‘The boy died in Eyüp, here,’ she said. ‘At the top of the Golden Horn, west of the city.’
‘Then the girl over at Anadolu Kavaḡı,’ Çöktin said. ‘What is your point?’
‘Anadolu Kavaḡı, the north,’ she said, ‘then Yediküle,’ she marked its approximate position on her rough map with a cross, ‘south.’
‘But the gypsy girl—’
‘The gypsy girl was murdered in the east,’ Gonca said. ‘And I need to know whether the girl your magician was going to meet was born under either the sign of Gemini, Libra or Aquarius.’
‘But why?’
‘Because if she was,’ the gypsy said, ‘then we will know exactly what your magician is trying to do.’
‘Which is?’ İkmen asked.
‘Performing a grand ritual,’ Gonca said. ‘All the more powerful for being opened with human blood.’
Turgut had disappeared. The police had apparently released him without charge and now he had gone. Her friend Leyla’s husband had, however, returned and so Ülkü was now effectively homeless. She was also, almost, broke. There certainly wasn’t enough money for her to get back home to her mother, even if she’d wanted to. Ülkü had never felt so frightened and alone in her life.
If only she was able to go back to the apartment and get the rest of her possessions! But every time she’d gone there she’d seen policemen coming and going from the place and so she’d been too frightened to go in and ask. That minute, at the most, when Turgut had gone to get his cigarettes on the day that Max Bey disappeared, haunted her still. What if, somehow, he had done something bad during that time? It was unlikely, and surely she would have heard him do it? But what if she hadn’t? She should have told the police. But now it was too late. Now they’d be angry with her if she told, maybe even beat her for her trouble.
Ülkü leaned her head against the wall she was standing in front of and closed her eyes. If only Max Bey would come back – if, that is, he were still able to do so. She liked him so much. He’d always been so kind, and although he did sometimes do things that she found rather odd, that didn’t make him a bad person. Even having those books, full of pictures that quite frankly frightened her, didn’t mean that he was evil himself. As he had told her mother when he took her from her home, he was in the business of fighting dark, bad things. He was a good magician and one day he was going to make her, Ülkü, a wealthy and cultured woman. All he’d ever asked was a little domestic help and her commitment to learning. He’d never made her do anything sexual – not like Turgut.
What was she going to do? She couldn’t hang around the apartment block for ever and besides, she was hungry. Ülkü opened her eyes and watched as people in cool, smart clothes passed by clutching guidebooks and drinking from cans. Tourists. Turks too, hurrying from place to place, many of them carrying trays of food destined for tourists. Perhaps she could beg? Further down towards Aya Sofya there was a clutch of women beggars from Anatolia. And although they would, she knew, be most averse to her joining them, she could emulate their methods elsewhere. After all, she was young, thin and now not particularly clean either. If she went down there and listened to what the women said, maybe she could use the same line?
She was about to go off and do just that when a familiar face flashed in front of her eyes. For a moment she could hardly take it in. He’d looked at her and then completely ignored her! Why had he done that when he must know she had to be looking for him? Ülkü shouldered the few possessions that she had and then ran to follow the retreating figure down the hill.
They had a proper map now upon which İkmen had marked the four murder sites.
‘You see, it’s the little things that mean so much,’ Gonca said to Çöktin as she replaced one of Max’s books on his desk and sat down. ‘The fact that the girl in Yediküle, a southern district, was murdered amongst lime fruit, for instance. Lime corresponds to the Kabbalistic Sephira Hod, which is ruled by the Archangel Michael, the guardian of the southern quarter. The girl was a Sagittarian, a fire sign, the element governed by Michael and that which exists in the southern quarter and can be accessed through that portal.’
‘Portal?’
‘When a magician wants to perform a ritual, he must do so within a safe place,’ Gonca said. ‘So he creates a magic circle in which to work and he opens the four portals, north, south, east and west, and invokes the aid and protection of the guardians, the angels of each quarter. To aid him in calling these beings down to our plane of existence, he also surrounds himself with as many things connected to them as he can.’
‘The correspondences,’ İkmen said.
