Richard House - The Kills

‘You want me to call? Who exactly?’

‘I don’t know, but there must be someone, if this man is so important? Tell them they have to help us.’ Heida’s voice dipped an octave, becoming more reasonable. ‘It’s not so much to ask. It’s a small thing, very easy.’

‘How certain are you this is the same person?’

‘It is the same man. No question. The same person. Exactly the same.’

Parson shook his head. It didn’t work like this. He wouldn’t do it. ‘I have no influence. There isn’t anything I can do. There isn’t anyone to call. There isn’t any they. I work for an English company based in London. I don’t even have a permit myself. There’s nothing I can do.’

Grüner appeared to accept the situation. Heida folded her arms.

‘Of course there is someone you can call. Someone sent you to us. Someone from the American company called us, I have his name. This man called us two minutes after we contacted them and said that they would send you to speak with us.’

Heida’s ideas made no sense. Parson’s instructions came directly from Gibson.

‘They want to know where this man is now. He is on the news all of the time because of the money he stole. You know, maybe he has the money with him? Maybe we have seen the money? You don’t know. Maybe we have information which is useful for you? You didn’t even consider what we are asking you. This isn’t an ordinary situation and you should pay attention to us. Maybe we should speak with someone else?’

‘Who is the man who called you?’

Heida narrowed her eyes. ‘His name is Geese … Grease…’

‘Griesel. Paul Griesel, he is from the same company as the man we saw.’ Grüner read the name from a sheet of paper.

‘I don’t know this man.’ Parson shrugged.

‘He works for H-O-S-C-O.’ Grüner spelled out the name, then handed Parson the slip of paper. ‘Griesel said he was trying to fix everything.’

* * *

Parson stepped out onto the balcony to call Gibson. Nine o’clock in Turkey, it would be seven in England. He looked over the car park to the road, a briny-black night, and felt certain that he would not get a reply. To his surprise Gibson answered before the call went to message.

He explained the situation and said he wouldn’t have called except it was urgent.

‘It’s Geezler. Paul Geezler,’ Gibson said. ‘And he spoke to them directly? This is interesting. Give me a moment.’

* * *

Parson returned in fifteen minutes with an answer.

‘I have something.’ He tried not to sound surprised and laid a note on the table. ‘You need to contact this man. The Americans don’t control the border, neither does HOSCO. Who comes and goes is entirely up to the Turkish authorities. But this man can help you.’

Heida leaned forward to read the note. ‘Who is he?’

‘He works for the Turkish military. You need to speak with him directly. He has your names. He will be expecting to hear from you.’

The woman straightened up. ‘This is the truth?’

Parson pointed at the note. ‘It’s the truth. Call him. He will be in either Ankara or Istanbul.’

‘Who gave you this?’

‘The people I work for in London contacted the man you spoke with, Paul Geezler, and he came up with this name. He said that this man will help you.’

Heida pushed the note toward Grüner and they spoke briefly in German. Parson stood by while the two disagreed.

‘We have two things for you.’ She turned the map around and leaned close. ‘It was here,’ Heida pointed to the map, ‘somewhere here on this road. Maybe there. He was walking on his own. We took him to the station in Kopeckale. There were no buses until the morning so he had to stay the night at the terminus. When we found out who he was we went to find him, but he was gone.’

‘And did you see where he was going?’

‘No,’ Grüner interrupted, but they had spoken about a hotel in Istanbul. ‘It’s for journalists. It’s a hostel opposite the big church, Aya Sofya. I think this is where he will go.’

‘And how did he appear? In himself?’

Grüner stopped chewing. ‘Tired. Not so good. Exhausted I think. His clothes were dirty, you know, and his face was scratched, and he had a tan. His face was, you know, dark. He told us he was on the road for two or three days, but the way he looked, it was longer. I’m sure. He didn’t say so much until we told him about the hotel in Istanbul, then he was really interested because he asked questions.’

Parson wrote his number on the map. ‘Call me if you remember something else.’ He paused, pen in hand. ‘You said you had two pieces of information.’

‘Yes.’ Heida looked to Grüner and narrowed her eyes. ‘He had the money with him. He had two big bags. Very big bags, and he sat with his arms about them. I tried to help but he wouldn’t let me touch them.’

‘Two bags?’

‘Two backpacks.’

‘And you didn’t see what was in them?’

‘I didn’t see inside, but they were heavy.’

‘Tell me, why did you stop for him?’

‘Because it was strange. He looked like someone you would see at home. Just someone on the street. This ordinary man in the wrong place. I thought something might have happened to him because of the marks on his face. We had no idea who he was.’

* * *

Parson returned to his car. Instead of driving away he slowly circled the parking lot and the one lone vehicle belonging to Heida and Grüner, a military jeep with civilian plates. He drove a full circuit, unwilling to head off, a nagging dissatisfaction with the discussion he couldn’t fix. His headlights strafed the motel, the concrete wall, the compound fence, and a row of generators, a bare hill that flattened out to wasteland then the distant sheets of plastic, the slack sides of tents at the refugee camp, low-lying and secretive — then back again to the motel and the neon lights in the eyes of a stray dog. Driving, thinking, he leaned into the curve and began to feel the satisfaction of ideas beginning to stir. It wasn’t that the journalists had lied to him, maybe a little, but they had failed to impress upon him some crucial element. Of this he was certain.

He parked beside the jeep and decided to spend the night watching the motel.

* * *

Grüner woke him in the morning. A cup in one hand, steam condensing on the window, a sheet of paper in the other.

Parson shuffled upright and squinted at Grüner. The man leaned down, his face grey, unshaven, the sky behind him pale. Still early. 5:34.

‘I saw you here, so I brought you a coffee. I have something for you.’

Parson unwound his window. Grüner passed him the cup and the paper, then crouched beside the door with an apologetic expression as if he was sorry for Parson, or embarrassed at what he was doing.

‘This is why we picked him up. He looks like this man. Exactly like him. This isn’t him,’ he repeated, ‘but it looks like him. This is why we stopped. This man is our friend and he looks like this man. I’ve written his name here.’ Grüner hesitated. ‘You know, what she said about the bags is not true. He had one bag, that’s all. I don’t think there was anything in it, but I don’t know. It was small. I don’t know why she told you this. I think she wants a better story. I don’t know. I hope you find him.’

‘Last night you said he had marks on his face?’

Grüner nodded. ‘Scratches. And under his eye one nick.’

Parson handed the image back to Grüner and asked if he had a pen. ‘Can you draw those marks? What you remember. Draw them on this face.’

* * *

Parson sat with the journalist’s printout. Sutler, but not Sutler, with seven lines drawn in blue biro radiating across his right cheek and forehead. He compared the picture with the copy of the HOSCO ID in his file. If this was a dependable likeness then Sutler had lost a great deal of weight and had grown his hair. Locked in this man’s expression, he fancied a haunted quality, and arrogance, plenty of arrogance.