by Oliver Tidy
‘Go on.’
‘Perhaps, he’s on some sort of special ops, taking care of some dirty business that the military don’t want to be seen to be involved in. It wouldn’t be the first time that the military had stuck two fingers up to the law of the land. Of course, they never admit to anything and trying to get information out of them is like banging your head against a brick wall.’
‘What makes you think that they might be involved in this?’
‘The murder victim – a very opinionated and outspoken critic of elements of our armed services and some of their less publicised and less glorious achievements. Specialised in digging up the muck on high-profile individuals and then spreading it around.’
They agreed to keep pressuring the military separately for information and to keep each other informed of any developments.
Tallis sat massaging his temples, mulling over details. He took the material that Harris had given him from his briefcase and began leafing through it once more. He realised that he needed to detach himself from his personal involvement and start observing and thinking more objectively, like a policeman. Why had Sansom chosen to write an account of it all at that time? Why not wait until whatever he was involved in was completed? Perhaps he didn’t give himself much of a chance to succeed. He clearly didn’t trust Bishop.
As the policeman sat staring at the account Sansom had written, he noticed again that the top of the paper had been crudely torn off. He picked it up to read it again and, in the bright light of the morning, noticed that the paper was water-marked. He moved to the window and studied it. He could clearly make out a simple illustration of a building accompanied by three capital letters.
Using the Internet, it didn’t take him long to establish which hotel chain the notepaper had come from and from there to locate where they were situated in the country. He reasoned that because the most recent events involving Sansom had centred on London it was probable that he had stayed at one of the hotels close to or in the metropolis. There were three possibilities. One stuck out – Gatwick. Now he believed he knew why Sansom had submitted his story. He was leaving the country.
Taking account of the murder in London, Tallis was able to work out the earliest time Sansom could have checked into the hotel. He phoned the hotel to discover that the receptionist team who would have been on duty at that time would be at the desk again from eight o’clock that evening. He took a name and advised them to expect him that night.
Next, he called Gatwick airport. Eventually, he was able to speak to staff that could help him find out whether an Acer Sansom had taken a flight anytime since Tuesday. As he sat in his office awaiting a reply, his suspicions led him to consider whether his instincts were right or whether the whole Gatwick lead was a red herring.
*
Eda had insisted in doing a thorough salon job on his hair. Not only had she washed and dyed it, but she had also sat him down and blow dried it, despite his protestations. Sansom had found it increasingly difficult throughout the process to keep his mind focussed on the fact that this was merely a cosmetic procedure, born out of necessity and nothing more. The close proximity of her, the inevitable bumping and touching, the feel of her strong hands massaging his scalp and the scent of her fragrance all combined to induce long-suppressed primitive feelings that he battled to contain.
In contrast, it seemed to him that for her it was nothing more than the physical act that it was, like sweeping a floor or polishing a table. She seemed businesslike and detached. They might actually have been in a crowded hairdresser’s.
When she had finished, she stepped back to appraise her work and seemed pleased with the result. He checked himself in the full-length mirror and while he nodded his approval he couldn’t help remembering himself standing in that same spot not two hours previously, naked. With some effort, he quickly derailed that train of thought. Eda poured them more coffee.
‘It’s a great job,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. So, what will you do now?’
‘I want to take another look at where he lives. I’m going to take the boat again. I have an idea about something.’
‘You want to share it?’
He smiled at her. ‘Not yet: when I’m sure about it.’ Her features assumed a look of doubt. ‘I promise,’ he said. ‘I really just want to check something out. And I’ll be better off alone. I know the way, how to get there. Besides, if they start to watch you as you said they might, we can’t be seen together – and a pleasure boat is not somewhere that I want to get cornered by anyone.’
She nodded her understanding. ‘Then I’ll go into the office. I have some work to catch up on. And I suppose that it will look better, more normal, if I carry on my usual life. I can give you a lift to the boats if you like.’
He accepted her offer and was pleased that she hadn’t resisted his suggestion. It showed that she was being sensible about things. In truth, he wanted to involve her less in what he was doing. Lines had been crossed. The previous day’s interrogation had been an indicator of how things could become. And that was with the law. He doubted very much that if Botha’s men became involved they would be so polite, law abiding and restrained in their questioning.
*
They made their way down to the underground car park by the stairs. He got into the back of the car and she covered him with a blanket. Not very dignified but sensible. He was getting used to it.
After some minutes of driving, when she was certain that there was nothing following them, he half sat up and watched the traffic behind for a short while. It was quickly apparent that nothing was following them. Anyone trying to keep up with her speed and manoeuvring would have been obvious in their wake. There were some advantages to her driving style. He clambered over into the front seat next to her.
The bright light and heat of a beautiful day beat down on the city from clear skies. Vehicle numbers swelled as they approached the centre. Lanes congested, speeds slowed and tempers frayed. Eventually, they came to the closest point that she could manage to the docks. Fishermen still crowded the bridge railings and concrete apron. A couple of ships were moored, rocking in the gentle swell awaiting another load of tourists to ferry up and down the waterway.
