Richard House - The Kills

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.