An Oriental Murder

by Jane Bastin

  “Torture?” The table went silent apart from Sylvia who continued to chew on her fish.

  “That’s too harsh, Bea. You really are too cruel.” Agatha placed her fingers over Ahmet’s and squeezed them sharply.

  “It’s okay, Agatha. I have no need to defend myself. I did what I had to do to protect my people and my country from the escalating nightmare. Now, of course I simply write about it.”

  Sinan narrowed his eyes, slowing his thoughts down.

  “I would gladly give you a copy of my memoirs, Inspector.”

  Bea jabbed Sinan in the side. His eyes glazed as he reflected on Gaye and Hakkari. Just as he made to respond, his phone rang. Inspector Haris. He flicked it closed and turned the volume off.

  Writers, thought Sinan surveying the dining room, have every opportunity and the imagination to carry out a locked room murder. Trialling a plot line, perhaps. Seeking the reality of stories, they have heard or read about. Whatever the motive, Sinan was stuck. Each of the writer’s back stories stacked up. No skeletons yet to emerge and yet, how could anyone be absolutely sure. Sinan thought back to the blue diamond theft about six years ago. No one had suspected the part-time librarian who worked on the archive at the Topkapi museum. Not even Sinan. Yet, the truth had been staring them in the face the entire time. Caught in his thoughts, Sinan did not at first register the three new faces at the table. People moved in and out of the dining hall which perturbed Sinan for whom eating was almost a religious experience. How could anyone up and leave a meal mid-way through?

  “Inspector Sinan, we are delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  Bea tapped Sinan’s leg as three hands stretched across the table. Sinan’s first thought was the possibility of fibres from their sleeves falling into the dish of artichokes.

  “Woah, careful there.” Sinan reached out to move the dish while the three hands flailed in mid-air.

  “Inspector Sinan, we have been great admirers of your work.”

  Sinan looked up as though seeing the fair, pink-cheeked trio of faces for the first time.

  “Of course, of course.” Sinan talked without awareness of what he was answering.

  “We are writers from Finland and we wondered if we might take some of your precious time to discuss the murder that happened in the hotel?”

  Sinan tapped his knee on the bottom of the table. Yet more amateur sleuths. Was there no end? Why could they not just stick to the realm of their imaginations?

  “What do you write?” Sinan asked quickly.

  The three writers looked at each other before laughing.

  “Why crime, of course. Why else would we be here? We never miss any of your marvellous congresses.”

  All three turned to face Agatha before switching back to Sinan.

  “We write together. We have quite a following in Finland and the Nordic countries. Scandi noir is quite big now you know.”

  “You write novels together? Is that not hard?” Bea spoke while placing her hand proprietorially on Sinan’s knee beneath the table.

  “No, not hard. We love collaborating. My name is Leena and I organise our thoughts. We are cousins so maybe we think alike.”

  Leena with short fair hair and a tiny face obscured by a pair of large, black rimmed glasses spoke in a strange monotone.

  “And I am Aarne. I begin each of the chapters. Easy job but I never get to finish anything. Typical man, they say.”

  Aarne waved a dismissive hand at his two female collaborators. With long, dyed black hair and translucently white skin with small, pig like eyes, he looked incongruous next to the women.

  “And I am Milla. Very pleased to meet you,” Milla extended her hand again, “and you too, Bea”

  Bea shook her hand and felt the threat of competition. Milla was beautiful. Long, blonde hair, sea-blue eyes. Bea felt a surge of ownership. Sinan, she had decided without his knowledge was now her preserve and she would battle any attempts to change that. But, Milla stood up suddenly to pass a jug of water further down the table and Bea saw her stomach. Pregnant. Bea felt the anger subside.

  “So, is there anything you can tell us about the case, Inspector?” Milla swept her hair over her shoulders and pouted.

  Pregnant and flirting, Bea smiled at the tragedy of her situation. She had avoided children for that very reason and she had no intention of changing her mind.

  “No, I’m afraid not.” Sinan picked up a glass of water and gulped.

  “Well, we have been looking around the hotel room where the Prime Minister was found dead and it is fascinating. We have never been able to visit a murder scene. A couple of robbery scenes in Helsinki.” Milla winked at Sinan as she spoke and Bea glared.

