The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit (32 page)

The habit established itself. As soon as Mark left in the morning she steeled herself to her tasks: started up her computer, set out her books, opened up the files, drew out the images of
The Betrayal
, and
Portrait of a Knight
, ready across her desk. Then – force of habit – she would walk to Eric’s bedroom, and lose her day.

The last message from Nathalie knocked this schedule aside in one swoop.

Nathalie wrote:
I am glad for your letter. He wanted to see you. I know because we spoke about this, and he was looking forward to coming to Malta – of this there is no question. Of the Englishman Tom we have heard nothing. And I have held back a small piece of information from you, which, given the concerns you raise in your letter, might help settle your mind.

Tom was at the pension for a short time. Three nights only, I think, and he shared a room with Eric, and Eric became fond of him. I thought this was only a small thing, nothing more, but it is possible that this was something more important for Eric? I don’t think this affection was returned. It was just a start, but what this means I can’t say. On the day that Eric disappeared Tom helped to look for him. Tom said that Eric had approached him and made it clear how he felt – when they came to say goodbye Eric tried to kiss Tom – and Tom was embarrassed. He was
uncomfortable about this, I think it seemed strange to him because Eric had known him for only a few days and because he did not feel the same way.

I have found one picture, which is enclosed.

Anne opened the attached image and found a photograph of a man, taken three-quarter profile, almost in silhouette, light spangling about him, furring the image. She studied the photograph with care, and thought the man familiar, but not familiar enough to place. He wasn’t a friend or an associate, she had a good eye for faces, but someone she had met or seen more casually. Recent, yes, but not so recent. Her instinct made her dislike the man – so this was the kind of man her son sought out, the type he talked with, online, on this very computer. She read Nathalie’s message and tried to keep herself composed. He’d met the man in a coach station and later attempted to kiss him in a market, in public, in a small town in Turkey. This gesture seemed both rash and delicate, too tender and impetuous for a boy who solicited sex, advertised himself in online forums, spoke frankly about his experience. The pure naivety of falling so quickly for a stranger struck her as a sign of inexperience. The kiss was a truer sign of who he was, and it hurt to think that it had been refused. He deserved to feel loved, as everybody is deserving of love.

With a print of the photograph she returned to Eric’s bedroom and set it on the bedside table. Curled up, hands to her chest, she told herself to sleep, and in this sleep she would figure out who this person was, or who he reminded her of; the connection would come to her as soon as she set her mind elsewhere. But the image remained locked and became immoveable. The figure stopped tantalizingly . . .

Anne called her husband, then cancelled the call as the dial tone sounded. She contacted Colson Burns and told them to expect a message with an attachment.

She spent her afternoon, and many afternoons afterward, examining the image, scanned every pixel to interpret the data, to draw out information: but returned only to the basic fact of a man, English, perhaps forty years old, thin-faced, short hair, sharp features, drawn, dark against the focused light.

6.4

To save money Ford slept in the cars he delivered rather than stay in the roadside motels. He returned receipts to Rolf Ebershalder, who never queried the expenses, and seemed happy that Ford took his work seriously and did not complain about the hours or the lost weekends. Ford, living hand to mouth, told himself that he was lucky, but understood that Rolf could terminate their arrangement at any point.

At Aachen services Ford pulled into the car park and began to make himself comfortable. He reclined the seat, tuned the radio, and took out the mobile phone Ebershalder had given him so that he would be more available on the road. Intrigued, he checked through the functions and games, and attempted to connect with the internet. With a small satisfaction he found himself online, a satisfaction which failed when he realized that he had nothing to check or search out – except for the one email account. He’d scored a line beneath HOSCO and Geezler, a temporary decision.

Doubtful that the account would still be available after such a long time, the password being the same as the account name, it opened on first attempt to thirty-seven messages, fourteen marked urgent from a man called Colson Burns, which he immediately deleted. Among the remaining messages were eight from
Nathalie_SD
, the subject lines reading:
Tom; Tom Please Open; Nathalie from Narapi; Turkey; message regarding Eric Powell
.

