On the Bone

by Barbara Nadel

  ‘Mustafa Kemal Atatürk created the Turkish Republic; he did not urge people to cannibalism. He wanted to modernise, not go back to the Stone Age.’

  Deniz Baydar shook his head. ‘You don’t see it, do you?’

  ‘I don’t see how killing and then eating a boy not much more than a child can make anyone a better person.’

  ‘He was infected with ISIS ideology,’ Baydar said. ‘He was the enemy. He had to be obliterated.’

  Süleyman paused before he answered. According to Bülent Onay, Mustafa Ayan had been killed by accident. Was Onay lying, or was Baydar?

  He said, ‘How did the boy die, Major General Baydar?’

  ‘Of course I eat pig. I eat everything,’ Boris Myskow said.

  ‘Human flesh included?’

  He looked at İkmen, his lip automatically curling. ‘I didn’t say that. I eat pig. I have to, I’m a chef.’

  ‘Yes, but do you advertise that fact?’ İkmen said. ‘Do you let people know that you, a Jew, eat pork? Would you tell your mother? Would you even like her to know that about you?’

  ‘I don’t live with my mother any more.’

  İkmen rolled his eyes. ‘That’s irrelevant. Would you want her to know you eat pork?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No, of course not. You’d not tell her that any more than you’d tell her you cook with urine, would you?’

  Myskow said nothing.

  ‘I can’t prove that either you or those who attended your soirées ate human flesh,’ İkmen said. ‘But I’m reliably informed that there’s a disease called kuru that one can get from consuming human meat. It’s usually fatal, so we will see in the fullness of time.’ He smiled. ‘What I do know for certain is that my officer Halide Can is dead, and that either you or Bülent Onay killed her. We will have to see what your guests say about who was where and when on the night of her death.’

  ‘You’ll never get to speak to them,’ Myskow said.

  ‘Your comment on the sometimes peculiar nature of Turkish society is noted,’ İkmen said.

  Myskow was sweating heavily.

  ‘I also have a … well, what is it? A pile of flesh? Remains, shall we say, that were buried with my officer. I believe that these belonged to a boy called Mustafa Ayan.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Yes you have,’ İkmen said. ‘From me. I will know whether or not that flesh came from that boy once DNA testing is complete. Mustafa’s father has provided a sample for comparison. Imagine how he felt when one of my constables arrived at his door yesterday.’

  ‘I know nothing …’

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ İkmen said. ‘That boy was just a piece of meat to you, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Inspector İkmen!’

  ‘What do you want me to say, Mr Newman?’ İkmen said. ‘Quite honestly, whether or not your client ate human flesh, or even if his high-up Turkish friends joined him, is irrelevant to me. I want to know who killed that pile of flesh that Halide Can saw in his freezer, and who killed her because of it.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Well Mr Onay says that you did, and he has nothing to lose. Why would he lie?’

  ‘I never had a functioning family,’ the old man said. ‘My parents were estranged, I was sent away to school. My first exposure to comradeship was in the army. I loved my men and they loved me, and when I was discredited and put in prison, my life collapsed. When I was finally released, the only people I could mix with were others like myself, military men with criminal records, and then latterly my old friend Kavaş’s son, Ümit. Via him I met the Gezi/squatter crowd. I’d met Uğur Bey before when he designed fabrics for our mess at Selimiye. Odd people, but we had much in common.’

  ‘Dislike for the government,’ Süleyman said.

  ‘To put it mildly.’ Major General Deniz Baydar smiled. ‘Strange though they were, it was like having a family again. They listened, they sympathised. I know my wife nurtures the idea that I was attracted to the young girls who live in the Art House, but it wasn’t that. I like to talk and to listen, and Uğur Bey and his people let me do that in the certain knowledge that no one was going to report me to the authorities for sedition or some such nonsense. They became the closest thing to family I have had since the army, which was why I became so infuriated by the arrival of those ghastly children hurling abuse outside the building.’

  ‘The Ayan brothers and a Syrian refugee.’

  ‘Burak and Mustafa,’ he said. ‘Everything I hate about the new pious. Small-minded, joyless, intolerant.’

