Death of a Carpet Dealer

by Neil Betteridge

  A total of five people were standing dotted around the quay, each seemingly having nothing to do with the other. They were all facing the water, clearly waiting for the ferry to dock so that they could climb aboard.

  One of them was Carl-Ivar Olsson. It was undoubtedly him, standing on the far left. He was holding a soft bag made of some dark material, canvas or leather, it was impossible to say. His left arm and shoulder were cut off by the border of the photo.

  “A typical carpet bag,” Karaoğlu informed them.

  “In that case it contains a very small carpet,” said Mustafa Özen, speaking up for the first time. “The bag doesn’t look full,” he explained.

  “One thing we do know,” continued Karaoğlu, “is that that bag was nowhere to be seen when Olsson was found. The man who found him on the ferry saw no bag by his body. He might, of course, be lying, but I don’t think so.”

  “What was carpet dealer Olsson doing in Yeniköy,” Claesson said eventually. “Might there have been another carpet dealer there he’d been visiting?”

  Karaoğlu gave a crafty look.

  “Yes, there is a carpet dealer in Yeniköy. But he has never heard of someone called Carl-Ivar Olsson from Sweden. We have met him, you understand. He is quite a young man who has recently taken over the business from his father, who died of a heart attack six months ago. City life is stressful. Not good for the heart,” Karaoğlu said, placing a hand against his chest.

  Merve Turpan displayed a picture of the young carpet dealer, who looked around thirty, perhaps a little older. The young man who was assumed not to have anything to do with things.

  She then turned the conversation toward the man who’d found Carl-Ivar Olsson’s body.

  “Ilyas Bank claims that he has no connections with Olsson or Sweden. Perhaps a relative there, but so do many Turks, in Sweden or Germany or some other country in Europe. But no one that Bank has close contact with. Anyway, there are two things that bother us. The one is that the bag is missing. The other is this…”

  She clicked up the next picture, presumably taken by the same photographer. Olsson’s left side was visible now, on the right of the picture. Carpet dealer Olsson in full-frontal, in other words.

  They knew how to build up the drama here in Istanbul, thought Claesson. For on Olsson’s left stood a woman.

  They could’ve shown this photograph straight away, for Pete’s sake! But he said nothing. “Who’s she?” he asked instead.

  “We don’t know,” said Merve Turpan.

  They weren’t standing shoulder to shoulder, and there was a little space between Olsson and the unknown woman, who was much younger than he was. She could, of course, be a total stranger, someone who didn’t belong in the picture, anyone waiting to take the ferry. Or the classic lover. It was as if the air between them was vibrating, even though they were both looking directly ahead. Perhaps it was this, that they were so obviously making an effort not to look at each other.

  The young woman’s mouth was half open, as if she’d just said something. And the only one she could be talking to there where she stood was Olsson.

  Unless she had a wireless hands-free earpiece concealed by the thick hair that hung down to her shoulders, but somehow that didn’t seem likely.

  But what had she just said to Olsson? What was her frame of mind? They both seemed a bit guarded. Or was that just a trick of the light?

  Their job now was to find out who she was. Claesson felt his brain churning full speed, even though his eyes were stinging. He was so fired up that he’d probably have difficulty getting to sleep tonight.

  He cleared his throat and pulled out the black and white photo that he’d taken from Olsson’s shop in Oskarshamn. He’d had the foresight to make photocopies of it, which he now handed over to Karaoğlu and Merve Turpan. They studied them carefully.

  “A very, very old rug,” said Merve Turpan. “But I’m no rug expert.”

  Claesson gave a brief account of their meeting with carpet dealer Roland Karlgren in Kalmar, who’d given then the name of a carpet dealer in the Grand Bazaar. Karaoğlu asked Merve Turpan to make a note of the name. They decided that the Swedes should go there accompanied by a Turkish colleague. Merve wouldn’t mind going with them, she said.

