The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit (134 page)

Rike shakes her head. That wasn’t it, he
recognized
the name.
Placed it.

‘Sometimes it’s a first name. But in German it’s a shortened version of “baron” which means “freeman”. In Norwegian it’s a little different and it means “bear”, wild bear.’

The question or statement about her brother is lost, and if she even thinks about it now, which he doubts, she’ll imagine that the subject is closed.

Rike starts the lesson and the idea of going somewhere else is passed over. ‘Today,’ she says, ‘we talk about aspirations. What I would like, what I hope for. What I would want to see.’ These are, she says, conditional clauses. Tough to master, and she would like to see him demonstrate them.

This is almost too easy now. Tomas uses the example, Finn Cullman in Naples. It’s satisfying to find a use for it.

‘I’ve always wanted to write,’ he says, ‘not fiction but real stories. What has happened to other people. This is what I like to read. I’ve taken it seriously and once I hired a researcher, but he took advantage of me. It didn’t go so well.’

Rike nods as she listens.

‘I think it would be good to write about something current. I don’t know, but it is interesting to me, the stories you have been telling me about this man they found in the desert. It is always more interesting when these stories are true, no?’

Rike agrees. It is much more interesting.

‘I mean you have to wonder who he really is, and why he walked so far. What would make someone do that. I think that would be interesting. To nervier people who are involved. To investigate. I don’t know. Maybe even help.’ He stops short of making a more direct appeal and turns the conversation to another subject.

By the end of the session Rike is looking pleased. ‘Tomorrow,’ she says, ‘we should try that mozzarella.’

‘Tomorrow,’ Tomas answers, ‘the weather is supposed to stay nice. We should do something different.’

He isn’t sure just what to suggest, but one more opportunity to learn something from her, to take her close to the military base to prompt more information on Sutler. ‘There is a beach you know. Lady’s Mile. You like to swim?’

Rike, suddenly coy, says that she likes to swim very much. Tomorrow, then, it is agreed, a picnic, a swim, at Lady’s Mile beach.

After the lesson Tomas watches Rike walk up the street. This is wasting time. He should be more direct. Even with the suggestion posed today he can’t guarantee that she will return with any information. He looks out toward the hospital and waits for a call from Geezler, knowing instinctively that there is little time to waste. Tomas has everything he needs. From this point he needs to work decisively, with intent.

Geezler has unsettling news from Italy. ‘They have a photograph of you. Parson’s wife took a photograph and she has passed it on to the police. If they make this public, it’s a possible problem. The picture is clear, it looks like you. Even in Cyprus I think you’ll have a difficult time explaining this.’

They discuss their options. Information from Rike has been limited. It isn’t working as expected. Geezler decides: stop wasting time on the sister, use the brother. Mattaus. Tonight.

11.5

Tomas isn’t properly dressed for a night out. He unbuttons the top two shirt buttons, untucks the tail, smooths his hair. At the Bank of Cyprus, he draws out cash then heads to the club. By the time he arrives Mattaus will be settled with the same group as before. Lexi will be roaming, collecting money. At some early hour they will return to Larnaca. He does not doubt that their evenings follow the same pattern.

Tomas walks with one hand in his pocket, more self-conscious than usual, given the possibility that he could be recognized and associated with Parson’s death. The air, sweet with grilled meats from the roadside restaurants, reminds him that he hasn’t eaten. It’s easy to forget those details. The harbour lights darken at the kerb, so the sea is hidden but present as a faint, over-ripe stink of fish, or fish waste.

When he arrives at the club he finds Mattaus and Lexi on the sidewalk ready to leave. Mattaus, highly animated, aggravated, in conversation with Lexi. Lexi’s face is long, his jaw sharpened by a slight overbite. He appears sulkier than before and weary. He holds his hand out to halt a car, his car, and takes the keys without a word. Tomas has as good as lost them.

He searches through the club for Kolya. As he comes up the stairs Tomas can feel the music pulse in his chest. Blood-red walls, heat, and a synthetic heartbeat, is that what makes these places so familiar? Kolya isn’t about, instead he finds the boy, Sol, and lets him know that he wants to speak with Kolya. Can he set this up? He can do that, right?