  ‘Just as the military were intolerant of religion?’

  ‘Do you want me to tell you my story or not?’ Deniz Baydar said. ‘My price is lack of criticism from you.’

  Süleyman said nothing.

  ‘Day after day they persecuted the Art House,’ Baydar continued. ‘We didn’t report it to you because you wouldn’t have done anything. What would be the point? But then they went too far.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Don’t know where the other boy was, but the two brothers got in. We were all up in the communal living room.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Uğur Bey, Bülent, Ziya, Ümit and myself.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Talking. We heard noises from downstairs. The two boys had got in through the old bathhouse.’

  ‘What were they doing when you saw them?’

  ‘Stealing or attempting to steal food from the kitchen,’ he said. ‘The smaller of the two had a knife, a real one, not a kitchen knife. Little bastard waved it in my face.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a good Islamic act to take from scum like us, apparently. According to the child with the knife. Never seen such hatred in a face. Tiny little thing. I got the knife away from him easily. Then the other boy ploughed in.’

  Süleyman frowned.

  ‘Protecting his brother, I suppose. I suppose you could also say that what happened next was an accident. The boy flung himself at me. Could I have pulled the knife out of his way? I don’t know. All I do know is that I didn’t have to twist it.’

  ‘But you did.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They’d both screamed and shouted about going to join this caliphate in Syria. I couldn’t believe such things coming out of Turkish mouths. I wanted it to stop. I wanted them to stop.’

  ‘So in contrast to the statement taken from Bülent Onay, you are saying that you murdered Mustafa Ayan,’ Süleyman said.

  ‘Yes. Bülent is a good man, but far more egalitarian than I. It was at his suggestion that we all agreed to shoulder the blame should our act against these boys ever surface.’

  Kerim Gürsel sat down next to his superior. ‘Why break ranks now?’

  ‘Because short of killing myself, I cannot think of any other way to get out of here with some kind of honour,’ the old man said. ‘That Bülent has killed a fellow chef pains me, but I cannot let him take the blame for the awful child’s murder too. That was me. It was I who suggested we needed to dispose of the body in the way that we did, and it was I who suggested we kill the boy’s brother.’

  ‘Burak Ayan.’

  ‘Yes. What a vile little rodent he was!’

  ‘Why didn’t you kill him, then?’ Kerim asked. ‘Did the others persuade you out of it?’

  ‘None of the others wanted to do it,’ he said. ‘But that boy was clever – and I imagine psychopathic.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Süleyman asked.

  ‘Because when his brother lay dying, he just left him. Not a tear in his eye or a last word of comfort. Then when his brother was dead, he cut himself a deal. He did it so quickly, it made me wonder whether he’d planned everything that had happened. It started out that he wanted us to pay for a train to take him to Ankara and then he’d get himself to Gaziantep and on to ISIS. He wanted a more comfortable trip than he’d get on the bus and he wanted our money. I countered with Ziya driving him to the border, watching him cross and leaving him. He went fo
r it.’

  ‘You delivered him to ISIS.’

  ‘Yes, we did. Had I taken him, I would probably have killed him. But Ziya is basically a good man; they all are. Or were. For the record, Uğur Bey jumped to his death. I didn’t push him. He too was a good man.’

  ‘Who ate human flesh.’

  ‘Out of necessity, yes.’

  ‘So who also ate Mustafa Ayan?’

  ‘All of us. Myself, Ziya, Ümit, Uğur Bey and Bülent.’

  ‘Who knew about this?’

  ‘Ümit’s father.’

  Süleyman sighed. ‘And what did you all think of the meat you consumed, Major General Baydar?’

  ‘Bülent boned it, we used those for fertiliser. He cooked it too. It was really rather nice.’

  ‘And yet, sadly, it seemed to disagree with Ümit Kavaş,’ Süleyman said. ‘Must make you wonder about your thesis that the flesh of your enemies can make you stronger, don’t you think, Deniz Bey?’

