Deadly Web

by Barbara Nadel

  It was dusk by the time all the different members of the team managed to assemble back at İkmen’s office. Messy at the best of times, İkmen’s airless little room was now packed to capacity and was, consequently, very hot and cramped. Süleyman and Çöktin, who had just got in from their trip over to İrfan Şay’s place in Bebek, looked particularly exhausted.

  İkmen lit a cigarette and then said, ‘Now look, gentlemen,’ and then turning to Gonca he added, ‘madam. I don’t have any proof that Maximillian Esterhazy has committed any kind of offence. Furthermore, Commissioner Ardıç is extremely uncomfortable with what he considers to be little more than the product of an overactive imagination – mine.’

  Several people laughed softly.

  ‘And so what I am proposing to do tonight, namely to patrol that portion of the Bosphorus between Arnavutköy and Rumeli Hisari on the European side and Kandilli and Anadolu Hisari on the Asian side, is not something that has attracted much support. I have, however, with the aid of Inspector Süleyman’s evidence we’ll hear in a moment, managed to secure a launch to cover this side, but with regard to the Asian side we’re going to have to rely upon officers on the shore. This means that, assuming that what I think may take place, does, we could easily miss it.’ He sighed. ‘It is therefore a thankless task and so, with that in mind, I am not going to force anyone to join me. I can enlist junior, uniformed officers if necessary.’

  There were four other people in the room besides İkmen and Gonca – Süleyman, Yıldız, Çöktin and Karataş – none of whom moved or spoke in response to what İkmen had said.

  ‘I take it then,’ İkmen said, ‘that this means you are all willing to move forward with this investigation.’

  Various mutterings of approval followed.

  ‘All right,’ İkmen continued, ‘then let’s get down to looking at what we already know. Firstly, we have what I’m sure Mr Esterhazy would deem a coincidence. Inspector Süleyman?’

  Süleyman cleared his throat before speaking. ‘Esterhazy gave us the name of İrfan Şay as the person he had been staying with these last few days. We telephoned Mr Şay, who supported his story. This afternoon Sergeant Çöktin and myself came into possession of a videotape that, it would appear, is a visual record of the death of Gülay Arat – the girl we believe is the first victim of this ritualistic whatever it is. The interesting part of this story for us is that this tape leads us straight back to Şay who, we are reliably informed, enjoys making pornographic videos and produced this particular tape. Now when I phoned Şay this afternoon he expressed a willingness to talk. However, when Sergeant Çöktin and I subsequently visited Mr Şay’s yalı in Bebek a couple of hours ago, he was apparently out and about somewhere. We could, of course, have returned with authorisation to search his property. But if, as Inspector İkmen believes, one of these rituals is due to happen tonight I decided it would be more useful to try and catch him actually filming the event.’

  ‘This video,’ Karataş asked. ‘The girl actually dies?’

  ‘Yes. Some people, believe it or not, find that arousing. However, unfortunately no faces apart from hers can be seen because they’re all wearing masks and even those are indistinct. It is a very bad print and, because no one in it can be identified, it couldn’t be used in court unless it were supported by other evidence. At the moment we have to assume that what Şay is filming and what Esterhazy is doing are two different things.’

  ‘But isn’t this magician meant to be a good person?’ Karataş said. ‘I mean, why would he, if he really believes in all this magic, allow somebody to film what he does?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Esterhazy has been in trouble financially of late,’ İkmen put in.

  ‘Good point. Maybe money does come into it too.’

  He looked at İkmen, at his frowning face and wondered whether he was thinking along similar lines to himself – namely that Max’s art had always been much more important to him than money. But then he’d never needed money before and anyway, if İkmen were right, the way he’d got his money in the past had, it seemed, proved somewhat dubious.

  Hikmet Yıldız, who had up to that point been silent, said, ‘I don’t know whether this means anything,’ and he threw the piece of paper he’d found in his pocket down on İkmen’s desk.

  ‘What is it?’

  The young man shrugged. ‘Don’t know, sir. Found it in my pocket just after I discovered that Mr Esterhazy wasn’t Mr Esterhazy. It’s a weird-looking thing. I certainly didn’t have it before, or at least I don’t think that I did.’

