Not that it mattered a whole lot really. It was her, Lale, as no doubt had been written. And so he said that it was her, and gave them her full name and age. Lale Tekeli, sixteen years old. His sister. His only living relative.
The boy, Yıldız, wouldn’t tell him how she’d died. ‘You’ll have to speak to Inspector Süleyman,’ he said.
‘Then get him for me,’ Osman Tekeli said as he fought to control the tears that were welling up behind his eyes.
‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to see him until tomorrow morning, sir.’
‘So I’m just left with it, am I?’ Tekeli said bitterly. ‘My sister is dead and I don’t know how or why . . .’
‘It’s not straightforward, sir,’ Yıldız said. ‘Inspector Süleyman will have to explain it to you.’
‘But I want to see him now!’
‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible, as I said—’
‘But I can’t wait until tomorrow!’ Tekeli cried. ‘I want to know now!’ Then even closer to tears than he had been before, he said, ‘Constable, I am a Muslim man. I teach at an İmamHatip lisesi. If my sister has died then I want to bury her body.’
Yıldız looked across at Dr Mardin.
‘Mr Tekeli,’ she said, her eyes averted from his down to the floor, ‘burial at this stage cannot be approved.’
‘What!’
‘Sir, because of the nature of your sister’s death it is subject to criminal investigation. The senior pathologist will not release her body until he is satisfied that he knows everything there is to know about how it occurred.’
‘Was she . . . ?’ He couldn’t go on and began to cry. He was a small man and obviously a lot older than his sister had been. ‘She was murdered, wasn’t she?’ he said when eventually he managed to recover himself. ‘Well?’
‘Sir . . .’
‘Oh, but who would do such a thing?’ He sank down towards the floor, tearing at his face as he went. ‘She was such a good girl!’
Süleyman eventually found İkmen in the midst of a crowd outside the intensive therapy department. Someone, presumably a member of staff, had opened a side door in order to allow the smokers to do what they had to out in the open air.
Apart from İkmen, there were some faces that he recognised: Alpaslan Karataş sitting, head down, his shoulders covered with a blanket; Metin’s mother and father, the latter, asleep on the concrete outside, stinking of rakı; a couple of uniforms he knew by sight. However, the rest of the group, presumably relatives, were men and women characterised by cheap, peasant clothing – shiny suit jackets, flat caps, flowered headscarves almost covering the women’s faces.
‘What happened?’ he asked when he drew level with İkmen.
İkmen took a deep breath before he replied. ‘Metin and Karataş went over to Max Esterhazy’s apartment earlier this evening,’ he said. ‘The neighbours had heard noises coming from inside.’
‘And so?’
‘All we know is what Alp Karataş has told us,’ İkmen said. ‘Which is that they entered the apartment, he went into the study while Metin went into Max’s bedroom. Alp heard a shot, ran into the bedroom and there was Metin – on the floor, bleeding. As far as Karataş – who was, it has to be said, rather more concerned with calling an ambulance and keeping Metin alive at the time – could see, there was no one else in the room or fleeing the scene. The bedroom window was closed.’ İkmen shrugged helplessly. ‘Fucking invisible gunmen!’
‘So what’s the prognosis?’ Süleyman asked as he moved closer to İkmen and lowered his voice to a whisper.
‘He took the shot in the gut,’ İkmen said gravely. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood, there’s extensive damage and he’s been unconscious ever since it happened. He’s in surgery now.’ And then uncharacteristically he added, ‘All we can do is pray.’
Süleyman looked at the assembled crowd around him and said, ‘Where’s his wife?’
‘On her way back from Germany,’ İkmen said. ‘She’d gone on business.’
İskender’s wife, Belkıs, was a very successful publisher and was frequently out of the country for one reason or another.
‘She’ll be devastated,’ Süleyman said, and then lowering his voice to a whisper again he said, ‘They are a most devoted couple.’
‘I know.’ İkmen shrugged. ‘What can you do? Kısmet.’
They stood in silence for a few moments until Süleyman said, ‘Are all these people Metin’s relatives?’
