On the Bone

by Barbara Nadel

  ‘And what did he do?’

  Bülent put the hand without the knife up to his head. ‘Oh man!’

  He appeared to be in pain. İkmen let him have a moment. Poor Aysel Gurcanli was very uncomfortable, but he didn’t think she was actually in danger. Bülent was clearly the one suffering – for whatever his sins had been.

  ‘He said we should kill the other kid too,’ Bülent said. ‘Uğur Bey went mental!’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have that!’ Bülent said. ‘He went and talked to the boy. Tried to explain how it had all been an accident and that if he wanted to call the police he could. Deniz Bey meantime’s just losing his mind at what he saw as the “hippy” stupidity of it all. I thought that someone else was going to die that day, and I don’t necessarily mean the kid. But it was the kid who ended it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘So this is where you don’t believe me,’ Bülent said.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘The kid said that he and his brother had been on their way to Syria. He didn’t say why and no one asked. He had a ticket for a bus to Gaziantep. He said if we just let him go, he’d say nothing about his brother. Not to you or his family or anyone.’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘Of course we didn’t! He had to be lying. Who wouldn’t want to get their brother’s killers put away?’

  ‘Did he ask for money?’

  ‘Oh yes, that too. It was Uğur Bey who made the compromise. I mean, as he said to the rest of us, a kid like that was going to Syria only for one reason.’

  ‘To join ISIS.’

  ‘Of course. Both kids had been full of holy advice for us for months. He was that kind of boy. And later we all agreed that he was also the kind of boy who hadn’t had a lot of love for his bigger, better-looking brother. Like a cross between a toddler and a malicious old man he was, with arms and legs like sticks. I hated him. Who trades their own brother for a lift to the Syrian border and a handful of euros?’

  ‘Who gave him a lift?’

  ‘Ziya. I think he thought it was getting him away from the aftermath, but it didn’t. When he came back was when it all really kicked off.’

  İkmen raised an eyebrow.

  ‘We had to get rid of the body.’

  İkmen knew what was coming, but it made it no less of a shock. Getting rid of bodies was always a problem for killers who valued their liberty. In the past, he’d found them hidden in ancient monuments, burned, buried, dismembered and even embalmed. But never this …

  ‘Deniz Bey has this belief that the early Anatolians ate the flesh of their enemies,’ Bülent said.

  ‘So you ate the boy.’

  ‘Part of him. If we’d eaten all of him, then we wouldn’t have needed to involve anyone else.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Mr Myskow,’ Bülent said.

  Bülent had never even thought about eating human flesh. But then until he became a chef in the city he’d never thought about making lime into foam or dehydrating tomatoes. He’d always cooked his mother’s food. Basic but beautifully presented dishes from the Black Sea region. Then he’d worked for Myskow and discovered he had a talent for really weird modern food.

  That bastard Tandoğan had been all about ‘pushing the boundaries of gastronomy’. Except he didn’t have the talent to do it. Romero did, and he made exceptional food for the restaurant. But not good enough for Myskow’s special guests. Only Boris and Bülent were able to cook for them, because they wanted it really weird. Or so they thought.

  Bülent knew many of them by sight. All good citizens and responsible businessmen, they’d started small with modest amounts of alcohol. The spooks who minded them just turned away. But pig meat had been a big step.

  ‘The boy died in the old bathhouse,’ Bülent said. ‘We put his body in the freezer and locked it.’

  ‘Had the freezer always been locked?’ İkmen asked.

  ‘No. But no one had used it for years; it was filthy.’

  Deniz Bey had wheedled. He’d said it would make them true Anatolians, that it was an act of protest against the current status quo, that it was honourable.

  Eventually Bülent said, ‘When you don’t know what to do about something, anything becomes possible.’

  He moved the knife just a fraction of a centimetre away from Aysel Gurcanli’s face. He didn’t want to hurt her accidentally, and talking about this might make his hands shake.

  ‘If we ground the bones down for fertiliser, buried the guts and intestines – which would rot easily – we could …’

  ‘Consume?’

