It all fits so perfectly that it makes no sense at all. It just wasn't credible that a cocaine cartel would have decided to hold such a meeting in a town which, during the Film Festival, is heaving with extra police brought in from all over the country, with private bodyguards, with security guards hired for the various parties, and with detectives charged with keeping a round-the-clock watch on the priceless jewels being worn in the streets and elsewhere.
Although if that were true, it would be equally good for his career. A settling of accounts between mafia men would attract as much publicity as a serial killer.
HE CAN RELAX; WHATEVER THE truth of the matter, he will finally acquire the reputation he has always felt he deserved.
He turns off the siren. It has taken him half an hour to drive along the motorway and across an invisible barrier into another country, and he's only minutes from his destination. His mind, however, is mulling over what are, in theory, forbidden thoughts.
Three murders in one day. His prayers are with the families of the victims, as the politicians always say. And he knows that the state pays him to maintain order and not to jump up and down with glee when it's disrupted in such a violent manner. Right now, the commissioner will be pacing his office, conscious that he now has two problems to solve: finding the killer (or killers, because he may not be convinced by Savoy's theory) and keeping the press at bay. Everyone is very worried; other police stations in the region have been alerted and an Identi-Kit picture of the murderer sent via the Internet to police cars in the area. A politician may even have had his well-deserved rest interrupted because the chief of police believed the matter to be so very delicate that he felt it necessary to pass responsibility on to someone higher up the chain of command.
The politician is unlikely to take the bait, telling the chief of police to ensure that the town returns to normal as soon as possible because "millions or hundreds of millions of euros depend on it." He doesn't want to get involved; he has more important issues to resolve, like which wine to serve that night to a visiting foreign delegation.
"Am I on the right path?" Savoy asks himself.
The forbidden thoughts return. He feels happy. This is the high point of a career spent filling in forms and dealing with trivia. It had never occurred to him that such a situation would produce in him this state of euphoria--he can, at last, be a real detective, the man with a theory that goes against all logic, and who will end up being given a medal because he was the first to see what no one else could. He won't confess this to anyone, not even to his wife, who would be horrified and assume that he must have temporarily lost his reason under the strain of working on such a dangerous case.
"I'm happy. I'm excited," he thinks.
His prayers might well be with the families of the dead, but his heart, after many years of inertia, is returning to the world of the living.
SAVOY HAD IMAGINED A VAST library full of dusty books, piles of magazines, a desk strewn with papers, but the office is, in fact, painted entirely in immaculate white and furnished with a few tasteful lamps, a comfortable armchair, and a glass table on which sits a large computer screen and nothing else, just a wireless keyboard and a small notepad with an expensive Montegrappa pen lying on it.
"Wipe that smile off your face and at least try to look a little concerned," says the man with the white beard, who is dressed, despite the heat, in tweed jacket, tie, and tailored trousers, an outfit not at all in keeping with the decor or with the subject under discussion.
"What do you mean, sir?"
"I know how you're feeling. This is the biggest case of your career, in a town where n
ormally nothing happens. I went through the same inner turmoil when I lived and worked in Penycae, Swansea. And it was thanks to a very similar case that I got transferred to Scotland Yard."
"My dream is to work in Paris," thinks Savoy, but he says nothing. The man invites him to take a seat.
"I hope you, too, get a chance to realize your professional dream. Anyway, nice to meet you. I'm Stanley Morris."
Savoy decides to change the subject.
"The commissioner is afraid that the press will start speculating about there being a serial killer on the loose."
"They can speculate all they like, it's a free country. It's the kind of thing that sells newspapers and brings a little excitement into the dull lives of pensioners who will watch all the media for any new tidbit on the subject with a mixture of fear and certainty that it will never happen to them."
"I hope you've received a detailed description of the victims. Does the evidence so far suggest to you a serial killer, or are we dealing here with some sort of revenge killing on the part of drug cartels?"
"Yes, I got the descriptions. By the way, they wanted to send them to me by fax, for heaven's sake. How old-fashioned! I asked them to send the information by e-mail, and do you know what they said? 'We don't usually do that.' Imagine! One of the best-equipped police forces in the world still relying entirely on a fax machine!"
Savoy shifts rather impatiently in his chair. He isn't here to discuss the pros and cons of modern technology.
"Let's get down to business," says Dr. Morris, who had been quite a celebrity at Scotland Yard, but had decided to retire to the South of France and was possibly as glad as Savoy to have a break from routine--in Morris's case one that now revolved around reading, concerts, charity teas, and suppers.
"Since this is the first time I've met such a case, could you perhaps tell me whether or not you agree with my theory that there is only one killer, just so that I know where I stand."
Dr. Morris explains that in theory, yes, he's right: three murders with certain common characteristics would normally be enough to indicate a serial killer. And such murders were usually confined to one geographical area (in this case, the town of Cannes), and...
"Whereas, a mass murderer..."
Dr. Morris interrupts him and asks him not to misuse terminology. Mass murderers are terrorists or immature adolescents who go into a school or a snack bar and shoot everyone in sight, and who are then either shot dead by the police or commit suicide. They have a preference for guns and bombs that will cause the maximum amount of damage in a short space of time, usually two to three minutes at most. Such people don't care about the consequences of their actions because they know exactly how it will end.
"In the collective unconscious, the concept of the mass murderer is easier to take on board because he's clearly 'mentally unbalanced' and therefore easily distinguishable from 'us.' The serial murderer, on the other hand, touches on something far more complicated--the destructive instinct we all carry within us."
He pauses.