İkmen smiled grimly. ‘Metin’s veneer of sophistication is pervasive, isn’t it? Yes, these are his relatives. Peasants have a lot of children, don’t they?’
‘His father is—’
‘Drunk as usual, yes,’ İkmen said. ‘I’ve spoken to his mother, though. She’s shocked and upset, but I think she’s coping. I think she’s used to facing up to most things without support from her husband.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m actually more concerned about Karataş at the moment.’
They both looked across at the seated figure of the usually large and imposing Karataş, seemingly shrunk down into a thin grey blanket.
‘He just refuses to leave,’ İkmen continued.
‘Was he given any medication?’
‘Oh, yes, he’s tranquillised,’ İkmen said. ‘As well as the shock of the actual shooting, he had to endure Metin nearly dying in the ambulance. I think he’d be better off at home where his mother and sisters can look after him.’
Süleyman looked down at the motionless, grey face poking out from inside the blanket and said, ‘But then maybe it’s important to him that he stays.’
‘I suppose it must be,’ İkmen said, and then taking Süleyman by the elbow he led him towards the door leading out of the hospital. ‘Come on. I need a cigarette and we have to talk.’
They eventually found a deserted corner over by the dustbins. Mercifully, Süleyman felt, they seemed to have been emptied in the not-too-distant past.
İkmen, once he’d got a cigarette in his mouth, came straight to the point. ‘That blood we found in Max’s apartment,’ he said. ‘It was the same group as his, or rather some of it was. Two individuals are involved, which could mean they may have fought. However, the blood that corresponded to Max’s type had been there significantly longer than the other one.’
‘So where can Max be now?’
‘I don’t know,’ İkmen replied. ‘But if the blood is Max’s he might be hurt. I know he’s not been admitted to any of the city hospitals – I’ve had them checked out. If he is still alive then someone could be caring for him.’
‘A friend?’
‘Maybe. The problem is, Mehmet, that I don’t know any of his friends, and his address book is, as yet, indecipherable.’ He then went on to tell Süleyman about the conversation he’d had with İbrahim Dede and the problem that Max’s status as a Kabbalist might pose. ‘As far as I’m aware,’ he concluded, ‘if one is totally involved with Kabbalah, it does order and dictate every aspect of one’s life. I’m thinking that if I could understand it a little better I might be able to predict where Max may have gone and why.’
‘But if he’s lost blood,’ Süleyman said, ‘then surely anything beyond getting some help will be irrelevant?’
‘If indeed it is his, yes. Mehmet, I know you didn’t meet Max that often, but did you ever get the impression he was in financial difficulty?’
Süleyman crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. ‘He never said anything. But . . . I suppose, now I come to think of it, his no longer patronising La Cave was a bit odd.’
‘The wine shop in Cihangir?’
‘Yes. My father goes there.’ He rolled his eyes in momentary despair. ‘They’re real wine lovers at La Cave. Max favoured French wines like Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Gigondas. But I suppose in the last six months or so I’ve only ever seen bakkal-standard Çankaya or Villa Doluca on his table.’
İkmen smiled. Although Süleyman rarely drank alcohol, it was significant of his background that he should notice a man’s change in ci
rcumstances via the quality of his wine.
‘Are you thinking,’ Süleyman said, ‘that Max might have disappeared on purpose? To escape from creditors, maybe?’
‘I don’t know.’ İkmen shrugged and then added darkly, ‘All I do know is that, with Max, anything is possible.’
Süleyman frowned.
‘Don’t ask,’ İkmen said. ‘Not now. Anyway, how is your own investigation going? What about that second girl you found this morning?’
‘Yes,’ Süleyman said. ‘Again, young, naked. But murdered indoors this time by someone Çöktin thinks was probably eating fruit at the time. That or the girl had been. There were apparently loads of limes all over the floor. I don’t know much about this latest victim yet, although apparently a man has been over to the mortuary for a possible ID. I’ll be interested to see whether she was a Goth or just had Gothic-style interests, like Cem Ataman.’
‘You’re still going with that angle then?’ İkmen said.
