The Secret Fear

by Solomon Carter

  “What you looking at that for?” said Yuksel, reclining at his desk, his words snappy and impolite.

  “Photographs on display are there to be looked at,” said Palmer.

  Yuksel nodded.

  “I take it this car wash business is yours?” said Palmer.

  Yuksel nodded. “That is another business built on hard work. Like all successful businesses, detective. We Turkish people came to this country with nothing. But Turks are hardworking people. We have always been this way.”

  Palmer’s eyes roved the shelves behind the man. There, amongst the files and folders, beside another picture of his wife, was an image of General Atatürk, the founder of Turkey. A long time back, Palmer had travelled across Europe and had ventured into Turkey. She remembered the people as friendly and fascinated by her blonde hair. But most of all she remembered the face of Atatürk in every town she visited – his face painted on town centre walls, and even on shopfronts. At one Turkish campsite, the face of Atatürk fluttered on flags above every tent.

  “The photograph is of my wife,” said Yuksel, pointing to the tuxedo shot. “She was a beautiful woman, no.”

  “Was?” said Palmer. She caught his eye.

  Yuksel nodded. “She passed away eighteen months ago.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” said Palmer.

  Yuksel didn’t thank Palmer for her concern. His eyes remained hard but steady. Palmer took the chair in front of the desk and sat down uninvited.

  “The photograph with my wife. You know where that was taken?”

  Palmer shook her head.

  “At a business award, detective. The community car wash. We won an award for taking on young unemployed people – Turks mainly, of course – young men who hadn’t been able to get work elsewhere. It was the recession. Tough times for a lot of people. But there is always work to be done.”

  “Very noble,” said Palmer.

  “And something else you will not know about my family is that we support some good local charities. The food we cannot sell – close to the sell by date – we give this to the foodbanks. Anything good in this town, we always support it.”

  “I’ve long known about the generosity of Turkish people,” said Palmer.

  “Turks have always been like this. But some do not share our values...”

  “You’re talking about Baba Sen.”

  Yuksel nodded. “He is the reason you’re here. But you have us wrong. You’ve heard too much from their side. I do not usually speak of what our businesses do for charity because I do not like men who boast, but you need to know because you hear it only one way. We are not bad people, no matter what Orcun Sen and his family tell others.”

  “All we know is that there is a feud and that Orcun Sen seems to passionately believe that you had a part in his father’s death.”

  “Orcun Sen is becoming his father. But he has an excuse. He is in the fires of grief. I didn’t like his attitude, his violence towards me, but I understand it all the same. Loss can be devastating. But as much as I understand it, I cannot tolerate what the man did here today. They have bad-mouthed us in the community for too long, now they want to attack us as well?”

  “But that’s what I don’t get, Mr Yuksel. Why would the Sens bad-mouth you at all? What is the source of all this bad blood?”

  “Bah,” said Yuksel with a wave of his hand. “There was no bad blood at all before Baba Sen took against us. Speak to all the others. Talk to other Turkish business owners. We are friends with Turkish businesses and families all over this town and beyond. They depend on us and we never let them down. Because of the quality of our stock, because of our reputation, our business has done very well since we started. Hard work pays off. But the Sens never saw it that way. As we grew, Baba Sen grew jealous. His customers love him, I know that. I know his reputation, detective. But it was fake. The real Baba Sen was the one we saw.”

  “That was his public face. But to everyone else, he was a different man. Baba Sen turned against us as soon as the business began a couple of years back. Then I started to hear that he bad-mouthed us to some of our best customers. They told me about it – in confidence. He told them our prices were bad, that they could do better elsewhere. Better prices, cheaper stock. Worse quality too, of course, but then the Sens don’t care about quality. They only care about themselves.”

  “Two years ago – why would they have turned against you like that?”

  “It was soon after we started the cash and carry. I saw a gap in the market and Sen didn’t like it. Does a viper need a reason to be a viper? It was jealousy, detective. Baba Sen was full of it. He tried to poison good people against us. He said we were greedy. He said many other things too. We heard all these things, but we did not react. Why? Because we had done nothing wrong.”

  Palmer frowned. “I still don’t understand why he would turn against you.”

  “I’ve told you already – jealousy. He only turned on us when we became successful. Baba Sen was really a loner, not at all a community man. He was a quiet, jealous, bigoted type. What else do you want me to say? Do you want me to continue to speak so badly of a dead man?”

  “I want you to tell me the truth, Mr Yuksel. Tell me anything which could help us find the killer.”

  Yuksel shrugged.

  “Baba was good with his customers, but he ignored his obligations, and that is always a problem.”

  “His obligations?” said Palmer.

  Yuksel leaned forward. “You pushed me to tell you, so I tell you. Every man must do what is right. Baba Sen’s obligation was to be civil, to act like any good Turk – to do his duty, but he turned his back on us and everyone else. He tried to sabotage us or anyone else who did better than he did, so tell me – is it any wonder he has ended up dead? I am a realist, Detective Palmer. And I am not surprised.”

