He knew, instictively, that it wasn’t over. ‘They have no faces left. The killer
flayed them like animals. It’s horrible. I have never in my life seen so much blood.’
In the distance, the plaintive siren of the ambulance and the forensics van receded into the city. The curiosity seekers gradually straggled off, overcome by the heat and bored by the dwindling
activity on the quay. The reporters had gleaned all they could possibly get and they, too, were starting to pack up.
Hulot paused again. He stared at Frank, saying a great deal with his silence. ‘Want to take a look?’
Frank wanted to say no. Everything inside him said no. He would never again look at a trace of blood or overturned furniture, or touch the throat of a man lying on the ground to see if he was
dead. He was no longer a policeman. He was no longer even a man. He was nothing.
‘No, Nicolas. I don’t feel like it.’
‘I’m not asking for you. I’m asking for me.’
Although Frank Ottobre had known Nicolas Hulot for years, he felt as though he were seeing him for the first time. They had once collaborated on an investigation that had involved the Bureau and
the Sûreté Publique – some international money-laundering story tied to drugs and terrorism. The Monaco police, given their nature and efficiency, were in constant contact with
police forces all over the world, including the FBI. Because of his perfect French and Italian, Frank had been sent to follow the investigation on the ground. He had got on well with Hulot and they
had quickly become friends. They had stayed in touch, and he and Harriet had come to Europe once as guests of Hulot and his wife.
The Hulots had been planning a return visit to the States when the business with Harriet had happened. Frank still couldn’t give the events their proper name, as though not saying the
actual words, Harriet’s suicide, kept the darkness at bay. In his mind, what had happened was still ‘the business with Harriet’.
When he had heard, Hulot had called almost every day for months. He had finally convinced Frank to end his isolation and come to Monte Carlo to visit him. With the discretion of a true friend,
he had found him the apartment where he was staying. It belonged to André Ferrand, a company executive who was spending several months in Japan.
At that moment, Hulot was looking at him like a drowning man in need of a lifeboat. Frank couldn’t help but ask himself which of them was drowning and which was the lifeboat. They were two
people alone against the cruelty of death.
‘Let’s go,’ said Frank, replacing his sunglasses and getting up suddenly, before he could give in to the impulse to turn and flee.
He followed his friend to the Beneteau, feeling his heart beating faster and faster. The inspector pointed to the steps on the twin-mast that led below deck, and let Frank go first. Hulot saw
that his friend noticed the blocked rudder, but said nothing. When they were below, Frank looked around, keeping his eyes behind his shades.
‘Hmm . . . Luxury boat. Everything’s computerized. This is the boat of the lone sailor.’
‘Yeah, money was not an issue. Just think, he earned it by risking his life for years in a racing car and then ended up like this.’
Frank saw the traces left by the killer and the familiar marks left by forensics, who had found other less obvious details. There were the signs of a careful examination, of fingerprints taken
and measurements made. The smell of death still lingered, even though all the portholes had been opened.
‘They found the two of them in there, in the bedroom, lying next to each other. The footprints you see were left by rubber shoes, maybe from a wetsuit. There are no fingerprints in the
hand marks. The killer wore gloves at all times.’
Frank walked down the corridor, reaching the bedroom and stopping at the doorway. Outside was calm but inside it was hell. He had often witnessed scenes like this. Blood
flayed them like animals. It’s horrible. I have never in my life seen so much blood.’
In the distance, the plaintive siren of the ambulance and the forensics van receded into the city. The curiosity seekers gradually straggled off, overcome by the heat and bored by the dwindling
activity on the quay. The reporters had gleaned all they could possibly get and they, too, were starting to pack up.
Hulot paused again. He stared at Frank, saying a great deal with his silence. ‘Want to take a look?’
Frank wanted to say no. Everything inside him said no. He would never again look at a trace of blood or overturned furniture, or touch the throat of a man lying on the ground to see if he was
dead. He was no longer a policeman. He was no longer even a man. He was nothing.
‘No, Nicolas. I don’t feel like it.’
‘I’m not asking for you. I’m asking for me.’
Although Frank Ottobre had known Nicolas Hulot for years, he felt as though he were seeing him for the first time. They had once collaborated on an investigation that had involved the Bureau and
the Sûreté Publique – some international money-laundering story tied to drugs and terrorism. The Monaco police, given their nature and efficiency, were in constant contact with
police forces all over the world, including the FBI. Because of his perfect French and Italian, Frank had been sent to follow the investigation on the ground. He had got on well with Hulot and they
had quickly become friends. They had stayed in touch, and he and Harriet had come to Europe once as guests of Hulot and his wife.
The Hulots had been planning a return visit to the States when the business with Harriet had happened. Frank still couldn’t give the events their proper name, as though not saying the
actual words, Harriet’s suicide, kept the darkness at bay. In his mind, what had happened was still ‘the business with Harriet’.
When he had heard, Hulot had called almost every day for months. He had finally convinced Frank to end his isolation and come to Monte Carlo to visit him. With the discretion of a true friend,
he had found him the apartment where he was staying. It belonged to André Ferrand, a company executive who was spending several months in Japan.
At that moment, Hulot was looking at him like a drowning man in need of a lifeboat. Frank couldn’t help but ask himself which of them was drowning and which was the lifeboat. They were two
people alone against the cruelty of death.
‘Let’s go,’ said Frank, replacing his sunglasses and getting up suddenly, before he could give in to the impulse to turn and flee.
He followed his friend to the Beneteau, feeling his heart beating faster and faster. The inspector pointed to the steps on the twin-mast that led below deck, and let Frank go first. Hulot saw
that his friend noticed the blocked rudder, but said nothing. When they were below, Frank looked around, keeping his eyes behind his shades.
‘Hmm . . . Luxury boat. Everything’s computerized. This is the boat of the lone sailor.’
‘Yeah, money was not an issue. Just think, he earned it by risking his life for years in a racing car and then ended up like this.’
Frank saw the traces left by the killer and the familiar marks left by forensics, who had found other less obvious details. There were the signs of a careful examination, of fingerprints taken
and measurements made. The smell of death still lingered, even though all the portholes had been opened.
‘They found the two of them in there, in the bedroom, lying next to each other. The footprints you see were left by rubber shoes, maybe from a wetsuit. There are no fingerprints in the
hand marks. The killer wore gloves at all times.’
Frank walked down the corridor, reaching the bedroom and stopping at the doorway. Outside was calm but inside it was hell. He had often witnessed scenes like this. Blood
Similar Books
