The Girl in the Fog Page 26

  The shadow has stopped, fortunately. He’s putting the tracksuit top back on me. Maybe he thinks I’m cold. I am.

  ‘I always tell my students: the first rule of a good novelist is to copy. That’s how I realised I had to find someone who would teach me how to do something I’d never have thought of doing. How to kill. I spent whole afternoons in the library looking on the internet for the lesson I needed. And then one day, I found it … It was on a website set up by a journalist named Beatrice Leman. I don’t think anyone had visited it for ages. But that was where I found what I’d been looking for. Thirty years ago, in Avechot and the surrounding area, six girls your age went missing. Not all at the same time, but at more or less regular intervals. They were special, because they all had red hair and freckles – just like you. Nobody had been terribly concerned about what had happened to them, but this Leman woman believed that they had all been kidnapped by the same person. She had identified a monster and had even given him a name: the man in the fog. It was perfect. I would just have to copy what the police call the modus operandi, and then what I was preparing to do would be blamed on him – even after all those years. In fact, if everything goes as it should, he’ll be my alibi, the thing that gets me out of prison …’

  Now he’s putting on my tracksuit bottoms. I can feel them sliding up my legs. They tickle a bit. I don’t know if it’s pleasant.

  ‘As I was saying, they have to suspect me. So I’ll scatter clues. Actually, I already started, with Mattia. He was the one who led me to you. Because, I have to say, it wasn’t easy to find a girl with red hair and freckles. Then one day, while the class was in the gym for physical education, I was wandering about between the desks, busy preparing a lesson on the Romantic poets that I was due to give next period. As I walked to the desk where Mattia had been sitting, I noticed the camcorder. He’d left it behind, so I switched it on and discovered the girl who was the main character in his videos …You … So all I had to do was follow him around – he was following you, I followed him. That’s how I found out that you like cats. I made sure my car appeared in his videos, because I wanted Mattia to notice me. I hope the police see them and come looking for me. When I tell them I was alone in the mountains today, and especially when they see the cut on the palm of my hand, they’ll start to suspect me. I have a knife with me, and I suppose it’ll be quite painful when I cut myself, but don’t worry: you won’t have to watch …’

  That’s the noise the zip of my jacket makes when I pull it up. But I’m not the one doing it. It’s the shadow who’s talking to me. And now he’s putting my shoes back on my feet. And lacing them up.

  ‘I’m hoping they’ll send a particular police officer here. His name’s Vogel and he’s good at putting together a case. He convinces everybody that he’s right – he certainly managed it with Signor Derg, for instance. He’ll ruin my life, I know that. But I have to lose everything, otherwise it’ll all have been pointless. Everybody will have to suspect me, even my own family. Yesterday, your friend Priscilla left me her telephone number. I think I’ll call her or send her a text, then she’ll go on television and make everyone think I was trying to groom her. And then I really will be the monster everybody needs …’

  It smells damp in here. Even though I’m dressed, I’m still cold. I feel drunk, like when I was six and I drank my grandmother’s currant liqueur in secret. By now, my brothers must have finished the Christmas tree. It’s going to be beautiful, I know.

  ‘Apart from his instinct, all that Vogel will have on me will be a lot of circumstantial evidence. No actual proof. I’ll have to get him to the point where he thinks he’ll only be able to arrest me by forcing the truth a little. I’ll show him my injured hand – I have to make sure it doesn’t heal. When we meet, I’ll leave a bloodstain behind. I know he’ll be tempted to use it straight away, but he’ll wait until he needs it. Then when they find your satchel in a ditch, I’m convinced he’ll do the same thing he did with Derg – he’ll twist the truth for his own ends … But for that to happen, the mechanism I’ve set in motion has to function like clockwork. Everything in its own good time …’

  Whatever mistake I’ve made – I beg you – I can’t stand it any more. Forgive me. Let me go home.

  ‘I’ll go to prison. It’ll be hard to be away from my family. I might even be scared I’ll never get out again, but I’ll just have to hold on. In the meantime, on the outside, the mechanism will continue turning all by itself … You know, when I was a child I was good at organising treasure hunts. I loved to create questions and riddles and scatter clues. That’s why I’ll send something of yours to Leman, but add Vogel’s name on the package. I found a diary in your satchel, I chose it to arouse his curiosity … A little while ago, I filmed a video message – you didn’t even notice. I already know where I’m going to bury it. But I’ll also send a copy to the media … For everything to be perfect, Vogel must fall. It’s only when he’s in the dust that I’ll be able to rise … And then the story of the man in the fog will come out again. Most likely, he died sometime in the last thirty years. But he’ll come back to life and they’ll look for him because they want you to have justice. While I’ll be free.’

