The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit (127 page)

When he returns to the restaurant Gibson asks Sandro what he knows about HOSCO. Supposing Parson was right – entertain the idea – but if he was right, and the man who chased him across the tracks, the man who is responsible for his death, was commissioned by HOSCO. Supposing. What would happen next?

Sandro sets his elbows on the table. ‘It’s interesting. Do we assume the man who was after Parson wasn’t Stephen Sutler?’

‘Laura’s photograph doesn’t match the picture we have of Sutler. We have the one photograph from an ID and it looks nothing like this man.’

‘Then we imagine that this is something different. He was not finding the man he was sent to find. Instead the issue becomes more complex, because he helps to make it complex.’

Gibson can’t quite organize the thought. ‘Think of what is supposed to happen. The design. What was intended. Not about what has happened.’

Sandro asks him what he means.

‘I was speaking with Paul Geezler, and he is frustrated because this can’t be controlled. Parson. Sutler. It is too chaotic now. There is too much attention. And it continues to make damage.’ Gibson wants to distil recent events to their essential intentions, to reduce everything back to what was supposed to happen. ‘Parson was supposed to find Sutler. Not finding Sutler becomes a problem, because Sutler is still active. He is still getting attention. Making noise. Making more noise perhaps. If you eliminate Parson, then you eliminate Sutler. Because if no one is searching for Stephen Sutler, then he is no longer a matter of attention. So what would be the next step?’ Gibson looks up. ‘Or is this all over?’

Sandro laughs softly. ‘The method is not impressive. But the result is interesting. If we no longer have these people looking for Sutler, then, as far as everyone is concerned, we no longer have Sutler to worry about. I can see this. It makes sense.’

‘So is it over?’

Sandro gives the smallest head shake. ‘If there is someone making sure that Sutler is not discovered, then anyone who is involved is – I suppose – a threat.’ He looks quizzically at Gibson, the thought taking shape. ‘This means Paul Geezler,’ he softly clears his throat. ‘And it also means you.’

Mattaus and his
friend
are due to arrive at seven-thirty. Rike arranges the table setting and tries not to work herself into a bother. Henning, unfazed, cleans the cutlery and glasses that Rike has set out.

Once the table is prepared Isa comes out of the main bedroom, and, stroking back her hair, asks if it wouldn’t be better to take the table outside for a change. It is
nice
, after all.

‘We eat outside every night,’ Henning argues without much fight.

‘It’s only Mattaus. You know what he’s like, inside is best, once he starts laughing the neighbours will complain.’

Isa gives Rike a glance, a warning shot not to start. ‘Be nice.’

‘I’m always nice.’

‘I can’t believe we don’t know his name.’

Henning moves away from the sisters, then stands in the kitchen, bowls lined before him: one ready for the pasta, another for the sauce, another for the salad. Isa might have planned the evening but it’s Rike who has to cook. Rike fries the last of the pancetta. Isa, she notices, walks with a more pronounced waddle. Her hand tucked into the small of her back. Really working the pregnancy.

‘She’s laying it on a bit thick,’ Henning whispers.

Rike shrugs, Isa catches the expression.

‘You are going to be nice, you two?’

Both Rike and Henning give innocent smiles.

‘I’m always nice.’

‘No you aren’t. You make comments, you snipe at him until there’s an argument. I don’t want any of that this time. Just leave him alone.’

Rike brings the salad to the table. Henning tells Isa that someone is at the door, and simultaneously the doorbell rings. Isa hurries to answer and Rike returns to the kitchen area.

‘I don’t snipe. Do I?’ she asks Henning.

Henning gives a
don’t-ask-me
shrug and turns away. ‘Let her have her evening.’

‘He’s my brother as well.’

‘Just let it go the way she wants.’

Rike gives a small nod of agreement. Things always go how Isa wants. At the door, Mattaus stands on his own, arms up in welcome, Isa making excuses for him already, and in the same breath apologizing for the apartment. At least he’s remembered to bring wine.

‘Oh, he couldn’t come? Give me that. You shouldn’t have. We’re not long out of boxes, not everything is in the right place. We’ve no idea how long we’re staying so we haven’t settled.’ She returns to the lounge, a little red-faced and flustered, Mattaus behind her, looking, Rike has to admit, fresh, a little thinner, in good shape.

‘You’ve been on the beach.’ Isa strokes her brother’s shoulder.

