An Oriental Murder

by Jane Bastin

  “Sir, may I ask whether Inspector Haris has contacted you?”

  Sergeant Mehmet could not keep pace. The real world confused him enough.

  “Yes, you may ask. I have been summonsed to meet with the chief to explain why I did not follow up on the leads related to Gaye’s boyfriend Fevzi Cakmak.”

  Sinan winked at Sergeant Mehmet, the lines around his eyes sharpened.

  “Don’t worry. I shall tide them over with what they want to hear. But in the meantime we have little time to waste. Haris can waste his time chasing after false rainbows but we need to strike quickly before the killer realises they’ve got an open window.” Sinan pushed a plate towards the sergeant. “Finish off these amazing courgette fritters. The yoghurt comes daily from Lesbos. The best yoghurt my mother always says and she should know.”

  Sergeant Mehmet smiled in response, his mouth full.

  “Mehmet, while I’m up with the chief, I would like you to listen to all of the tapes we’ve got on the congress guests’ phones in my office. Understood? We’ll see what comes unstuck.”

  Inspector Haris’ grey jacket hung from his bony shoulders as it would on a scarecrow thought Sinan.

  “Looking a little too pleased with yourself, aren’t we?! Well, wait until the chief gets in. I have reported your insubordination.” Haris looked at Sinan and seeing no response other than a faint smile, he continued. “And how you have endangered the operation.”

  Haris felt a surge of adrenalin at the way in which Sinan turned and bit his lip.

  “That is not true. I have never and would never endanger any police operation, Inspector Haris.”

  They both pulled their backs more erect as the chief strode into the room, pulled his tie from his neck and sat firmly in his chair.

  “Sit.”

  Sinan and Haris both sat immediately.

  “Now, Inspector Sinan, I want you to tell me why you have been unable to give your superior officer on this investigation your utmost support and co-operation.”

  Pausing for breath, the chief reached out for the jug of water on his desk and poured himself a large glass. Red spidery veins drew maps over his cheeks. Sinan remembered the stories that used to circulate of the raki that was in the jug rather than water but pushed it to the back of his mind.

  ‘Well, sir—”

  “Wait your turn, boy, I have not finished.”

  Boy? Sinan could not recall having been called ‘boy’ since he was a… boy. Turning, he saw a smirk glue itself across Haris’ face.

  “Well, speak up then.”

  Confused again, Sinan tried to regain his composure. Confidence was what won the day even if what you had to say was utter nonsense, he remembered from his training days.

  “Well sir. I have the utmost respect for my superior, Inspector Haris. I have indeed amassed a breadth of information about Fevzi Cakmak which is awaiting his review. In addition, I have identified the source of the ink and the tattoo parlour where the murdered civil servants received their tattoos. It appears, sir, that all four were homosexuals leading double lives. Trips to Istanbul gave them the opportunity to have, if I can put it politely, fun. The tattoos were their way of identifying themselves to other like-minded gentlemen, particularly those who frequented the Barbaros meyhane. A young stooge was recruited to use a gay dating site to target them and manipulate them into visiting this particular parlour.”

  The chief sat silent. He had provided him with enough to keep him satisfied, he thought, but maybe he had underestimated him. The Prime Minister case was still pending and he had not made any explicit links. Sinan leant down to run his hand along his calf as cramp seared along the bone. Inspector Haris’ smirk did not waver. Unexpectedly, the chief clapped his hands together, “That is wonderful. Well done. Keep up the good work, Inspector Sinan. Follow your superior and your perception should see us through this murky business.” Haris’ smirk subsided. Scraping his chair back like a petulant schoolboy, he stormed out of the office.

  Sergeant Mehmet, ubiquitous pencil in mouth, staring at the blank wall away from the door, hands firmly squeezing the giant earphones over his ears, did not hear Sinan. Sinan walked over, lifted one of the earphones and blew into Sergeant Mehmet’s ear.

  “Anything of any interest?” Placing his hands firmly on the desk, Sinan eased himself on to it and pushed his legs out for comfort.

  “What interesting lives these people live!” Sinan hoisted the ear phones from Sergeant Mehmet and listened, transfixed.