  ‘I cooked it. I did it well but I didn’t like it. I didn’t do it for the challenge or anything like that! You’ve got to believe me. I couldn’t finish it. On my mother’s life. Only Deniz Bey enjoyed it, although he encouraged Ümit to eat, which he did. Poor Ümit, accustomed to taking orders from soldiers, I suppose. But not even Deniz Bey thought it would kill him.’

  ‘It didn’t,’ İkmen said. ‘He had a heart attack.’

  ‘So why did you come sniffing around?’

  ‘Because it isn’t every day you find human flesh in a corpse’s stomach,’ İkmen said.

  ‘Which was why we had to demolish the bathhouse, grind up the bones and … There was so much of it!’

  He wanted to cry. He’d just killed a man and he wanted to cry. How fucked up was that?

  ‘We couldn’t eat it, not again. Not after Ümit. We couldn’t bury it. None of us had the nerve to do so. What if we were seen?’

  ‘You buried the intestines.’

  ‘Which could have come from any kind of animal,’ Bülent said. ‘Try doing that with a human leg.’

  ‘Boned, it wouldn’t—’

  ‘We couldn’t do it! You people were coming to the house and we were going nuts, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  And there was something else. Bülent lowered his head. It was shameful. It was fucking weak and low and gutless. ‘I wanted Myskow to be in debt to me,’ he said. ‘I needed that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ İkmen said.

  ‘You know how taboo pork is amongst the faithful,’ he said. ‘I know plenty of so-called Muslims who drink, but none who eat pork. Myskow’s guests are prominent people …’

  ‘Who?’

  He laughed. ‘You think I can tell you and live?’ he said. ‘I doubt you’d be allowed to live if you found out!’

  İkmen said nothing. Bülent wondered what he was thinking. He was well known for his lack of piety. But did he actively have it in for those who practised their faith?

  ‘I told Myskow that if he didn’t help me move the body, I’d make sure that his arrangement with the boar hunters came to light,’ Bülent said.

  ‘Yes, but he in turn would know that you had killed a child,’ İkmen said.

  ‘He would. He does. Anyway, I didn’t kill the kid. I didn’t!’ Bülent said. ‘But I knew that Boris Myskow had a weakness. We cleaned the old freezer and installed it in the first-floor kitchen. Myskow would keep it there until the heat was off, and then we’d take the body away again – somehow. Except I knew that wouldn’t happen.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Myskow is crazy,’ Bülent said. ‘People have no idea what he puts in some of his most exclusive, most innovative dishes.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘OK, for example, he has a starter called caviar on sturgeon thins, which is dressed with a caper and lamb’s kidney foam. People comment on the slight ammonia scent that pervades the dish, but that’s the essence of lamb’s kidney, right? Wrong. What he decants into his “essence” isn’t lamb’s kidneys, it’s human piss.’

  İkmen frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s pushing the boundaries of gastronomy. Anything can be food. That’s his belief. It was mine too, which was how we came together professionally.’

  ‘Yes, but he employed Chef Romero as his second in command. Why not you?’

  ‘Because Ro
mero has an international reputation. I’m just some Turkish guy,’ Bülent said. ‘Romero knows nothing about this, unlike Tandoğan.’

  They looked at the body across the desk.

  ‘So why didn’t he work with Tandoğan?’

  ‘Because he was shit,’ Bülent said. ‘He shared Myskow’s philosophy but he couldn’t innovate and he couldn’t cook.’

  ‘And so …’

  ‘And so I knew that Myskow wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to cook with human meat,’ Bülent said. ‘I knew he’d cook it for his special guests and eat it himself. I wanted him and the scum he cooked for to be as damned as I was.’

  ‘We didn’t find any human flesh on these premises,’ İkmen said.

  ‘No,’ Bülent replied, ‘but that woman did.’

  ‘What woman?’

  ‘That Halide Can woman.’

  ‘My officer.’

  It took a few seconds to filter through. A police officer had died. There would be no mercy, no redemption. But then as soon as he’d put human flesh in his mouth, that had been impossible. Bülent loosened his grip on Aysel Gurcanli, put the knife down on the desk and cried. Through his tears he said, ‘Myskow killed her. He slammed the freezer door down on her neck!’

