The Secret Fear

by Solomon Carter

  “Thought you said you weren’t Turkish,” he said.

  “I’m not. But to people like that, we’re all the same anyway”

  “Yes,” said Simmons. “You are.”

  Kaplan shot Simmons a sharp look. He gazed back. “I meant that you’re a cop. To them, we’re all the enemy. Come on, Kaplan.”

  The woman smiled to herself in the darkness. DC Simmons was gradually climbing in her estimation. “Well?” she said. Simmons glanced back when he reached the pavement.

  “They didn’t do it. But I knew that, Hogarth knew it, Palmer knew it.”

  “I knew it, too,” said Kaplan.

  “Yeah. The only one who didn’t was DCI Melford. I don’t know what it is with Melford. Once they get to a certain rank, they seem to end up playing mind games.”

  “Oh?” said Kaplan. “And Hogarth. Does he play mind games?”

  “Not yet. He plays different games altogether.”

  “Such as?” said Kaplan. They started walking, light from the Arches’ restaurants streaking across the road towards them.

  “You’ll see. Hogarth’s games don’t seem to have any rules as far as I can see.”

  PALMER BRUSHED ASIDE the strip curtain and crept into the stainless-steel kitchen. The place was beginning to smell. Dickens from crime scenes and Marris from forensics would have insisted the scene was left well alone until they were sure they had what they needed. The stink reminded her of the sulphurous smell of rotten chicken. It was the smell of blood on the turn. The stench hung in the air in a low-key, cloying kind of way, but it was going to get worse. Hopefully, Dickens would give the green light to clear up – the last traces of Baba Sen would be cleared away, as would the rotting food, and everything else left behind from the deadly morning. Palmer edged on. She thought of the prints she would be disturbing but hoped Dickens would have taken what he needed by now. Orton was out front on Hamlet Court Road, just hidden from view by the police screen blocking out the window glass. While PC Orton was not the most diligent copper on the books, there was always a chance she’d be heard. So she moved with utmost care. Palmer didn’t know what she was looking for, but she felt that if she looked with new eyes – eyes aware of the Atacan connection – aware of the feud with the Yuksel family – she would find a clue. If she did, it might help settle the case towards an arrest and a conclusion. Palmer stared at the front window and almost stumbled over a shrink-wrapped pack of catering-size mayonnaise jars, which jutted out from beneath the worktop. Palmer ducked behind the shop counter and used her mobile phone torch to take a good look. The labels said they were from Rooker’s Cash and Carry. The giant cash and carry out towards Rochford. Intrigued, Palmer walked on towards the oversized cooking oil drums. She hefted one up and found a price code and label underneath. She saw that label belonged to Rooker’s too. Everything came from Rooker’s. Nothing from the Yuksels. But looking at the price tag on the underside of the tin, she remembered the oil price from Yuksels had been very different. Twenty-six fifty? Something like that? The Rooker’s Greek oil in her hand was just nineteen pounds a can. Baba Sen had been right to shop elsewhere. He was saving a fortune on oil. Maybe on everything else too. Interesting, but it didn’t illuminate in terms of the murder. Palmer lowered the heavy oil can back into place and stepped around the edges of the kitchen. She passed the magnetized wall rack of knives then shone her phone torch at the image of President Erdoĝan and the Turkish flag. She moved