by Jane Bastin
“Let’s say it’s true.”
Ruhi looked through the glass divide. He raised his eyebrows making his eyes look even more startled.
Sinan swiped the computer screen and opened up a map of Turkey. Grazing his fingers across the lines, he followed the borders of Greece and Bulgaria in the west to the Bosphorus and Istanbul. The only access for the countries that bordered the Black Sea to the rest of the world via sea routes was along the Bosphorus. He brushed his finger through the Dardanelles and out to the Sea of Marmara down to the Aegean and the Mediterranean. Russia, Georgia, Romania, Ukraine and Bulgaria, all landlocked without access to Turkey’s coast. Sinan’s mind turned over his store of memories. History books were his fodder. Patterns repeated through the centuries. The nineteenth century eastern question. He had read about it most recently last summer, sitting in his mother’s garden. The fat tome had come in particularly useful for swatting flies. The role of the Ottomans in guarding this vital organ of water had led eventually to the Crimean War. Geopolitical fighting over control of the Bosphorus had set neighbour on neighbour, and what difference now? He paused trying to source links. The pattern repeated. The fragile nature of Turkey after centuries of conquest and her fragile hold over the Bosphorus was not too dissimilar, he thought, wiping a drop of tea from his chin. The Russians waiting on the fringes cat-like and the Americans…
Ruhi knocked on the glass and motioned to the main doorway. Yasemin Hanim, hair scraped back so that the small bump on her forehead was visible, stood and waited. Sinan scraped back his chair and ushered her in. Ruhi brought more tea and Sinan made pleasantries about the improving weather and the success of the last case they had worked together on.
“Inspector Sinan, it was cyanide.”
Sinan stopped, glass in mid-air, mouth poised to drink.
“Yes, I thought it might excite you.”
Yasemin Hanim spread her lips suggestively.
“Cyanide cigarettes to be precise. Traces of hydrocyanic acid on the lips of the Prime Minister and fainter traces on Gaye Hanim’s lips. “
She had given the young prostitute the term of respect, ‘Hanim’, reserved for women of status and Sinan smiled.
“In the cigarette packet, two cigarettes implanted with cyanide. Somehow, the perpetrators have managed to manipulate him to choose the only two with cyanide in them, possibly to delay the investigation. But we are quick and good.”
Sinan winked at Yasemin Hanim and immediately regretted it. What on earth was he doing? She could only be about 35, younger than him but her skin was prematurely lined from the Istanbul cold. A red blush moved from her neck to her cheeks. He coughed and shifted his body, knocking over an empty glass that Ruhi had forgotten to remove.
“There was enough cyanide in both cigarettes to kill him and Gaye Hanim must have taken the cyanide from his lips by kissing him. He also had traces of her lipstick on his lips. Her blood levels of cyanide were lower but she was much smaller physically. They would both have lost consciousness very quickly.”
“So, that’s how they both died without anyone entering or leaving the hotel room. Now, we just have to find who supplied the cyanide cigarettes. First suspicion rests obviously with the security guards.”
Sinan tapped quickly on the glass window and asked Ruhi to call Sergeant Mehmet.
“The Flower Passage murders? Any links?”
“Well, they both had the same tattoo and we have analysed the chemical components of the ink used. Odd.”
Yasemin Hanim paused as Sergeant Mehmet opened the door. Gesturing for her to continue, Sinan patted the chair with the broken arms for Sergeant Mehmet.
“Yes, odd… The red ink used is not very common in tattoo parlours. It is made up of a colourant called scarlet lake which is used by some who are concerned about the toxicity of other red inks such as antimony.”
Sinan stretched out his legs beneath the desk.
“So, you mean the killer used a non-toxic colour to protect the health of their victims!”
Sergeant Mehmet sniggered.
“Right, Mehmet, find out where this ink is being used in Istanbul.”
“Anything about the needle?”
“Inconclusive, I’m afraid.”
Sinan tapped on the glass divide and beckoned for more tea.
“Yasemin Hanim, do you think that there is a link between the murder of the Prime Minister and the two civil servants?”
