An Oriental Murder

by Jane Bastin

  Chapter Twenty

  I am a walnut tree in Gulhane Park

  an old walnut, knot by knot, shred by shred.

  The flight back was uneventful. Sergeant Mehmet met Sinan at the airport and proceeded to fill him in on what he had missed at breakneck speed. Searches of the dark net had produced more high-ranking police officers in the pay of the American proxy companies. Sergeant Mehmet waited for Sinan to show interest but instead he asked for information on Rick McFarlane. It was easy for higher ranking police officers to dole out commands when the vaguest flicker of a thought came to their minds but the real slog, the arduous detective work, lay with the underbelly of the police force and Sergeant Mehmet felt a flicker of annoyance. It quickly dissipated. He could not maintain any anger with Sinan for long. He had too much admiration for his sleight of thought that picked up on the most inconsequential of clues. There had to be a reason for his request, he was sure. Sinan handed over the report he had completed on Gaye’s family and asked the driver to drop him off at the Pera Palas hotel. Sergeant Mehmet knew better than to remonstrate and promised that he would get the one side of A4 report to Inspector Haris straightaway.

  Bea was standing in the hallway discussing the theft of priceless relics from Turkey. Sinan watched as she slid her hand beneath her hair. Ani often dressed in the dark green of Bea’s dress and the resemblance was even more marked. But when she turned and gasped, the similarity disappeared. Bea’s wide mouth and wide cheekbones were her own, not those of a ghost.

  “When did you get back in town?”

  “Just now. I asked Sergeant Mehmet to drop me off here. I wanted to ask you something and have another look at the room where Prime Minister Demir was killed.”

  “Ask away.” Bea danced from one foot to the other.

  “Not here. Let’s get a coffee in the manager’s office.”

  The coffee scalded Sinan’s fingers as he clasped the china cup. Bea sprang up, kissed the tips of his fingers and ruffled her newly manicured hands through Sinan’s hair.

  “Rick McFarlane.” Sinan pulled away.

  “What of him? “Bea moved forward, her lips brushing against Sinan’s. “Oh my god, you think he’s the killer? Of course, ex CIA, ex US embassy. Knows Turkey well. New floozy wife who knows nothing of what is going on. You know I always thought he was more interested in the gentlemen than the ladies but there you are… maybe he is… Oh my goodness, how could I have missed that? Great ruse!”

  Sinan placed his forefinger firmly over Bea’s mouth.

  “No, that’s not what I think at all. No, it’s just that he appeared unexpectedly in Hakkari. Did you know that he could speak fluent Turkish?”

  Bea whistled softly. “No. No idea but I guess having lived in Turkey for so long, it was to be expected. Although I am sure he told me he could barely string a sentence together. Yes, YES, I’m sure of it. He made a real point of telling me when I talked about my Turkish ex-husband.”

  Folding her hands carefully in her lap, she felt a sudden excitement. Sinan was asking her for help.

  “I know that he wasn’t at the congress yesterday. I didn’t think to ask but I can if it helps.”

  Sinan pulled Bea to standing and kissed her softly.

  As Sinan and Bea left the manager’s office, they collided with Agatha arm in arm with Ahmet, the writer of torture memoirs as Bea sensitively described him. His wife, Sylvia shuffled behind them. Bea snorted as her mother burst out laughing at something Ahmet said.

  “Honestly, I don’t know what’s got into my mother. She’s lost interest in the congress. We have the award ceremony this evening and she has not been the slightest interested.”

  Sinan held up his hand in thanks to the manager. In response, the manager bowed and shook Sinan’s hands fervently.

  “It is always an honour to serve the police officers of our community. Dear inspector, you must never thank us. Do you understand?”

  Sinan slipped his hands out of the vice like grip and thanked him.

  The Prime Minister’s room was eerily still. Gone was the chaos of the day of the murder. A dried flower arrangement with sunflowers as the focal point in a cut crystal glass vase stood on the bedside table. No sign of the blood that sank into the bedclothes onto the floor. In place of the blankets that lay scattered like discarded clothes, the bed was covered by a neatly tucked gold eiderdown with lace frills. Newly arrived guests would never know. Sinan scoured the room. Unsure exactly what it was he was looking for, he sat back and let the scene play through his mind. The shrill ringing of his phone brought him back. A quick glance at the screen to confirm that it was not inspector Haris and he flicked it open.