her torch around, looking too for an image of Atatürk as she had seen at Yuksel’s but there was no Atatürk. Odd, but not significant. Only the image of Erdoĝan was displayed here. Small details of little use. But there had to be something else... Palmer was directing her torch along the big fridges and the storage cabinets when she heard the faintest sound of movement. She froze and stilled her breath. She turned around, remembering to keep her torchlight turned away from the window. Palmer scanned the darkness and saw a shadow passing outside. Hamlet Court Road was a busy thoroughfare and never completely asleep at any time of night though it was hardly late. She watched and listened to the street noise until she felt in control again. She turned her eyes back to the kitchen. Almost immediately, something caught her eye. A small wall-mounted shelf unit with a few files jutting out of it. It was mounted on the wall above a metal cupboard. She shone the torch at the shelves and saw the ginger tea alongside a tin of coffee with an environmental health folder and a three-star food hygiene rating on the wall beside it. The files looked less than promising but tucked in among them she noticed a small white ceramic tub with a golden crescent on it. Another piece of Turkish memorabilia perhaps? Then Palmer read the script printed beneath it. “The charity you give will be your shade on the day of judgement.’ There had been nothing like this at Yuksel’s office, she was sure of that. Palmer frowned, considering the meaning. It was a box for charitable donations, but here, this deep into the kitchen – donations from who? Not customers, that much was clear. Palmer shone her torch around the immediate vicinity and found a metal cupboard immediately below the shelving. Not much more than a stainless-steel box, it looked anonymous, much like the fridges and storage cupboards around the other walls, but smaller. She saw the cupboard was set on an angle exposing the tiles beneath as if it had been shifted. She had a keen eye. Palmer was sure it hadn’t been that way when she was last here so shone her torch down and saw the door was just ajar. Shining her torch through the top of the door crack she caught a hint of more paperwork and some books within. This tiny part of the kitchen seemed to be Baba Sen’s office. It was a find, and the open door gave her a shot of adrenaline. Someone had moved it and it was very unlikely to be Dickens... Interesting. Even more interesting than the charity box which contradicted the image she’d been given of Baba Sen as a self-centred miser, a questionable man who slagged off his rivals through jealousy. Yuksel’s version of the man was slipping away in front of her eyes. Palmer reached for the charity box, her curiosity trumping the need to keep it free of prints. She picked up the little pot and turned it over in her hand. On the back, in smaller writing was a black script written in English, then a squiggle of what looked like Arabic text. Sadaqah Charity Box. But Baba Sen was Turkish, not Arabic... Then she realised what should have been obvious all along – Baba Sen was a Muslim. The charity box was a part of his faith. Palmer turned to look back at the flag and the image of President Erdoĝan as a chill feeling overcame her again. She felt certain she was being watched. This time the feeling didn’t go away. She looked towards the window then suddenly felt a dark and solid presence by her shoulder. Palmer spun around to face a shadow as he loomed close. She saw his hands were gloved. It was too late. The man was upon her.