Sergeant Mehmet tapped into a tablet, the faint glow of the light had the effect of sunshine in Sinan’s office isolated from any natural light. He had been reprimanded before he started with Sinan about the shoddiness of his notes. His previous inspector had followed every procedure, ticked every box and insisted on the same meticulous attention to detail from his officers. Mehmet could not now break this habit even though he knew that Sinan had no such expectation.
“Well, no cyanide involved in the Flower Passage murders, Inspector. Just a good old fashioned knife about ten inches long with a serrated edge in both cases, Inspector.”
Sinan shifted uncomfortably in his chair with every mention of the word ‘inspector’. He had asked her to call him Sinan. She was a forensics expert, she worked with clues; surely she must have picked up that it made him feel uncomfortable. Hierarchy in any form irritated him.
The day felt longer than other days. Without daylight, Sinan felt cut off from reality. He had grown up in the fierce glare of the sun in the Aegean Mountains and he had difficulty with the long, bone cold winters in Istanbul. Kept in the bowels of the police station interviewing perpetrators all day disturbed his body clock further. Sergeant Mehmet and other officers accompanied each of the four security guards into the small interrogation room and Sinan lost all sense of time. The Ozbek guard’s back history bore true. His family had escaped the mass famine in Tajikistan in the fifties and migrated en masse to Ankara where he had grown up. No signs of political behaviour. Records of his computer usage revealed nothing suspicious. Newly married with a wife from Ozbekistan, he had built up debt with a bank to support the down payments on a small flat in a new estate on the furthest outskirts of the city. Otherwise, no suspicious movements. The next one was studying fine art with the Open University and had aspirations to leave security work and live in an artists’ commune in Paris. The one after had aged parents who lived above a café just down the road. He had no history of politics or crime and burst into tears at the mere mention of it by Sinan. The last one was taciturn. Gruff voice and a twitchy manner. Sinan suspected drugs but checks revealed nothing. He said very little other than where he lived and where he worked which they already knew. Suspicious, Sergeant Mehmet photocopied the card of a bar, Barbaros, in the gypsy quarter which was stuck to his identity card.
Chapter Five
Far off
Where we can’t see
The moon must be rising
“I’m starving, Sergeant Mehmet, I think that you and I should check out that bar, Barbaros over in Kumkapi.”
Sergeant Mehmet rang his wife while Sinan gathered his papers and duly followed his boss out into the chilly evening. It was later than he thought. The frenetic rush of cars and office workers had stopped and they hailed a taxi with ease. Juddering over the potholed roads, Sinan and Sergeant Mehmet avoided talking about the case, conscious of the reflection of the driver’s eyes in the mirror. Sergeant Mehmet tapped out a tune while Sinan watched the passing view as though in slow motion. Women draped in cloth like discarded shop mannequins, young girls giggling outside shops that never closed, old men smoking hookah pipes at small, rickety tables on pavements, and small children, hands full of paper tissues, accosting cars at every traffic light. This grabbed Sinan in the gut. A visceral pain at the sight of young children weaving in and out of speeding traffic long into the night. Medieval Istanbul still visible. The children of the poor brought to the city and enslaved to adults through domestic servitude, pickpocketing and begging.
The sign Barbaros Meyhane was not what Sina
n was expecting. He had not been in Kumkapi since Ani and certainly not here. Meyhanes begun during the Byzantine Empire and continued through the Ottoman Empire, were an embedded part of male culture, Sinan had warned Ani when she insisted on visiting. A place where men drank, lusted after gyrating belly dancers and sang songs of lost love but she loved it. Pushing thoughts of her back, he paid the driver and ushered Sergeant Mehmet into the small room filled with even smaller tables. A wiry waiter with a moustache too large for his face guided them to a table in the far corner, took their order of raki and meze and shuffled away. Thin sheets of red plastic were draped loosely over the lamps giving off a hazy pink light. Sinan blinked and rubbed his eyes to adjust and when he opened them, he saw a pale blue layer of smoke settle just below the lights. Sergeant Mehmet looked at him, shrugged his shoulders and speared his fork into one of the bowls of meze still balanced in the waiter’s hands. Smoking was forbidden and the threat of heavy penalties had all but forced smokers into dingy doorways like heroin users. Same difference, thought Sinan and quickly dismissed it from his thoughts as he surveyed the array of mezes that now decorated their small table. A haphazard collection of different patterned bowls containing chopped octopus in olive oil and lemon, fried squid, wild olives from the Aegean, wild herbs with thyme and oregano, spicy tomato paste from Gaziantep, slices of white cheese, mussels fried in batter, a large salad of tomatoes, lettuce, cucumber and onion and hot flat bread puffed with steam from the oven. Thoughts of the investigation, the Flower Passage murders, and of the security guard with the card for this meyhane flitted from Sinan’s mind as his mouth salivated. Sergeant Mehmet had started already. Clinking his milk coloured raki with Sergeant Mehmet’s glass, he took a gulp, remembered that he was still technically on duty and took another gulp for good measure. He rarely drank alcohol and reasoned that the job demanded it now.