  “Kylie?” Sinan’s question was answered by a thumbs up by Sergeant Mehmet.

  “Eeh, look I don’t knows hows to tells you but I’m just going to come reet out wi’ it. I’m preggers, pregnant… What? Me fella’s a’ course. The one who does me nails in’t beauty parlour.”

  Sinan smiled at Sergeant Mehmet. The stress of the morning dissipated slightly. Ruhi knocked and without waiting for an answer, opened the door to the aroma of Turkish coffee and freshly baked orange and cinnamon cookies. A sudden stream of incomprehensible words. Sergeant Mehmet mouthed the word ‘Sylvia’, Sinan removed the earphones unable to understand neither the tape nor Mehmet.

  “Sylvia, sir. She is speaking in Swedish to, we presume, her mother or possibly a grandmother – she only has one.”

  “Any idea what she’s saying?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. I called Betul in complaints to translate. She grew up in Stockholm.”

  Sinan was not interested and had absolutely no knowledge of the existence of Betul.

  “Well, what did she say?”

  Sergeant Mehmet bit into one of the orange and cinnamon cookies and smiled. It was not often that he had the upper hand and felt a surge of authority.

  “Sylvia’s mother or grandmother is warning her about her husband Ahmet. She is telling her that she must leave him immediately that he is not good for her.”

  Sinan grabbed a cookie from the chipped police-issue plate. “Well, anyone can see that. She should listen to her mother.”

  “Sir, you might want to not…”

  Sergeant Mehmet’s words hung in mid-sentence as Sinan placed the earphones over his ears.

  “Oh my God, better than the best. Certainly the best of all of my deadbeat husbands. Could be looking at husband number five. He is so great in bed.” Sinan winced as Bea and her friend giggled like young girls. Sergeant Mehmet stopped grinning as Sinan looked round.

  “Sir, I think you should listen to the last recording. Made at 1p.m. today by Cindy McFarlane to her husband, Rick.”

  Sinan placed the earphones back over his head and kicked his legs out from the table, narrowly missing Sergeant Mehmet’s shin.

  “Where are you going again? Those goddamn fishy men again. Rick, Rick, RICK, where are you going? Okay, play the cold fish. Play the no speakies. I KNOWS where you are going, to that place where the weirdos in those hats twirl around making themselves giddy. Well, I am fed up being taken for a ride. I won’t be here when you gets back.”

  Sinan threw his head back at the sharp buzz of the phone being turned off.

  Chapter Seventeen

  You'll live, my dear.

  My memory will vanish

  like black smoke in the wind.

  An hour had passed since the call, Sinan reasoned. If he were to run, he might get there in time. In time for what, he had no idea, but …

  The Mevlevi Centre in Galata was not unknown to Sinan. Quite a few investigations had brought him here in the past. The white wooden slats that fronted the building made it look innocuous. A gentle, rural idyll in the middle of the city. But Sinan knew what lay behind the garden of Ottoman headstones and the slap of grass. He had been here before and almost lost his life. Attacked after having observed the dervishes whirling in the round, he had fuzzy memories but at least he knew the different ways in. No Rick McFarlane. No one other than an old gardener hauling a large canvas bag full of vegetation.

  The side entrance was hidden behind an old dustbin. Even the mystics h
ave rubbish to throw out, Sinan thought. Inside, the cold air, shielded from the heat of the afternoon by the grey marble walls, hit him. Odd, he thought suddenly, how he craved the sharp chill of Istanbul in the winter when he had grown up in the Aegean. The click of a door like the click of a gun made Sinan flinch. Sergeant Mehmet knew he was here but others… Inspector Haris, although annoyed, had calmed down when he got hold of the information about the tattoo parlour. But here… No one knew he was here. He drew back into the shadow of a column as a procession of ten men, dressed in long white tunics with conical hats processed into the central space. There were no corners, no sharp edges. Looking up at the top gallery that circled the central space, Sinan saw the heads of the group of musicians.