As she stopped to let him out, there was an awkward moment between them as they parted, but this was hurried along by the impatient hooting of the car behind them. Ignoring it, she grabbed one of her business cards from the door pocket, scribbled her address on the reverse and thrust it at him. ‘In case you get lost,’ she said.
Standing on the quayside, he breathed in and savoured the sea air wafting up the channel as he watched her car zigzag through traffic and out of sight. He turned his back on the ferry terminal, the ships, the water and the boatmen calling out their offers and was quickly lost in the milling crowds.
*
Two hours after his enquiry to the Gatwick authorities, DI Tallis received a call from an enthusiastic and helpful young lady at the airport who was able to assure him that no one using the name Acer Sansom had recently flown out of there. In fact, she was kind enough to detail that the only passenger with the surname Sansom who had travelled in the last week was female and aged sixty-four. The detective took the operator’s name, thanked her and terminated the call.
He planted his elbows on the desk, put his hands together as in prayer, thumbs supporting his chin, and considered. Certainly, he was disappointed, but he still had the evening trip to the hotel to make before he became anything like disconsolate. Years of experience had taught him that police work was rarely straightforward or simple or quick.
*
Sansom had no qualms about borrowing a scooter without asking. After all, he was wanted for attempted murder – sheep and lambs. And he didn’t consider it a particular risk. The two-wheeled take-away delivery vehicles were truly ubiquitous and therefore paradoxically anonymous. Name an international fast-food outlet and it could be almost guaranteed that within minutes you’d see o
ne of their delivery bikes buzzing through traffic, cutting in and out, riding the pavements and generally being a nuisance everywhere. Add to that the dozens of only-national and then only-local food outlets also delivering their own fare throughout the day and you had a subsection of society who were so numerous and commonplace that no one appeared to take any notice of them – perfect suburban camouflage.
Compounding this was the trusting nature he had also observed of the riders themselves. Several times in his short stay in Istanbul, he had noticed that when riders arrived at a delivery destination they would invariably hook their helmet on one of the bike’s mirrors and leave the keys in the ignition as they strove to make their delivery deadlines and get back into traffic with haste and ease. Besides, who would want to steal a scooter advertising pizza?
He’d owned and ridden motorcycles since he was a boy. He hadn’t been on a scooter since his youth, but it was essentially riding a bicycle, which according to popular folklore one never forgot how to do.
He waited until the delivery boy had disappeared into the business complex, put the helmet on, started the engine, eased into the flow of traffic and became anonymous.
Using the sun and the Bosphorus, when he could see it, he navigated his way back towards Botha’s estate. Riding in the Istanbul traffic was demanding, more so because one miscalculation, one lapse in concentration, would see him under the wheels of any one of the numerous vehicles that constantly surrounded him, vying for their positions. With no protective clothing, that was something he particularly wanted to avoid. His respect for the mass of delivery riders who dashed around the city increased with every mile.
Out of the main tourist district, the traffic congestion eased slightly and he was able to relax a little, enjoy the feeling of bike-riding in fine weather – and think more of his purpose for the trip.
*
Fifteen minutes later, he was back in the road where he and Eda had been caught out. Before they had been forced to turn tail and run, he had noticed that there were narrow lanes running down each side of Botha’s property. As a lost pizza-delivery-man, he felt he had his best chance of exploring them without attracting any adverse attention.
He puttered down one to a dead end. On both sides and in front of him, he was confronted with high walls topped with nasty-looking coils of razor wire. He performed a U-turn, puttered past Botha’s gates under the watchful gaze of the CCTV camera, and veered down the second narrow lane that ran alongside Botha’s property. At the end of this pathway, the Bosphorus shimmered brilliantly in the midday light. Conscious to continue playing his part as a lost delivery-rider, he made his way towards the sea, putting on a show for the cameras of looking from left to right as though for a house number.
The end of the track opened out on to a concrete apron that spread down to the water’s edge. He rolled to a stop in the shade of a large tree that overhung the path and took out his map. He made an exaggerated show of studying it.
On the concrete was parked one of the big Audis that had steamed past him the day before. The large yacht, much more impressive close-up than it had been from the ferry, was still moored at the little private quay. The stern bore the name Stella. There was plenty of activity around it; suitcases and packing cases were being carried aboard. Sansom’s spirits sank as he experienced a sense of ominous foreboding. Someone was getting ready to take a trip; a long one by the looks of things.
A firm clasp of his shoulder brought him quickly back to his situation. He turned to find a large, shaven-headed white man in a tailored suit staring at him from behind designer sunglasses. A neat thin scar ran from his temple to the corner of his mouth. The man spoke to him. The ticking-over of the engine and Sansom’s full face crash helmet combined to muffle what he said. Sansom shook his head in reply raising his hands, palms up, in a universal gesture of non-understanding.