He read the messages in order. The first, an apology, said that she had passed his details to an investigative team hired by Eric’s mother.
They want to speak with you. I have given them your details, told them everything I can remember. I hope this is OK?

In the second message Nathalie gave details about the search for Eric:
The Turkish authorities still have our equipment, the cameras, the lenses, the tripods, all worth a small fortune. I think they mean to punish us. Everything else is in the hands of investigators hired by Eric’s mother. They talk to us regularly, and ask for this detail or that detail, which gives us an idea of what they are thinking, but nothing real. They say that they have not heard from you? Are you there? Are these messages getting through? They look at what they have, examine an idea, and then discard it. They take up with another idea, and so on. On and on. Perhaps when you speak with them you will remember some small thing, something which helps them. For now they go endlessly over the same material. Nothing new is discovered. They take trips to Narapi, to Birsim, to Kopeckale and find nothing. Eric’s diaries caused a great deal of interest, but once they broke the code they found nothing unusual, and they began to believe that his explanation of everything he was doing was another kind of code for something else. But still, even now, they have discovered nothing.

I write to Eric’s mother. I cannot imagine what she is going through. I think that these letters must be an irritation to her, but I cannot stop myself from writing – and I do not want to.

I do not believe that he is alive. I do not. Is this terrible to write? It is impossible to say. But I cannot see how someone living can become so silent.

And you also do not write. I have no one to talk to. Martin will lose his work, this is certain. The university cannot get rid of me. My father gave money to the department, my chair is secure, so I have been offered a sabbatical which I will take. Returning to Grenoble is too painful.

My hope is that he has written to you, that Eric has something to say which he can only confide to you, and while we worry about him you understand, or know, somehow, what he is doing. How he is. You must write. You have no curiosity?

Her final message contained a suggestion that they meet:
I write in the hope that you will receive this. Eric’s belongings will be returned to the university so that his mother can collect them. The investigators are returning from Turkey and they will leave everything here for his mother. His dormitory also is to be cleared and offered to another student. They cannot keep it. I know that you wished to see his diary, that there was something in them of concern to you. The situation is not so easy between me and the university, but I still have some friends, and I could arrange for you to see these notebooks if you want. If it is possible for you to visit I could arrange for you to have access. Let me know. I will not trouble you again. Nathalie.

Under her name in smaller text ran an address and a contact number.

*

Ford retrieved the messages from Colson Burns, and read of their interest in meeting him, and their interest in allowing him access to Eric’s papers if he could consent to an interview. There was a window of opportunity between their arrival in Grenoble and Anne Powell’s departure. Everything, most likely, would then be taken back to New York.

The small car shivered as trucks passed on the slip-road, gathering speed for the autobahn. Ford watched traffic come and go in the long lot beside the motorway services, a kind of game, a possible pattern: one arriving, one leaving; two arriving, one leaving, as if some strategy was being played out, some binding intelligence to their movement. He had no money. Ebershalder paid him cash, gave him a pre-paid swipe card for fuel, and repaid in cash his train journeys. Not unlike the cars he was watching there also appeared to be some pattern behind his movements, when in fact there was none: this was motion which only sustained itself. He wasn’t going anywhere, not unless he called Nathalie and took up her offer to see Eric’s notebooks.

6.5

The report from Colson Burns told her nothing that she didn’t know. The man in the photograph remained unplaceable. The irony of it wasn’t lost on her: this is what I do, she complained, I study, I examine, I look for likeness, for similarities, in images, this is easy. I find one man in two paintings painted three centuries ago, this is easy, this I can do.

Despite her efforts the man remained unknown to her.

