There were days when all they spoke about was Syria. In his heart, Radwan just wanted to forget. He’d seen his father shot by one of Assad’s soldiers. Then they’d raped and killed his mother. He’d had two sisters and a brother, but he had no idea where they’d gone. Not that he’d talked to Burak and Mustafa about his family. All they’d wanted to know about was Islamic State. They were obsessed with the idea of the caliphate the ISIS fighters were building. But Radwan had never seen any of them. When the boys had asked him about ISIS men, he’d just made things up. When he’d fled from his home city of Aleppo, there hadn’t been any ISIS fighters in the area. But Burak and Mustafa had believed him, and as time had gone on, Radwan had taken to making up more and more elaborate stories about his adventures with ISIS. And what he didn’t know, the boys got off the Internet. Their dearest wish had been to go to Syria to fight with ISIS. Especially Burak. On the day the boys had disappeared, as far as Radwan knew, they’d gone back to the Art House to have it out with the baseball bat man. And he had killed them. He must’ve done, because he was still in the house and the boys had disappeared. But how was Radwan going to make anyone understand that? All he could do was wait for an opportunity to go inside and look for their bodies.
‘We grew up and grew apart.’
Mehmet Süleyman knew of the Lalebahçe mansion in Tarabya. Built by a minor Ottoman prince in the 1880s, it had been home to the once powerful Tanır family since the beginning of the Republic in the 1920s. But time and events had changed the Tanırs’ lives, and the patriarch of the family, Admiral Faruk Tanır, had been imprisoned for a supposed plot against the current government, just like General Kavaş. The difference was that the admiral, in spite of his family’s many costly campaigns to have him released, had died in prison.
Now his son and heir sat in the mansion he was obliged to sell in order to pay his debts, and told the policeman about his old friend Ümit Kavaş.
‘I think if anything I became more firmly rooted in what they now call the “secular elite” as my father’s problems multiplied,’ he continued. ‘But Ümit was different.’
Cengiz Tanır was a thin, bald man in his mid thirties. He’d aged badly.
‘I’m not saying that he embraced what some call the new Turkey. He was involved in Gezi, but he sought a future that accommodated the realities that have emerged in recent years.’
Süleyman knew what he meant. He also knew that Tanır would say no more than that. He would view Süleyman, as a police officer, as part of that new reality. So he would be guarded.
‘He was very involved with people who have set up a squat in Karaköy,’ Süleyman said.
Cengiz smiled. ‘Ümit believed that all and any ways of life could and should be accommodated. He looked with horror at what had been done by the secular elite in the past. Of course, he didn’t want what had been good about that to entirely disappear, but he accepted that it needed to change while at the same time in no way believing that his own father had done anything wrong. Which we now know, of course, he hadn’t.’
‘When did you last see Ümit Kavaş, Mr Tanır?’
‘Not for a while. Why, may I ask, are the police so interested in Ümit? He died naturally.’
General Kavaş had given Süleyman Tanır’s contact details, and although the old soldier had assured him that he wouldn’t tell anyone about what had been found in Ümit’s stomach, he couldn’t be certain about precisely what, if anything, this man knew.
‘Although, as you say, the death was natural, we want to make sure that nothing unnatural precipitated it,’ he said.
‘Like what?’
‘That is what we’re trying to determine,’ Süleyman said.
‘But if you don’t know—’
‘So you were a friend? Not close, these days?’
‘No. As children we were. And as students. We both went to university in London. But then I married, and when our fathers … when the investigations into our fathers’ affairs began, we drifted apart. Nothing personal, just life.’
‘Did you know he was living in Karaköy?’
‘I didn’t know he was living there but I had heard he was involved with the squat down there.’ He smiled. ‘Typical Ümit, getting himself in with the local unconventional arty types.’
Unconventional enough to eat human flesh? Süleyman wondered. ‘Some of the squatters are quite militant.’