  İkmen opened the paper out, looked at it, and then passed it over to Gonca.

  ‘Is that a sigil?’ he asked.

  She frowned. ‘Yes, it could be,’ she replied. ‘Although if it is, I can’t tell you what it means.’

  ‘Well, if it is then it must have some sort of meaning for whoever placed it in Constable Yıldız’ pocket.’

  The young man looked concerned. ‘Is it a magic thing, sir?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Not like a curse?’

  İkmen saw Yıldız’ face turn white. A peasant by background, Yıldız was probably rather more susceptible to this type of thing than a native city dweller. For all İkmen knew, the sigil, if that is what it was, could represent a curse. But there was no point in frightening the poor boy, especially in view of the fact that no one really did know what this thing was.

  ‘Oh, no, Yıldız,’ İkmen said with what looked very much like confidence. ‘It’s not a curse, of that you can be sure.’

  ‘Oh,’ the young man breathed more easily. ‘Well, praise be to Allah for that.’

  ‘Indeed. Now,’ İkmen said, ‘arrangements . . .’

  They spent a good half an hour talking about who was going to go where, with whom, and what action they might take should İkmen’s suspicions be realised. At the end of the proceedings, when everyone else had gone off to obtain the equipment and refreshments necessary for a long night on the Bosphorus, Süleyman remained behind.

  ‘Çetin,’ he said as he offered the other man a cigarette and then lit up himself, ‘what if Max does indeed perform some kind of ritual but without causing harm to anyone else? He is, after all, perfectly entitled to follow whatever faith or philosophy he may wish to.’

  ‘Ah, but we still have legislation against sorcery,’ İkmen said.

  ‘Yes, but that includes prohibitions against praying at the tombs of saints and the practice of dervish rituals,’ Süleyman said, ‘all of which are allowed to happen now, Çetin. I think that you’re on unsure ground with this, especially in view of the fact that both you and I know Max and what he does.’

  ‘I’d only use it as a way of holding on to him,’ İkmen replied. ‘If no blood is spilled in his ritual tonight then appealing to elderly Republican legislation will maybe buy me enough time to really check his story out.’

  ‘But if he is allowing someone to film his rituals for money, then he will spill blood, will he not?’ Gonca had re-entered the room without so much as a whisper. Both men turned towards her with a start. ‘After all,’ she continued, ‘why would you film anything as boring as a magical ritual without sex or violence? If this Şay is a pornographer that is what he will want.’

  İkmen looked at Süleyman, who just shrugged.

  ‘Gonca Hanım has a point.’

  ‘Of course I do.’ She took one of his arms between her strong hands and looked deep into his eyes. ‘But what even I don’t know is who his victim is going to be,’ she said. ‘Except, of course, that she will be a virgin.’

  ‘Gülizar the gypsy wasn’t.’

  ‘Oh, yes she was,’ Gonca said. ‘She only ever gave pleasure with her hands and her mouth.’

  ‘Really? Well, Gülay Arat and Lale Tekeli were virgins,’ Süleyman said. ‘But then what about Cem Ataman? Male, a suicide – he breaks all of the apparent rules. I’m still not—’

  ‘Sssh!’ Gonca placed one red-tipped finger over his l
ips and then, much to İkmen’s amusement, moved in very closely to him. ‘That mystery remains to be solved,’ she said. ‘Let us wait and see what develops out in the Bosphorus. Let us watch for the magician . . .’

  ‘Who may or may not come.’

  ‘As Allah wills,’ she said. And then, laughing at her uncharacteristic ascent into piety, she left the room.

  When she had gone, Süleyman said, ‘I still can’t accept it, you know, Çetin. Max – he’s a friend. I can’t believe that he would kill. I do hope—’

  ‘That it isn’t so?’ İkmen smiled. ‘So do I,’ he said gravely. ‘More than even you will ever know.’