  “Sinan, I need to talk.”

  No name appeared on the front of the screen but the voice was familiar. Very familiar. Onur Bestelen, the newly appointed interim Prime Minister.

  “Sir, how can I be of assistance?”

  “Meet me at the café in Pangalti, the one by the Jewish newspaper office, Salom. One hour.”

  Sinan held the phone to his head for a few seconds, half thinking, half listening to nothing.

  Pangalti was a ten minute walk away, Bea insisted on accompanying him but Sinan reminded her that he was not working on the plot of her next mystery novel. Sinan knew the back streets of this part of the city. Roads too narrow for cars. Washing hanging high across the street from one flat to another. Children kicking footballs against the crumbling walls of 1960s apartment blocks. A small child, nose running, shoes too big ran straight into Sinan. Looking up, surprised to see someone so tall in his street, the child stared for a second before bursting into tears. Sinan stretched out a hand but it was quickly slapped back as an old woman, hips swaying from left to right, scooped up the child and hurried back into a dark passageway. Walking past the Catholic cemetery, Sinan watched a group of old women, dressed in black, chatting in front of a large tomb. Italian Levantines he thought quickly. Not many left after the end of the Ottoman Empire and many of those that stayed, left in the 1950s after the wealth tax was imposed on non-Muslims. He slowed his pace, conscious of the need to get to Onur bey but curious. Did they still speak Italian or French or had they assimilated? A splinter of memory as Sinan thought back to his school friend Mark Hughes, a solid British name but the boy could speak no English only Turkish, his family having arrived in Izmir at the turn of the century to help build the railway. A flock of pigeons flew past Sinan. One of the old women looked over at Sinan and waved. Perhaps she knew Sinan from somewhere, and he waved back.

  Onur bey, interim Prime Minister sat at the back of the café, sunlight cut across the table. The café was empty and Sinan quickly realized why as four bodyguards stepped in front of him. Onur bey waved his hand imperiously and Sinan walked past. How quickly can the potency of political power change a man, Sinan thought. A man who a few weeks ago professed a deep yearning to return to the land was now sealed within the package of bureaucracy and power. Only having seen him the day before, Sinan started. The Prime Minister’s jowls sank, tears pooled in the corner of his eyes and he grabbed Sinan’s hand as though it were a lifeline.

  “Sir, is everything okay?”

  Onur bey stared at Sinan as though seeing him for the first time. “No, it’s not okay, my son. I have done a terrible thing. I have lost who I was. The man. The noble man. The man who worked for the betterment of his people. The man who lived close to the earth. I have allowed my earth, our earth to be raped by scoundrels and thieves for the price of a few pieces of silver.”

  Sinan felt the warmth of Onur bey’s hand as it clenched tighter. He could feel his breath, tainted by stale tobacco and fresh coffee. Without saying a word, a small man, moustache tapering Daliesque across his cheeks, brought two large glasses of tea and a tray of cheese filled buns. Onur bey loosened his grip and forced his mouth to form a smile but it collapsed almost immediately.

  “I thought you might not have had anything to eat. Even when I am sad, I eat.”

  Onur bey pushed
half of the bun into his mouth, half rested against his chin and Sinan stifled a smile.

  “What is it you want to tell me, sir?”

  Sinan sipped his tea and bit into the bun, savouring the white cheese.

  “Good,” Sinan muttered, pointing at the bun.

  Onur bey nodded. “Made by the best Levantines in the city. Secret recipe brought from Genoa in the fifteenth century and honed over time. Maria, the old lady is in the back pressing dough all day long!”

  Sinan sipped more tea and waited.

  “You see…” began Onur bey, stopping to scour every section of the small café. The security guards were still in place. Occasional steam puffed from the Italian coffee machine in the corner. The Daliesque waiter hovered by the counter for a while, arranging biscuits hot from the oven before disappearing by a back door. “I am in a quandary.”

  Sinan said nothing. Onur bey stared into space as though dwelling on what he had said and deliberating over what he really wanted to say.

  “Comrades, if I die before that day, I mean

  -- and it's looking more and more likely --

  bury me in a village cemetery in Anatolia,

  and if there's one handy,

  a plane tree could stand at my head,

  I wouldn't need a stone or anything.”

