘Do you want to go to my place?’
‘Your place?’
‘Yes. If you’d rather, we can forget about dessert and go to my place. I’ll serve you dessert . . .’
I close my eyes. I have a migraine coming on and would like to be alone in the dark. I push my chair back and stand up suddenly, letting out a sigh of annoyance.
‘Let’s go, Sandrine. I’m not feeling very well. I’ll take you home and head back to my room.’
I take a few steps back, refusing to give the thing in front of me the opportunity to continue with its whining. We go back to my car, which is parked a little way down the street, and ignoring her attempts to bed me, I dump Sandrine in front of her house.
I make my way back towards Ottrott. My throat is tight and the exquisite taste of the dish I ate earlier has been replaced by the bitter tang of uncertainty.
I’m fooling myself by keeping up appearances and pretending everything is fine when in fact the news story is undermining my confidence and sapping all my energies. I try to put this obsession to one side, but can’t get it out of my mind.
Montpellier, Montpellier, Montpellier.
I need to stop with the hypotheses: a trap or a random act?
I have to keep going for another day. I hurry through my professional meetings. It doesn’t matter; I don’t need to be a good performer in order to succeed. I spend an extra night in Ottrott and hit the road in the early morning before breakfast. In theory, I should stay one night in Lyon to cut the journey and deal with a few business matters, but instead I drive and drive. And I drive. By concentrating on the kilometres, by abandoning myself to the monotony of driving, I manage to suppress my current obsession somewhat.
I have to get to Nice. I will channel my doubts and be more lucid after a few hours in my own little bubble.
Before leaving and then at stages during the trip, I consult the press. There are so many articles about this particular case. Apparently, it is more than evident to analysts and to the police that the murderer responsible for the attack in Montpellier is The Artist. However, this is just not true, and I think I’m well placed to attest to this.
Investigators, in particular a certain Parisian detective by the name of Jacques Lambert – could you get a more common surname? – have released a couple of pieces of information. The victim matches the profiles of the women previously murdered by the killer. Yes, it’s me they’re talking about, but that’s not exactly big news. The victims have always been so carefully described in the newspapers, and anyone could have been aware of the type of target I prefer.
Lambert also declares that there are major pieces of evidence – which cannot yet be revealed to the media – that prove that The Artist has struck again. He seems so sure of himself that I almost feel he can’t be wrong.
I don’t know what the clues are, but it’s clear to me that there’s a copycat killer. I’m going to have to keep watching the papers and let him come to me. I can’t show up in Montpellier just like that and jump straight in. It would be too dangerous. I can’t completely reject the possibility of being ambushed by the police. Throwing myself directly into the lion’s den would be an idiotic move.
A few days on standby in Nice will do me the world of good. I’ll recharge the batteries and regain that legendary composure of mine.
The press reports on the kindness and generosity of the young woman whose throat was slashed in Montpellier. Experts claim that the same weapon was used for the murders in Bayonne, Les Sables-d’Olonne, Lyon and Lille. It doesn’t mean much – just that the perpetrator used a knife similar to Patroclus.
I still believe it’s a random killing, but I can’t move on without knowing for sure. There’s still a chance that there’s a madman out there who’s unintentionally copied me. But if I ever expect to sleep again, I’m going to have to make absolutely sure that there’s no personal threat to me.
One kilometre follows another. There’s a lot of static from the car radio. I switch it off, but this doesn’t bring me any peace. My fears are so strong that they’ve brought on a headache.
Nice is on the horizon. I’m going to bunker down there and wait.
6.
This place is such a comfort to me – just waiting here. It’s exactly what I need. I return the rental car to the station and take a taxi home. As a courtesy, I knock on the door before inserting my key in the lock. I open it and Claire is there, but instead of jumping around my neck like she usually does when I come home after several days away, she gives me a timid smile along with a quick kiss.
She moves to the left and nods her head towards the living room. On one of the chairs sits a man I haven’t seen in a decade: Jean-Paul Malanceau, a former partner of sorts. I worked with him for a few months in the mid-seventies when I couldn’t cope on my own with all the trips required to sell some German agrochemicals. I quickly understood that to make the money I needed I’d have to travel all over the country in less than two months. It was impossible, even for a man like me, so I asked a colleague – and competitor – from Lyon to collaborate with me on this one. Jean-Paul and I divided the tasks and did a good job together. As I’d suspected, the products we were selling worked very well for a short period of time – about six months – but turnover fell rapidly in less than a year. We’d kept in touch but had not had the opportunity to meet up again. Was he a friend? No, not as much as Antoine could have been. Nevertheless he was a person who meant a lot to me, and as you know, there aren’t that many in my life – the secret I hide means I have to remain a loner.
‘Your friend is here. The one I told you about on the phone,’ Claire said to me in a low voice.