  “In plain clothes,” Karaoğlu pointed out. “There is no need for us to alarm a decent, honest carpet dealer. We will schedule this for tomorrow morning, before you go to the morgue, so that I can contact the coroner first.”

  Claesson had all the contact details for the Olsson family and promised to call them about the time for identification. The wife, the woman in the carpet shop, and the two children had all been in Sweden at the time of the murder, he impressed on them.

  “They cannot possibly have murdered Olsson.”

  Their conversation turned to the hotel where Olsson had been staying with his wife before she flew home. It was called the Arkadia and was on the same side of the Golden Horn as they were now and that the ferry departed from.

  “However, Carl-Ivar Olsson had checked out from the Arkadia on the same day his wife returned to Sweden,” said Karaoğlu, giving the carpet dealer’s name a very quaint pronunciation.

  “Where did he go then?” wondered Karaoğlu, casting them a dramatic look. “Perhaps you can start at the Arkadia tomorrow?”

  No rest, no peace, thought Claesson. Just roll up your sleeves and set to work. He felt a spasm of genuine enthusiasm. This was exciting! They promised to get their colleagues at home to check with Olsson’s bank to see if he’d used the card to pay for a night spent at another hotel.

  “If he actually stayed at a hotel, that is,” said Claesson observing his Turkish colleagues to see how they took this. An insinuation of a lover was nothing out of the ordinary in Sweden. But here?

  No one reacted. So the hotel ledger would be checked again. Who else was staying there at the same time?

  “It would be easiest if you Swedes take care of this,” Karaoğlu said. “You will find it easier to recognize the Scandinavian names. And you can take the opportunity to ask the wife tomorrow.”

  All four looked at each other, as if none of them really expected her to know where her husband had been.

  And then they parted company.

  CHAPTER 31

  THE EVENING LIGHT SHONE ASKANCE through the kitchen window, blanketing the sink. Christoffer Daun tightened the faucet, which was dripping incessantly. Sounded like something clattering on a tin roof to his ears.

  But the leak continued.

  For far too long he’d been intending to ask someone to come and fix the washer. Annelie had nagged at him. Of course she had, but of course she could call someone herself!

  Perhaps he’d put it off for the simple reason that the nearest plumber was Pär Rosenkvist.

  Tina had placed herself in the middle of the outdated striped rag rug. The one that Annelie loved so much and that one of the local women had woven. It should, in other words, have been Annelie’s flats that now walked on it. She belonged in the kitchen, not Tina. He tried to force Annelie out of his head. Watched Tina instead.

  They were quite similar, Annelie and Tina. Very similar, even. The hair down to the throat, the soft cheeks, the well-defined behind. Graspable.

  He was drawn to the same type, apparently, at least appearance-wise. But Tina was feistier in her movements. Accustomed to running through long hospital corridors. Efficient. Although he didn’t know if he’d be able to put up with that for long. Sometimes you could have too much of a good thing – of the feminine energy that wrenched and tore at him and that wanted to draw him in. To mother him, flirt, and snuggle. And that had expectations of being eternally noticed.

  Some of his female doctor colleagues snickered or laughed outright behind his back and said that he was spoiled. They didn’t get that kind of backup from the nurses, they had to manage on their own without assistance and without a red carpet rolled out to parade their careers on. Who’d roll it out for them? they asked, rhetorically.


  But honestly, was it even his problem? He thought them a gaggle of bitter old hens. It was simply a matter of pure envy. The worst was Fresia. He hadn’t gotten anything for free, not he. On the contrary. He’d had it pretty heavy-going and gruff for long periods. He was worth all the attention he could get.

  But then it pained him to be a cheating, lying bastard, even if it felt a little better to at least admit it to himself. Almost to the point of his actually enjoying being able to own up to his own faults and shortcomings. It was a kind of no-strings masochism.

  Now he tried to get his eyes used to seeing Tina stand in the kitchen, but the truth was that the sexual tension between them in the car had dissipated, at least for the moment.

