Death of a Carpet Dealer

by Neil Betteridge

  She set out bowls of milk. Klara climbed up into her highchair by herself, and taking hold of the box, poured some muesli into her bowl. Veronika was too slow, and Klara gave herself far too much, which had probably been her intention. She smiled at Klara who had merrily started to pick the raisins and nuts out with her fingers.

  “Have some of the milk too, sweetheart,” she said, stroking her soft hair. Klara looked at her innocently, and continued to stubbornly pick out the bits she liked best.

  Veronika picked up her phone again and pressed in Cecilia’s number.

  This time she answered.

  CHAPTER 45

  IT WAS FRIDAY MORNING in Istanbul and a cooler wind was slipping in though the crack in the window at the police station. It looked like it was going to be a hot day, but at this time of year you never could tell, Merve Turpan had just said. It was still only May, and the sunshine could easily be banished by rain and colder winds. In July and August, on the other hand, it got really hot, she said. Or, by Swedish standards, as hot as hell, thought Claesson. Though here in Istanbul there was at least some reprieve from the heat, as the city lay with the sea in all directions.

  Claesson had slept heavily that night, even through the call to prayer. He’d left Özen and Merve yesterday evening, saying they were off somewhere, he hadn’t paid much attention to where – they were adults after all – while he went back to the hotel to get some sleep. They’d have to get up early tomorrow to catch the flight home – this Claesson had decided as he ate breakfast alone: coffee, yogurt, bread, feta cheese, olives, tomatoes, and cucumber. But he hadn’t yet imparted this information to his colleague. Though Özen knew, alright. It would soon be the end of his halcyon days. Of the chirping and Turkish delight.

  Özen was nowhere to be seen in the breakfast room, but surely the lad had the sense to turn up at the police station in time, he thought. Otherwise he was prepared to give him a wake-up call.

  But Özen appeared, shortly followed by Merve, but with enough of an interval to make it seem like they’d arrived at the station from different directions. He doubted they’d had much sleep, but they were glowing nonetheless, noted Claesson as his eyes scanned their sallow faces.

  He smiled at them just as Superintendent Fuat Karaoğlu stepped through the door, announcing that he intended to take part in the day’s morning meeting. He’d heard the Swedes were due home the next day; Claesson had called him to say that he figured they could continue their collaboration from Sweden.

  Özen looked like someone had just punched him in the face. He’d just have to take it on the chin.

  “Our collaboration will continue. You have many threads to pull together at home in…” and then something came out of Karaoğlu’s mouth that was meant to sound like Oskarshamn. “You have, you know, your Turkish contact man,” he said with a friendly nod to Özen. “That makes things much easier. The trial, if one is ever called that is… I mean, if we ever find a suspect for the manslaughter, or murder, or whatever you will treat the case as, will take place here in Istanbul. That is something I will look forward to. Turkish law will apply,” he said, and Claesson nodded.

  Crimes are always atoned for in the country where they are committed and tried in accordance with the local laws, which no doubt had made many people regret their attempt to smuggle drugs or guns into foreign countries with legislation that did not really correspond to the Swedish one.

  “But certainly our prisons are already full… What is it like in your country?” wondered Karaoğlu.

  Claesson had to admit that it was the same in Sweden. Overcrowded prisons.

  Luckily, the discussion didn’t move on to more or less humane prisons. Claesson was of the decided opinion that there was a critical difference between the treatment of offenders, as it was so politely called, in Turkey and Sweden. But he could be wrong.

  His musings were interrupted by the arrival of the forensic technician, who was called Cem something, a surname that had failed to stick in Claesson’s mind. He gave them a quick rundown on the evidence, or rather lack of really clear evidence, that they’d found. The shoeprint they’d discovered on the floor next to the body came from a very common kind of sports shoe of an international make of Taiwanese manufacture. A kind of shoe that you could buy both in Turkey and in Sweden, in other words. And anyway, they’d only been able to make out half the tread pattern. It was probably a men’s size 10 ½.

  “Is that a common shoe size in Sweden?”

