EQMM, November 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Carol sat on the sidewalk near Emily's shrine as the sirens got closer and finally stopped at the corner. Tears streamed down her face. She kept crying as the paramedics worked on Peggy, Charlie, and Anita. Then I saw one of the EMTs shake his head and pull a sheet over Charlie's face. The EMTs loaded Anita and Peggy into an ambulance.

  The police cuffed Steve Gebhardt, put him into the backseat of a cruiser, and drove away, leaving me to follow with the wreckage of his wife. In my head I heard Peggy Blaine's voice saying, as it had the day I met her, “There's such a thing as excessive grief."

  (c)2008 by Janet Dawson

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  Novelette: THE HOUSE THAT GOT SHOT by Barbara Nadel

  * * * *

  Art by Allen Davis

  * * * *

  Barbara Nadel was born in London, but she has family in Turkey and has been a regular visitor there for twenty years. Her best-known series, which in-cludes the CWA Silver Dagger winner DeadlyWeb, features Istanbul cop Cetin Ikmen, who also stars in this story. Pretty Dead Things, the 10th Ikmen book, came out in ‘01 in the U.S.

  * * * *

  Inspector Cetin Ikmen cast his gaze slowly around the bloodied, shredded room before him and then, turning to his equally shocked female sergeant, said, “What a mess."

  "The whole house is the same, sir,” Sergeant Ayse Farsakoglu replied. “Bullet holes everywhere."

  "Do we know who she was?” Ikmen said as he tipped his head in the direction of a blood-soaked body lying face downwards in front of him, its arms outstretched to each side clutching what looked like small lengths of rope.

  "Not yet,” Ayse said. “Apart from this house, the rest of the street has been empty for some months. This part of Haskoy is in the process of being redeveloped."

  Ikmen looked down at the young woman with a cynical eye. As well as working as a police officer in Istanbul for over thirty years, he had lived in the city all his life. He'd seen a lot of metropolitan districts “redevelop"—not always for the better. Haskoy, a somewhat distant and rickety suburb on the northern shore of the Golden Horn, was just the latest in a long line of “newly discovered” districts. Once home to a sizeable Jewish as well as a Gypsy population, the little wooden houses of Haskoy had a certain shabby romance to them. Just not this particular one—not anymore.

  "Well, whoever the victim was, she was only part of the assailants’ target,” Ikmen said as he put his hand in his pocket and drew out a packet of cigarettes.

  "What do you mean by that, sir?” Ayse replied with a frown.

  "Well, it's obvious,” Ikmen said. “Whoever did this was shooting the house as much as the occupant.” Then, after lighting up a cigarette, he moved past the officer on guard at the front door of the property and went outside.

  * * * *

  Over the course of the next few hours, many Istanbul police officials came and went from the house on the corner of Harab Cesme Sokak. Photographers, forensics and ballistics experts, ordinary officers, and, of course, the police pathologist Dr. Arto Sarkissian. The latter, who was a contemporary and old friend of Cetin Ikmen, didn't take long to pronounce life extinct.

  "What a thing to do to an old woman, eh?” he said when he came out to join Ikmen in the street. “I've counted twelve bullet wounds so far and I'm sure I'll find more when I get her over to the lab. Insanity!"

  "The whole house is shot to pieces,” Ikmen said as he looked across at the great wall that surrounded the once busy old synagogue opposite. “She's old, our victim. I wonder if she used to be a congregant over there."

  "At the synagogue? Maybe,” Arto shrugged. “The few Jews that remain around here do tend to be old. But whatever she may have been, one thing is for sure: This murder will not do the redevelopment around here much good. Especially if you add in our victim's slithery comrades and the possibility that they in turn may have more family somewhere nearby."

  Ikmen turned his dry, thin face towards the rather more robust visage of his plump Armenian friend and said, “Slithery comrades?"

  "The old woman was not the only living creature to die in that orgy of bullets.” Arto paused to swallow rather nervously before he said, “She kept, indeed it would appear she was on friendly terms with, snakes."

  "Snakes!"

  "Two—so far,” the doctor replied. “One in each hand. From the way that she fell it would seem that she was holding them up and out to both sides of her body when she was shot. I know that you hate them, but..."