The boy looks surprised. If it’s about the card game, the money, it would be better for Tomas to leave everything alone. Just forget it.

‘This is about something else. I think he’ll want to hear this.’

Sol pauses, still doubtful, but Tomas assures him this is for Kolya’s benefit.

‘Someone is stealing from the club.’ Tomas makes a gesture like he isn’t bothered either way, and the boy slips away.

Sol returns immediately with Kolya, who invites Tomas to a booth. Tonight the man wears a white singlet which shows a tattoo on either shoulder: the talons of a beast mounting his back, the nails piercing the skin.

He asks Tomas if he would like a drink. Tomas immediately asks after Lexi. ‘The manager from the other club. The man who deals with the money.’

Kolya has a scar on his neck, a small, smooth puncture. He asks why they are talking about Lexi. The men lean toward each other to be heard over the music.

‘How much do you think you’re losing each night?’ Tomas’s voice is strained. ‘How much do you think he’s taking? You think he takes from both clubs? Or maybe just yours?’

Kolya coughs into his hand and asks what Tomas is talking about.

‘The other manager, who collects the money. Do you have any idea how much he’s taking?’

Tomas can’t help but stretch his neck, twist his head from side to side. He waits for the music to change so that he does not need to shout. ‘I’m here for the German, the man he brings here. I can tell you how he’s doing this. But I want the German. I want to know where his friend is staying.’

‘What is your interest in this?’

‘It’s separate. This is something different. I need to know where he is staying.’

Kolya folds his arms. ‘So how? How is this happening?’

Tomas rubs his face, takes his time to answer. ‘It’s simple. He collects the money himself. How long is he here before he goes to the other club? Two hours? Three. So he collects the takings every hour, two or three times a night. You have no record of what is coming in, except what you collect yourself at the end.’

Kolya begins to smile and it occurs to Tomas that he is making a mistake. It’s entirely possible that he hasn’t witnessed a theft at all, but something which can be otherwise explained. It’s possible that the theft is of no consequence, both managers appear to run a little renegade: Lexi’s thievery, Kolya’s gambling.

‘This is nothing.’

‘He takes the money on the stairwell, between levels. There are no cameras on the second stairwell.’ Tomas explains that the system isn’t clever, it’s snatch and grab, essentially, so simple you’d only know it was happening if you saw it with your own eyes. Perhaps he has this wrong, he admits. It’s possible.

He wants information on the German. He wants a guarantee, if he’s right, that Kolya won’t act on this information tonight.

Berens returns to his apartment, showers and changes. He picks up his car and drives to Larnaca, then further, following Kolya’s directions beyond the airport toward the cape. The air here is swampy, damp from the sea. On high tide the land floods, and the road sparkles with sea salt. Another salt flat, considerably larger than the one at Akrotiri, runs alongside the road and beyond this a small village built on a flood plain, on what was once a malarial swamp. He follows Kolya’s map with ease, because there isn’t much to it, three right turns in the entire drive. The final section has no street lights. He continues along the road which dips down and levels out at the edge of the salt flats. The road continues straight. Tomas dims his headlights and drives toward an area of palm trees, a grove which shelters a single building, and when he comes to the bungalow Lexi has recently hired he finds the gates closed, the lights off, no sign of the car. No one at home.

He takes his time. He drives the car further down the track, not hidden, but out of view.

It’s simple luck that the bedroom shutters are raised enough to allow air into the room. The grille covering the lower pane is loosely fixed to the wall and comes away with little persuasion. This is basically an invitation.

Tomas slides into the room and slips feet first onto the bed. He sets himself carefully down and turns on the bedroom light. There’s little sign of intimacy in the room. The bed is unmade. There are clothes scattered to one side. Two pillows lie lengthwise down the centre, and it appears that only one person has slept here. At the end of the bed, side by side, are one small holdall and three large suitcases. Inside the holdall he finds a set of freshly laundered clothes and a wash-bag which contains condoms, hair gel, small samples of aftershave. Lexi is leaving. The drawers and closets are empty. Tomas lifts the valance and looks under the bed. There is nothing to be found in the entire room. No indication either of where he might be going.