‘Yes. Lime is a southern, Michaelean fruit. The northern portal is earthy and so the crystal you discovered holding down that girl Arat’s clothes was absolutely right for that portal, which is controlled by the Archangel Sandalphon.’
Çöktin shook his head slowly. ‘I understand all that, kind of,’ he said. ‘But the fact remains that Cem Ataman did take his own life and he didn’t have any stuff with him. Also the gypsy girl doesn’t conform to your pattern. According to you she should have been born under either the sign of Gemini, Libra or Aquarius. But she wasn’t – no one knows when she was born.’
‘But Fitnat Topal is a Gemini,’ İkmen said, ‘and so if we assume that she was the one originally marked for death . . .’
‘And maybe some of the “stuff”, as you call it, is mutable,’ Gonca said to Çöktin. ‘Maybe he used the appropriate perfume for the gypsy girl. It has now evaporated . . .’
‘Yes, but the fact remains that Cem Ataman killed himself and he, unlike the others, was male. There was no sign of sexual assault with him either,’ Çöktin said. ‘The only connection between Cem and both of the other girls is that they all, at one time or another, went to Max Esterhazy for English lessons.’
İkmen lit a cigarette and then sat down next to Gonca. ‘He has a point, you know,’ he said. ‘But assuming that this rather skewed circle you’ve identified does in fact exist, Gonca, what does the magician do with it once he’s got it?’
‘He performs a ritual,’ she said. ‘In the centre of the circle.’
‘What kind of ritual?’
‘It depends on what he wants to do. There are lots of them, rituals of cleansing, rituals to protect, to attack, to attract good or bad fortune. You’d have to ask the magician himself. All I do know is that by encompassing what is the whole city he intends whatever he is doing to affect İstanbul. If I’m right he’s used places of great spiritual power in which to open the portals – Eyüp, Yediküle Castle, St George’s Monastery, Yoros. Islamic, Christian and pagan. And he’s used blood to open them,’ she said darkly. ‘Blood sacrifices. There is nothing more powerful than human flesh.’
İkmen looked down at the map and rubbed his face with his hands. ‘Not really a circle, is it?’ he said. ‘Where’s the centre? If there is one it looks to me as if it’s in the Bosphorus.’
‘Then maybe that’s where it is,’ Gonca said.
‘Yes, but he’d need a boat.’
‘So he needs a boat?’ she smiled. ‘He’s a magician, İkmen, his power boosted by blood. And anyway, this is a maritime city; getting hold of a boat is easy.’
‘Maybe. But then this ritual in the centre, does that require blood too?’
Gonca shrugged. ‘As I said, it depends what he wants to do,’ she said. ‘I don’t know enough about it to be able to say. But if he’s raising malign or extremely powerful forces then maybe. He’s a foreigner, isn’t he?’
‘English.’
‘Well then, whatever he does may depend upon the magical traditions in his country.’
Or countries, İkmen thought gloomily. Max was English, but he was also something else too, or could be. Quite how extensively he had been influenced by his father’s politics and possible beliefs was impossible to tell.
‘You must find this man, İkmen,’ Gonca said. ‘He could cause great harm. For a large working like this, be it goo
d or bad, he’d have to conjure demons as well as angels just in order to keep the balance. I dread to think what he might be about to unleash.’
‘If you’re right he’s already done so,’ İkmen said. ‘But we are looking for him, as you know. Not that we’ve had so much as a sniff of him.’
Gonca smiled.
‘So far he’s always used students, lured them to him somehow,’ Çöktin, who had been thinking very deeply about this, said. ‘Maybe we could get to him through them. I think that we should at least contact everyone in that address book to warn them.’
‘Yes,’ İkmen said. ‘Get on to that now, will you, İsak?’
Çöktin picked up the address book and then said, ‘A few people came forward after the newspaper appeal. I’ll just check them out first.’
‘OK. Just go through reversing the last two numbers,’ İkmen said. ‘I still don’t know what the codes at the beginning of each number mean, but just get on with it.’