  It was difficult to decide who was the harder to crack, Boris Myskow or his lawyer. The chef was admitting to nothing and his time in detention was running out. Cetin İkmen checked his e-mail to see if there was anything from the Forensic Institute about the DNA tests on the unknown flesh, but there was nothing. He felt for the imam, but there was nothing he could do for him. Because Major General Baydar had confessed to the murder of Mustafa, the unknown remains were almost certainly those of the missing boy. Now all that was needed was to establish exactly who had killed Halide Can.

  As he walked past Commissioner Teker’s office, he saw that she wasn’t alone. A man was with her. İkmen didn’t know him, but he was dressed very smartly and appeared to be in deep conversation with his boss. Teker, for her part, looked furious.

  Chapter 33

  A soldier had killed Mustafa. The imam came from a generation who had been brought up to trust the military. He cried. The Twisted Boy put a piece of bread, cheese and salami in front of him for his breakfast, but he didn’t want it. The DNA comparison, which he didn’t understand, wasn’t back from the laboratory yet, but the police said that the body they’d found in the garden of the squat was ninety-nine per cent certain to be that of his son.

  Poor Mustafa. All his life he’d been led by Burak, who had demanded and received his loyalty. So much bigger and stronger, Mustafa had always protected Burak. Had he been protecting him again when he was murdered? And why and how had Burak managed to escape? Why hadn’t he run home? And why had he told him that Mustafa had died in Iraq? The police had given him so few details, and he’d heard nothing from Burak. There had been only silence from the Syrian boy too. Radwan. Where was he? Weren’t the police supposed to be looking for him?

  Cetin İkmen stood aside to allow Boris Myskow and his lawyer to pass in front of him. The chef, smiling, held up his US passport. They both got into a car, provided by Teker, to take them to Atatürk airport. The whole performance made İkmen feel sick. Teker owed him an explanation. He walked back into the station and found her in her office, waiting for him.

  She offered him a seat, but İkmen stood.

  ‘What happened?’ he said.

  ‘Bülent Onay confessed to the murder of Halide Can,’ she said.

  İkmen lit a cigarette. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘What I don’t know is why.’

  Teker’s office door was still open. She asked İkmen to shut it, but he ignored her. She said, ‘Inspector, you are not supposed to smoke—’

  ‘I don’t give a shit!’ he said. ‘Onay told me that Myskow killed Halide Can. He killed that chef, Tandoğan; we talked over his body …’

  ‘Well he lied.’

  She stood up, shut her office door and locked it. Still İkmen didn’t sit.

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘Yes he did.’ She sat behind her desk. ‘He confessed last night.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘To me.’ She looked him straight in the eye.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t see so much as a flicker of deception in her expression.

  He smoked. ‘Who was that man I saw with you last night?’ he said.

  ‘That’s not your concern.’ She looked down at her desk.

  ‘Well I’ll give him this, he was a smart spook,’ İkmen said. ‘Not like the scruffy, desperate little bastards I see occasionally. Must have come from way up …’

  ‘Inspector, if you are referring to the security services …’

  ‘They were looking after Myskow. You and I discussed it,’ he said. ‘I know one of those when I see one. What happened? Did he go in to Bülent Onay and frighten the shit out of him? Promise him something? What?’

  ‘As I told you, Cetin Bey, I—’

  ‘Bülent confessed,’ İkmen said. ‘Baydar likewise. Uğur İnan killed himself. These are not people without consciences …’

  She stood, furious. ‘They ate a human being,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not condoning that. I just want the right person to be punished for the right murder. I don’t want the guilty walking away.’

  ‘The guilty are being punished.’ She sat again.

  ‘But is one guilty person walking away?’ İkmen said. ‘One guilty person who maybe knows too much about certain people?’

  She didn’t speak.

  Finally İkmen sat. ‘So you say nothing, which to me is most eloquent,’ he said. ‘I expected better from you.’

  Her face reddened. ‘Cetin Bey, you overstep your boundaries!’

  ‘And you, Hürrem Hanım, have collapsed like a rotten tree. Where is Onay? I want to speak to him.’

  ‘He’s been transferred to prison.’