  The music started and created the familiar, repetitive rhythm which the men bowed slowly to. Sinan was aware of Sufism, his mother having warned him against such heathen practices. But this was gentle and he felt the beat weave its way into his mind. The tempo became more insistent, the men spun around and around, their white skirts billowing in the soft air, every muscle in their faces relaxed, a state of ecstasy, their hands open to the heavens, their feet shuffling seamlessly forwards and backwards. Perhaps he had come on a mad impulse, Sinan thought quickly, imagining the files that Inspector Haris would be leaving on his desk. Almost in his own state of delirium, Sinan did not at first see the red velvet box placed at the centre of the dervishes. Flashes of the day before and Rick McFarlane carrying the same box propelled him from behind the column. Without thinking, he stood in the full glare of the group. Two men shifted and ran straight towards Sinan.

  Prior experience had taught Sinan that spirituality did not necessarily struggle with violence. The two men pulled Sinan into the garden. The old gardener walked past, stopping to pick up an old crisp packet and smiled as one of the dervishes smacked a fist into Sinan’s face. Blood dripping from his mouth, Sinan ducked another punch. Surprise always granted an advantage but Sinan was now ready. Blocking one fist, he threw a punch in the direction of the smaller dervish. He bent his head. Sinan’s fist collided with thin air. Another smack. Kick in the shins. One grabbed Sinan’s head. The other swung a piece of cloth over his face. The strong, overwhelming smell of incense. Then nothing.

  When Sinan came to, there was no one about. The indoor space was deserted and the gardener had gone. Rubbing his face free of the perfumed cloth, Sinan leant against the front wall. What had just happened? Why? The box? Rick McFarlane? His head hurt. Pounding as blood vessels contracted.

  Like an old aunt who becomes more glamorous as evening unfolds, the Pera Palas shone with decadence and charm. Sinan stood at the reception hoping to see Rick McFarlane but as the telephone call had suggested, he had been out of the hotel all afternoon. The manager cradled his head over the counter and whispered to Sinan. After scanning the horizon furtively, he pulled a large A4 envelope from beneath the counter. Maintaining an intense stare, the manager handed it to Sinan, squeezing both hands.

  “Where did this come from?” Sinan felt the weight of the envelope as he spoke.

  “We don’t know. My receptionist on duty this morning left the desk for a fraction of a second. Literally, Inspector. Believe me. And when she returned, this envelope was on the counter with a note stating that under no circumstances was it to be handed to anyone other than your good self.”

  The manager spoke like an express train out of control. Nervous, the lines around his mouth creased as his voice trembled.

  “Thank you. May I use your room?” Sinan thought briefly about returning to the police station but the comfort and anonymity of the hotel appealed.

  A young clerk placed a tulip-shaped glass of tea on the desk. Sinan weighed the envelope in his hands, felt the softness of the brown paper and scanned the type printed note attached to it. The shape of the letter ‘o’ was something he had seen before. Ani’s old archived documents from the Istanbul University library that she would study in the evening. He would sit, reading, stopping to watch her, the way her hair fell over one side of her face, her fingers skipping through pages. The Ottoman coffee houses of the seventeenth century, a time of change. The mosques threatened by the new gatherings of men with their ideas and fears challenging the authority of the mosque. He remembered her talking of the writings of Ibrahim Pecevi and how Ani had slipped her white gloves over his hands, stroking each finger to protect the seventeenth century manuscript. But, it was the typography he returned to. Old Ottoman – he could not remember the exact name but knew that it was now rarely used. Slipping his small finger beneath the sealed rim of the envelope, he opened it.

  The door flung open followed by Bea, remonstrating with the manager. Dressed in a dark green trouser suit, Sinan was caught again by the closeness of her resemblance to Ani. Turning away from the manager, her mouth softened and her voice became giggly. Sinan did not look up, simply asked her to close the door. She sat quietly and waited as he pulled a single slip of A4 paper from the envelope. Holding it to the light, Sinan watched as a small watermark emerged: Tahtakale Printers. Scanning the paper, his finger trailed over the prose not written in Old Ottoman type – rather something more ordinary… Calibri maybe. Bea leant forward, the top buttons of her shirt undone.