  "Snakes! What kind of snakes?” Ikmen asked as sweat began to appear visibly on his face.

  "I don't know. I'm not a zoologist,” the doctor replied. “Small, indeterminate serpents, now deceased."

  "Happily."

  "Depends upon your point of view,” Arto continued. “Our victim, it would seem, was quite at ease handling them."

  "That or she was preparing to throw them at her assailant,” Ikmen said.

  "Either way, she had the snakes for some reason and had to be comfortable with that,” Arto replied. “I've told all of our people to be careful in case other slithery friends make unexpected appearances."

  Ikmen looked down instinctively at his own feet and then, anxiously, scanned the street to his left and right. Harab Cesme Sokak was a steep road that, as well as incorporating an elderly synagogue, also boasted a long row of wooden Ottoman houses amongst its treasures. What had been the last inhabited example of this type of property was Ikmen's murder scene. It was also, he now knew, a possible source of snakes. Just the thought of snakes made him shudder. It was a phobia he had developed a long time ago. It was not one he had any interest in addressing now. He and snakes just did not meet—ever.

  "Sir!"

  A young man in a well-ironed blue uniform snapped to attention in front of Ikmen.

  "Constable Yildiz?"

  "Sir, I've just been talking to the owner of the grocer's shop at the top of the hill."

  Just as probably buying sweets as cigarettes, Ikmen thought. Although not in reality that young, Hikmet Yildiz with his baby face and his perfect shirts so obviously ironed by his sweet little headscarfed mother was one of those boys who was taking a very long time to grow up. “Yes? And?"

  "Kemal Bey, the grocer, he says that all of this block of houses here has been bought by a foreigner,” the young man said.

  "Does he?"

  "Yes. Apparently, sir, all the occupants except the dead lady moved out when this new owner took possession about six months ago. I told him nothing, but of course like the whole district he has been watching us come and go here for hours. Kemal Bey of his own volition told me the dead lady's name. It was Ofis Hanim. Unusual name, isn't it?” he said as he looked at the Armenian for some possible explanation.

  But Arto Sarkissian just shrugged. “It means nothing to me, Constable,” he said. “Did Kemal Bey tell you anything else about the lady?"

  "Only that she almost never went out. Kemal Bey's son was in the habit of delivering groceries to Ofis Hanim's home once a week. But they never conversed. All Kemal Bey said was that a third party, another woman of the district, told him that Ofis Hanim did not, unlike her neighbours, have any intention of moving."

  "I don't suppose that Kemal Bey said anything about snakes, did he?” Ikmen asked.

  The young officer frowned. “Snakes? No. Why?"

  Ikmen looked across at Arto Sarkissian before he said, “Because, Constable, it would seem that Ofis Hanim had a particular liking for snakes. I do hope that your boots are securely laced."

  Constable Yildiz, wide-eyed with horror, looked down at his mercifully snake-free feet and said, “Allah!"

  * * * *

  The following day brought further information about Ofis Hanim, although not, as yet, any actual suspect for her murder. In view of the fact that so many bullets had been found both in the old woman and in the fabric of the house, Ikmen was surprised to learn that the weapon involved had been nothing more lethal or sophisticated than an ordinary shotgun.<
br />
  "I would have thought that if whoever did this did so with the intention of wrecking the place, he would have saved himself a lot of effort and used a submachine gun,” Ikmen said to Ayse Farsakoglu as he looked down at the ballistics report on his desk.

  "Depends what he was firing at, sir,” the young woman replied.

  "In spite of the fact that most of the residents of Haskoy are now obsessed by visions of murderous serpents, we have still only recovered the bodies of two snakes—neither of which was in the least bit dangerous."

  "Nonvenomous whip snakes,” Ayse said.

  "Our assailant killed them and Ofis Hanim. Shot up the house maybe imagining more snakes..."

  "It's possible. I mean, we, or rather I, had never heard of non-venomous Cypriot whip snakes until Forensics got back to us. Perhaps the killer thought that they were poisonous."

  "Mmm.” Ikmen offered Ayse a cigarette before lighting up himself and then said, “But to go to that house armed with a shotgun ... Ofis Hanim was a small, frail old lady. If somebody wanted to kill her all he needed to do was push her over."

