Richard House - The Kills

* * *

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.

7.1

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.

The young couple opened a pack of sandwiches and the stink of vinegar hit his stomach, and he wished that the journey was over, wished that he was in his hotel, asleep, with everything done.

* * *

Despite the snowstorm the train arrived on time. As arranged, Nathalie’s brother Stéphane met Ford at the station; polite, he bowed and swept back his hair as he straightened up, then offered to take the backpack. Confused by this formality Ford held on to the pack and made the mistake of answering in French. Full of apologies Stéphane explained that Nathalie would not arrive until the following afternoon. The snow had caused problems with trains and flights out of Paris, but it was only a matter of a short delay. He would take him to the university instead, tomorrow, as arranged. Hopefully Nathalie would be able to meet them later in the day. Eric’s belongings were in an office on campus, and Ford would be able to spend a little time with them. The man spoke quietly, as if this were all underhand. The university, he said, knew nothing of his visit, but Nathalie had many friends who were guaranteed to be discreet.