Mattaus looks about the apartment. Both Rike and Henning make their way to him. Henning awkwardly shakes his hand then guides him to one of the two soft chairs and asks what he would like to drink. Mattaus asks for red wine, although he’s brought white, and keeps looking around the room, his eye a little critical.

‘You left everything in Damascus? I wanted to visit you there.’

‘When we get back.’ Isa hands him his wine. ‘Who knows when that might be.’

‘But everything’s in the house? You had to leave it all?’

‘Everything. We had no choice. I was given three days to get everything together, and we were limited on what we could bring. It’s still hard to believe.’

‘But you look good.’ Mattaus points his glass at his sister’s stomach.

‘I look like shit.’

‘You look good.’ Mattaus walks to Rike with his arms open. He apologizes about the apartment. ‘You know how it is. I wish it didn’t work out this way. Give me a kiss, teacher.’

Rike allows him to hug her but puts no enthusiasm into it. Understanding the rejection, Mattaus lets her go.

‘So tell me. Who is this man? What is his name?’

‘He’s an architect.’

‘We know.’

‘There isn’t much to say.’

‘Older? Younger? Dark hair, light hair, what?’

‘He’s a little older.’

‘What’s a little?’

‘Oh, a little.’

‘And where’s he from?’

‘Cyprus.’

‘He’s a Cypriot?’

‘No, he works in Cyprus.’

‘Why are you being so mysterious? What’s his name? When can we meet him?’

‘He would have come tonight, but he has work, and this is all new, more or less, neither of us want to jinx it, you know.’

More or less
. Rike sees a story here.

Rike stands away from the table, her arms folded. She unfolds her arms, works to find a happier expression before her sister notices and comments.

Isa asks how hungry he is. Rike has cooked his favourite, she says. Pasta. Mattaus automatically pats his stomach and while he says he’s looking forward to it, he also mentions that he’s trying not to put on any more weight.

‘There’s nothing on you,’ Isa coos.

They eat at the table, inside. Everything in place. Rike opposite her brother, Isa seated beside him. Henning opens more wine and keeps himself distant, the bottle placed as a barrier between brother and brother-in-law.

The subject turns to Rike’s teaching, this man, another unknown, dropped into the conversation (she thinks a little meanly) by Isa, announced as
her Norwegian.

‘So what are you teaching? English?’

‘I am.’

‘Anything else?’ Mattaus winks at Henning. Henning, to his credit, doesn’t respond.

Rike also doesn’t trouble herself with such a weak parry.

‘Is he cute?’

‘He’s a student.’

‘But how hot is he? What’s his name? Maybe I know him.’ Mattaus and Isa share a smile. This is Mattaus, pure and simple, each person an opportunity, actual or potential, every man measured by his availability.

‘Tomas Berens. He’s Norwegian. And yes, he is your type.’

Mattaus raises his eyebrows. ‘My type?’

‘Male. Breathing.’

‘Berens. Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’

‘A literary man?’

Rike shakes her head. ‘He works for the UN.’

‘Apparently,’ Isa interrupts, ‘he’s a little damaged.’

Mattaus immediately perks up.

Isa begins the story about the assault. Rike looks to Henning. Deeply interested in the salad, he doesn’t take part.

‘I told you that in confidence.’

‘Oh, come on.’ Isa gives a little snort.

‘You can’t tell her
anything
,’ Mattaus laughs, ‘you know that.’

‘Tell him about the murder. Tell him the story he told you.’

‘There isn’t a story.’ Again Rike looks to Henning.

‘Tell me. Tell me, tell me. I demand.’

Rike keeps her explanation blunt and to the point. ‘Two or three years ago they found evidence of a murder in the basement of his building.’

‘Evidence?’

‘Blood. Blood and some clothes. The room was covered in plastic.’

Mattaus’s head jots back a fraction. ‘Hang on.
I know this
.’ For one moment he looks puzzled, then a smile spreads across his face. ‘Wait. I remember. I’ve seen this. It’s from a film. It’s a movie.’ He uses the American word, deliberately. ‘Oh my god. It’s a
movie
.’

Rike feels a familiar weight. Doesn’t it always go like this? Mattaus and Isa on one side, Henning disengaged, then Rike, distant, on the opposite bank.
Everything I say becomes about them.

Isa holds the salad spoon in one hand and picks from the bowl with the other. ‘Wait? What? Again? He’s done this before.’

