by Oliver Tidy
‘Sansom enclosed a letter with what he sent, asking me to wait for three months. If I heard nothing from him in that time, make it public.’ He smiled at Tallis. ‘I couldn’t do that. I have a family and a career and the Official Secrets Act to consider. I should surrender the package and its contents to my CO, but then I fear it would be either destroyed or buried. I would also be putting myself in a difficult position by demonstrating my knowledge of events. That is not something I could risk.
‘I spent time debriefing Sansom. What that man has been through deserves better than I fear he would get from the system. I respect the man. He lost everything. He and his family were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
‘He’s a soldier and so am I, despite my pen-pushing. We served in the same arena. He doesn’t know that. We never met. I got it from his records. There are too many soldiers who’ve been screwed over by the government and the Army. Not all have been as fortunate as me when a field injury invalids you out of the front line. Governments and armies should look after their own.’
‘Why are you telling all this to me?’ said Tallis.
‘Because I’m going to entrust what Sansom sent me to you. I’m leaving in a month – overseas posting. I wouldn’t be able to do anything to help him any more, but I’m not willing to see him abandoned and buried. From what you’ve shared with me, I know that you won’t do that.’
The DI raised his eyebrows at the presumption. ‘Because I know his story,’ said Harris. ‘And when you know it too, you will have some compassion for him. I want to give you everything I have – recordings of the interviews we made and the package that he sent me. He’s going to need someone who might be able to help him in the future. It can’t be me, I’m afraid.
‘Needless to say, I would be trusting you to keep me out of it. As I’ve said, I have a family and career to consider. The only items that are traceable to me are the tapes from the interviews. You’ll be doing me a favour if, when you’ve listened to them, you destroy them.’
‘You know that I can’t possibly refuse.’
‘Yes,’ said the soldier, returning the smile, ‘I do. Here is my card. You will always be able to reach me on one of those email addresses if you think I might be able to help. I can’t promise you anything, though.’
Tallis slid the card into his wallet. The two men stood and shook hands warmly. In their short association there had grown a genuine respect and liking on each other’s part. And now they shared secrets.
The soldier indicated the nondescript carrier bag that had been sitting on the chair between them. ‘Look after that and yourself, Stan.’
Replacing his sunglasses, he mock-saluted before wheeling about face and leaving the DI reaching for another cigarette, wondering what could be in the cheap plastic bag.
*
Harris had sequenced the contents of the padded envelope, indicating on a note that to make sense of it all Tallis should observe his order. Thoughtfully, he had also enclosed a Dictaphone. Tallis began listening to the tapes immediately he was back in his car. When he reached the detail of the massacre, he had to leave the road and park. Tears formed and he let them fall. He switched off the tape machine and left the car to walk and clear his head for a few minutes.
Harris was right: now that he knew the full story of what happened to The Rendezvous, he felt only empathy for Sansom and his losses, the tragic, needless waste of life.
When he had regained his composure, he returned to his car and put a call through to his department, informing them that he was feeling unwell and would be taking the rest of the day off. Let someone else deal with the cycle of crap.
By the time he arrived at the bungalow where he now lived alone, it was early afternoon. He had finished listening to the tapes in the car, incredulous by the end. Pouring himself a large drink, he sat in his old armchair to read through the accompanying notes that Sansom had included.
When he came to the account of Sansom’s ‘escape’ and visit to the London house, he could scarcely believe what he was reading. Had Harris twigged, he wondered, made the connection? Surely, he would have mentioned something. Tallis was left feeling that it was entirely possible that, apart from the men who had been involved in the killing, he was the only one who knew fully what was going on.
*
They had arranged to meet the following morning at the quayside where the pleasure boats that cruised up and down the Bosphorus were moored. Sansom had explained his intention to view Botha’s residence from the water and from the land. It was a typical tourist trip and together they would look just like any other couple enjoying the sights of Istanbul. She had accepted this without comment, offering to accompany him, give him the benefit of her local knowledge.
The weather had changed appreciably from the day before. A cool north-easterly wind was blowing up the channel, ruffling the water and creating a faint swell. Seagulls hung in the breeze before wheeling away screaming to fall on some discarded morsel. Despite it being mid-summer, he was grateful that he wore a jacket.
As he waited, a taxi pulled up at the kerb and the woman stepped out. Despite himself, he found that he admired her, physically as well as her spirit. While not beautiful, she was certainly attractive. She carried herself with confidence and authority that hinted at the strength and depth of her character.
She smiled as she approached, holding out a small carrier bag to him. He suddenly realised with a splash of shame and embarrassment that he didn’t know her name.
He accepted the offering. ‘What’s this?’
‘Simit. It’s a type of bread. It’s a staple food of my country, especially at breakfast. I didn’t know if you would have eaten or not.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, touched by her gesture. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I don’t even know what I should call you.’
She laughed, showing good teeth. ‘Eda,’ she said, making it sound like header without the ‘h’. ‘What shall I call you? Mr Fallon?’