The man raised his voice and spoke slowly and deliberately, as though that would instantly overcome the language barrier. Sansom recognised the heavily accented South African English in the question being asked of him. ‘Where are you looking for?’
Realising that, as a simple pizza-delivery-man, he would not be expected to understand what was being asked of him, he pointed at the map resting on the handlebars of the bike. The big man gave the map a cursory glance and pointed a thick, ringed finger back the way Sansom had come. Sansom nodded in reply, stuffed the map back into his shirt and rode off. Looking in his rear view mirror, he saw the man staring after him, the walkie-talkie in his hand coming up to his mouth. They were either very careful or very worried.
At the main road, he turned to continue away from the city centre. He waited until he reached a more built-up area, turned a few corners and left the bike in a quiet alley. No point in pushing his luck with it.
On foot, he followed the road back to the main drag, hailed a taxi, named the tourist destination where he and Eda had been dropped off the day before, and settled back in the seat to contemplate the implications of Botha being on the yacht and soon out of Istanbul, possibly in the middle of an ocean somewhere and therefore untouchable.
*
Back in the city and depressed, he returned to the coffee bar that he and Eda had visited the day before. He ordered and took a seat in the gloomy interior where he could take advantage of the air conditioning. He tried Eda’s mobile phone; with her contacts she could probably discover whether Botha was indeed destined for open water. She didn’t pick up. He took her business card from his pocket and tried the office number. A recorded message in a language that he didn’t understand greeted him. He rang off, tried her mobile again. Nothing. He tried not to worry. There could be a hundred reasons why he wasn’t able to get through to her.
He drained his coffee and headed out into the perpetually-thronging crowds in a direction that he hoped would find him on the way back to the apartment block.
One good thing that he was coming to realise about Istanbul was that one was never far from several taxis that were desperate for business. He hailed the first empty one that he saw, showed the driver the card with the apartment address on it and mentally prepared himself for another white-knuckle ride.
He soon realised that his anxieties were unfounded in this case. The traffic crawled along at a snail’s pace. If he’d known where to go he would have been quicker walking, but he didn’t. He watched as the meter clicked higher, glad that it was not his money he was spending.
Twenty minutes and many lira later, he began to recognise some of the buildings. The taxi cut across traffic, incurring the inevitable wrath and scolding of motorists travelling in the opposite direction. Sansom stole a glance at the driver, who remained unmoved and impassive – water off a duck’s back. Turning his attention back to the street, he saw a large, black Audi parked opposite Eda’s apartment block.
The driver began to slow as they approached the front of the building, muttering in guttural Turkish. To the driver’s obvious surprise, Sansom became animated, waving him on and around the corner into the next street, out of sight of both the car and the apartment block. A minute later, he was on the pavement and the taxi was gone.
Taking advantage of some thick shrubbery, he watched the Audi for a minute. There were no signs of occupation, although the heavily-tinted windows made it impossible for him to be sure whether there was anyone in it. He dialled Eda’s mobile phone, listened to it ringing for a while and then clamped his shut. Taking out his apartment keys, he turned down into the vehicle access for the underground car park, activating the electric shutter with the little key fob.
Eda’s car was inside. He touched the bonnet. It was warm. He let himself into the building through the heavy metal security door and supported it to close with a gentle click. He cursed under his breath as the movement-sensitive lights clicked on, illuminating the stairwell. He stood motionless for a long moment. The lights turned off. They stayed off. No sound vibrated down the staircase. He moved again, the lights came back on. Slowly, he made his w
ay up.
He assumed the worst – assumed that the vehicle outside was one of Botha’s; assumed that if it was then there would have been at least two men in it; assumed that they wouldn’t just be sitting outside; assumed that, like the man who had followed him into the alley, they were armed; assumed that they were in Eda’s flat; assumed that they weren’t as restrained or as law abiding as the local police. They would suspect that he was responsible for the attack on their colleague. They would know of Eda’s connection with him. They were there for him, or information that would lead them to him. And they probably wouldn’t care how they got it.
He paused as he came to Eda’s floor, straining to hear sounds from her apartment. Nothing. He took out his phone and called her again. From inside the flat, he heard the familiar music of her ring tone and then a male voice. The phone rang on. He terminated the connection.
He went up a floor, hesitated outside the door to the friend’s flat, wondering if there would be a surprise waiting for him. With no time or choice, he put the key in the lock and quietly let himself in. Silence. He retrieved the pistol, checked it and decided.
*
Eda sat in her living room. She had company - uninvited and unwelcome visitors. One was tall and slim, the other shorter and obviously greedier.
Again, Eda’s phone began ringing and vibrating on the bare wooden polished surface of the table in front of her.
‘I told you to leave it,’ said the tall man, as she moved in her seat. She glared at him, her cheek still smarting from the slap he’d given her. He continued looking out at the street below. As he opened his mouth to add something, the door bell shattered the quiet, making them all start. The two men looked at each other. The telephone continued to ring and jig.