  The fog’s already here, I can see it. It’s all around me. It’s cold and light.

  ‘Now comes the most difficult question. You must be wondering why I’m doing all this.’

  No, no … I don’t think I want to know.

  ‘It’s because I love my family. I want them to have everything they deserve. And I don’t want to risk losing my wife again. I know you don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, but the thing was a terrible time for us. I felt inadequate: a humble secondary school teacher … But soon, Clea and Monica will be proud of me. Because I won’t sell out immediately, I’ll hold back. I’ll show them what an honest man I am. But, let’s admit the truth, every man has his price, it’s useless to deny it.’

  I also love my family. And they love me. Why can’t you understand that?

  ‘Well, there you are, that’s all. I’m sorry to involve you, but it’s just like in novels: the villain makes the story, readers wouldn’t be interested in stories where the only characters are the good guys. But your role isn’t a minor one. And, who knows, maybe one day someone really will find the man in the fog, and then six girls everyone has forgotten will have justice. And it’ll all be thanks to you, Anna Lou …’

  Why are you telling me this story? I’m not interested, I don’t like it. I want my mummy, I want my daddy, I want my brothers. I want to see them one more time, I beg you – just once. I have to say goodbye to them, even though I don’t want to. I’ll miss them.

  ‘Now you’ll have to forgive me, but I see that the effect of the ether is wearing off. I’ll be quick, you’ll hardly feel a thing.’

  There’s something pricking my arm. I open my eyes a little, I can do that now. He’s sticking a needle in my skin and looking at the O that I’ve dedicated to Oliver. He’s wondering what it is. It’s a secret.

  ‘Goodbye, Anna Lou, you’re so beautiful.’

  I’m cold. Mummy, where are you? Mummy …

  23 February

  Sixty-two days after the disappearance

  The night everything changed for ever, the fog seemed to have finally seeped in through the window, filling the room like a subtle chill.

  When Vogel had finished his story, he paused for a long time. ‘Did you know that hate isn’t the prime motive for murder? Borghi tried to tell me that, but I didn’t listen to him. If I had, maybe I’d have understood everything earlier … The prime motive for murder is money.’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that,’ Flores admitted.

  ‘The whole mechanism turned on a simple, even banal idea … Nobody was ever to find Anna Lou’s body. That was the whole trick. Without a body, there was no proof. That’s why he got away with it.’

  ‘What about the initial on his arm? Why run the risk of being discovered? I don’t understand.’

 
‘On average, a murderer makes twenty mistakes. More than half of those are unwitting. Most are the result of inexperience or carelessness. But there’s a type of mistake that’s due to the murderer’s particular character, one we can call “voluntary”. It’s like a signature. Unconsciously, every murderer wants to take credit for his work.’ He now quoted Martini. ‘“The devil’s most foolish sin is vanity.” When it comes down to it, where’s the fun in being the devil if nobody knows you are?’

  Flores was starting to understand. ‘After the show, you followed Martini to Avechot and killed him.’

  Vogel put his hands together in his lap. ‘You’ll never find him. He also ended up in the fog.’

  At this point, Flores lifted the receiver of the telephone on his desk and dialled a number. ‘Yes, it’s me. You can come in now.’ He hung up.

  They waited in silence. Then the door of the office opened. Two uniformed officers entered the room and took up position on either side of Vogel.

  ‘An angler who always catches the same fish.’ Vogel laughed at the thought. ‘It’s really been a pleasure talking to you, Dr Flores.’

  It was almost six in the morning when he got back home. Dawn would rise soon, but for now it was still dark and everything was silent. In the little house with the protruding roof, the heating had been on for a while, and along with the heat there was a kind of torpor that felt good. Sophia was fast asleep in the bedroom upstairs. Flores thought of joining her, of slipping into bed beside her and trying to get at least a little rest. But then he changed his mind. He was no longer sure that he would manage to get to sleep. Not after a night such as he’d just had. So, without making any noise, he went down into the basement.