‘Yes. Via various sources I will not bother you with now, I have discovered what might be a kind of inner circle of these kids who are, we are informed, very interested in Satanism. Whether they practise it or not is another matter. But there is a bar in Atlas—’
‘You know the Panaghia is not the only place of worship to have been daubed with a diabolical image,’ a very serious İkmen interrupted. ‘The dervish İbrahim Dede is of the opinion that the city itself is under attack from what he describes as “dark” and “unbalancing” elements. He thinks that Max might be out there trying to put it right.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ Süleyman said, ‘but I will take the attacks on the religious institutions seriously. Why don’t they report these things? Anyway, I’ve asked Ardıç for permission to send a pair of female officers into a bar called the Hammer.’
‘That’s where these “Satanic” kids meet, is it?’
Süleyman told him about how Cem Ataman might have become involved through the Hammer and about the seeming appropriation of the transsexual patois that certain patrons used.
‘It’s the same as that used by Communion and Nika on those newsgroups the kids were involved in,’ he said. ‘And yet if you translate what they say it’s only about sex of, seemingly, the ordinary kind. The Hammer, however, is, I think, something else. From what I can gather it might be a starting point for the recruitment of young Satanists. I don’t think anything actually happens there . . .’
‘No.’
‘Both the girls, Gülay Arat and this new one, were sexually assaulted prior to and just after their deaths,’ Süleyman said. ‘I’m finding the notion of something ritualistic increasingly pervasive.’
‘Well, if that is so,’ İkmen said, ‘then whoever is manipulating them is going to be dangerous. Allah, but Max surely knew something! If only he’d talked to me!’ He shook his head in irritation. ‘If only I could get in contact with people in his world. I tried what looked like a recognisable number in his book when I got home, but it came up unobtainable.’
‘Perhaps some of the numbers in the book are old.’
‘Maybe.’ And then İkmen smiled. ‘The Hammer,’ he said. ‘You know I was looking at one of Max’s books today, a very famous work called The Hammer of the Witches or Malleus Maleficarum, as it’s known in the original Latin. Be interesting to find out whether that is why “the Hammer” is so named.’
They stood in silence for a few moments then until Süleyman said, ‘So what are you going to do now then, Çetin?’
‘I’m going to base myself at Max’s place from now on,’ he said. ‘Try to immerse myself in his books and papers in an attempt to find out what might have been going on. I’d rather you let me contact the religious organisations, if you don’t mind.’
Süleyman shrugged. ‘OK.’
‘I think that Max’s maid, Ülkü, and her odious boyfriend can safely be ruled out now,’ İkmen said. ‘Their clothes were clean. Certainly they have no involvement with what happened today – they’ve only just left us. Mind you, I almost wish the boy, Turgut Can, were implicated.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, and I know this is personal, but I can’t stand the way he keeps on bad-mouthing Max. I know a lot of Max’s books are salacious, to say the least, but the boy seems to be obsessed by the idea that Max is some sort of demonic pervert. It’s lack of understanding, I know. To the simple mind magician equals diabolist.’
‘Like the Yezidi,’ Süleyman said.
They both, for just a brief moment, shared a look.
‘Yes.’
Then in response to the sound of crying they looked across at the nearest group of İskender’s relatives. But it was only his sister, Meral, finally giving way under the strain of her anxiety, as opposed to any news from the surgical team.
‘Poor woman.’
‘Yes,’ İkmen said, but then, perhaps not wishing to dwell upon what might or might not happen to Metin İskender he changed the subject. ‘Did you have a nice meal with Çiçek and her friends?’
‘Yes. It was excellent,’ Süleyman said and smiled. ‘They were all younger than me. It was like going to dinner with a favourite niece.’
‘You see Çiçek as a sort of a young relative then?’
‘Yes,’ Süleyman said. ‘I suppose it’s because I remember her when she was a kid.’
‘Mmm.’ İkmen put his cigarette out and then lit another. ‘You know I think she sees you in an altogether more romantic light.’ He held up a hand to silence what he felt might be protestation. ‘I know you’ve not encouraged her. I’m just alerting you to it, Mehmet.’
Süleyman, shaking his head, said, ‘But why?’