  Tina bit her lip as if she, too, was thinking that she’d ended up in the wrong place.

  But still she had no intention of leaving. She wasn’t going to leave him now.

  She even felt closer to him, strangely enough. Somehow got even more of him when she was in his house and part of his normal life. Saw the shelves of pretty porcelain, the tablecloth with its modern print design, the beautifully painted walls. She was stealing another woman’s presence with her eyes, and she found that a turn-on. Why not? His wife wasn’t her responsibility, she was his alone. She wasn’t going to feel guilty; it hadn’t even been her idea to accompany him in.

  Christoffer was a doorway to a second, Pär-free life, she thought as she looked around. In the name of love. They loved each other more genuinely, she and Christoffer. She’d run all the arguments around her head a thousand times. Kneaded away until her mind was raw, and concluded that you only live once and that you should live that life to the fullest. And it was neither fair nor honest to live with the wrong man. With someone she neither respected nor loved. Together just out of habit and because they had two children together. But whom she was nonetheless fond of, in a weird way. This infernal dithering. Perhaps because, when it came down to it, things were so erratic with Christoffer.

  She wasn’t alone in her feelings for Christoffer, either, and that was another worry. There were always nurses strutting around him. A young, handsome doctor, neither tired nor worn out by long operations and late nights on duty.

  The patients were also charmed by him, perhaps because he was so sensitive. A little melancholy at times, admittedly, but cute nevertheless, and he was phenomenal at listening to what she said without having his thoughts elsewhere, like Pär. He usually just sat with his eyes glued to the TV sports channel while trying to put food in his mouth. He never initiated conversation himself.

  Once Christoffer touched her, when he caressed her with his warm hands, it was like getting an electric shock of bliss.

  She’d never actually connected with Pär, she sometimes thought. But they’d been so young when they met. It was mostly that they’d just gotten used to each other. They’d boxed themselves in with children, home, family. They were loyal, but that wasn’t the same thing as loving someone.

  She wanted to take care of Christoffer and make life easier for him. It seemed as if Annelie didn’t care. They’d drifted apart, he said. God, all the people who’d drifted apart! Christoffer said that she, Tina, understood him much better. That Annelie was really only interested in carpets.

  But still he didn’t leave her.

  Tina had noticed that he was dragging his feet alright, and carrying on like this depressed her. This constant swinging between hope and despair. So she’d put her foot down. She’d realized that someone had to, and she was stronger, that was obvious. She’d told him that she didn’t want to leave Pär and the kids. Not now, at least. That she wanted to wait.

  So she’d said this to force a decision out of him. To make him see that he wasn’t to go around thinking he could take her for granted. She also had her pride.

  Christoffer excused himself and went to the bathroom.

  Tina had found a scab on one of her forearms to pick at while she continued to look around. The light from the larger room opposite filtered in and spread itself over the hall carpet. It was richly colorful, one of those Oriental carpets that Annelie sold but that Tina actually found quite ugly. She preferred light, monotone, modern carpets.

  She heard him flush and then he returned to the kitchen.

  It was as if the air had cleared.

  “Do you want coffee or tea?” he asked. “Or perhaps some wine?”

  “A glass of wine would be nice.”

  “Red or white?”

  “Red, if there is any.”

  He opened an old-style pantry door and took out a bottle and set out two glasses and poured. He gave her one, they clinked glasses and sipped, looking into each other’s eyes.

  “How about a nibble of something? Cheese and crackers?”

  “The wine’ll do just fine, thanks.”

  She was going to eat at home, but kept quiet about that. Dinner with Pär and the kids. Meat and beer and more wine for her.

  Christoffer seemed to hesitate. Tina blinked while her eyes continued to drift. Finally, she tilted her head to one side in that inviting way of hers. She knew it would hit home.