‘My first name is Acer,’ he said, before he remembered that it no longer was.
A man stood on the prow of one of the stationary boats hawking for customers.
‘This one leaves in ten minutes,’ she said. ‘It’ll take us up as far as the second bridge. We could get off there and walk back. It would give us an opportunity to walk along the shoreline and pass by his home.’
She led him aboard and paid for them both.
The upper deck of the craft was open to the elements. It would be a cool journey and again he was glad of his jacket. He noticed that she too was prepared for the chill. They took a position to the side that would afford the best view of the shore. There were few other passengers prepared to brave the upper deck.
As they headed out into the channel, he said, ‘I thought Istanbul was supposed to be unbearably hot at this time of year.’
She smiled again. ‘The weather in Istanbul is known for its capricious nature; it changes its mind often without warning or consideration. A bit like a woman,’ she added. He glanced at her, unable to read her expression, her eyes hidden again behind her large designer sunglasses.
They moved through the water in a comfortable silence, occupied with their own thoughts. Some minutes later, she nudged him, indicating with an upward movement of her chin where he should be looking. ‘The white building with the yacht,’ she said. Pushing up his sunglasses, he brought up his binoculars, scanning the bank of the waterway before bringing them to bear on Botha’s residence. His stomach tightened as the building came into focus. The realisation of the nearness of the man who had become his target gave him an unexpected and satisfying feeling of achievement.
He made out activity through an upstairs window, men on the yacht and quayside. His soldier’s eye appraised the modern three-storey structure and what he could see of the grounds. He lowered the glasses as they passed and they continued without speaking until they reached the furthermost point of their journey a mile or so past.
As they walked away from the
dock, he said, ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘Turks rarely say no to the offer of coffee,’ she said. ‘Follow me. There is a good proper coffee house near here.’
They walked a short way on the main highway before turning down a narrow side street. Old wooden buildings, mostly dilapidated, overhung the street from each side. He found it hard to believe that people lived in most of them, though it was clear from the hanging laundry that they did. Not for the first time since arriving in Istanbul, he was struck by the juxtaposition of the obvious wealth along the main roads and tourist trails and the crushing poverty lurking only a street behind.
They took a table overlooking the channel, still busy with the world’s shipping. Being a lover of both the sea and boats, he found himself warming to the city with its close relationship with the water. He also realised the validity of the arguments that had persuaded him, against his own initial feelings, to accept the woman as his personal guide. Already, she had saved him the awkwardness and difficulty of interactions that he would take for granted in any English-speaking country. She had enabled him to maintain a level of anonymity, even down to the simple act of buying a drink.
The waiter brought two miniature cups of dark brown sludge. Sansom sniffed at the pungent substance, frowning.
‘Your first Turkish coffee?’ she said.
‘If that’s what it is, then yes. Do they not do a bigger one?’
She laughed. ‘No. We have been drinking it like that for centuries. Your first Turkish coffee is something to savour and celebrate. When you are finished the old woman over there can read your fortune from the dregs if you like.’
He looked across to where a woman whose appearance suggested a close Romany ancestry sat in the corner, her eyes closed, arms folded across her ample girth.
‘Some other time,’ he said. He sipped at the coffee and recoiled from its bitter, grainy taste. ‘Christ, that’s strong.’
‘You see, perhaps, why we drink only small amounts. Try some sugar.’
He helped himself to the jug of water.
‘What did you understand of the house?’ she asked.
‘Plenty of activity, plenty of men, probably armed, and dogs. The waterfront makes a good entry point, though to be honest he is probably too well protected at home.’ He toyed with his spoon. ‘I need to be straight with you about something.’ He met her stare. ‘I’m not here just for Botha. The circumstances of my family’s death involved some of his employees – men he sends to do his dirty work. I won’t be finished with this until I’ve killed everyone who was there.’
She didn’t seem shocked by this but said, ‘Or died in the process.’
*
They walked from the coffee house along the main road back towards the heart of the city. The narrowness of the pavements, traffic noise and other pedestrians made conversation virtually impossible. At times the road touched upon the shores of the Bosphorus but for the most part it was the zealously-fenced grounds of large private houses that lined that stretch of waterfront.
When they calculated that they were as far as Botha’s residence, they left the main highway, which had been veering inland for some time. They threaded their way through tight lanes of trapped heat in the maze of high-walled properties in the direction of the water to satisfy Sansom’s wish to view Botha’s home.
A loud blast of a car horn from behind made them both start. They pressed themselves against a wall as two large black Audis swept dangerously near and passed in close formation. Blackened windows hid the occupants. The cars accelerated around the bend in a cloud of dust. Sansom reached the bend to see the large driveway gates at the end of the roadway that led down to Botha’s property swinging shut behind the disappearing vehicles. He stood looking after them, his heart racing, wondering if Botha or any of the men that he sought had just gone past him.
Looking around, he noticed a CCTV camera mounted at the bend. It was pointing at them. He grabbed Eda’s bag and pulled out the street map she had brought. He began remonstrating and gesticulating.