‘If violence is involved, then Ümit won’t have been part of it,’ Tanır said. ‘Not directly. Whatever you might think about Gezi, there were a lot of peaceful people involved in it. Ümit was one of them.’
Süleyman knew. He’d been there when the protest to save Gezi Park had started in 2013. He’d also been in the park when his colleagues had attacked. Even now, talk of Gezi left him feeling uneasy and conflicted. A lot of the protests had indeed been peaceable.
‘But I suppose that if you want to blacken Ümit’s name after his death, you can just go right ahead and do so.’
‘What?’
‘You, the police,’ Tanır said. ‘Isn’t that what you do to people like Ümit these days? Blacken the names of the old regime, that’s your brief, isn’t it?’
Süleyman knew that this was exactly how some of the old elite felt, but he hadn’t expected to hear one of them articulate it so openly. Had Ümit felt like this underneath all his liberal feelings? Had eating the flesh of one of the new conservatives been his one and only act of violence against those he sought to embrace but who, by their very existence, rejected his kind?
‘I can assure you—’
‘Oh spare me,’ Tanır said. ‘My father, an innocent man, died in one of your prisons. I have to sell this house to a millionaire builder who can hardly read to pay the legal fees I still owe for trying to get justice for my father. I know who you are, Inspector Süleyman. You’re a member of that family my family thought we had consigned to the dustbin of history. Now climbing aboard a shiny new train that will take you back to power again. But it won’t. Those in power now use the notion of the Ottoman Empire to puff themselves up, not you. I may not have been close to Ümit Kavaş in recent years, but he was a decent man and I resent you sullying his death with your so-called investigation. Be honest and the good Muslim you people always talk about being, and let his family have his body.’
So he had been speaking to General Kavaş.
‘Because if he died naturally, he needs to be buried, and if he didn’t, then find out why and take action. Do something,’ Cengiz Tanır said. ‘Because I may not have seen Ümit for quite some time but I still love him and I feel pain for him. Blacken his name and I will use whatever money I have left after the sale of this house to do the same to you.’
Whatever he might have been, Süleyman thought, Ümit Kavaş evoked strong emotions, even in death.
Pembe Hanım breezed in bearing tins. She held them up so that Sinem could see them from her bedroom.
‘Guaranteed non-pig beans,’ she said.
‘Oh, thank you.’
It was one of Sinem Gürsel’s bad days. The pain in her joints was so bad she could hardly move. Feeding herself anything but tablets was impossible. Preparing food for her husband, Cetin İkmen’s sergeant, Kerim, was unthinkable. But then that was why Sinem and Kerim had Pembe – in part. When necessary, Pembe cooked, cleaned and did anything else that Sinem could not. She also made the invalid Sinem laugh, which wasn’t easy sometimes. Sinem had had rheumatoid arthritis since she was a teenager, and so her life was small and full of pain. People had been surprised when handsome, clever Kerim had asked Sinem’s father if they could marry. What had a catch like him wanted with a cripple like her?
‘I’ll make kuru fasulye,’ Pembe said. ‘I know Kerim likes that.’
‘His mother used to make it,’ Sinem said.
‘I know.’
All three of them talked about everything. But Sinem couldn’t remember saying anything about her mother-in-law’s white bean stew to Pembe. Kerim must have mentioned it
. She wondered if his mother’s cooking formed part of their pillow talk.
‘How’s your pain, kitten?’
Pembe used lots of endearing names for all those close to her. Madame Edith, her oldest friend, was by turns ‘sugar syrup’, ‘chicklet’ and ‘honey cake’. Sinem was often ‘kitten’ but could also be ‘princess’. It depended how Pembe felt. The pet names weren’t always complimentary, especially when Pembe felt Sinem was alone with Kerim. But then Sinem knew Pembe had to resent her on some level. In law at least she was Kerim’s wife, and she was a woman. She was everything Pembe had to want to be.
‘Zenne Gül said he saw Kerim Bey in Karaköy yesterday,’ Pembe said.
‘Zenne Gül?’
‘The dancer. Lives in the squat they call the Art House.’