  He was still standing by the edge of the stainless steel sink, feeling the metal press harder and harder into his gluteal muscles, the Latin name for the buttocks popping into his head, giving a bit of distance and order, like at work.

  Tina dropped her arm and took a couple of steps toward him to stand close to him but without touching. He sensed her breath at the same moment as she dropped her gaze. They stood like that for a while longer, dragging it out.

  Then she bowed her head forwards and let her forehead rest against his chin and mouth. He stood reverently still, shut his eyes and gently parted his lips against her forehead. The tip of his tongue slipped out and played with her skin, and he could detect the not completely unexpected taste of salt and bitterness. His blood was pulsing hard. The cool distance that sometimes appears between two people, and on that rare occasion between him and Tina, evaporated at once.

  She lifted her arm and, crooking it around his neck, pulled him close in to her and away from the sink. Her breasts pressed into him. She thrust her hips forward, pressing harder against his hips and groin as if she wanted to enter him, into his body, if that had been possible. With rhythmic motions she started to rub her pubic bone against his thigh. Her hair smelt of “a day at the hospital,” he thought.

  One of her hands was now playing inside his top, the tips of her fingers sliding along his spine up toward his neck. Hard and delicious, painfully pleasurable. He shut his eyes when her nails tore at his scalp while her other hand unbuttoned his jeans, pulled down the zip, and worked its way into his pants.

  The telephone rang.

  “What the… ?” he said thickly. “I’m gonna have to take it.”

  Did he really? It was nothing but an act of compulsion. The cordless phone sat in its black charger in the hall. Number withheld. He picked it up and stood with his back against the open kitchen door to avoid, if at all possible, bringing Tina into the conversation.

  An unfamiliar man’s voice wondered if he could come out and sign for the firewood he’d ordered.

  Have we ordered some? he thought. Must’ve been Annelie.

  “I’m just down the road,” said the strange voice in the distinct Östergötland dialect of the neighboring county. “If you can come out we’ll sort it all out. Just need to know where you want me to dump it… You want it near where you’re gonna stack it, yeah?”

  “Er, yes, sure. In the barn. We don’t have a woodshed… I’ll be right out.”

  He went into the kitchen and looked guiltily at Tina. His erection had subsided.

  “Sit here and I’ll be right back.”

  She nodded silently and sat down on one of the Ikea chairs they were using while waiting for the Windsor chairs to be painted. The day’s newspaper lay in front of her on the kitchen table. She started leafing through it.

  He walked outside. The air was crisp, but it was war
m enough to go out in short sleeves.

  He passed the tall lilac bushes marking the edge of his garden out by the courtyard. They’d be coming into flower soon. He tried to shake off his shame to keep it from showing. After all, he didn’t know who’d be coming to unload the wood. The voice hadn’t sounded like an old man’s.

  He couldn’t hear the sound of a truck yet. He really didn’t like having to wait under any circumstances, least of all ones like this.

  He thought he heard steps and looked round. No, it was probably just the wind in the treetops.

  Or did Tina follow him out? If so, that wasn’t good. He peered toward the kitchen door in the gable end of the house, but it was concealed by the old outhouse and the chicken coop.

  But she didn’t appear and the footsteps died away. It must’ve been his imagination.

  Christoffer never saw the man who stood pressed up behind the corner of the house and who slipped in through the kitchen door as soon as he was out of sight.

  Tina looked up from her paper to find a man she’d never seen before looming over her. She hadn’t even heard him come in.

  “Where is it?” he hissed through tight lips. “I want it now!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She rose from her chair.

  “Don’t fuck with me. The rug!”

  “What rug?” she blurted, realizing as she stared at the stranger that he had the wrong person. He thought she was Annelie.

  Her pulse shot up, the words lodged in her throat. There was something about his look that scared her. An aggression that you shouldn’t mess with. She had to get out.

  She tried to push past him and reach the kitchen door, but he was faster and, grabbing her arm, he yanked her back into the kitchen. It hurt so much she thought her arm would come loose.