  Claesson and Özen looked at each other.

  “I wear a 10,” said Claesson. “I’m of average Swedish height. There are many men in Sweden who are taller than me, but shorter too. I’d say that 10 ½ is pretty common.”

  “We believe that the killer had pulled the knife blade out and disappeared before the blood had really started to pump copiously out of the wound and run down onto the floor,” continued Cem.

  Claesson thought that it must have been a bloodbath. He pictured in his mind again Olsson sitting there dozing in peace and quiet out by the railing while being stroked by the warm breeze. It had been afternoon, and perhaps Olsson had been taking a nap, much as he himself liked to do given half a chance. To just lean back his office chair, feet up on an open drawer, and drift away for five, maybe fifteen minutes, no more. The killer who crept up on the snoozing Olsson in his size 10 ½ stuck his knife in him so quickly that the carpet dealer had hardly had time to blink. Snatched the bag that Olsson was seen holding on the quay in Yeniköy, withdrew the knife, tossed it into the sea and walked nonchalantly and coolly away.

  A professional, he thought.

  “A man with ice in his stomach,” he said, translating the Swedish expression aloud into English.

  Judging by the strange looks on Karaoğlu’s and Merve’s faces, he realized that it was not one that people here used. He rephrased himself.

  “The killer had to be a very cool and composed,” he said.

  “They usually are,” said Karaoğlu. “People with no barriers.”

  Cem left them and they reviewed the previous day’s events. They began with the Arkadia Hotel, where the Olssons had been staying. They hadn’t yet gone through the lists of all the guests who were staying there at the same time, but Merve and Özen would try to do so later.

  Then they briefed him on their visit to the Galata New Hotel.

  “A breakthrough in the investigation,” said Karaoğlu, and the others nodded and the temperature rose a few degrees.

  “I’ve already sent off the Swedish names from the hotel, ten all told, to Oskarshamn to have a check run on them. Did it last night,” said Özen.

  Good boy, thought Claesson. Efficient.

  “Maybe we’ll have time to check out the hotels near the Galata today?” suggested Özen.

  And maybe there’d be time to take a quick tour of the Blue Mosque, if nothing else, thought Claesson. Or Hagia Sofia. Or to go down to Eminönü to breathe some sea air and watch the ferries.

  Then he gave Karaoğlu an account of their visit to the carpet dealer in the Grand Bazaar – a pleasant experience, he felt – to have the existence of the valuable rug confirmed. Olsson had picked it up the day before his wife had left for home, but she had no idea what kind of rug it was. He summed up his interview with her from the day before.

  “Nor had she seen any suspect rug packed away in a classic carpet bag, she claimed,” said Claesson.

  “Did you feel as if she was telling the truth?” Karaoğlu asked.

  “Hard to say,” said Claesson. “It seems to fit. Olsson was holding a bag like that in the photo from the quay in Yeniköy, and that was the day after his wife had left. It’s possible that she never came anywhere near it. Maybe Olsson had hidden it in a cupboard in the hotel over night and took it with him when he moved to the Galata New Hotel. But it’s not there amongst his remaining personal effects… Er, yes, one thing we noted there was that his suitcase was still there, his clothes and some paperbacks. But no toiletry bag.”

&nbs
p; Karaoğlu nodded.

  “Maybe he had stayed over in Yeniköy,” he said.

  “Who knows,” said Claesson with a shrug. “As you know, we sat here and talked to the family after the identification, but nothing in particular emerged other than that his wife had no idea who the woman in the photo was. But I thought she reacted anyway.”

  “Really?”

  “She stiffened. Blushed,” said Claesson, drawing his hand over his own face.

  Karaoğlu nodded again to show he understood.

  “Someone her husband knew… a woman, young too. Can’t have been much fun for his wife to see,” he said.

  But still the possibility that it was a total stranger who had nothing whatsoever to do with Olsson was just as great, if not greater, thought Claesson.

  “And what do you believe about the rug?” asked Karaoğlu. “Who paid for it?”