  “There was that one in New York…you know, the jewellers on Fifth Avenue.” Aarne interjected, crossing his arms defensively.

  “Oh yes, you’re right, I’d forgotten about that one. Well, anyway, we are all very excited to have been able to have the experience of a real life major crime. Thank you to the organisers of the congress.”

  “I don’t think the congress would like to take responsibility for what happened to our Prime Minister and the young woman, do you?”

  Sinan put his glass down carefully and turned to Bea and Agatha.

  “Absolutely not, we would never condone violence like this outside of our own imaginations!”

  “Of course, you would not,” Aarne placed his hands on the table.

  “But, we have taken the opportunity to gather information. The bedroom where the murder took place is incredible.”

  Sinan tapped the table and Arne removed his hands suddenly.

  “You should never have been allowed in there. That was a crime scene and as such no one other than the police should have had access.”

  Aarne pressed his teeth into his bottom lip.

  “I understand Inspector but we needed to experience it as we decided that this crime will form the basis of our next book.”

  Milla clasped Aarne’s right hand while Leena took the left.

  “And we are very excited about it. It should be out next July and we will make sure that our publishers send you the very first copy, Inspector.”

  Sinan said nothing. The fluid line between life and fiction had been breached and he could find no words with which to respond.

  “Didn’t you think my mother was overly familiar with that brute?”

  Sinan sipped his Turkish coffee slowly. The view from the roof terrace of the Pera Palas – the silhouettes of minarets and the wooden houses of old Pera – was exquisite. His mind was full of the chatter of memories and Bea’s was simply one more voice. Closing his eyes, he tried to slip into reflection. Bea’s voice was gone. As if out of nowhere, she kissed him fully on the mouth. Too stunned to respond, she took advantage and kissed him again. The softness of her lips triggered memories of Ani. He felt an instinctive longing and, placing his hand behind her neck, he kissed her in return.

  It was still dark when he woke. A haze of recollections. A soft, compliant body. Strands of red hair over her brow. Limbs wrapped, snake like, around the sheet. Murmuring in her sleep, she shifted her leg over his and he remembered. The taxi back to his flat. Her mouth searching his and his response becoming more intense as they climbed the stairway. Fumbling hands and breathless kisses and release in his unmade bed. And now, Bea slept while he stared into the dark, grappling with the mesh of leads, knowing that something lay beneath them.

  Chapter Ten

  I never knew I loved the sun

  even when setting cherry-red as now

  in Istanbul too it sometimes sets in postcard colours.

  Sinan avoided the long ferry journey across the Bosphorus to work, opting to take Bea in a taxi to the Pera Palas Hotel in time for breakfast. The coldness of the flat bothered him and he did not know why. The taxi had been warmed by human bodies and the presence of the driver made Sinan feel more comfortable. Bea snaked her arm beneath his and rested her cheek against his shoulder. Side-tracked by t
houghts of the investigation, he regretted the impulse to blow the strands of red hair from the top of her eye and looked away as she stroked the hard indent of his cheekbone.

  ‘Sir, the Chief Inspector has requested your presence at a meeting this morning at 8:30 in his office’

  Sinan flicked his phone shut and thought of ignoring Sergeant Mehmet’s text message. He checked his watch. 7:30, time for breakfast and then a stroll across to the Police Station. If he was late, he was late, he mused. Breakfast at the Pera Palas was something not to be easily passed up on.

  Bea held Sinan’s hand as they got out of the taxi but Sinan quickly retracted it as the congress delegates walked funereally into the dining hall. The manager rushed to Sinan’s side and proffered his utmost apologies for the terrible nuisance that the hotel had caused and asked whether there was anything that the ‘most esteemed inspector’ might be able to tell them.

  “Nothing, I’m afraid. But, I would like to have one of your wonderful, much prized breakfasts before moving on to the police station.”

  The manager’s left foot almost tripped over his right as he stumbled forwards, partly overcome with delight at Sinan’s compliment.