‘You know, I noticed one thing,’ Gonca said, ‘that numbers are only listed under certain letters.’
‘Well?’
‘The twelve signs of the zodiac,’ the gypsy continued. ‘They’re the right letters. Your man must have asked all his contacts when their birthdays were. How sweet!’
Çöktin positioned himself by the phone and lifted the receiver.
İkmen put one cigarette out and then lit another. ‘Well, there’s another mystery you have solved,’ he said with a smile, ‘maybe. You know I do appreciate your help in this matter, Gonca. You must have far better things to do.’
‘Possibly. But if this man means harm to the city—’
‘Oh, I don’t think that he does,’ İkmen said, frowning. ‘If this is indeed all about Max Esterhazy, as opposed to just some madness you and I have slipped in to, then that isn’t possible. He loves İstanbul – or rather I always thought that he did.’
‘Then maybe he is trying to protect it,’ Gonca said. ‘Actually when we spoke to İbrahim Dede, he, I remember, concurred with this view. İbrahim Dede is a very wise man. Maybe your friend is responding to these recent desecrations and, more importantly, to the threat of war.’
‘Allah, but what a way to do it!’
Gonca placed one large hand on his knee. ‘Ah, İkmen,’ she said, ‘but the ends justify the means, do they not?’
He looked across at her, a little shocked. ‘You can’t believe that, surely?’
She shrugged. ‘Right and wrong, black and white – these are meaningless concepts in the scheme of the universe. Balance and the maintenance of balance are the only real facts. Your mother was a witch, İkmen; surely you must have some sort of grasp.’ She laughed. ‘Just now you thanked me for helping with this problem and, so far, I do this freely for you. But what if I said that I would only continue to help you if you made love to me?’ She leaned a little towards him and added, ‘I know you are faithful to your wife.’
‘Well, I . . .’
‘It’s difficult, isn’t it, İkmen?’ She paused to light one of her black and reeking cigars. ‘Means and ends,’ and then she laughed. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I was speaking hypothetically. I like young men, as you know, and if and when I demand payment for my services I will take it with one far more beautiful and infinitely less interesting than you.’
He had, of course, surmised that she was only making a point, but he was nevertheless relieved at what she’d said.
‘So how do we proceed then?’ İkmen said. ‘If we assume that this ritual may be happening? Or maybe it’s happened . . .’
‘Oh, I don’t think it’s happened yet,’ Gonca said. ‘If we don’t know what he’s doing we can’t know when the most propitious time for him to perform the ritual can be.’
‘But he’s always worked at night before.’
‘Right. And even in the middle of the Bosphorus it is easier to perform a ritual or a crime or both at night. And, İkmen, if he has opened those portals he is going to want to perform his work soon otherwise he will lose power.’
‘I had better go and talk to my superior,’ İkmen said, and then as the full force of what he had just said hit him, his face sagged. ‘Although what I’ll tell him . . . Ardıç is going to think that I’ve finally gone mad.’
‘Then why don’t you go with that handsome Süleyman, the Ottoman?’ she said. ‘Surely Ardıç will listen to someone as proper and upright as they say he is. And anyway, if he comes here first it will give me a chance to meet him.’
İkmen regarded her with a cynical eye. Gypsy or no gypsy she didn’t seem to know too much about Süleyman, beyond, of course, his legendary physiognomy.
‘Keep your hands off Süleyman, Gonca,’ İkmen said. ‘He’s a married man.’
Gonca laughed. ‘And I’m a married woman,’ she said, ‘so that’s perfect, isn’t it? Black and white, good and bad, only different faces to the same coin, İkmen.’
What malleable morality! And yet he’d heard such sentiments expressed before and always by those who involved themselves in the unseen and mysterious. His mother had been the same – in fact, all that side of his family were what probably those of a conventional stamp would call amoral. Not bad. But then, surely raising demons had to be bad. Max, İkmen always felt, was against such practices. But then if this balance Gonca spoke of was at risk . . . Max, if indeed this was all about Max, couldn’t possibly have done such a thing, could he?