  This was where he had his taxidermy workshop, where he stuffed his Oncorhynchus mykiss. The room was small, with just one narrow window. Flores raised his hand and pulled a rope. A small light came on above his head and swayed slightly, making the shadows of objects dance along with it. There in front of him was his old wooden work bench with all his equipment. The flasks of ammonia and formaldehyde to arrest the process of decomposition. The transparent paints to bring out the natural colours. The pure alcohol spray. The jar with the paintbrushes and the aqua regia. The little knives arranged tidily on a grille. The box of pins. The bottle brushes and the hollow-tipped scoop. The Borax powder and the salicylic acid. The heat lamp.

  Flores was nearing retirement and this would soon become his new den. He also kept a lot of his fishing equipment here, and he would move into it the old junk he had in his office. It would be sad to say goodbye to a lifetime’s work, but he could already imagine himself in this place, protected from stress and anxiety, devoting himself patiently to his hobby. Every now and again, he would bring his grandchildren down here to show them what their grandad did. He wouldn’t be at all upset to transmit his own passion to them. Down here, he would lose all sense of time and around mid-morning would recognise Sophia’s steps on the stairs as she brought him a tray with a sandwich and a glass of cold tea. Yes, it would be a nice way to spend his old age.

  Flores put both his hands on the table and relaxed his shoulders. He took a deep breath. Then he got down on his knees. Under the bench there was a neat pile of boxes, in which he kept his fishing bait. Every Christmas or birthday, his nearest and dearest would give him a new one, because they knew that these were the only kinds of gifts he liked to receive. Some were actually very expensive. But near the bottom there was also an old metal case with a padlock. Flores took it out and placed it on the bench. The key to open it was one he always kept with him, although it was mixed up with the others in the bunch: the keys to his house, the car and the office. He found it, slipped it into the lock and opened the lid.

  The six locks of red hair were still there.

  They reminded him of a period in his life which, all things considered, had been happy. He was married to Sophia and two of their three children had already been born. Nobody had ever found out what he sometimes did instead of going fishing. They saw him come back home as usual, never imagining that the joy on his face was due to something quite different.

  The angler who for the last thirty years had always caught the same fish – a rainbow trout – had previously devoted himself to capturing the same kind of girl. One with red hair and freckles.

  And now everyone was wondering what had happened to the man in the fog. He would have liked to be able to tell them that every now and again he was still tempted to leave the house and set off in search of prey, but that after the heart attack that had almost killed him at the age of only thirty-two, he had made a solemn promise.

  No more girls with red hair and freckles.

  Over the years, people had forgotten all about him. But now, because of Loris Martini, the man in the fog was once again in their thoughts. They’ll never trace me, he told himself. Vogel’s timely act the previous night had sorted things out. Once again, they’ll think the monster is dead.

  Flores stood there for a little while longer, looking at the metal case. Maybe he should get rid of it. Not because he was afraid those locks of hair might be evidence to nail him. No, it was because it often occurred to him that if he had another heart attack, a fatal one this time, his family – the people he loved most in the world – would find his secret collection. And they probably wouldn’t understand, might change their ideas about him. He didn’t want them to discover that side of him. He wanted to be loved.

  But once again, he decided he wouldn’t destroy the contents of the case, because certain affections were difficult to forget. And when it came down to it, those six girls lost in the fog were his, they belonged to him. He had been taking care of them for thirty years, in the secrecy of his own mind. So he closed the lid and snapped the padlock shut. Then he put everything back under the work bench. Through the window filtered a weak ray of sunlight.

  The night everything changed for ever was over.

  Acknowledgements

  Stefano Mauri, publisher – friend. And together with him, all my publishers around the world.

  Fabrizio Cocco, my pillar. Giuseppe Strazzeri, Raffaella Roncato, Elena Pavanetto, Giuseppe Somenzi, Graziella Cerutti, Alessia Ugolotti, Tommaso Gobbi. For having supported me all the way in this challenge.

  Cristina Foschini, who with her gentleness saves my life.

  Andrew Nurnberg, Sarah Nundy, Giulia Bernabè and all those who work so passionately in the London agency.

  Tiffany Gassouk, Anais Bakobza, Ailah Ahmed.

  Alessandro Usai and Maurizio Totti.

  Gianni Antonangeli.

  Michele, Ottavio and Vito, my best friends. Achille.

  Antonio and Fiettina, my parents.

  Chiara, my sister.

  To my extended family. Without you I wouldn’t be here.