  “We’re looking through Olsson’s bank accounts in Sweden,” said Claesson. “We’re talking a lot of money. The carpet dealer in the Grand Bazaar had had the money deposited into his company account, he said, and that can be checked.”

  “We will get onto it,” said Karaoğlu.

  “Neither his assistant in the carpet shop back in Oskarshamn nor the dealer in the Grand Bazaar had any idea who’d ordered the rug from Olsson,” Claesson continued. “It wasn’t something you asked, apparently. There’s a certain degree of discretion when it comes to carpets.”

  “He cannot have bought it for himself?” wondered Karaoğlu.

  Claesson and Özen looked at each other.

  “Maybe he is a genuine carpet collector,” continued Karaoğlu. “They would do almost anything… exactly like all compulsive collectors. If they have money they can pay out a fortune.”

  “But we haven’t got that feeling from Sweden,” said Claesson. “Not that Olsson was a collector in that sense, or that he was a rich man… But people have a lot of secrets. Olsson had a stockroom in his shop, of course, and it’s possible that he amassed a fortune there in carpets without anyone knowing, not even the woman who works there… Perfect if you want to keep thieves away. We’ll have to ask someone to go and check out what the carpets there are worth.”

  He stroked his neck with his hand, as he liked to do when thinking.

  “I’m sure we can find someone from Stockholm or somewhere who can value his stock.”

  He thought of The Antiques Roadshow. One of the men on that tv show was no doubt a carpet expert.

  They separated and decided to meet up again at a quarter to three.

  Claesson asked Özen and Merve if they could take it upon themselves to check the hotels again to get more information on the guests. Maybe even get around to cross-checking with Sweden. He couldn’t have given them a better present. To work together. To be left to themselves. To be free of the boss.

  They’ll sit languishing over a cup of tea or a plate of kofta. If they even gave themselves time to eat, that is. If the widow had still been in town, he could have had another chat with her – he felt there was a need for it – but she wasn’t. She’d left for Sweden earlier that day.

  That left only one thing to do. To go sightseeing.

  Why not mix business and pleasure?

  He walked through the crowded quarter down to the sea, forcing his way randomly through the swarm of people that moved like some viscous semi-solid. People were selling things on either side of the street – underwear, towels, bedclothes, leather belts, bags, plastic, synthetic or leather shoes, none of which looked comfortable. In between were cafes. They smelled good, and he started to feel hungry, but dared not buy anything. He thought about his stomach. It’d be aggravating if he got sick on his last day.

  He arrived at an open place and a huge mosque. A garden dotted with pleasant-looking restaurants was on the other side. But he was too restless to sit down, and continued down to the wide quayside close to the abutment of the Galata Bridge. The crowd was, impossibly, even thicker there: it was apparently where everyone passed by or met up.

  Trolleys squealed in the background. The odd boat whistle sounded. The ferries lay densely packed, each with its own destination in one of the myriad directions in this kingdom of the sea. He liked what he saw. He liked it very much indeed.

  He took out his cell phone and called Özen to ask him to find out where the ferries that went up toward the Bosporus were berthed. He could hear him consult Merve.

  “You’re to go to berth number three. Are you thinking of taking a ride up there?”

  Özen breathed down the line. He’d probably have loved to have gone with him.

  “Yes. If there’s one that goes at a reasonable time.”

  “But you won’t have time to go all the way there and back.”

  “I know. I was thinking of just going as far as Yeniköy.”

  He heard Özen talk to Merve again.

  “OK. You can take a taxi from there, or go by dolmus.”

  “OK, and what’s that?”

  “A kind of shared taxi with fixed prices. Minibuses, often white. You’ll find them. The buses don’t leave until they’re full, otherwise they pick people up on the way. It can be quite an experience if you’ve got time. If you have, go to Taksim and take a taxi from there. Anyway taxis are cheap.”

  “Good, thanks.”

  “Merve says that you get cakes, sweets, and stuff like that on board, but no food. Just so you know.”