‘I know who he is. I thought he lived in Fener.’
‘He did, but it got too uncomfortable,’ Pembe said. ‘All those districts covered by Fatih municipality are getting difficult. Gül lived on Sultan Selim Caddesi, which is absolutely heaving with piety. Those people don’t appreciate a pretty young guy in sequins.’
‘How did he end up in a squat? Male belly dancers make good money at clubs and restaurants, not to mention at henna nights. Everyone wants a zenne at their party these days. All that old Ottoman stuff is all the rage.’
‘But “decent” people don’t want to live around them.’ Pembe rolled her eyes. ‘The squat was started by Uğur İnan, the textile designer.’
‘Why does he need to live in a squat? He’s got money too.’
‘Yeah, but he’s also really pro the spirit of Gezi. I admire him. He puts his money where his mouth is. Someone who designs fabrics for Madonna could cosy up to the state, but he’s on our side.’
Sinem moved uncomfortably in her bed. While she was having a bad day, Pembe was having one of her bouncy, breezy days.
‘Our side?’
‘The side of the gypsies, fags and generals.’
‘I don’t see it as a “side” …’
‘Because of the soldiers? Sinem, sister, we’ve been pushed together in an arranged marriage. Get used to it. There’s them and us and some of us are fucking strange. But it is what it is. Anyway, how did we get here? Oh yes, Kerim Bey was in Karaköy. Asking questions about a man who had a heart attack, according to Gül. Makes you wonder if that’s not allowed now. Heart disease not permitted beyond this point!’
‘Pembe Hanım!’
‘Well, the world’s gone mad! When police start asking questions about a man who dies of a heart attack, there’s something wrong. Some man murdered his wife the other day for apparently looking at other men. What are they doing about that? I tell you, Sinem Hanım, Kerim Bey is courting disaster working for today’s police. Even if he does work for Cetin İkmen. He’ll have to choose a side one of these days. Either he’s with us or he’s against us. There’s no such thing as a queer policeman. At least there shouldn’t be.’
‘Oh, and what do you think Kerim should do instead? Become a zenne?’
Pembe looked at her without smiling. ‘He has the body for it,’ she said.
‘We have to say something,’ İkmen said.
Commissioner Teker shook her head. ‘What can we say? That isn’t a rhetorical question. I mean it. What can we say?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But carrying on asking questions about a natural death is weird. Inspector Süleyman had a very awkward interview with one of Ümit Kavaş’s old friends and is now on his way to the squat where Kavaş spent most of his time more recently. People aren’t stupid, they’ll know this isn’t normal. Any one of these people could have been with Ümit Kavaş when he ate human flesh. But unless we can ask them more specific questions …’
‘So we tell them their friend ate human flesh?’ She sat down.
‘Well, there is an argument that in a world where people behead each other and drink their blood, what harm can the knowledge of a little local cannibalism do?’
Teker said nothing.
They called themselves a commune.
‘I know the word has negative associations for some,’ Uğur İnan said. ‘But that isn’t my problem. We live communally and so we are by definition a commune.’
Süleyman had seen İnan on television and so he wasn’t surprised by the dreadlocks. The state of the squat was another matter. Although decorated with fabrics more suited to a Hollywood mansion, the actual material of the building was dire. There were holes everywhere, and in some rooms water from damaged pipes ran down the walls.
‘I’m only here to talk about Ümit Kavaş,’ Süleyman said. ‘Not to discuss how you live.’
‘Yes, but your colleagues will come and try to shut us down.’
They were in a large room with, Süleyman counted, five other people. One covered girl, a woman with a baby and two young men.
İnan sat on a floor cushion. ‘What do you want to know?’
There was nowhere to sit except on the floor, and so Süleyman sat.
‘I understand Mr Kavaş had friends here,’ he said.
‘Ümit was a great supporter of the commune, yes,’ İnan said. ‘We’re all really sorry that he’s dead. But he died naturally, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why are you here?’