  No one appeared to have noticed that Bea had arrived at the same time as Sinan. Nor did they glance twice at the ways in which her fingers brushed suggestively over his as he reached for the bread. Sinan was also mostly unaware, lost in the visual spectacle of the dishes on the table. Pine honey, lavender honey, lemon petal jam, rose petal jam, bitter orange jam, slices of clotted cream, butter curls, green olives, black olives, date olives, wild olives, tomato paste with chopped walnuts and herbs, tomatoes in olive oil with oregano and thyme, thick yoghurt, white cheese slices, boiled eggs, fried chorizo sausage, soft white and brown bread. Sinan’s eyes glazed across the table, unsure of where to start, wallowing in the sensual richness.

  Leaving Bea was awkward. Agatha Schiller stood, hawk-like at the foot of the stairs. Bea whispered in Sinan’s ear that she was always late for everything before glancing furtively at her mother. Prising Bea’s hand from his arm, Sinan bid goodbye and left quickly through the main glass doors. A brisk walk along Istiklal Street and across Taksim Square gave Sinan time to think. His mind was heavy with supposition and hypotheses and it was not until Murat, one of the guards on duty at the front of the police station bade him ‘good morning’ that he realised he had arrived.

  Ruhi balanced a glass of tea in one hand and tried to usher Sinan out of the office into the lift with the other. Sinan gulped the tea and followed Ruhi’s waving hand into the lift. The police station was not particularly old but badly built. Cheap concrete had resulted in large cracks in many of the walls. Dampness drew cobwebs of black mould in the corners of many of the rooms and the lift machinery churned as though chains could snap at any minute and the occupants thrown, hurtling to the bottom. A sorry death that would be, Sinan often reflected on his infrequent travels in the lift. His office was on the second floor which was easily reachable by stairs but the Chief Inspector was on the sixth floor and the time was now 8:34.

  “Morning, Sir.”

  The Chief Inspector did not look up. Turning a sheet of paper over, he continued to write with such force that the pen nib sounded as if it was cutting into the wood of the desk. Sinan stood and waited. Years of experience had prepared him for the rudeness that accompanied hierarchy in the Istanbul police force. At some time, he knew that the Chief Inspector would tire of asserting his authority and acknowledge his presence feigning complete ignorance of how long he had been standing. His stomach was full with the Pera Palas breakfast and the walk, albeit short, had only helped to ease the weight slightly. Looking around the room, Sinan noted the large metal shelves filled with box files. A picture of Ataturk hung lopsided behind the Chief Inspector, a coat-stand with an unseasonably heavy overcoat, homburg hat, cashmere yellow scarf and a large tipped black umbrella. There were no photographs on the desk. Nothing to mark the Chief Inspector as a man who might live a different life beyond the walls of the police station. No tender-eyed woman. No smiling children. Simply a cheap, plastic pen holder with a gold-coloured, plastic emblem stating his name and an industrial in-tray with a handful of documents.

  “So, sit, Sinan.”

  The Chief Inspector still did not look up but had, at least, acknowledged Sinan’s presence. Sinan pulled back a wooden chair that had an upholstered base, superior to the metal chairs they were used to in his office.

  “Now, what is this insolence I am hearing from Inspector Haris?”

  Instinctively, Sinan’s head twitched. Insolence? He feigned a wounded look.

  “Sir, I’m not sure I know what you are talking about. Inspector Haris told me he was changing the strategy and I followed his command. I did nothing more.”

  Sinan felt a twitch of a smile curl at the corner of his mouth and suppressed it. Instead, he pretended to listen intently, shaking his head at what he considered to be opportune moments and muttered trite responses. His mind wandered, sifting through the links he had encountered. Did the Americans contract Teoman Mutlu to kill and, if so why? Could Rick McFarlane have been involved? Did Onur bey, the Minister for Agriculture’s claims that the Americans were making a land grab in Turkey stack up? How would it link to the civil servants’ murders? Gaye, the young prostitute’s face loomed large, or rather the photograph he found in her dismal flat, and he felt a surge of anger. Innocent, vulnerable people; pawns in the games of avaricious states.

  “So, Sinan, you will obey orders and Inspector Haris is now formally in charge of the investigation. Is that understood?”

  As though in tune with the rhythm of his speech, Sinan snapped out of his thoughts on his last word and shook his head.

  “Absolutely, sir. No issue with that whatsoever.”