  The ceramic pot slipped from her fingers and rolled onto the top of the steel cupboard as Palmer raised her hand to block the fist coming her way. She succeeded but the blow thumped hard into the flesh of her forearm and knocked her back across the cabinet. The man was still bathed in shadow, his face hidden from view. Palmer snatched a breath and pushed against the cabinet, kicking out at the figure, forcing him far enough back that she might raise her phone torch and fill his face with light. But the kick of her flat heels only slid off the man’s hip bone. The full force of the kick was wasted. Palmer knew she was in trouble.

  “I’m a policewoman, you idiot!” she shouted at him, hoping Orton or anybody else would hear. The man saw the beam of torchlight shooting around on the ceiling and aimed his next punch at Palmer’s hand. The pain ricocheted through her fingers up into her wrist and she watched, almost detached, as her phone flipped out of her hand, bounced on the edge of the cupboard with a crack, and then spun down to floor. The phone landed screen down, and she saw the man move, getting ready to stamp his shoe on it. The beam illuminated the black leather of his shoe. Fighting for her life and alert as she could be, Palmer watched the man raise his foot into the light. But the sight filled her with anger. He wanted to kill the light. His next act would be to kill her. Because she was getting close – she k
new it now – and this was the price of progress. With gritted teeth, Palmer balled her pained fist and lashed out, smacking the shadowy man in the chin. Her hand flashed with new pain. The man grunted and stepped back. She felt him staring at her in the dark and saw a vicious glint in his eye as it fixed on her. She made out the shape of his head, the texture of the tight woolly in the faintest light from the emergency lighting above. He was coming for her now. She knew it. The final approach to end her life. Her chest constricted, and her heart raced with the dumb knowledge that she had walked herself into this mess for no other purpose other than to find a way towards Hogarth... And now she was going to pay with her life. The man surged forwards and the first blow swept past her head as Palmer dodged the fist by rolling right and her eyes caught the array of steel blades stuck onto the wall above the worktop. The array of kitchen knives – the place from where Orcun Sen had taken his. Another blow came her way, and this time it connected, smashing into her cheekbone. It shocked her and hurt like hell, but now Palmer was tilting further right. If he had managed to hit her full on, Palmer knew she would have been out like a light. She was vulnerable. She needed a way out. But the man came at her again as her hand scrabbled for the wall. The man read her intention and moved fast, throwing himself towards her to stop her. Palmer kicked out and caught him hard in the centre of his body. The man groaned and stumbled back. The momentum of the kick helped Palmer push back to the wall and she swept an arm out and snatched at the nearest blade. The thing was smooth metal – moulded of one piece. She swept it out towards the man, not caring if she cut him, not caring if he lived or died. The man was a killer. He meant to kill her. He would get what he deserved. He dragged in a breath as a loud noise sounded in the corridor behind them. The attacker froze and Palmer’s confidence began to return. There was a chance she might live. Orton was coming, useless, tubby PC Orton! All was forgiven. Footsteps thundered into the kitchen from the corridor, slapping heavy on the tiles.

  “What the hell is going on here? What is this?!” The voice was loud, booming, furious. And heavily accented. Palmer realised it wasn’t PC Orton at all. The attacker flinched at the voice. Palmer felt him staring at her, then the newcomer. She could feel his panic.

  She glanced back and watched the big silhouette hurtle towards them, Palmer finally recognised his lumbering shape. It was Orcun Sen. The attacker backed away, but Palmer knew he was still probably armed. He was a threat to them, both.

  “Mr Sen! The lights! Turn on the lights!”

  “DS Palmer?” called Sen.

  “Yes, it’s me. He’s armed. Please just hit the lights!”

  As Orcun Sen moved through the kitchen, the man in the darkness made his move. For a split second, Palmer imagined he was coming for her, regardless of the knife. She raised her blade and swept it at the man. This time it caught his side, slicing into his jacket. The man jerked away, spooked and hesitant, but without showing a hint of any pain. She watched the attacker’s shadowy head turn toward Orcun Sen, then back to her. He froze a moment longer before he shot away to the back door. “Stop!” called Sen, but the attacker rushed past him and the back door was yanked open. An instant later the outer door slammed shut.

  “Damn it!” said Sen, smashing his hand down on the worktop.

  Angry she hadn’t stopped him, Palmer sighed in frustration They heard the man’s footsteps darting away on the crunching debris of the back alley. They soon faded from earshot. The lights flicked on, and Palmer squinted into the bright harsh light. She shielded her eyes as they adjusted. Orcun Sen approached, his eyes meeting hers with curiosity and brooding anger. For a split second, Palmer thought she might need the knife to defend herself from Orcun Sen before his face relaxed.

  “You used one of the knives from the wall,” said Sen.

  “They looked fit for the purpose,” said Palmer.

  “Baba always liked a good, efficient tool,” said Orcun.

  She rubbed her aching cheek then looked down at the cupboard with the open door. It had been shunted even further out of position by the struggle. She wondered at the cupboard, the contents, and then she saw the light reflecting from beneath, like a strip of silver.

  “He hurt you?” said Sen. He stayed back eyeing the blade in her hand. Palmer saw the man’s caution and laid the knife beside her hip on the small cupboard top as she moved her jaw left and right, finding the pain was mostly in her cheek instead.