Stomachs replete with food and raki, Sinan moved his chair closer to Sergeant Mehmet. Chewing on the last of the mussels, he caught the inside of his cheek with a bite of his teeth and turning round in sudden pain, he saw what he thought was Bea. Her copper coloured hair shone metallic beneath the light at the entrance. But when he turned again, she was gone. Perhaps the raki was distorting reality. Leaning over to tell Sergeant Mehmet, he had to shout above the sound of a large woman in a tight red dress singing of unrequited love. Two men at the next table told him to be quiet, tears rolling down their flushed cheeks.
“I’ve seen Bea.”
Sinan got up, whispered in Sergeant Mehmet’s ear and beckoned for him to leave the table. Outside, the air smelt of burning wood and freshly turned earth. Sinan pulled Sergeant Mehmet to the side as a group of drunk men meandered out of the meyhane, tripping over each other’s feet as they embraced each other and walked at the same time.
“Bea from the writers’ conference at the Pera Palas Hotel?”
Sergeant Mehmet was a little unsteady on his legs and leant back against the wall.
“Yes.” Sinan had reverted quickly back to work mode. They had come on a hunch that perhaps links to the Flower Passage murders might lie here – a small hunch, granted, but one worth pursuing.
“But why would she be here?”
“I have no idea. But I’m sure it was her.”
“Nonsense, sir. You must have mistaken her for one of the transvestite women who work the place here. Red hair is fashionable at the moment. Did you not notice how many redheads there were in there?”
Sinan was never comfortable admitting that he might have made a mistake. Quietly, he turned away from Sergeant Mehmet and surveyed the street. There were at least six other meyhanes. Men spilled out as though on a conveyor belt and the sounds of gypsy violins and clarinets accompanying mournful songs of tragic love from each of the different meyhanes clashed in the night air. The screech of cats fighting for scraps in the bins on a scrubby piece of ground opposite made Sinan turn and it was then that he saw her. Bea pulled up her raincoat and strode away across the wasteland.
“What are you doing here, Miss Schiller?”
Sinan felt the cold air bite into his throat as he shouted across the road. A lorry thundered past, throwing a veil of dust into the air and then she was gone. As though spectators at a show, Sinan and Sergeant Mehmet watched as a blacked out Mercedes screeched to a halt. Two men leapt from the front and raced across the wasteland. Sergeant Mehmet and Sinan shot across the road, dodging a motorbike that wove between them at full speed.
“You take that side, I’ll take this.” Sinan shouted at Sergeant Mehmet.