  Palmer tried to read deep into the old man’s eyes. Yuksel met her gaze evenly but threw up a defensive hand.

  “We have nothing to hide. Baba Sen had a bad track record. That was his undoing, not us.”

  Palmer changed tack. “When we spoke to your son earlier on, we asked him where he was when Mr Sen was attacked.”

  Yuksel waved his hand. “My son was at home, of course.”

  Palmer nodded. “Yes. That’s what he said. But he also said he was working.”

  “Working?”

  Palmer watched the old man’s face turn hard and blank. But she had seen the flicker of surprise before he tried to bury it.

  “Mr Yuksel, do you employ a contact who sources stock for you in Turkey?” said Palmer.

  “In Turkey...?” The old man rubbed his lip. “Yes. In Turkey. We have suppliers, of course, we do. Like every business does.”

  “But do you have people who operate on your behalf to find stock? New lines and such. Like a buyer.”

  A cloud briefly crossed Yuksel’s face.

  “My son is an entrepreneur of the new breed. He uses his modern skills on my behalf and I am pleased.”

  “You don’t seem entirely sure. Does Izmir have contacts who locate stock for you in Turkey? This is important, Mr Yuksel. Someone in Istanbul...?”

  Yuksel hesitated. “Yes. We have someone in Istanbul. This is where we get most of our stock, of course.

  Palmer paused.

  “And you pay these people for their services?”

  “I don’t follow the details of all Izmir’s entrepreneurial experiments,” said Yuksel, “but if we pay them, then it will be the smallest fee. We are here to make a profit, not give money away. I trust my son to make good decisions.”

  Palmer wasn’t entirely satisfied the man had answered the question.

  “How does your son contact these people?”

  “How does anyone contact people in another country?! By phone, by email, it’s not so hard to guess...”

  “By video call?”

  “Whatever. Like I said, Izmir is a different generation, he would know these things. What is this about? You were talkin
g to me about Sen.”

  Palmer ignored the question. “Izmir claims he was busy on a video call with one of your Istanbul business contacts at five am this morning. Is that correct?”

  Yuksel paused. “If Izmir says it is so, then yes, it is so.”

  “Mr Yuksel, you don’t seem overly sure on many of the details here.”

  “I trust my son. I delegate. I don’t need to be sure on the details. If that’s what Izmir told you, then it’s true. He was in my house, that is what I know. There must be records to verify what he said. Phone records.”

  “Yes, there are records. We’re looking at those. Do you know the name of any of your son’s contacts?” said Palmer.

  “I cannot answer such questions like this. I would need to check our records. But you say you have the records – so you have the proof my son wasn’t lying. Finished.”

  Palmer studied the gleam in the old man’s sharp eyes. He tilted his head and rested it on a single finger. If he was a liar, then old man Yuksel was a good one. But even an honest man could tell a lie to save his son’s skin, and Palmer didn’t have Yuksel down as honest.

  “Mr Yuksel,” said Palmer. “I am going to ask you an important question and I want a direct answer.”

  “Direct, yes. Direct is how I have always been.”

  “Do you know who killed Baba Sen? Or who might have had reason to do so?”

  Yuksel leaned across his desk so Palmer could read his face more clearly. Palmer refused to be intimidated.

  “No, I do not know who killed Baba Sen. And as devious as Sen was, I know of no man who would have done this. We were different kind of men him and me. Very different. But we here are on the right side. Sen was in the wrong. And from what I have seen today the son is no better. This Orcun had better watch his step because I promise you, we’ll suffer no more threats from him. Or anybody else.”

  “Anybody else. What does that mean exactly, Mr Yuksel?”

  “Nothing but what I said. We have put up with enough rubbish lately. From what happened to Sen, I think we were not the only ones.”

  The word Atacan came to Palmer’s lips. She held back a moment, thinking of the consequences and Hogarth’s reluctance to discuss it, but Palmer wanted to see the impact of the name more than she cared about the consequences. Hogarth was right. Old man Yuksel was a bad apple, and she wanted him rattled. She wanted to measure the Atacan effect.

  She swallowed the tension and continued to question the old man. “Did you hear about the wound on Baba Sen’s head?”

  Yuksel’s eyes narrowed. “How could I?” he snapped. A moment later he added. “So they hit his head?”

  “He may not have died from it,” said Palmer, digging herself deeper into the mire. “Actually, we think the cut was made after Mr Sen’s death.”

  Yuksel frowned and slowly shook his head. “After? Why?”

  “It looks as if a knife was used to cut an ‘A’ shape into his head... as in the letter ‘A’. Would you know anything about that, Mr Yuksel? Do you know what that might mean?”

  Yuksel leaned back in his chair. His narrowed eyes looked around his office as if for relief, or inspiration. By the time he met Palmer’s eyes he was shaking his head.”

  “The letter ‘A’ you say... they cut the letter ‘A’ into Sen’s head?”