  He turned toward berth number three, forcing his way through the crowd and almost tripping over a man grilling fish. Unable to contain himself any longer, he bought a hot, freshly grilled fish stuffed into white bread, and a Coke. He ate and drank as he pressed on. It tasted good.

  Young boys tried to entice him onto diverse ferry trips that he wasn’t interested in. Asking people as he went, he eventually came to a ticket booth. The ferry was leaviyng in ten minutes. He was in luck.

  As he boarded he saw the name of the ferry. Thought he recognized it. Could he really be this lucky?

  He swallowed the last of the fish burger, or whatever it was called, pulled out his phone again and called Özen, who asked Merve for the name of the ferry on which Olsson had spent his last luckless moments on earth.

  “Tirowor, she says.”

  “Thanks!”

  Bingo.

  He’d been given a brochure with his ticket, and learned from the English translation that the ferry made three trips a day during peak season. Yeniköy lay in the section that was called Central Bosporus. The ferry made six stops in all, but instead of going right up to the Black Sea, it turned around and chugged back the way it came. Yeniköy was the third stop from Istanbul and was on the European side. But the boat zigzagged between the shores along the narrow strait.

  Had Olsson also taken the ferry to Yeniköy, and not just from it? Or had he gone the whole journey, remaining on the ferry as it returned? He could, of course, have disembarked on the way up and taken a later ferry back. The rules allowed one stop off; if you wanted to do more, you had to buy a new ticket. Karaoğlu had said they’d questioned the crew on the other ferries, too, but were none the wiser about how Olsson had traveled. No more than just the photo from the quay in Yeniköy and the testimonies of the tea-seller and the guy in the kiosk.

  The ferry put out, its engine throbbing. The bow plowed the water so that it frothed.

  The boat was far from packed with tourists, although there was quite a crowd on board, and quite a line had formed by the onboard kiosk. Claesson had already recognized the man behind the counter. He looked exactly like he did in the photos that Karaoğlu and Merve had projected onto the screen at the police station that first night in Istanbul.

  He couldn’t recall his name. It was something beginning with E. But he didn’t call Özen to ask. The man looked friendly. Good-natured, with a tanned, glossy crown and hair that curled by his ears.

  When it was his turn in line, Claesson pointed at the ice cream sign. The man could have been in his forties and was lacking some molars,
although his front teeth were big and strong-looking, as were the canines, which, incidentally, are the last to go. He’d learned that from the forensics expert. The man nodded in comprehension, opened the freezer, and fished out an ice cream pop wrapped in shiny paper.

  Ergün.

  The name came to Claesson as soon as he’d turned his back on him. Ergün, with a surname beginning with B, that was it! But he had no use for the name. He wasn’t going to address him. He didn’t have the authority. Or the inclination. He was enjoying being an observer.

  Claesson strolled around as he ate, praying to himself that his stomach could take it. Eggs and cream, common bacterial substrates.

  He stood by the rail watching the entire city show itself in all its glory before disappearing. A magnificent view. There were rudimentary wooden benches to sit on if you could take the outside air. He examined the long bench toward the stern. Lashed down at its far end were the lifeboats, probably of rubber but protected by a hard shell that you could lean against. There was a free space there. In Olsson’s place, in other words.

  He squeezed past some Germans that were sitting there, unaware that they were at a murder scene. But Claesson knew, and he confirmed it solemnly to himself in a way that he rarely did. Although he was jaded by now, he needed to do this maneuver, probably to heighten his awareness and intensify his sense of presence, since he had not been here before. Not been first on the scene as he usually was, but had had to make do with photos and his own powers of imagination – his fantasy, if you will.

  The smell of the sea and the diesel engines reached him when he sank down onto the bench. A splash of spray landed on his cheek and he wiped it away as he leaned against the wall of the after-saloon, realizing that when Olsson had sat here he had had a view of the Marmara Sea instead, since the ferry was heading into Istanbul rather than away from it. The incongruous thing was that none of the tourists on board had any idea about what had happened less than a week previously. All traces were gone. People were smiling with the wind in their hair.