Sinan was fast. Lithe and athletic, he moved around Istanbul like a prowling tiger and when called for, he could outsprint most of his younger officers. Despite the darkness, Sinan could just about make out the two figures. The night had sucked the colour from them leaving just a faint outline. Sergeant Mehmet targeted the fatter one on the left. Looking back, Sinan saw him pull him to the ground. Sinan’s target was faster. Just in front, he could see Bea slowing. Pushing hard on the soft earth, he accelerated. Enough to grab the tail end of the man’s jacket as he lunged for Bea. The man spiralled over, surprised by the sudden attack. Sinan held on to Bea’s hand and pulled her, tripping and slipping to a small alleyway. The raspy breathing of the man was close. Sinan knew that he had only winded him. Pulling Bea close to the side of the wall, he placed his hand firmly over her mouth to silence her panting breath. The click of a trigger being released sounded. Sinan felt for his gun and saw Bea’s panic in her wide-stretched eyes. Removing his hand from the gun, he stroked her hand softly. The man’s footsteps became fainter and Sinan pulled Bea into the open. Just as he opened his mouth to ask her what on earth she was doing here, he felt her head jolt back. A knife glinted. The outline of a black balaclava barely visible in the all-consuming darkness. The click of a gun. Sinan held onto Bea’s hand. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead. Sinan’s thoughts slowed so that every breath seemed elongated. But, time did not slow down. Bea’s body ricocheted away from Sinan into the snake-like grasp of the man with the gun and the knife. Sinan watched, his arm outstretched, her body collapsing like a rag doll, her mouth open wide as if to scream but no sound emerged. He knew they were not far from the road. The steady buzz of cars filtered across. The flutter of bats’ wings and the rustle of undergrowth distracted him momentarily. As he looked up, the whites of Bea’s eyes shone. But the gun was firmly held against her temple.
“Let’s not do anything too risky.”
The man said nothing. He pulled Bea closer and bore the gun deeper into her temple. As if out of nowhere, a flash of car lights lit up the heath for a split second throwing light on the dust that circled around them. Sinan saw what the man hadn’t seen. Sergeant Mehmet crept from behind. Launching an attack from both the front and back, Sinan leapt forward, knocking the gun from the man’s clenched hand while Sergeant Mehmet pushed from behind. The man flung Bea across as a shield, tugged his balaclava tighter around his face and ran.
Sinan placed his finger over his mouth cautioning Bea to say nothing.
“How did you lose the other one?” Sinan shouted at Sergeant Mehmet.
“Sir, I was just about to cuff him when he took me by surprise. For a fat man, he had more energy and movement than I would have given him credit for. He knocked me for six with the handle of his gun. When I came to, he was…”
“Gone?” spluttered Sinan with derision.
Bea smoothed out the creases in her raincoat and said nothing. Sinan opened the car door, motioning for her to get in and looking back saw a group of five or six transvestites with electric red hair enter the meyhane.
Sergeant Mehmet sat in the back, quietly reflecting on why they had bothered coming out to the meyhane. They had come on a whim. Sinan had no understanding of the complexity of the lives of others, he thought bitterly. Of course, he could do the job day and night. He had no one and nothing other than the job. But he had a wife, a child, a house… a life that did not revolve around work.
“What were you doin
g here?”
Sinan pulled out without indicating. A minibus screeched its brakes before sounding its horn. Bea did not look at Sinan. Her racing heart had barely stabilised. She had written about crime for decades, but the thrill of a real chase was beyond words. She turned away from Sinan and smiled into the darkness.
“There was a message for you at the reception, well, Fatma the young receptionist, you know the one with braces who can’t pronounce her words. We were chatting about you and she was called away. I noticed a hand-written message for you to meet someone at that old broken down house on the other side of the wasteland in Kumkapi. Well, I figured that if I turned up, you would be there.”
Bea smiled, a passing car’s headlights lighting up the interior of the car unexpectedly.
“I received no message. This is police business. You have no right to get involved in police business. Do you have any idea who those men were?”
Sinan turned to look at Bea before swerving to miss a cart loaded with bread rolls. She looked like Ani in the dark. Her copper hair was muted and her small features shone with the same mischief.
“No. They turned up and you weren’t there. They shouted something and suddenly turned and I ran. I just ran. I have no idea why I ran but I just did and then you turned up.”
She turned and smiled.
“And of course, you sir.”
“Sergeant Mehmet.”
Sergeant Mehmet extended his hand and Bea took it lightly between her hands and squeezed it gently.
“Well, sirs, you saved my life.”
“Please, don’t be overdramatic. You should not have been here. What did you expect to find?”
Sinan looked at his colleague slumped dejectedly on the back seat.
“No idea. Clues. People who might spill the beans. That’s what happens in my books. Someone always spills the beans eventually. And I thought it would be useful to find out how you run your investigation, Inspector Sinan.”
