The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit by Richard House Page A
Authors: Richard House
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claim “no culpability”.’
‘With mitigating circumstances, which is why I recommend that they settle. There’s more to consider here. It’s all in my notes.’
‘Well, they’ve seen your report, and they aren’t having any of it.’
‘He has a family. He has two children. Their father is dead. They’ve just arrived in England. His wife doesn’t speak English, and she’s now without a husband. They live in Darlington, for christsakes.’
‘You marked “no culpability”. You know how these things go. If the family aren’t happy they can contest the claim.’
‘With what money? I thought we were supposed to protect them from claims like this. If the family take this to the papers the story won’t be good for HOSCO.’
‘It’s unlikely. I think they’ve calculated the risks. We’re talking about immigrants who don’t speak English. HOSCO have made their decision.’
‘Remind me why we do business with them?’ Parson turned away from the table and sat forward. Realizing that he had embarrassed Gibson, he apologized. About him men in uniform and desert fatigues returned to tables with trays, voices from the kitchen rang sharp and hollow through the commissary. He disliked the smell of fried food, which seemed to thicken and add heat to the air, stick to the floors and tables: fat that reeked of sick.
‘I do have one piece of good news.’ Gibson passed on to new business. ‘Two journalists have spotted Stephen Sutler. And he’s in Turkey.’
The journalists insisted on meeting Parson at their motel in Cukurca.
It sat at the intersection of two main roads at the edge of town – one branch east–west, the other aimed north. Without doubt Sutler would have passed this junction, it was the one certain fact Parson knew about him, and if he was attentive he would have seen the motel stuck in the crotch of two roads, surrounded by a shantytown of wind-slapped tents. He would have seen this place.
The meeting struck him as a waste of time. The moment Heida answered the door she became sharp with demands, and he guessed that they had been arguing. Grüner, antsy, bothered, and indifferent, appeared to be sulking. Parson understood that the offer of information came with a condition of some kind, some subterranean demand as yet unexpressed, which threw doubt on anything she might tell him. Heida, edging toward the subject, asked if she could tape the interview. Parson ignored the request and when she set the digital recorder on the table he immediately switched it off.
They all looked at the device.
Grüner complained about the motel. ‘The people outside,’ he said, ‘are different from the people at Kopeckale. It’s not so safe. There is only the manager here.’
Parson also felt this tension: this crowd, with fewer women, fewer children, kept separate from the motel by a chain-link fence, had attitude and palpable threat. ‘Anyway,’ Grüner shook his head, ‘I don’t see why he would come here?’
‘Why not?’ Heida disagreed. ‘It makes perfect sense. He can pass across the border with the refugees, it’s not so hard for him to disappear here. People can come this way without trouble.’
‘You saw him in Kopeckale.’ Parson drew out a map. ‘Stephen Sutler.’
Heida said that they needed to talk first. She looked at Grüner while she spoke to Parson. ‘It’s simple. We need permits to enter Iraq.’
‘I don’t know anything about visas.’
‘They won’t recognize our status. We have proper identification. They are stopping the press from entering the country by requiring working visas. It’s crazy. We have a right. A duty. It is impossible to work until we are there.’
Parson didn’t understand. There were journalists in Iraq assigned to military units, journalists working with bureaus; every branch of media, every company had people placed in Iraq. ‘I don’t know anything about this. It’s not my area. I don’t see what I can do.’
‘But you want this
‘With mitigating circumstances, which is why I recommend that they settle. There’s more to consider here. It’s all in my notes.’
‘Well, they’ve seen your report, and they aren’t having any of it.’
‘He has a family. He has two children. Their father is dead. They’ve just arrived in England. His wife doesn’t speak English, and she’s now without a husband. They live in Darlington, for christsakes.’
‘You marked “no culpability”. You know how these things go. If the family aren’t happy they can contest the claim.’
‘With what money? I thought we were supposed to protect them from claims like this. If the family take this to the papers the story won’t be good for HOSCO.’
‘It’s unlikely. I think they’ve calculated the risks. We’re talking about immigrants who don’t speak English. HOSCO have made their decision.’
‘Remind me why we do business with them?’ Parson turned away from the table and sat forward. Realizing that he had embarrassed Gibson, he apologized. About him men in uniform and desert fatigues returned to tables with trays, voices from the kitchen rang sharp and hollow through the commissary. He disliked the smell of fried food, which seemed to thicken and add heat to the air, stick to the floors and tables: fat that reeked of sick.
‘I do have one piece of good news.’ Gibson passed on to new business. ‘Two journalists have spotted Stephen Sutler. And he’s in Turkey.’
The journalists insisted on meeting Parson at their motel in Cukurca.
It sat at the intersection of two main roads at the edge of town – one branch east–west, the other aimed north. Without doubt Sutler would have passed this junction, it was the one certain fact Parson knew about him, and if he was attentive he would have seen the motel stuck in the crotch of two roads, surrounded by a shantytown of wind-slapped tents. He would have seen this place.
The meeting struck him as a waste of time. The moment Heida answered the door she became sharp with demands, and he guessed that they had been arguing. Grüner, antsy, bothered, and indifferent, appeared to be sulking. Parson understood that the offer of information came with a condition of some kind, some subterranean demand as yet unexpressed, which threw doubt on anything she might tell him. Heida, edging toward the subject, asked if she could tape the interview. Parson ignored the request and when she set the digital recorder on the table he immediately switched it off.
They all looked at the device.
Grüner complained about the motel. ‘The people outside,’ he said, ‘are different from the people at Kopeckale. It’s not so safe. There is only the manager here.’
Parson also felt this tension: this crowd, with fewer women, fewer children, kept separate from the motel by a chain-link fence, had attitude and palpable threat. ‘Anyway,’ Grüner shook his head, ‘I don’t see why he would come here?’
‘Why not?’ Heida disagreed. ‘It makes perfect sense. He can pass across the border with the refugees, it’s not so hard for him to disappear here. People can come this way without trouble.’
‘You saw him in Kopeckale.’ Parson drew out a map. ‘Stephen Sutler.’
Heida said that they needed to talk first. She looked at Grüner while she spoke to Parson. ‘It’s simple. We need permits to enter Iraq.’
‘I don’t know anything about visas.’
‘They won’t recognize our status. We have proper identification. They are stopping the press from entering the country by requiring working visas. It’s crazy. We have a right. A duty. It is impossible to work until we are there.’
Parson didn’t understand. There were journalists in Iraq assigned to military units, journalists working with bureaus; every branch of media, every company had people placed in Iraq. ‘I don’t know anything about this. It’s not my area. I don’t see what I can do.’
‘But you want this
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