He’d had a brief telephone conversation with İkmen after he’d left Cengiz Tanır’s house, where he’d been asked the same question. İkmen said he’d speak to Commissioner Teker about what was becoming a real problem, but so far, Süleyman had to stick to his previous story.
‘We want to make sure that no external factors may have precipitated Mr Kavaş’s heart attack,’ he said. ‘Do you have any idea where he went on the night he died?’
‘Up on to İstiklal,’ İnan said. ‘That was where he was found, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘So up there.’
‘He didn’t come here?’
‘He lived across the road. He dropped in from time to time. We’re all creative people here. Ümit appreciated that.’
The young woman with the baby said, ‘Everyone here was at Gezi. Ümit too.’
Süleyman was surprised she had mentioned it. He knew that Ümit Kavaş had been involved in the Gezi protest, but as a rule, people avoided the subject.
‘And in answer to your next question, yes, we talked politics,’ İnan said. ‘Urban development, gay rights and freedom of expression are political issues in this country. You know it and I know it. Ümit was passionate about the notion of not allowing the spirit of Gezi to die. He also had personal issues with the current administration. I’m sure you’re aware of this.’
‘Yes.’
‘Ümit and ourselves, we were all in the same place politically, so if you’re looking for someone he might have argued with before he died, you’ve come to the wrong place.’
‘The only trouble we get round here, apart from the police, comes from the kids from Fatih who like stoning the place and calling us infidels,’ one of the young men said. He was tattooed, pierced and had wild, unkempt hair.
‘Did Ümit get any trouble from them?’ Süleyman asked. Although it was irrelevant to the investigation, he was curious – kids like this seemed to be becoming ever more visible in the city.
‘A lot of people do when they come to visit us.’ Uğur İnan narrowed his eyes as if thinking. ‘Alone on the street, he may have done.’
‘Those boys give you a hard time, don’t they, Meltem?’ the woman with the baby said to the covered girl.
For a moment the girl looked confused, then she said, ‘They have. Sometimes.’
‘You should complain,’ Süleyman said.
Uğur İnan laughed. ‘To whom?’
‘Well …’
‘You?’ He laughed again. ‘And have you come and pat the boys on the head? Look, if you’re here to try and connect us in some way to Ümit’s death, then let me make your job easy. We liked Ümit and he liked us. Ask anyone round here. Ask the jihadi kids! Even
they will back me up. And while you’re there, you might ask them what they were up to before Ümit died. They don’t just hang about round here, you know; they’re everywhere these days. Could even be in your neighbourhood, Inspector. People like us here in the Art House are swimming against the tide. Personally, I call this place my last stand.’
Chapter 5
Cetin İkmen had almost given up hope of getting an answer from the pork butcher when someone picked up the phone.
‘Cyrus?’
‘Yes.’
He relaxed. ‘Cetin İkmen here. Can I ask you some questions about your meat?’
‘What do you want to know?’
İkmen had his feet up on his desk and was half hanging out of his office window so that he could smoke.
‘Do you ever sell wild boar?’ he said.
There was a knock at the door followed by the entrance of Mehmet Süleyman. İkmen silently offered him a chair.
‘No,’ Cyrus Zarides replied.
‘Never?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t suppose you know where to get it, do you?’ İkmen asked.
‘I know where they’re killed,’ he said. ‘Anatolian wild boar hunts are really popular with foreigners. There’s a couple of firms do it in the Kayseri area and up round the Black Sea. Anatolian boars are huge. But in this country they’re only hunted for trophies.’
‘What? Tusks?’
‘And heads. Germans like that sort of thing.’
‘So what about the meat?’
‘I don’t know,’ Cyrus said. ‘They’re not allowed to sell it. Whether the foreigners eat it, I don’t know.’
‘But you can’t get it?’
‘No, and I wouldn’t try,’ he said. ‘I know it can be got. But not from the type of people I’d like to do business with.’
‘Criminals.’
‘I don’t suppose they think they are, but …’
On the Bone Page 5
