The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit by Richard House

to figure this out.
    At the market he spied Nathalie and caught her off-guard. Surprised, she spoke automatically in French. Ford apologized in English.
    Still a little taken aback Nathalie said she hardly recognized him from this morning. ‘You look different. Much better. So much nicer.’
    Ford stroked his chin. ‘I’m a new man,’ he said, not quite believing himself.
    ‘Very much so,’ she agreed. ‘For women it’s not so easy. We have to work harder.’
    He asked what she was doing, and she told him, half-serious, that the town was too small to become properly lost in, and that she was in the mood to lose herself.
    ‘Are you waiting for your husband?’
    Nathalie again appeared confused. With a little laugh she explained that he had this all wrong. ‘Martin, no? No, no. They won’t be here until later.’ The idea returned to her and she laughed again, excusing herself. ‘And you? Are you waiting for someone?’
    ‘It’s a long story. But no.’ Ford explained that he needed someone to help him buy new clothes. ‘My luggage,’ he said, ‘was lost. All gone. I need to change some money also, all I have are dollars.’
    ‘That’s better for them, but not so good for you.’ Nathalie led him back to a stall beside the barber shop. If he wanted Turkish lire he could change money at one of the banks, although it would be expensive it might be sensible. ‘Not everyone will take American money.’ She laughed. ‘You remind me – when I was a child I was very forgetful, and my parents adored me, they spoiled me and replaced everything I lost with something new or better so I could become even more careless. I never had anything old. I had the idea that one person was collecting my things. Not stealing them but keeping them for me somewhere. This was my excuse. Just imagine all the things you’ve lost, everything you’ve mislaid, collected in one room, like at a train station. Safe, all in one place.’
    Ford glanced into the barber shop as they passed. The men now talked with ease. He asked if she was serious about the room, the lost property, and she said this was a long time ago. ‘I have to admit that I am forgetful now. I have no excuse. I lose things all the time.’
    They walked casually from stall to stall. ‘Tell me. What do you need?’
    ‘Everything,’ he replied. ‘A hat. Shirts. Trousers. New clothes for a new man.’
    ‘Really, everything? Sandals?’
    ‘Everything.’
    Ford looked over the stall but couldn’t see anything he would choose.
    ‘Is there anywhere I can get online here? The internet?’
    Nathalie shook her head. ‘You must use your phone, or go to Birsim. You can ask in one of the hotels.’ She checked her watch. Martin would arrive soon from Ankara and she should return to the Maison du Rève.
    Ford found a hat and inspected himself in a hand mirror. Clean-shaven and with shorter hair his face now appeared angular, crisp. Nathalie held up two shirts. ‘Light,’ she said, ‘but not white.’ She spoke in French to the trader then gave Ford a wave. ‘You know, I was mistaken about the time. I really should go.’
    Ford watched her walk away without hurry. A languid, self-conscious walk. Other men noticed and turned her way as she passed.
    3.2
     
    Parson’s day began with mixed news. Another message from the London office asking that he contact Gibson: urgent business.
    ‘It’s about the Hassan case,’ Gibson began, ‘the translator who broke his neck in that lorry accident.’
    Parson had no trouble recalling the desert road. The tyre marks heading straight. The highway curving west. ‘Amer Hassan. What haven’t I done?’
    ‘It’s your recommendation. HOSCO aren’t happy. You asked them to settle.’
    ‘And what did they come back with?’
    ‘No compensation. Final pay only. They are prepared to round up to the whole month.’
    ‘But what about the family? There was no life insurance.’
    ‘They’re simply following your findings, you marked the