  Sinan sipped more tea, staring directly at Onur bey across the small wooden table. The legs were a little unsteady and when Onur bey placed his considerable weight against the surface, it wobbled. Sinan kept hold of his tea glass. Onur bey, he reasoned, always appeared prone to melancholy thoughts but it was often when he had drunk too much raki. Now, in the cold, raw light of day with nothing more potent than tea, his melancholia took on a cloak of truth. Conscience did not strike as often as people might think, Sinan thought as Onur placed his meaty fist against his heart. But when it did, in his experience, it was unstoppable.

  “My heart. You understand my heart, don’t you, Sinan?”

  Onur bey did not wait for a reply, his conscience was washing his words away.

  “Of course, you do. Well, you see, my heart like yours belongs here in this blessed land, this blessed Anatolia and I cannot see it disappear for a few pieces of grubby silver. You know they want to rinse the land clear of everything – minerals, oil, gold, food, water. We will have nothing… nothing… nothing left, I TELL YOU.”

  Arms flapping in mid-air as if to demonstrate the enormity of the problem, Onur bey heaved a breath, deep from within his chest and sank back.

  “Who?”

  Onur bey looked at Sinan as if seeing him for the first time. The frenzy of his words left him depleted of energy and focus.

  “WHO?” repeated Onur bey.

  “Yes, who?” Sinan spoke quietly but firmly.

  “What? The Americans and Russians of course. They both want their split. And I have succumbed, weak man that I am. Now, Ahmet was right, of course. We needed to weed out the homosexuals in the civil service. Not good for a country to have these people… but my Anatolia.”

  Tears rolled down Onur bey’s mottled red cheeks. Sinan gripped his tea glass tightly. Calmness and empathy with criminals had won many difficult cases. It was a fine tightrope, balancing empathy with vile hatred and protecting the essence of what you hold true and Sinan tried not to trip.

  “So, Ahmet decided to cleanse the homosexuals in the civil service?”

  Sinan’s tone was soft and understanding but without warning, Onur bey flipped his chair back. In complete synchronicity, four security guards moved forward, hands carefully positioned close to their pistols. Sinan sipped his tea, gripping it tightly as Onur bey stumbled and fell against him.

  “Sorry, Inspector. So sorry. I need to lose some of this flab. I need to get back to my land and get fit. No good sitting in an office in Ankara, you know!”

  With a long enough distance from the café, Sinan slipped his hand into his pocket and fished out a folded note. Sinan suspected that Onur bey was wary of talking too openly. He knew that the sweat that beaded along the fat of his neck as it spilled over his tight collar was not just because of the heat. Some of the security men were not merely protecting Onur bey but other interests as well. Falling against him and slipping the note into his pocket was the only way he had of exorcising his conscience.

  Keep watch at the small tower at the back of Topkapi at 3 am. Watch the Russian frigate, Admiral Lensky.

  Haris wanted the documentation to present his case to the prosecution service and Sinan’s blood boiled. The young waiter at the Flower Passage was now charged not just with the murders of the civil servants but with a host of unsolved crimes, mainly of homosexuals in the area. As he left the lift, he saw the crumpled figure of the waiter, Gaye’s supposed murderously jealous boyfriend and felt his heartbeat pound in his ears. Sergeant Mehmet shrugged his shoulders and pressed his mouth firmly closed as Sinan walked through the office. His eyes flicking over the pile of documents on his desk, Sinan stopped halfway through the doorway. No, he was not going to sign off papers that drew at slivers of evidence to frame a man for the convenience of all. Sergeant Mehmet picked up speed and walked quickly after Sinan as he stepped back into the lift.

  Leaving Bea asleep, twitching from over excited dreams, Sinan pulled on a pair of black trousers, black jumper and black hat and left the flat, the key turning sharply in the lock. It was unseasonably cold, Sinan’s breath holding shape in the air as he jogged down Serencebey Hill to his car, parked beneath the oak tree on the corner. Even in the early hours of the morning, life in Istanbul moved at a pace that never failed to surprise him. Cars pressed against each other’s bumpers, minibuses tooted wildly for custom, motorbikes tilted dangerously, veering around corners as though the rider might come loose like a spool of cotton. Three men, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, tripped over a loose paving stone, falling against each other and laughing. Four women, ice cream white hair and blood red lipstick, stood shivering against a wall, blowing circles of cigarette smoke out against the mist. In the distance, Sinan could barely make out the traffic. Everything had a ghostly quality. The mist, blown in from the sea, mixed with the constant of car fumes and blurred the outline of everything. Lights from the cars formed watery colours that pooled in the air. Sinan checked his watch – 2 a.m. Not much time to get through the locked gates of Topkapi without notifying security and even less time to work out what Onur bey’s note alluded to.