I remember she’d mentioned a friend coming over while I was in Alsace. I take Claire by the shoulders and kiss her on the forehead. She moves away. Jean-Paul sees me and gets to his feet. I take a few steps forward.
The handshake is frank and cordial, virile without any deliberate demonstration of strength. I’m surprised that he’s here, but I have to admit that even though the current situation doesn’t lend itself to such feelings, I’m not sorry to see him again. I would obviously have preferred to be alone with Claire – to undress her – as is normal following an absence of more than a week, but then my enthusiasm gives way to curiosity.
‘Jean-Paul! What a surprise!’
‘Hi, Achilles. I hope I’m not disturbing you. I stopped by the day before yesterday and your wife told me you were out of town. I came back this evening, but I didn’t think I’d show up just as you were getting home. I’ll leave you to it and come back another time if you’d rather.’
‘No, stay. At least have a drink with me.’
Jean-Paul turns his head to the right in a move supposed to betray his hesitation, but I see a hint of satisfaction in those deep eyes of his and he doesn’t fool me
– he’s delighted at the invitation.
‘If you insist . . .’
We settle down on the sofas and I give Claire the nod to fetch some drinks. In less than five minutes, two glasses of Midleton are in our hands. I reach into the small chest next to the sideboard, where I keep a box of cigars that I only ever bring out on special occasions.
‘Midleton and Bolivar Royal,’ Jean-Paul whispers, before whistling with admiration. ‘I see your taste for luxury hasn’t changed one bit.’
‘I like the good things in life, you know that, and from memory, you were pretty much on the same page as me, weren’t you?’
‘Of course! I have to admit we still have that in common. So you’re doing well?’
‘More or less. I have a few good contracts that bring in a fair amount of money every month without me needing to lift a finger, and I’m always on the lookout for innovative manufacturers. What about you?’
‘Not doing too bad myself. You still work all over the country?’
‘Yes, I’m still doing that, and sometimes up in Germany and Belgium too. I have a couple of little bits of business in Switzerland and Holland, but they don’t take up too much of my time.’
‘I only work in Lyon, Provence and Languedoc these days. I have one or two occasional contracts further south . . . Sometimes up around Clermont. It limits business, but my quality of life is better, you know? You do what you have to do.’
We savour our whiskies. Jean-Paul scrutinises the room. I have the feeling that he’s recording every detail, as if he’s looking for something. I no longer even notice the delicacy with which colour and light are combined in here. Claire has amazing taste. Mine isn’t bad, of course, but I spend most of my time in hotels so I’ve let Claire take over on the style front.
Behind me, above the oak sideboard, two paintings hang on the wall. The first is an original by Van Juicks, a Dutch painter who I’m willing to bet will make it big. I came across him at an art exhibition while I was on a business trip. I asked for some information and was immediately convinced that the works of this artist would increase in value one day. The second painting is a work by Karel Dujardin from 1662 that I acquired at auction in London. It cost an arm and a leg.
I should confess at this point that I don’t paint. As curious as it may seem, I only draw on human bodies. I don’t know how to explain it and would be hard pressed to make any kind of analysis as to why I’ve never tried to use more conventional media, but that’s just the way it is. I’ve no doubt that a consultation with a psychologist would allow me to see things more clearly, but you can imagine that this would bring about a number of complications . . . So, I don’t paint. Nor do I sculpt. I only allow my creative frenzy to take over in the precise circumstances I’ve outlined to you. I suppose I could take credit for having a certain sense when it comes to photography. The etchings I make on women are copied from Polaroids I take myself, which I then destroy as soon as the work is complete.
Jean-Paul and I are chatting as freely as if we last saw each other only yesterday. I quite like this tall beanpole of a man; he never stops smiling. There’s a reason why we’re in the same job – we both have the trustworthy type of face that puts people at their ease and can soothe ruffled feathers in case of disagreement. We could have been diplomats. I could easily see myself as an ambassador, for example, but then I wouldn’t have the freedom that I have today.
Jean-Paul tells me that he got divorced two years ago and has decided to sort out his life somewhat.
‘I think I need stability. I’ve been really lonely. I’m going to force myself to spend Christmas alone – just to remind myself of how awful it is to be single. I don’t want to forget that. But then I need to start a new life. I want to have proper relationships with people – especially at my age.’
‘Of course! I completely understand.’
I smile as I savour my Midleton. Jean-Paul clears his throat discreetly and I refill his glass.
‘So you’re just passing through Nice then?’
‘Yes, I was in Montpellier all week and thought I’d head back to Lyon by taking a detour via Nice. I have contacts in the area and a number of products from Italy to get rid of. I met up with them this morning but nothing much came of it.’
A small alarm bell rings when I hear ‘Montpellier’. It’s a coincidence, of course, but if the discussion takes the direction I think it will, I’m going to find myself discussing a murder I’m supposed to have committed with a man who knew me back when I’d just carried out my very first crime. It’s just too bizarre for words.