  “Anything I can help with?” Her red lipstick shone beneath the light and she pressed her lips together.

  “No, I don’t think so. Although, it would be great if you could order some Turkish coffee, medium sweet, for me.”

  Sinan smiled, picturing fleetingly their night together. Bea leant down to kiss him before sweeping through the doorway, her voice carrying back. Sinan’s hand shook as he placed the paper flat on the desk. Thick paper, not the sort found in a cheap stationer.

  Inspector Sinan Kaya

  It has come to my attention that you are leading the investigation into the murders of our Prime Minister and his most humble civil servants and the young lady. Money stolen from our citizens is finding its way into the pockets of those who purport to serve us. At the top of the money tree is the Ministry of Mining that is allocating government contracts worth billions to mine in the Iranian borderlands. Money to gain the contracts is passed through a series of proxy companies set up in the Thrace region and out of Turkish civil jurisdiction on the island of Cyprus. Our Prime Minister was killed when he discovered this. The civil servants were lured to their deaths for the very same reason.

  Ministry of Mining (Minister Cafer Akgun)

  Contracts for mining around Hakkari – reviewed six monthly (Islamic ethics committee authorizes contracts)

  Proxy companies in Thrace and Cyprus (Ramadan Gifts Holding/Wind Mechanisms Holding/Futures Ltd)

  Companies who want contracts pay money to proxy companies for made up services

  Yours Kindly,

  …..

  Sinan swung back in the stiff wooden chair as Bea appeared with a tray of Turkish coffee and plates of baklava.

  “The one you loved the other day. You know, with walnuts.”

  Bea tried not to simper. Her lips pouted, her eyelashes fluttered. Her seduction technique in full blast.

  “Anything I can help with?”

  Sinan waited, assuming that she would leave the room once she had delivered the coffee. But she sat. And waited. And did not move.

  “Well, you’ll be pretty bored here if you stay. I won’t be able to devote any attention to you. Why don’t you go back to the congress and I’ll meet you for a drink, say at six?”

  Bea slipped her arm around Sinan’s head and kissed it.

  Sinan knew that he had left Sergeant Mehmet in a compromised position but any pangs of guilt were dissipated within seconds.

  “Mehmet, I need the names of all shareholders of the following companies. Listen carefully: Ramadan Gift Holding, Wind Mechanisms Holding and Futures Ltd. Meet me at the Old Tobacco House in Pangalti when you’re ready. Oh, and bypass the police VPN system.”

  Squeezed into the corner of a narrow lane between workshops forging iron an
d steel, Tahtakale Printers looked deserted. No lights. Door held shut with a rusty padlock. The sound of mice racing across the floor. Sinan pressed his face to the dusty window. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. Two large machines in the centre of an empty room, cobwebs floating across the corners of the window pane.

  “Would you like some help, sir?”

  Sinan jumped. He had not expected anyone. A small man with shrivelled skin stood in front of him, a handful of keys in his tiny hand.

  “I expect you are from the bailiffs. I have been expecting you for a long time. They told me you’d be along any time now. Shall we go in?”

  Sinan nodded and the small man levered the padlock from the clasp. The smell of stale urine hit him with a force he had not expected.

  “A bit strong but then no one’s been here for a while. Imagine what it was like before. No public toilets around here, you see.”

  The small man did not smile, rather he blew a cloud of dust from one of the machines and waited.

  “Surveyors or bailiffs, I take them all round. No problem, but you know wages are pretty slim around here.”

  Sinan looked up from the engraving on the machine, tucked his hand into his pocket and held out a wad of notes. Whoever had last been here had left nothing. The letter had been sent from here but it was difficult or even impossible to determine when and by whom. It was as though time had stood still. Sinan paused, almost expecting someone to come through the door and resume the work they had just left. But nothing and no one came.

  “Did the murdered civil servants and even the Prime Minister know about these proxy companies? Did they know how Turkey was being sold piecemeal to the highest bidders? Was that why they were murdered?”

  Sinan sat, a glass of cold Turkish beer and a bowl of roasted pistachio nuts on the table in front of him. Sergeant Mehmet scooped a handful of nuts and nodded.