  As Sinan stepped out of the lift, Inspector Haris jolted him with his shoulder. He had probably been waiting for a while, Sinan thought, as he brushed flecks of dust from his jacket. His gaunt face came closer but Sinan did not retreat. A strong smell of cheap tobacco mixed with faint traces of beer made Sinan choke momentarily. The cough was an opportunity for Sergeant Mehmet to stand between the two on the pretence of handing Sinan a handkerchief.

  “Okay, Inspector Sinan. You need to take it easy. Now, the new strategy document is on your desk. I expect you to read it, share it with your officers and carry out my instructions. Understood?”

  “Of course, Inspector Haris. I will ensure that your instructions are executed appropriately.”

  Inspector Haris stood silent for a beat too long. Sergeant Mehmet rubbed his hands together before Sinan turned away and walked back into his office.

  “Close the door, Mehmet.”

  Sinan flicked Inspector Haris’ strategy document into the bin and sighed.

  “Right. I want you to set up a fake account with Mindr in the way that the victims had and let’s see who responds.”

  Bea changed into a dark red dress that clung a little too tightly in the places she did not want to accentuate but it would have to do, she reasoned. There was nothing else that could pass for seductive material in her suitcase and, in any case, Sinan had seen everything. She smiled at the thought and let her mind wander over his body. Agatha had said nothing but she knew that she suspected and, as usual, did not approve. But when had she ever approved? The less her mother approved, the sweeter the victory, she thought, and opened her phone to call Sinan.

  “Hey, where are you? I was thinking of you.”

  She bit her lip. Why did she have to be so forceful? Why could she not wait?

  “Hello. Sorry but I cannot talk at the moment. I am working.”

  Bea stared in disbelief at the phone’s screen. He had hung up on her. How dare he. It was now evening, did police officers not work ordinary hours? Her fictional detectives rarely did but that was fiction not reality. Her mind whirred in overdrive, she clicked on one of the apps that allowed her to locate friends and she instantly saw that he was only yards awa
y near the Flower Passage.

  Standing behind a half-built column at the far end of the alleyway, Sinan watched as Sergeant Mehmet nodded at a young man. The response from Mindr had been almost instantaneous. Ignoring the cataloguing of pointless documentation that Inspector Haris had commanded Sinan and his team to complete, they had moved fast. Sergeant Mehmet had set up a relatively unsophisticated trap by replicating the features of the Mindr accounts of the murdered civil servants. Sinan had not thought it would work at all, let alone so swiftly. A tall, thin figure, head covered in a tight woollen hat and a thick scarf wrapped around most of his face stared straight at Sergeant Mehmet. The only part of his body on view were his startled eyes and shaking hands. Young. The man stood still. Sergeant Mehmet stepped forward, one hand outstretched. A sudden squeal of a cat made them both turn. But there was nothing. Sinan hid in the shadows. Extending his shaking hand, the young man made a muffled sound through the fabric of his scarf. Sergeant Mehmet flicked up the volume on his recording device hidden deep inside his pocket and smiled. Sinan watched as if in slow motion as the two figures moved towards each other, each clasping the other’s hand. His heart beat fast but his thoughts were slow so that each movement was logged and measured.

  “Hey, there you are.”

  Bea’s voice screeched along the alleyway. Sinan shifted out of the shadows and watched as the young man turned and ran out of the other end. Sinan sped after Sergeant Mehmet in pursuit. A flash of jeans and baggy, brown jacket at the end of the street. Sergeant Mehmet leapt across the road. A lorry let loose an elongated horn as he ran past its bonnet. Sinan, the lither of the two, caught up.

  “Which way?”

  Sergeant Mehmet pointed to a thin strip of a path and Sinan saw the young man skimming his hands along the side of the walls as he sprinted. Either he knows the area well or he is randomly opting for the narrowest route, Sinan thought, as he punched the air. Turning the corner, Sergeant Mehmet flailing behind, breath ripping from his chest, Sinan saw a flash of the young man’s hat disappear into the side entrance of the basilica cistern, the Byzantine water system. Sinan stopped to direct Sergeant Mehmet to the main entrance where hordes of queuing tourists were complaining about the early closure.