I hope he doesn’t want to talk about Montpellier.
‘Did you hear about that murder in Montpellier?’
‘Murder?’
‘Yes,’ he continues. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard about it. That killer – The Artist . . . He killed a girl in Montpellier while I was there. Everywhere I went people were on about it. Well, there’s not much going on in the news, so the tabloids are all over this.’
‘I did see it in the papers.’
‘Can you believe it? I was in Montpellier and he was there at the same time as me. Incredible, isn’t it?’
‘Well . . . There’s nothing for you to fear, is there? You’re a man. He only kills women, doesn’t he?’
‘That’s right. Another reason I’m happy to be a man.’
On this misogynistic note, I try to change the subject, but Jean-Paul comes back to the crime each and every time. He talks non-stop about Montpellier, declaring that the city has been gripped by some sort of mass hysteria, and confides in me that he’s having trouble managing all his contacts there properly. ‘Too much work,’ he says. He no longer wants to spend so much time away from Lyon.
I’m not comfortable at all. It’s not surprising that my former colleague went to Montpellier – it was for work – but I am disturbed at what I think is trickery. I can’t help but imagine that he must know more than he’s letting on if he wants to talk to me about the murder in quite so much detail.
Time passes and our conversation finally returns to what I like best: great Rhône wines we’ve both enjoyed, the most famous restaurants in Lyon and the most comfortable hotels.
We have dinner together. Of course we do. When I suggest that he stay to share the meal with us, he refuses on principle, but then gives in without me having to insist too much. Claire joins us and we have a great evening together.
Once the desserts have been devoured, followed by coffee and digestifs, Jean-Paul gets up. He pulls on the tweed jacket he’d hung on the coat rack and heads for the door. He gives a sideways look at the marble chessboard on a small table to the right of our leather sofa, but then quickly turns his gaze away. At one time we used to love a game and if I hadn’t only just got back, I’d have gladly offered him a match. Jean-Paul used to be an avid user of the Sicilian defence, and ten years later I’m curious to see if he still plays with the same maestria.
He apologises once more for having bothered us on my first night back. After assuring him once again that we were delighted to welcome him, he leaves with a final wave of his hand.
I close the door.
My break can now begin. I have a few days ahead of me, a week at most, to clear my brain of the suspicions that have been worrying me incessantly since I read about the murder in Montpellier. I need to solve the riddle and will do whatever it takes to work it out. I can’t just carry on my merry way when some oddball may have me fixed in his sights.
But I’ll deal with that later. For the moment, there are delicate wines, appetising dishes, the splendour of a luxury apartment up on the heights of the Cimiez, the mild climate of this most beautiful city on the Côte d’Azur, and the promise of walks down to Old Nice and its narrow streets while listening to the sing-song accents of the locals.
I need a little dolce vita before the fury breaks out. I won’t let anyone take these gifts from me. They are my destiny. Whoever has done this will never take my soul.
7.<
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Saturday, 6 December 1986
To steal my soul, you’d have to go to hell to get your hands on it. I didn’t sell it, I merely loaned it. From time to time, I let it roast in hell while I work, and then I become human again and enjoy life. Just for as long as my thirst is satisfied.
It’s my conception of life that makes me so special. Or immoral. Or cruel. Whatever you want to call it. I’m cynical and I have good foresight. This marriage guarantees that I’ll never lose my bearings.
Montpellier. I know the road there by heart. I’ve been down it many times as I’ve travelled throughout the south of France hoping to find new clients to add to my books.
France has gone half wild since the newspapers reported the death of a twenty-two-year-old man killed by police during a student protest. The death of Malik Oussekine is the hottest story out there; for months now, anger has been building in certain communities. I couldn’t care less. Nothing matters except my desire to get to the bottom of the killing in November. I will come to understand it and punish anyone looking to come up against me.
Over the past month, I’ve read everything there is about the murder in Montpellier. Nothing much more revealing than the original story has been published and the investigators remain convinced that I’m the perpetrator. Me! Even though I was hundreds of kilometres away eating Münster cheese and drinking Gewürztraminer.
The identity of the victim has since been revealed. The young woman’s name was Caroline Berthier. She was twenty-eight years old, single and a saleswoman in a clothes store. The murderer is suspected of entering her building and ringing the doorbell, before shoving her to the ground as soon as she opened the door. Then I’m supposed to have knocked her out, slit her throat in her shower and drawn the most famous square in the city on her bloodless corpse.
I don’t believe in chance. For a while, I thought – or perhaps ‘hoped’ is a more appropriate term – that Caroline Berthier’s killer had operated in a manner similar to mine by chance and that all this was just a simple mistake. The investigators’ initial findings were too hasty and misleading. I believed they would quickly realise their mistake and correct it on their own.
A Killer's Game Page 5