  "Assuming our assailant was a man,” Ayse said as she puffed delicately on the rough Maltepe cigarette her superior had just given her.

  "Indeed."

  "Yes."

  "But male or female, the fact remains that someone killed Ofis Hanim and her snakes and wrecked her house,” Ikmen said. “Why?"

  "Maybe Mr. Lukash, the owner of that side of Harab Cesme Sokak, will be able to tell us,” Ayse replied. “He and his wife are coming in at three."

  "Maybe he will,” Ikmen replied. “And in the absence of any other motive, Mr. Lukash's property empire, or rather, Ofis Hanim's effect upon it, does put our Ukrainian friend in the frame. All of the other old residents moved away very quickly when he came into possession of that street."

  "Redevelopment,” Ayse said sadly, “is not without its casualties."

  "No.” Ikmen sighed. “And some of it is very good, but ... If only gangsters were not involved..."

  "We don't know that Mr. Lukash is a gangster, sir. I know a lot of people here equate people like him, from the former Soviet Union, with gang activity, but the two don't always go together. Besides, his wife is Turkish, from here in the city."

  "Mmm,” Ikmen looked down at his desk gloomily. “I expect she's covered with gold chains and plastic-surgery scars. They like their women like that."

  "Who do?"

  He looked up into a face that was taut with anger.

  "Who like their women ‘like that'?” Ayse reiterated. “Gangsters? Eastern Europeans? Or are gangsters always Eastern Europeans or..."

  "Ayse, don't be angry..."

  "Why are you behaving just like the lowest, most prejudiced moron in the coffeehouse? Sir, you are better than that!” she said passionately. “You, of all people, know that you cannot judge anyone just on face value! You taught me that! You drummed that into my head from my very first day!"

  Ikmen rubbed a tired hand over his thin, middle-aged features. Ayse was right, of course. He was fifty-seven years old, he'd been in the police force for over thirty of those, and he was both a father nine times over and a grandfather. He'd seen a lot—enough to know that there was no “type” more able to commit murder than any other. Just because a man wore big chunky rings and a leather coat didn't make him a villain. Not necessarily.

  "I apologise,” he said, shaking his head miserably as he did so. “It's just that I've seen so much ‘redevelopment’ in my lifetime—so much of it to the detriment of this city and its people—in my opinion. You know what I mean, Ayse. Great roads pushed relentlessly into once comfortable and tight-knit old communities, great big apartment buildings constructed on the foundations of once elegant Ottoman houses..."

  "Not all of those developments have been done by Eastern Europeans,” Ayse said. “In fact, I think that very few properties have actually passed into foreign hands. And besides, sir, not everything that has been redeveloped has been bad. I mean, some of the neighbourhoods that have undergone extensive redevelopment are actually better now than they were before. People who live there have a far superior quality of life."

  "I know.” Ikmen nodded. “But the fact that everyone except Ofis Hanim moved out as soon as Mr. Lukash bought those houses doesn't sit well with me. That area was poor. Where did all those poor people go?"

  "We can find out,” Ayse said.

  "Then that is what we must do,” Ikmen replied. “Find them. Talk to them."

  "Yes, sir."

  He looked up and smiled. “You know one place that has improved a lot in recent years?” he said. “Gulhane Park."

  Ayse knew the green and very pleasant park to the western side of the Topkapi Palace well. It was a nice relaxed place where she and her friends would sometimes go to walk about and eat ice cream on sunny weekend afternoons.

  "When I was young, it was called Lunar Park,” Ikmen continued. “There was a sort of a fair there with cheap attractions; freak shows, grisly things. It was all swept away a long time ago."

  "For the better, by the sound of it,” Ayse said.

  "Certainly for the better,” Ikmen replied firmly. “Most certainly."

  * * * *

  Mrs. Lukash had, it turned out, not disappointed. Or rather, her appearance had not. She had been just as Ikmen imagined she would be—all bleached-blond hair and false breasts. Her almost totally silent Ukranian husband had, however, been quite another matter. Old and world-weary looking, the most significant thing he'd said, in his very halting Turkish, was that he did not and had never owned Ofis Hanim's house. Unlike the other houses that Lukash had bought from the previous owner, a local man called Ali Koray, Ofis Hanim had owned her house and had not wanted to sell. Ikmen took good note of this fact and, once the Lukashes had gone, instructed Ayse to look into the Ukranian's affairs. Ofis Hanim's house, he felt, had to have been a considerable thorn in the side of a man who was in the process, he said, of developing an elegant and valuable row of refitted houses.