‘Because she’s lonely, you’re cultured, handsome and, most importantly, safe,’ İkmen said. ‘Çiçek had a crush on you when she was a teenager. Now she’s thirty, unmarried and, I think, becoming nervous about dating men she doesn’t already know.’
‘But I’m married!’
İkmen shrugged. ‘I know. Çiçek won’t do anything, Mehmet. She’s a good girl. I’m just letting you know so that if anything should ever crop up in conversation you can let her down gently. Honestly, children!’ He frowned. ‘Even when they’re adults they conspire to drive you insane.’
‘Estelle! Estelle!’
‘What . . . ?’
Berekiah Cohen turned over and stroked his wife’s sleep-sodden face. ‘It’s all right,’ he soothed. ‘It’s only my dad. Go back to sleep.’
He then threw himself back to look at the clock he’d been contemplating when his father’s cries had shattered the silence of the night. Three fifteen. Still nearly another three hours before he needed to get up for work.
‘Estelle!’
His father, as usual, was in the living room, propped up in that chair of his, surrounded by telephones and bottles of pills. Berekiah’s mother had either not heard or chosen to ignore his cries. Well, he wasn’t going to sleep, anyway . . .
Berekiah got up and, closing his bedroom door gently lest he wake Hulya, he made his way into the living room.
Squinting against the fierce neon light from the strip on the ceiling, he said, ‘What is it, Dad?’
‘I’ve run out of cigarettes,’ Balthazar snapped. ‘There’s more in the kitchen.’
Berekiah went into the kitchen and retrieved two packets of Marlboro for his father. ‘There you are.’
‘Your mother should have got up,’ Balthazar said grumpily as he lit one and breathed in deeply. ‘Why aren’t you in your bed?’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’ Berekiah took a cigarette from one of his father’s packets and then borrowed his lighter.
‘Why not?’
Berekiah shrugged.
‘Well, you must know!’ his father said. ‘A young man just recently married goes to bed for only two reasons. If you’re not doing it then you should be exhausted.’ He frowned. ‘Everything is all right with Hulya . . . ?’
‘Of course!’
‘I only asked!’
Balthazar said as he held up his hands defensively. ‘You’re my son; I have an interest.’
Rather too much of an ‘interest’ to Berekiah’s way of thinking. Balthazar knew full well that Berekiah and Hulya were just fine. He did, after all, sleep in the next room. He just wanted to talk about sex. Perhaps, Berekiah thought, he should mention to Uncle Jak about getting his father some sex films and books before he returned to England. Maybe that would cure him of his seemingly insatiable need to know how many times he and Hulya made love in an ‘average’ night. God, the sooner they moved out into their new house the better – or not.
That graffiti on the wall of the Church of the Panaghia haunted him. So crude and unpleasant. A rutting thing with women impaled on its many penises. It looked as if it were killing them. And that church wasn’t the only one to have been visited by this ‘artist’. It was, in truth, another chance meeting he’d had with Brother Constantine that was really keeping Berekiah awake. Jak had been up in Fener all day and Berekiah had gone over after work to join him. He’d met the monk on his way from the Greek Boys’ School where he worked, to the local shops. In hushed tones Brother Constantine had told Berekiah that other terrible images had been found at the Ahrida Synagogue and at the Koca Mustafa Paşa Mosque.
‘Desecration!’ he’d whispered to Berekiah. ‘Almighty God under attack from the Devil himself! Here in Fener and Balat, the Evil One comes to attack our souls!’
When asked to elaborate about the images and discuss what other divines might be doing about them, Brother Constantine had been reticent.
‘Has anyone told the police about it, Brother Constantine?’
‘No. We don’t want them involved. The Patriarch has spoken to the Chief Rabbi, I know – and the Muslim clergy. It’s most disturbing for everyone.’
Berekiah said he thought that someone in the police should contact them. ‘I know that my father-in-law, Inspector İkmen, would be interested,’ he said. ‘He’s very worried about what he saw at your church. I’m sure that if he knew about these other—’
‘I know that you mean well, young man,’ the monk said kindly, ‘but I think this is something we need to sort out for ourselves. The police can’t, after all, protect us from demons, can they?’ and with that he continued on his way down to the shops.
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