At Colson Burns the enquiry focused on two men from the Maison du Rève. The first and most suspicious, a man believed to be working for the police who was monitoring the pension, and second, the traveller Eric had met at Kopeckale. A man called
Tom
. Tom’s replies to Nathalie’s emails came from different locations. The IP addresses confirmed that they originated in Germany, but never from the same location. ‘The man is travelling in Germany’ appeared to be as much as they could say, information included in the content of the messages. Information which was interesting because there was nothing else to focus on. The man had not replied to Colson Burns’ requests, which told her that he had nothing to say.

From December 13:
Nathalie, I’m sorry for all of this trouble. The way things are I doubt I’ll be able to come to the university. Is there any way that you could copy or somehow find the information I need in Eric’s diaries. I could reimburse you, or pay someone to do this? Tom.

From December 19:
I can’t. I’m travelling. I can’t say where I’ll be next week. There are five numbers, one begins with the letters HOS/JA: followed by eight digits. He wrote this in the back page of one of his notebooks. As I remember there’s a codeword, something like HOMELESS, A. Cheers, Tom.

From December 22:
Let me know when the material arrives. Tom.

From January 14:
I can make February, this is the soonest. Will you be there? Sincerely, Tom.
Except for one mention she found no mention of Eric, but found nothing out of the ordinary in this. He met her son by accident, shared a room, and until Eric had attempted to kiss him, he had no knowledge about his affection for him. His expression, one brief mention, was at least sincere.
I hope he returns soon, I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for his family. Regards, Tom.

Anne sat up in bed and couldn’t settle into Eric’s book; the stories, she found, were scattered and repugnant. No reason, no solution offered. Mark refused to read, refused to talk through the details of the investigation.

‘Why don’t you read this?’

‘You know why.’

‘No, I don’t. I can’t imagine why you would be indifferent.’

Mark hefted onto his side, propped his head in his hand. He took the book from her hands and folded over the pages, deliberately losing her place. ‘Exercise the inner critic,’ he said.

‘And I’m supposed to know what that means?’

‘It means you need to listen to yourself.’

‘I listen. All the time. It’s you who ignores what’s happening.’

‘No. You don’t hear yourself. You tut. Four times a page. You complain in small ways. You move like you have cramp. You read this because you think it’s something you should do.’

Anne removed her glasses. ‘I do?’ She swept the novel from the bed. ‘I don’t want this in my head.’

‘What do you want?’

The question, so obvious, hurt when she considered it. How could he ask something so profoundly stupid?

‘There are things,’ she said, ‘that you don’t know about Eric.’

‘What things?’

‘It’s nothing.’ Knowing he would not insist on a proper answer, Anne turned to her side, her habit now of ending conversations with a hard refusal.

Eric: Webchat

thekills.co.uk/eric

The train leaned into the curve of a slate-blue lake, a bank of mountains surrounded them, and as they glided almost without sound into a tunnel the view snapped to Ford’s reflection. He looked, he thought, too thin. Weight gone from his face, his hair, grown back with more grey. A young couple in matching anoraks sat across the aisle, legs splayed, both wearing shorts, a fact that didn’t make sense, this being February, there being snow outside. They looked foolish, a little plump, thick ruddy thighs as round as ham hocks. The girl wore an iron brace on her leg, and her suitcase was too heavy for her to lift. While boarding the train a long line of people had bottlenecked behind her, when Ford offered help she had thanked him in German, making a point of her partner’s uselessness.

Out of the tunnel the carriage became brighter. The falling snow obliterated the mountain that rose directly from the tracks in simple white plates, fields sloping up, broken with black outcrops. The train’s slick motion, more serpentine than mechanical, unsettled him. Anxious about his decision to come to Grenoble, he consoled himself that this was for one day only. By the weekend he would return to Koblenz and explain his absence to Rolf. On Monday he would transfer the money from the junk account. He imagined two scenarios: one in which he stayed for a period and continued delivering cars until he was certain that everything was OK; in the other he was immediately elsewhere, gone, although he could not specify where this
elsewhere
might be. Before any of this he would have to explain to Nathalie why he had not contacted Colson Burns, but could not figure a suitable excuse.