  Now, however, he was in the cramped and messy Haskoy office of Mr. Ali Koray. On the basis that the landlord might have known Ofis Hanim, and wishing to find out rather more about his dealings with Mr. Lukash, Ikmen now sat before a very battered desk behind which sat a short, thin man of about fifty.

  "So you don't know where your old tenants went to after Mr. Lukash bought your property?” Ikmen asked as he lit up a cigarette.

  "No, not really.” Mr. Koray shrugged in what appeared to be a very offhand manner. “I've seen one or two about. In local shops and ... But no. I sold to Lukash, I will be honest with you, because I was sick of the whole landlord business. All the tenants ever did was complain! It was like living in a headache!"

  "Mr. Lukash gave you a good price?"

  "Yes. He's redeveloping the houses. They look nice. I could never have afforded to do such a thing."

  "Did the tenants know that their houses were going to be redeveloped for sale?” Ikmen said.

  Mr. Koray shrugged again. It seemed to be some sort of habit. “I told them, yes. But I don't know whether they left or Lukash made them leave or what. Some were upset. But I needed the money and they, the tenants, they knew they'd have to go sometime."

  Yes,” Ikmen attempted a smile but then gave up. He'd met uncaring landlords before. It didn't get any easier. “I imagine Mr. Lukash can't have been happy that he couldn't buy all the houses in the row."

  "I don't know..."

  "Ofis Hanim..."

  "Oh, that shooting? Terrible business! Just awful!” Mr. Koray shook his head violently at the thought of it.

  "Did you know her?” Ikmen asked.

  Once again, Koray gave a shrug. “Not really."

  "Strange that you owned all of the houses in the row except that belonging to Ofis Hanim. Mr. Lukash's wife told us that her understanding was that you had inherited the row from your father. You have to know the area and its people well."

  There was a pause, then Ali
Koray smiled. “Ah,” he said. “Mmm.” He looked up at Ikmen with his great wrinkle-wreathed eyes and said, “Look, Inspector, the old woman, Ofis, she was, well, she was my father's mistress. A long time ago. He gave her that house and..."

  "I see."

  "But since he died, back in nineteen eighty-eight, my family and I, well, we have left Ofis Hanim alone. My mother still lives. It is, was, embarrassing."

  "You or your family didn't try to buy the property back from Ofis Hanim?"

  "No.” He shrugged. “What would have been the point?"

  "To make more money from Mr. Lukash."

  He smiled. “I made plenty of money from Mr. Lukash.” He then looked, with what Ikmen felt could not possibly be genuine pride, around his very small and shabby office. “I am content."

  * * * *

  That evening, instead of going straight home to the Ikmen family apartment in Sultanahmet, the inspector went to a bar in the nearby district of Cankurtaran. In the lee of one of the walls of the great Topkapi Palace, the little bar where he met up with his friend Dr. Arto Sarkissian was very basic, very local, and almost empty. Just the way both Ikmen and the doctor liked it.

  Sitting at a rough table outside the bar, Ikmen drank his beer with pleasure as he watched the sun begin to set behind a group of young children playing in the street. If he ignored the endless stream of traffic passing along Ishakpasa Caddesi, cutting through to the main coastal road, Kennedy Caddesi, he could almost imagine that he was back in the nineteen seventies. The little unnamed bar they were sitting in front of certainly looked as if it came from that era, as did the innocent game of chase that the children were playing. Not a games console or item of designer clothing to be seen. Not that going back to the ‘seventies, even were that possible, was without its drawbacks.

  "I'd far rather go back to the nineteen fifties, myself,” Arto said as he drank his Coca-Cola straight from the bottle. “There was so much political unrest in the ‘seventies. The ‘fifties were a lot, I suppose, simpler."

  "Yes.” Ikmen, who could also all too vividly recall the battles that had raged between the various left- and right-wing political factions in the nineteen seventies, hadn't forgotten that either. He'd had to try and control some of it when he was a young constable. “But the trouble with the ‘fifties, Arto, is that they were so primitive."