  CHAPTER 21

  From the water the Bosphorus village of Arnavutköy can look pretty. But, as Mehmet Süleyman knew only too well, his home village was a little down at heel these days. And although the yalıs that lined the waterfront had once been some of the finest in the city, few of them now retained their previous gloss. It was something that for some reason the night-time seemed to emphasise rather than conceal. Not even, he thought bitterly, poor old Ali Ağa’s yalı looked good these days. All sagging lintels and ruined boathouse, it was a disgrace and would have reduced his grandfather’s old servant to tears had he still been alive. But the old eunuch had been dead for over thirty years now and Mehmet remembered him only dimly. Odd really that someone of his age should have had any contact with such an anachronism anyway, but Ali Ağa had been very old and the only thing he could really recall about him was the pristine nature of his surroundings. It was, the old man had always said, unseemly for the servant of a prince to live in a state of disorder. Apparently he had worshipped the ground on which Mehmet’s grandfather, Abdurrahman Effendi, had walked, which, given what the old prince and his ilk had done to people like Ali Ağa, was very puzzling. Gloomily, Mehmet looked down into the black waters of the Bosphorus and wondered how many eunuchs the empire had created and what a high price these emasculated creatures had been made to pay for their lives of relative luxury.

  Although it had been quite hot in the day, the evenings were starting to get cold now, especially on the water. İkmen and Çöktin both wore coats, and even Gonca had a large dark wrap draped decorously about her shoulders. When she saw him looking at her, she smiled but didn’t approach. She was a very lovely woman and one Mehmet knew he could possess whenever he wanted – if he wanted. Sleeping around had hardly done him any favours so far. But if Zelfa wouldn’t answer any of his calls . . . He wanted so much to tell her that he was well, to beg her forgiveness yet again, and, of course, to be reunited with his son. But if he were honest with himself, he knew that wasn’t likely. Zelfa was a proud, independent woman – why would she want a weak last gasp of a dead monarchy like him? Without even thinking about it, his eyes slid across to Gonca’s ample form as she joked and laughed in low tones with the pilot.

  ‘Sir?’ A light young voice cut across his thoughts.

  ‘İsak.’

  The young man looked behind him before he spoke. ‘Sir, about Hüsnü Gunay . . .’

  ‘I’m still waiting on the handwriting expert,’ Süleyman replied. ‘But Gunay seems very confident that he isn’t this Mendes character and so I’m expecting an end of it. Still leaves a question over who desecrated the places of worship, though.’

  ‘Mmm. Maybe someone copied the picture in the Hammer.’ He looked up. ‘Sir, about Gunay—’

  ‘İsak, if you want to continue with your career you’re going to have to stop this film subtitling business.’ Süleyman looked him hard in the eyes. ‘I mean it. İnşallah, we will be able to get through this little crisis, but another? Another would finish you, İsak, whether I tried to protect you or not.’

  ‘I know.’

  And then they lapsed into silence. There was still a lot of movement on the great waterway – ferries, military craft, fishing boats and private vessels of various kinds. Not a good environment for someone to pursue strange and possibly deadly rituals – yet.

  ‘What do you think about all this magical stuff, Sergeant?’

  Alpaslan Karataş looked across at Hikmet Yıldız and shrugged. With the aid of a pair of binoculars he could see the launch heading out from Arnavutköy. Obvious to all what it was, a little too conspicuous to Karataş’ mind, but then it wasn’t either his decision or, at the end of the day, his problem. İkmen had chosen to circuit the whole of the designated area while he and Yıldız stood on the shore at Kandilli. It was easy enough, and quite why it was irritating him so much was stupid really. But it was, and while his boss, Metin İskender, was laid up in hospital it was going to continue to bother him.

  He must have played it over hundreds of times in his mind now – the moment when he heard the shot, the hopefully split second later when he responded. But had it been a split second or more? When he’d entered the room, the magician’s bedroom, there hadn’t been so much as a closing door to signify that anyone had been in there. Not a sound, not a movement, not even the rippling of a recently disturbed curtain. Just the Inspector, bleeding and unconscious on the floor – looking as if he’d been there for hours. Had he or had he not responded as quickly as he could?