  The Kurds let their women fight alongside their men, uncovered. It was haram. Burak Ayan pulled the straps on the side of his vest tight. Then he put on the heavy fragmentation jacket filled with nails, steel balls, pins and screws. He’d teach those Kurdish bitches a lesson when he detonated his vest.

  The Brothers were in good spirits as they drove through the night, laughing at how Burak’s small stature would bring out the natural mother in the Kurdish girls. Burak had always hated being small. People had compared him unfavourably to Mustafa his whole life, but this time would be different. Mustafa had ‘died’ somewhere in Iraq and his death had to be glorious because he was Burak’s brother. But Burak’s demise would be better. Taking out a battalion of Kurdish whores would be an event that would live for ever in the minds of all those who heard about it. And he’d go to Paradise.

  Or would he? Did what he was about to do now wipe away what he’d allowed to happen to Mustafa? He’d used him. And although he hadn’t planned to do so, when the opportunity had arisen, he’d taken it. He’d allowed bad people to get away with murder. Wouldn’t doing this atone for that? Yes. But he knew that his father would disagree. And his father was an imam.

  One of the Brothers had told him that it said in the Koran that women had to be covered in burqas and wear gloves on their hands all the time. Burak knew that was wrong. Why was he following these people?

  Outside the car, he could see very little. Brother Imad said that the Kurdish lines were only about five kilometres away now, but there was no sign of anyone or anything. There was no light.

  Mustafa had just died. Burak had always thought his brother was much stronger than him. It had been a shock. That was why he’d done what he’d done, because of the shock. Yes. And he was doing what he was doing now because he was no Jew. Why would his father, who was a religious and learned man, marry a Jew?

  Brother Imad laughed for no particular reason and Brother Jawad said, ‘Just outside the door to Paradise now, Brother Burak!’

  Burak smiled.

  The deep thud as the Kurdish mortar bomb was detonated made them all look at each other. It was the last thing any of them did.

  Chapter 31

  The flight from London to Istanbul was usually a breeze. But being cuffed to a bobby the size of a tree was an uncomfortable experience. They’d both eaten their economy-class plastic airline meal and the cop had allowed Boris to have a cup of coffee. But no booze. It did little for his nerves. The British police cell had been bad enough, but what would its Turkish equivalent be like? Did they still torture people by hauling them up by their ankles and then beating the crap out of their feet with a stick?

  When they landed, everyone else got off except Boris and his minder. The crew remained on board and then, after about half an hour, he heard footsteps on the stairs outside the aircraft. They were still on the tarmac, in a distant part of the airport; whoever they were had to have come out in some sort of transport.

  All the Turkish cops – there were four of them – wore plain suits and wraparound shades. They looked like the Men in Black. The tall, slim one was familiar.

  ‘Mr Myskow?’ Mehmet Süleyman said.

  The British bobby answered for him and unlocked the handcuffs. The bobby, a DC Caulfield, and Süleyman shook hands. As the three other Turks re-cuffed Boris and escorted him down the aircraft stairs, he heard Süleyman say, ‘We’re very grateful.’

  Yeah, Boris thought, I bet you are.

  ‘I’m sorry, Defne Hanım,’ Kerim Gürsel said. ‘I don’t know when your husband will be released.’

  ‘My brother’s body lies unburied!’ the old woman said. ‘I have no one to help me! What can I do?’

  In spite of her high-handed behaviour towards him in the past, Kerim felt sorry for Major General Baydar’s wife. Her brother’s corpse was still awaiting burial and she didn’t know what to do without her husband.

  ‘What is my husband accused of?’ she said.

  When she’d opened her apartment door, it was clear she hadn’t slept. Her eyes had been red, her face pale, and she’d almost burst into tears when Kerim had told her why he had come. Apparently she hadn’t known if her husband was alive or dead.

  ‘I can’t discuss your husband’s case,’ Kerim said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘Defne Hanım, you say you didn’t know where your husband had been …’

  ‘He disappeared!’ she said. ‘Switched his phone off!’