  Of course he had. ‘Which one?’

  They stared at each other. Eventually İkmen said, ‘I see.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ she said. ‘You see only a commissioner of police. You’re a good man, that is all you would see.’

  ‘What else am I supposed to see?’

  ‘A woman in a man’s job. A woman committed to getting other women into men’s jobs. A person struggling to accommodate dissenting voices in a climate like this.’

  And he did see all that. He knew better than most what it was to balance on a knife edge. But he knew something else, too. ‘When you hold the devil’s hand, Hürrem Hanım …’

  ‘Oh, I expect him to bite me, Cetin Bey,’ she said. ‘But for some idiotic American who makes food out of piss …’

  ‘I’m not worried about Myskow,’ İkmen said. ‘He and his conscience can tear each other apart for all I care. But Bülent Onay …’

  She shrugged. ‘No one but Onay and Myskow will ever know what really went on in that kitchen the night Halide Can died. And that includes you and me.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ he said. ‘But don’t you think that, given the existence of doubt, it is a bit unfair to put one man in prison while allowing the other to drift away to a penthouse in Manhattan?’

  He got up and began to walk towards the door. ‘Know what I hope?’ he said.

  ‘What’s that, Cetin Bey?’

  ‘I hope that Myskow did give the great and the good human flesh, and I really hope they get a Prion disease.’

  ‘A Prion disease?’

  ‘Transmitted via meat,’ he said. ‘Including human flesh. Brings on a form of dementia. We know the body carried Bloom syndrome. Maybe they’ll all get that. I don’t know, I’m not a doctor.’

  He left. He was too furious to carry on talking to Teker. Whether she’d been bullied or tempted by real or figurative gold was irrelevant; she’d done a thing she shouldn’t have done whilst trying to convince herself it was for the general good. It wasn’t. How he would ever have found out who really had killed Halide Can, İkmen didn’t know. But he did know that he should have been given the right to try.

  He looked at his watch and decided he didn’t care what it said, he was going to have a drink.

  Later, he would wonder why he had acceded to the demands of a felon. Major General Baydar was a murderer who would almost certainly
die in jail, and yet Mehmet Süleyman felt he owed him something. Maybe it was to do with growing up in the 1970s, when the military were treated almost like royalty.

  Outside the soldier’s cell, he said to Ömer Mungun, ‘I don’t know why he’s asked to see me, but I want you to watch him. He’s suicidal, and although he’s had everything that could harm him taken away, I still don’t trust him.’

  ‘But what could he do, sir?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but this class of elderly officers is very honourable.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s done the decent thing by admitting to the murder of Mustafa Ayan.’

  The custody officer opened the cell door and the two men went in.

  The old man was standing by his bunk with his hands in his pockets. He’d always been thin, but now, with no belt to secure his trousers, he was having trouble keeping them up.

  ‘Deniz Bey, you wanted to see me,’ Süleyman said.

  ‘I want to tell you something, Inspector.’

  ‘What?’

  The old man looked at Ömer Mungun. ‘Can’t we be alone?’

  ‘Sergeant Mungun is my deputy,’ Süleyman said. ‘He goes where I go.’

  ‘But what I have to say is personal, and not a little embarrassing. It isn’t for the ears of a young man.’

  ‘Sergeant Mungun may be young, but he is a man of the world,’ Süleyman said.

  Deniz Baydar sighed. ‘Well, may I whisper to you?’ he said. ‘The young man can stay, but if I could just tell you …’

  Süleyman knew it was wrong. But he also knew how the military felt about morality, shame and guilt. It wasn’t that much different from the way their religious opponents felt. He also wanted to get whatever this was over with. İkmen had called him. He was in his favourite bar in Sultanahmet and needed to talk before he drank himself into trouble.

  ‘All right,’ he said. He looked at Ömer and then went over to the old man. ‘What is it?’

  Deniz Baydar was almost the same height as Süleyman, so neither had to bend or stretch to get close.

  ‘Well, it is like this …’

  His voice was soft, and so Süleyman moved slightly nearer.

  ‘Can you hear me?’