  Palmer nodded.

  Yuksel coughed, but when the words came, they were loud and defiant. “We are businessmen, not butchers, detective. The answer is no. I do not know why anyone would do something so barbaric as this.”

  Palmer stayed silent as she chewed over another risk.

  “Have you ever heard of the name Atacan, Mr Yuksel?”

  Yuksel let loose a hard laugh but his laughter didn’t last long. “Is this a trap or a joke? Every Turkish man who lives in this country has heard that name.” Yuksel stood up behind his desk.

  “But I will not speak about that family, neither good nor ill. No Turk with any sense would discuss them. Now, are we done?”

  “Yes, we are, though some of the things you said about the Sens, I’d really like to know a bit more about that.”

  “Then go and ask them. We’ve helped you all we can. Now please, leave us to our work.”

  Palmer stood up, already wondering if she should tell Hogarth what she had done.

  Yuksel walked round the desk and opened the office door, making it clear he wanted her to leave. Palmer stepped outside, turning back to him as she did so. “There may be some more questions later, Mr Yuksel.”

  “I don’t think so. We’ve already answered every question you could ask,” said Yuksel. “And from this point on, detective, I’m also asking you to leave Miray alone. She has nothing to do with this. She’s been through enough already. That woman is under our care.”

  Palmer frowned. “Under your care? That’s an odd choice of phrase, Mr Yuksel.”

  “I don’t care what you think. It’s true. We’re good Turkish people and we look after our own.”

  “I’m sure,” said Palmer. “But rest assured, Mr Yuksel, if we do need to talk to Miray, then talk to her we will.” Palmer turned away, feeling the old man’s gaze burning into her back. Palmer glanced around the store but Miray was nowhere to be seen.

  She headed for the counter gate where Izmir was still working on the computer. He noticed Palmer and offered a nod of goodbye. A sour, aching feeling filled Palmer’s throat as she walked away. The Yuksels were bad people, maybe not killers, but bad all the same. Either way, her private mission had gone wrong.

  She had gambled and come away empty-handed. Yusuf Yuksel had given her nothing but his high moral tone along with some malicious hints about the Sens’ jealousy, but no more than that. Seeing Yuksel’s reaction to the name Atacan had been like watching a man shrink back from a sharp knife. But had Hogarth’s reaction been any different? The Atacan name seemed to inspire fear in everyone she met. It still didn’t prove anyone’s guilt.

  With Miray browbeaten and now hidden from sight Palmer wondered if she had helped the woman or simply made things worse. Her visit had been selfish. The desire to learn about Hogarth’s past had proven too much. As DS Palmer walked away, she hoped Miray Atacan would not have to pay the price for her curiosity.

  Eleven

  With a passable courthouse coffee steaming on his desk, Hogarth rolled the dice and made a call to John Dickens at crime scenes. Simmons had taken the first hit from the man’s sour temper but after a full day processing the debris at Hamlet Court Road, Hogarth reckoned Dickens owed him something. Ed Quentin’s wry comments were still percolating in his mind. Quentin knew something, and it burned him not to know the details. Hogarth wondered if he could chisel the facts from Dickens instead.

  “Hogarth. I’ve been expecting to hear from you,” said Dickens, as soon as he picked up

  “No doubt you have. So, John. Have you come up with anything?”

  “That depends on what kind of miracles you’re hoping for.”

  “Just the ones you deliver on every case, John.”

  “Flattery, eh? You must be desperate,” said Dickens. Hogarth grinned into the handset. “Well, what I’ve seen gives me some clues as to the process of the attack. But it’s not what you might think. First off, the obvious. The attacker is a man. I’d say ‘killer’, but I suppose Quentin hasn’t delivered the verdict yet.”

  “Let’s go with killer. It wasn’t natural bloody causes, that’s for sure,” said Hogarth.

  Dickens didn’t laugh. “The size nine shoe prints also suggest a male perp. There was a faint set of prints in the moisture from the floor cleaning. And I found them in the corridor by the toilet, and at the entry point into the kitchen. They were mixed, overlaid, and messed up by similar prints probably from when the attacker left, also by the back door. The door wasn’t forced, either. Half the night’s rubbish bags had already been put out. I think the victim might have left the door open to put the remaining bags out.”

  “So, Mr Sen was the relaxed type. Or he w
as complacent. Or the attacker had a key...”

  “You’re suggesting it was an inside job, then?”

  “Who knows? Signs of anything else?”

  “The victim was going through his routine, that’s all. Calmly too, from the look of things. The radio on some Turkish station, he’d just finished a cup of ginger tea, the cleaning was almost done. Then the attacker came in, did his business, and left through the back door – footprints prove it.”

  “Distinguishing marks, John?”

  “The shoes? Not really in this case. They look to be a smooth-soled type. Pretty common on the high street. But if this was an inside job, a family member or some such, then they showed more brains in setting up their hurried departure than they did in other respects.”