‘What are you doing?’ she said, clearly confused.
‘Keep it up. Get angry with me.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Don’t look up. We are being watched by CCTV. And it’s close. We’re lost, got it? And it’s your fault.’
He turned the map this way and that, pointing back the way they had come. To his surprise, she snatched it from him, stabbed a finger into the centre, threw it at him and stormed off back in the direction they had come from without a word. He gathered it from the road and went after her.
As he came alongside her, he said, ‘Well done. Don’t stop.’
She said nothing. They walked quickly, like lovers away from the scene of a quarrel, back towards the main road.
They were almost at the main highway once more when he heard tyres approaching, gliding smoothly over the tarmac behind them.
‘Someone’s coming,’ he said.
They came slowly. As they drew alongside, Sansom turned to look at the vehicle. The front passenger window was now down. A huge shaven-headed black man stared directly at Sansom from behind sunglasses. They were in no hurry now. As Sansom looked at him, his face broke into a smile, displaying a mouth of large even white teeth and one gold incisor. Sansom looked away. A sickness was rising within him and his legs grew suddenly leaden and weak. The Audi purred past them and he felt with an energy-sapping certainty that he had looked into the face of the man that had shot him on the beach of Jackson island – the same man who had killed his wife and child.
At the highway, Eda hailed one of the numerous passing yellow taxis. It braked abruptly for them, blocking the road. Drivers behind signalled their displeasure and impatience at the few seconds’ delay. She mumbled something to the driver and they sped away. Sansom turned to look behind them. There was no sign of the Audi. He looked at her. She was shaking in the back seat.
‘Are you all right?’
She nodded once, staring out of the window. Her knuckles stood out white against the handles of her dark bag.
‘Where are we going?’ he said.
‘The city.’
‘I’m sorry to put you in that position.’
She looked at him then from behind her dark glasses. ‘You didn’t,’ she said. ‘I did.’ She spoke rapidly to the driver and got a grunt in return. She wound down the window and lit a cigarette. Sansom turned back to stare out of the windscreen.
He took himself back to the day that the killers had come. He would never forget the image of the man, seen through his binoculars, as he crumpled, shot, into the sea from the deck of The Rendezvous. But it was the man behind the trigger who he now sought to recollect. Big and black certainly, but the distance in space then and time now combined to rob him of further detail.
*
They were soon back into the sweltering heat and frenzied activity of the city centre. The cool wind of earlier had dropped and the cloud had lifted. The sun shone down unimpeded from its zenith. She stopped the driver on a busy street. Back on the city’s pavements, she seemed more composed.
‘Drink?’ she said.
‘Coffee, as long as I can choose the place.’
*
They sat at a table overlooking the street from a first floor terrace, large iced coffees in front of them. Many and varied heads bobbed along the pedestrianised thoroughfare below them.
‘You sure you’re OK?’ he said. She nodded, inhaling on a cigarette, preoccupied with her drink. He said, ‘We had bad luck, that’s all.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I have a strong sense that the one in the car was the one from The Rendezvous.’ He hadn’t provided her with any details. ‘I saw him once only through binoculars.’
She was looking at him now. ‘How were they killed?’
He stirred his coffee. He wanted her to know. He wanted her to understand his reason and depth of obligation to his lost loved ones and himself – why he was there against such odds. But now was not
the time.
‘They were shot,’ he said simply.
‘Did you see them killed?’
He shook his head. ‘I heard it.’ He ran his hands through his hair, looking, she thought, unexpectedly vulnerable for a moment. ‘I wasn’t there. Botha’s people couldn’t have seen me. Don’t worry about today. They wouldn’t know me from the man that I was then anyway. I’ve changed physically. We put on a good show.’
She met his gaze, understanding that he was offering her reassurance and comfort. ‘It’s not you who I’m worried that they recognised,’ she said, ‘it’s me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve had trouble with that man before. I was in a restaurant, Botha walked in. I became aggressive towards him, made accusations. The big man forced me out.’
A long moment passed while Sansom took this in.
‘How long ago was this?’ he said.
‘About six months. I’m sorry. I should have told you before we went today. I never thought that we would get that close to him.’
‘Nor did I,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Forget it now. He didn’t seem to notice you.’
For a while, they worked quietly at their drinks.
‘What will you do now?’ she said.
‘I need time to think. What can you tell me about the man, his family?’
She told him everything she knew, glad to be able to take her mind off the morning. Since her brother’s death she had made Botha her business. She spoke of his known business interests, his personal interests, his favourite haunts and his family. He listened, his regard for her value increasing.
Finishing their second coffee, she told him of errands she needed to run that afternoon.
They parted company on the street, agreeing to meet later that evening. As Sansom turned to watch her walk away among the throngs of people, he glimpsed, through the masses crossing in front of him, a suited figure standing across the street, looking directly at him from behind dark glasses. A group of camera-wielding tourists crossed between them. When they had passed the man had vanished.