Disappointed, Tomas opens the bathroom door and discovers, inside, sat on its hind legs, a dog. A svelte black Dobermann.

But of course, a dog.

Tomas does not move.

The dog does not move. Neither does it growl.

They are, it appears, locked together: Tomas standing by the door, the dog seated beside the shower. Across the floor lie scattered scraps of the shower mat the dog has ripped to pieces.

Tomas remains absolutely still, his hand on the door handle, then, slowly he starts to retreat. The dog dips its head and growls, a small overture, but a growl. An introduction to trouble. He can’t shut the door. At any movement, his best guess, the dog will lunge, and he will need to jump back and pull the door closed. It’s doubtful that he can manage this. The Dobermann sits the same distance from Tomas as Tomas stands from the bedroom. The odds aren’t great.

The dog breaks the impasse.

First, it urinates in a half squat. A broadening puddle on the tiled floor. A pool which joins, dot to dot, the scraps of torn matting, and takes an unnecessary amount of time. The dog looks at him as it pisses. Eye to eye. Intentional.

Second, it yawns, and shows, even in the slice of light spilling from the bedroom, a strong set of teeth.

Third, it stands up, walks by Tomas, and sits square in front of the bedroom door.

The dog looks from the door to Tomas to the door. It’s a slow series of movements, brimming with expectation.

Tomas returns to the bedroom. One step at a time. He keeps his movements controlled, limited only to what is necessary. He steadies his breath. He creeps back to the window, and begins to sneak wide of the bed and the dog.

As soon as Tomas approaches the bed, the dog begins to growl.

It isn’t much of a threat: a guttural roll. Almost sub-sonic. A warning.

The dog makes no complaint when he approaches the bedroom door, and when he opens it the dog trots through. The house is silent except for the dog’s claws on the tiles. Then, right in the hall, right before the doormat, the Dobermann again positions herself so that she can watch him while she squats and takes a long slow piss. The same in the living room. The same in the kitchen. In each room the dog silently demands entrance, and then urinates. Copiously.

Finally Tomas takes a seat in the sitting room, on a white couch. The room, even in the darkness, is too
mannered
. White carpets, white furnishings, white walls, white paintings flecked with texture, a mania for white.

The dog sits up alert. Ears pricked. Watching him. Watching the exits.

A car turns into the driveway. On the side table is a heavy onyx lighter. He waits for the key to turn in the lock. The lighter handsomely fits his grip, his fingers comfortably span the stone. Hungry, his stomach tightens and growls. For a moment the dog turns to look at him. Then back to the door. Tomas flexes his hands, then stretches his arms to his shoulders. He takes deep breaths, sits forward. Ready.

First the dog –
make your intentions clear, define your terms
– second, the thief, Olexei.

The lights come on in the hall, and he hears Lexi’s exasperation, swearing, in Russian, from the door. It’s clear he’s alone. Mattaus is not with him. Tomas listens. There are two conversations. The greeting, in Russian, to the dog, and a conversation on the phone, in English. The dog, now sat in the doorway between the sitting room and the hall, is delicately focused, poised. A picture.

Tomas listens as Lexi speaks. Is he inside? Or is he still at the door?

‘No. I’ve said. I’m done. That’s what I’ll tell them
– pause –
You’re getting shit from your family. I’m taking shit every day. At some point you just have to stop and consider if it’s worth it
– pause –
If they won’t let me
– pause –
What do you mean if they won’t let me. They don’t have a choice
– pause –
With Kolya? What about him?
– pause –
I’ll just tell him. This is how it is. I don’t want to do this any more
– pause –
You need to replace your phone. No. I’ll bring you one. No. You don’t need to. Forget it. I’ll give you one.’ There’s more frustration. ‘I come home and she’s shit all over the place. I shut her in the bathroom, in the en suite, and she manages to get out. The house is full of
– pause –
You can imagine.’ (He’s still only in the hall.) ‘I can’t stand it. It smells so bad in here. Something has to happen. I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it, but I think I have to do something. Maybe she’s senile. Maybe? I don’t know
– pause –
Later, then. Yes. An hour. It’s so late I don’t think so
– pause –
OK, in an hour. Truss
.
’