  İskender, rather oddly for him, had said that the fact that he was alive at all was due solely to what Karataş had done for him. Further, the last time he’d seen him, the inspector had said that he, Alpaslan, should put it behind him now and concentrate on his work. But the question continued to nag and he continued to be troubled, because neither way could he win. If he’d not acted immediately then what kind of person did that make him, and if he had, what kind of sorcery had spirited a person with a gun out of that room and into, apparent thin air? In light of this, Yıldız’ question was not one that he could answer even though he needed some sort of explanation very badly. But what could you do? Apart from descending into the myths and dark fears of your ancestors?

  ‘I know nothing of this magic Inspector İkmen and the gypsy speak of, but djinn, well . . .’

  ‘My mother once had a lot of trouble with djinn, back in our village,’ Yıldız said. ‘A corner of the kitchen was troubled, particularly at night.’

  ‘Such spirits shouldn’t be spoken of,’ Karataş said as he felt a cold shiver run down his back. ‘Not after dark.’

  ‘No . . .’

  Karataş looked around at the black water of the Bosphorus and thought about the gypsy on the boat with İkmen and Süleyman. A troubling woman: funny and coarse as the gypsy women could be, she was worrying for all that. She did, it seemed, know a lot about this magic the Englishman was said to practise. That a woman should know and talk about such things was something he was not entirely comfortable with. Did she, in fact, know too much? She did, it seemed to him, sometimes almost impose herself on İkmen and she was, or seemed to be, easy in the company of officers. As a gypsy that shouldn’t, surely, be so? But then no one else had or seemed to have noticed this and so perhaps it was all right after all. But he wasn’t really convinced by this argument and so he just gazed ahead of him and tried to clear his mind. Maybe nothing would happen this night – if they were fortunate. But then maybe it would and so he had to be ready. But ready for what? If a man could be shot out of thin air then what other surprises might be in store for them? Again he shuddered. Something dark and frightening could be out there now, watching him – something he knew he didn’t and couldn’t understand. Even djinn with their wicked, contrary ways would be welcomed as opposed to that – whatever it was.

  The darkness was making İkmen’s head swim. Maybe it was the effort of straining his eyes into the shadows, particularly now that there were so few other vessels around. In the summer the European stretch of this shore would be alive with music and dancing as the nightclub season took the city by storm. But not now. Now it was too late in the year and the clubs were silent, their habitués having moved on to other establishments in Taksim and Beyoğlu. For once he almost wished that he were one of their number. That he didn’t like loud music and had rarely
danced in his life didn’t now seem to be that much of a bar to his enjoyment – especially if he were well provided with alcohol. There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for a drink now, he suddenly thought with great gloom. His numerous barely controlled stomach ulcers would hate him for it, but he knew all about them and how to anaesthetise the troublesome things.

  If only he and his men knew what they were looking for! Some sort of maritime craft. What did that mean? A yacht? A fishing boat? A raft? And based upon what premise? That some magical thing was being constructed? Something that necessitated the inclusion of a suicide victim? And Gonca. He looked across at her, talking to Süleyman, and frowned. She had, or at least he thought she had, been of great assistance to him, but why? She didn’t know Max, or so she said – though she knew the dervish İbrahim Dede, who did know him. But then the dervish, surely wouldn’t, if he knew, lie to İkmen about Gonca’s involvement. And anyway, even if she did know Max, did that make her involvement now necessarily suspect? A tired brain plus straining eyes were making him think mad thoughts. Unhelpful.

  İkmen momentarily closed his eyes and then opened them again. The small fishing boat in front of him had probably been there all the time; it wasn’t after all that close. But someone had obviously put a light on somewhere that was illuminating the figure of a girl, who appeared to be dancing. To what he couldn’t ascertain, as there didn’t appear to be any music.

  Süleyman, who had seen it too, came over and touched İkmen on the arm. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ İkmen turned to the pilot and said, ‘How close can we get to that fishing boat without being obvious?’

  ‘A hundred and fifty metres, maybe a hundred.’

  ‘OK. Do it,’ İkmen said. ‘A girl prancing around on a yacht is one thing, but on a fishing boat . . .’