The Sea of Marmara was so unusually still and blue it was almost as if some ancient god had swept his hand across it, commanding the waters both to calm and become wholesome once again. That Süleyman, like everyone else, knew there was oil, rubbish, jellyfish and any number of untold horrors in its depths was immaterial. Today, for the transport of the gypsy Gülizar’s body to the city of Constantine, the weather was warm, fine and the sea was a gorgeous jewel.
He was struggling with the idea that Max Esterhazy was involved with such a terrible thing. And indeed, no one knew that he was. No one answering his description had been seen on Büyükada, although, as İkmen had said when he’d called, he could have hired a boat for the purpose. Maybe Max was going to use this boat again if İkmen was right about what his next move might be. Rituals and spells – it all sounded like something from the fifteenth rather than the twenty-first century! What Ardıç thought about the manpower İkmen was employing to scour boatyards and police the shore, he couldn’t imagine. But it was happening, which meant that İkmen must have said something. Lying, or rather being economical with the truth, was something the older man did very well.
Soon he would be able to make that call to his wife and tell her the good news about his test. And although he had wanted to do this ever since he’d been to see Krikor Sarkissian, he now realised that part of him was holding back. What if the result made no difference to her? Until he knew for certain that he was clear, he could still think about his marriage as being ‘on hold’. But if Zelfa rejected him now, that would mean that it was most definitely at an end. Suddenly, as if by magic, his mobile phone began to ring.
Knowing that it almost certainly wasn’t his wife, he nevertheless pressed the receive button with a shaking hand.
‘Süleyman.’
‘Hello, Inspector.’ It was the smooth and unmistakable voice of Adnan Öz, Hüsnü Gunay’s lawyer.
Süleyman, nervous about what the man might have to tell him about İsak Çöktin, nevertheless went on the offensive immediately. ‘Why are you calling me, Mr Öz? What do you want?’
‘I want to tell you that my client, Mr Gunay, is willing and indeed eager to undertake a handwriting test to prove that he couldn’t possibly have either produced the picture in the Hammer bar or desecrated the walls of the Church of the Panaghia.’
‘Well, that’s very good, Mr Öz . . .’
‘My client hopes that by taking such a test he may finally lay to rest any notions you may have about the hacker Mendes and himself being one and the same. A speedy resolution to this matter will also have the resu
lt that the officer we spoke of will not need to seek legal advice on his own account.’
In other words, if Süleyman played the game and found that Gunay and Mendes were in fact very different people, Çöktin’s involvement in the Kurdish film industry would remain a secret. And although Süleyman was very keen to protect his sergeant, Öz’s high-handed manner had irritated him and he said, ‘Don’t threaten me, Mr Öz. I will arrange for an analysis to be performed as soon as I am able, but if your client is a hacker and has desecrated places of worship, he will go to court.’
‘Well, it’s a good thing that Mr Gunay is innocent then, isn’t it?’
‘Let us see what the expert says, shall we?’ Süleyman said, and then with a scowl on his face he cut the connection.
The Hammer and its inhabitants seemed so very far away. And yet, until the early hours of this morning they had been uppermost in his mind. Now, however, things were different. Max Esterhazy had entered the equation and not in a way that Süleyman could easily understand. All this magical stuff was OK for İkmen, but he didn’t even pretend to understand it – a fact underscored by his memory of Max, who had rarely spoken of such things to him. But then proving that the magician had killed the three girls was quite another matter. So far there was no DNA evidence and no witnesses. İkmen, if that was his intention, was going to find it difficult to proceed with what was only circumstantial evidence. Max had taught all but one of the four youngsters and there was some reason to believe that rituals of some sort had been enacted at the murder sites. But there was no certainty and without asking the maid, Ülkü Ayla, about Max’s whereabouts on the nights when the three girls died there couldn’t even be any safety in placing him at any particular scene. He’d tried to contact the girl at the home of her friend, but apparently Ülkü Ayla had gone – her friend didn’t know where.
Süleyman, his head full of his wife, Max, Ülkü Ayla and Çöktin, replaced his phone in his pocket and lifted his face up to the warm Marmara wind.
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