  Sergeant Mehmet did not ever defy Sinan’s orders but tonight his wife’s complaints almost kept him in bed. The cold gripped his face as soon as he left his apartment on the opposite side of the city to Sinan. On a sergeant’s wage, he could not afford the rent of a flat in fashionable Besiktas he told Sinan. His parents-in-law had paid into a housing co-operative on the Asian side of the city and now they lived next door, rent free. But they were aware of every sound, no matter how slight and his footsteps brought his father-in-law to the door. Spinning a tale of emergency, which was not strictly untrue he told himself, he slipped out.

  Topkapi Palace, like an old lady wrapped in a dress of faded lace that was once the height of fashion, looked out over Sultan Ahmet Square as Sinan and Sergeant Mehmet crept around the periphery. Sinan had broken into the palace a number of times. It helped that the head of security used to share his bunkbed at boarding school. A bunch of replica keys and the secrets of the palace were his. Sergeant Mehmet followed Sinan’s lead as he crept through the corridors that were eerily silent. The boom of the traffic that never ceased slipped into the background. Without light, the treasures of the rooms were dimmed, only the gold veneer of the furniture glinted. Sinan knew that the security guards often congregated in a small room at the far end, watching repeats of football matches but Sinan was still wary that their sudden movements might alert them. Stepping out of the back of the palace against the small tower, Sinan checked his watch. Exactly 3 a.m. But nothing. Sergeant Mehmet felt a stirring of annoyance. It was cold. It was the early hours of the morning. In a few hours, he
would have to be in the office, answering to Haris’ whines about why the documentation authorizing the prosecution of the waiter was not complete. And his father-in-law’s questions. Sinan suddenly gripped Sergeant Mehmet’s sleeve, pinching his skin. A small frigate chugged to a halt in front of them. Cupping his hands around his eyes, he tried to make out the wording on the side. He could see the Russian flag waft in the mist but the wording: Amirl Lny…

  “Admiral Lensky. It’s the one, Mehmet.”

  Sinan placed his hand instinctively over his mouth. He knew the noise might carry. Sergeant Mehmet waved his hand and Sinan followed him into a small recess in the tower that allowed them to watch the small inlet. At first nothing seemed to happen. But in the mist, with an almost indistinguishable purr, a small dinghy left the frigate and beached on the rocks. Sinan and Sergeant Mehmet were yards from two sailors. Both turned back to the dinghy to re-emerge with a large red box. Smatterings of Russian words. Sinan watched to see whether anyone else appeared but no one did. Sinan was a pragmatist and knew that timing, was key, and in any case, the sailors were slightly built.

  “Mehmet, you take one and I’ll take the other.”

  Sinan surprised both sailors by running at them from the left. Sergeant Mehmet ran from the right. Confused, both sailors stalled momentarily. Sinan took advantage and swiped one with the back of his hand. The other leant back only to see Sergeant Mehmet swing a large stick. Reeling from the unexpected encounter, the sailors swore loudly in Russian, dropped the box, jumped into the dinghy, pulled the cord and sped away back to the Admiral Lensky. The box was heavy and unwieldy. Sinan considered opening it but Sergeant Mehmet pointed at the huddle of darkened men at the side of the frigate. At the corner of the tower, Sinan saw the shadow of a stetson set against the security light. But no one stepped out.

  Sinan could make out the frantic movement of sailors on the ship. The two absconding sailors had arrived at the ship in breakneck speed. Sinan’s mouth turned dry at the sight of more sailors scrambling into the motorboat. Possibly armed, Sinan and Sergeant Mehmet remained rooted to the spot. The motorboat got closer by the second. Sergeant Mehmet waited. Sinan said nothing. Sergeant Mehmet felt the knot in his stomach turn. The blurred outline of the boat became sharper as it neared the small jetty. Still Sinan stood, frozen, the box weighing heavy in his hands. Just as a sailor jumped off the boat to tie it to a mooring, Sinan grabbed Sergeant Mehmet’s sleeve.