Mattaus’s eyes brighten with delight. ‘It’s a film. It’s the plot of a film.
And you believed him?
’

Rike’s voice is small, swallowed by Mattaus’s laughter. ‘It’s not funny. It’s not funny at all.’

‘It’s definitely a film. Wait. Oh, God. I can’t remember. OK. Did they find his tongue in a bag?’

Rike rises from the table, takes Henning’s plate, looks to the kitchen. The bowls set out for pasta, for sauce, the water already boiling. What she feels is shame, why can’t she just let go enough to join in? Play with Mattaus’s absurd idea, to push it further along.

Isa is trying to remember if she’s seen this film. It does sound familiar now he mentions it. Only, no? She looks up, confused. ‘I’m sure I’ve read it. Ages ago. God. I can’t remember anything these days. I read a book I’d finished about three weeks ago. Didn’t remember until I got to the end.’

This, to Mattaus, is endlessly funny.

Henning straightens his napkin, cringes at the peal of laughter, but won’t engage, won’t even look at Isa. He seems, instead, to be somewhere else entirely.

‘So Rike, tell me. Rike, listen,’ Mattaus shouts across the room, ‘what else has he told you? Come on. Share.’

Rike sets the plates in the sink. She lines the bowls equidistant from each other. Looks for the salt to add to the boiling water. She’s already taken the packet of fresh pasta out of the fridge so that it won’t cool the water down too much.

‘Rike. Come on. What else has he told you?’

The pasta will take three minutes once the water has boiled. On the packet it says five minutes, but three is long enough given the time it takes to drain, pour into a bowl, and be kept piping hot with the sauce.

‘What did he do last Christmas, Rike? Was he a caretaker in a hotel? Was he writing his novel with his wife and child?
Red rum, red rum.
’

It takes Isa a moment to get the reference, once she does she gives a hard and mean laugh.

‘Oh, I’m in trouble!’ Mattaus roars. ‘She’s ignoring me.’

Rike prefers to put the whole cloves of roasted garlic into the sauce, although the recipe calls for you to mash them in, so that the flavour carries throughout the sauce, but she likes it better this way.

‘Better watch out!’

Rike tips the pasta into the water and watches it settle, the water froths and quietens.

Mattaus moves along, answers a question from Isa that Rike does not catch, and begins to recount his week, how they spend only the mornings and early afternoons together because business keeps his friend away, he isn’t even sure what this business was, decorating is a broad field, who knows, maybe he works as an international spy?

‘You said he was an architect.’ Isa looks a little puzzled. ‘He works at night?’

‘Interiors. Interior architecture. Remodelling? I don’t know.’

‘What’s his name?’ Rike turns from the pot of pasta. ‘You haven’t told us.’

‘His name?’ Mattaus looks unaccountably blank.

‘He has a name. You won’t tell us. What’s his name?’

Mattaus scoffs, but Henning and Isa are quiet and interested, and look to him with an encouraging
come on
.

His name, and here comes the blow, is Lexi.

Olexei
.

Henning stiffens, sucks energy right out of the air to galvanize himself, say, politely, ‘Sorry?’ as if he hasn’t heard.

Olexei
.

Russian.

The name sparks for Rike.
He’s fucking a Russian.
How could this get any better? Best of all, Isa can’t figure out her reaction and flutters from the bemused
oh?
of the recently slapped to the confusion of someone who being cursed in a foreign language understands the intent but not the specifics.

Olexei
?

Henning folds his napkin. Leans forward, incredulous.

Mattaus has ditched Franco for a Russian. A Russian decorator, for christsakes.

Rike turns off the heat, leaves the pasta in the water.

This can only get better.

Mattaus tries to move things along by talking about the sincerity of the relationship.

‘He doesn’t believe in taking things fast.’

This information, Rike is certain, wasn’t supposed to slip out. She doesn’t understand why he didn’t just make up a name:
Markus
,
Stefan
,
Tomas
. Something generic. After the revelation prompted by the name, and with no hope offered that Lexi might be, say, a stage name, a nom de plume, a whimsical nickname or some family foible – as in, all the firstborn Kieserholzen males are named Olexei, nobody knows why. No. Genius that he is, Mattaus gives the man’s real name. The facts confirm the problem: Olexei comes from a place once known as Gorki, known now as Nizhny, or Nizhny Novgorod, Russia’s fifth largest city, which makes him definitively Russian. He couldn’t be more Russian.