Free I Kill by Giorgio Faletti Page B

his
wife, and in such tragic circumstances, Frank seemed intent solely to destroy himself, as if he bore the guilt for all the troubles of the world. Nicolas had seen people lose themselves to alcohol
or worse. He’d even seen people take their own lives in a desperate attempt to erase their remorse. Instead, Frank remained lucid, whole, as if he wanted to keep himself from forgetting. As
if he were serving out a sentence, day by day, without remission.
    Hulot leaned his elbows on the table. Frank sat in silence, expressionless, his legs crossed. Nicolas had to struggle to continue.
    ‘We don’t have a thing. Absolutely nothing. Our man was probably wearing a wetsuit the whole time, including shoes, gloves and cap. In other words, no skin, no hair. The handprints
and footprints he left are of such a common physical type that it could be anyone.’ Hulot paused. Frank’s black eyes glowed dully like coal. ‘We’ve started looking into the
victims. Two people like that, you can imagine the number of people they met in the lives they led, all over the world . . .’
    Suddenly, the inspector’s demeanour changed, struck by the force of an idea.
    ‘Why don’t you help me, Frank? I can call your boss. I can ask him to call the right people and have you join the investigation. You’re prepared and familiar with the facts.
We’ve worked together before, after all. And one of the victims was an American citizen. You’re just the man for a case like this. You speak French and Italian perfectly; you know how
us European cops do things and how we think. You’re the right man in the right place.’
    ‘No, Nicolas.’ His voice was cold and hard. ‘You and I don’t have the same memories any more. I’m not the man I used to be. I’ll never be that
again.’
    ‘Has it never occurred to you,’ said the inspector, getting up from his chair, ‘that what happened to Harriet might not be your fault?’ He went around the desk and leaned
against it, standing in front of Frank and leaning towards him slightly, for more emphasis. ‘Or at least not entirely?’
    Frank turned his head and looked out of the window. His jaw contracted as if he wanted to bite back an answer he’d already given too many times. His silence increased Hulot’s anger
and the inspector raised his voice slightly.
    ‘God damn it, Frank! You know what happened. You saw it with your own eyes. There’s a murderer out there who has already killed two people and will probably kill again. I don’t
know what exactly you’ve got on your mind, but don’t you think that stopping this maniac might be a way out for you? Think about it – could helping others be a way to help
yourself? Help yourself to go home?
    Frank brought his gaze back to his friend. His look said he felt like a man who could go anywhere and still feel that he did not belong.
    ‘No.’ That single syllable uttered in such a calm voice erected a wall between them. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
    There was a knock at the door and Claude Morelli walked in without waiting for an answer.
    ‘Inspector . . .’
    ‘What is it, Morelli?’
    ‘There’s someone from Radio Monte Carlo outside.’
    ‘Tell him I’m not talking to reporters now. There’ll be a press conference later, whenever the chief decides.’
    ‘He’s not a reporter, inspector. He’s a deejay who hosts an evening radio show. He came with the station manager. They read the papers and they say they have some information
on the two crimes at the harbour.’
    Hulot did not know how to take the news. Anything useful was like manna from heaven. The thing he was afraid of was a parade of maniacs convinced that they knew everything about the homicides,
or even wanting to confess that they were the killers. But he could not afford to leave any stone unturned.
    He blew out his cheeks. ‘Show them in.’
    Morelli went out and it seemed like a prearranged signal for Frank, who got up and retreated to the door just