  He’d been at the Art House when the body of Halide Can had been discovered, and although he hadn’t yet been implicated directly in her death, the pile of flesh she had been found lying on was another matter. Had Baydar, Ümit Kavaş, Uğur İnan and that biker, Ziya, really eaten human flesh?

  ‘I think you should bury your brother,’ Kerim said.

  She flung herself down into a chair and put her head in her hands. ‘And how do I do that, young man?’ Defne Baydar said.

  Boris was pissed that he had to rely on this Turkish clown. But his attorney from the States was on his way, and so all Mr Emre had to do was hold the situation. He wasn’t doing very well.

  ‘You don’t actually know who the blood sample found on the inside of my client’s freezer belongs to,’ Emre said to Cetin İkmen.

  ‘DNA matching can’t be done overnight,’ the policeman said. ‘As I know you are aware, Lütfü Bey.’

  The idiot lawyer smiled at him. His only saving grace was that he could speak English.

  ‘But we have a witness too,’ İkmen said.

  ‘Oh?’

  Boris closed his eyes and it all came back to him. Bülent had tried to stop him, but he’d just gone into a blind panic. Smashing the lid of the freezer down on her neck.

  Again and again and again.

  It was his word against Bülent’s. But Bülent was a Turk. They’d believe him – until Ralph arrived from the States. Boris Myskow sat back in his chair.

  ‘Yes,’ İkmen said. He looked Boris straight in the eye. ‘You like to cook with unusual ingredients, Mr Myskow.’

  Lütfü Emre frowned.

  ‘Shall I detail some of them?’

  Boris felt himself flush. Should he have told Lütfü Emre? He’d told no one except those who understood. Like Bülent Onay.

  ‘Human urine,’ İkmen said. ‘That’s part of a starter, I believe. Then we have a dessert called Miracle, designed to cure all and any bodily disease. You use a certain type of water in that, I believe, Mr Myskow. Can you tell me where that water comes from?’

  Boris felt his heart begin to hammer. If Emre were religious, would he be offended? He was a Muslim. No.

  ‘Lourdes,’ he said.

  ‘So-called holy water from the shrine at Lourdes,’ İkmen
said.

  ‘What shrine?’

  ‘It’s a Christian shrine in France, Lütfü Bey. Your client has been using water from a sacred spring at Lourdes to make a cream pie that can allegedly cure cancer.’

  ‘I’ve never said that!’ Boris said. ‘I’ve never claimed—’

  ‘Then why call it Miracle?’ İkmen said. ‘Why only give it to your most prestigious guests and why charge the weekly wage of an ordinary man for it? I am told that you are an innovator, Mr Myskow. But that is disingenuous, as is your use of human blood.’

  ‘That’s a lie, I’ve never—’

  ‘Did Mr Cihan Özlü know that you gave him and his friends human meat instead of wild boar?’ İkmen said. ‘And yes, Lütfü Bey, I do mean Mr Cihan Özlü the economist.’

  Boris began to sweat. How had İkmen found out about Özlü and his friends? Weren’t they supposed to have been protected by the spooks that followed them around? He looked at his lawyer’s face, which was white.

  ‘I’m not saying anything until my attorney arrives from the States,’ he said.

  Up until that point, the cop called Süleyman had been silent. Now he said, ‘That’s your choice, Mr Myskow. But you need to know that you have to stay here until he arrives.’

  Boris looked around the interview room and then closed his eyes.

  ‘Bülent Onay is, behind all his grief, a rational man,’ İkmen said as he lit up another cigarette. ‘Which is why he’ll serve a long sentence.’

  İkmen and Süleyman had come out from the Myskow interview and were standing in the car park.

  ‘Can cannibalism be described as rational?’ Süleyman asked.

  ‘As a method of disposing of a body, yes,’ İkmen said. ‘At least that’s what I think.’

  ‘It’s not madness?’

  ‘And what’s that?’ İkmen said.

  Süleyman smiled. One of his ex-wives had been a psychiatrist, and so he knew something about the debates that routinely raged around what was and wasn’t insanity.

  ‘Bülent and his companions accidentally killed Mustafa Ayan and then didn’t know what to do with his body.’

  ‘And his brother let them get away with it,’ Süleyman said. ‘That’s what I don’t understand.’