  “Think I’m going to have a shiner,” said Palmer. “That’s all.” She was lost in thought. The strip of silver still had her eye. She knelt down and pushed the cupboard aside to find a cheap looking chopping knife. Steel blade, black plastic handle. Palmer frowned and looked around. In the end, she saw a piece of plastic packaging hanging from the worktop. She took it and used the wrapping to cover her hand as she retrieved the knife. She laid it on the cupboard top and looked up at Orcun Sen. He had blue eyes. He looked at her oddly.

  “He came back here. Baba’s killer. He came back. Why would he do that?”

  Palmer started to compose herself. “I was hoping you might know the answer to that, Mr Sen,” she said, looking into his eyes. He shook his head.

  “No. But you must have known he would come. You were here. How did you know?”

  Palmer shook her head and took her breath. “Afraid not, Mr Sen. I came here looking for clues to lead me to the killer.”

  “In the dark? Alone? What about the others?”

  Palmer struggled to explain herself. In the end, she opted for bluster. She would need to explain herself soon, but not to Orcun Sen. He didn’t know about procedure, protocol, boundaries or police safety. Palmer did. But she didn’t want to think of the protocols she’d flouted in order to end up here. The day had been stressful enough already. And now she had to think of Orcun Sen. The big man seemed to be in shock.

  “Sometimes we need to take a risk in order to get the job done,” she said.

  Sen thought about it and nodded. “And it looks like you almost succeeded,” said Sen. There was a hint of a smile and respect on the big man’s face. Palmer finally took a breath. She felt safe for now. But when she remembered PC Orton, she quickly became angry again and shook her head.

  “What is it?” said Sen. Palmer watched as the big man reached past her hip to pick up the knife of moulded steel. The one she had used to defend herself. It lay close beside the one she had retrieved from the floor. She watched calmly as Sen replaced it on the magnetized wall. She folded her arms as Sen turned to face her and looked at the knife with the plastic handle.

  “Oh, the policeman outside was supposed to keep watch on this place. As watchmen go, I think we can call that a fail. I’ll talk to him about it soon enough... this knife, Mr Sen. It doesn’t look like the others...” She glanced at the cheap plastic, so unlike the other knives moulded of fancy solid steel. She saw there was a foreign-looking word printed on the foot of the blade. A brand or a place of manufacture. The print was very small and white, and began with the letter S.

  “That knife?” Orcun looked at the plastic-handled blade and shook his head. “No. It’s not one of ours. But Baba kept a lot of things in that cupboard. It could have fallen from there. That policeman outside – he’s hardly been there at all. I thought he was here on another errand.”

  “No. Just this one,” said Palmer. She eyed the knife and rubbed her cheek. “So, this cupboard contains Baba Sen’s belongings? Including this knife, I suppose?”

  “That’s where he kept business stuff mainly, but other items like that, yes. That knife must have been his.”

  Palmer nodded. “I’d better call this in right now. Though I’m pretty sure the man will be nowhere near here by the time backup arrives.” She picked up her phone from the floor and found a new crack in the phone screen. She tutted and hit the home button. The screen turned bright and the usual icon array appeared. It still worked. She opened the call function ready to call but was distracted by the charity box still rolling on the steel worktop behind he
r.

  “Mr Sen. What is that?” she asked, nodding to the charity box.

  “Call me Orcun, please. This? This belonged to Baba, my father. He was a good, devout Muslim. Not like the rest of us. He used to save money for giving to the mosque and the other places he liked.”

  “Then it was a religious duty?”

  “Not many people knew that Baba was a pious man. But he was. It was one of the reasons he worked so hard.”

  Palmer regarded the man in his grief.

  “DS Palmer, please. I want to clean the shop. I want to invite Baba’s customers and friends in for a service here.”

  “What about the funeral?” said Palmer.

  “The coroner still has the body, does he not? I know it will take time. But customers are asking, they are sad for us. I promised we would do something. Please ask your colleagues to allow us this one thing.”

  “You might be waiting a while, Mr Sen. These things take time,” said Palmer.

  Orcun shook his head and tutted.

  “Sorry,” said Palmer. He looked into her eyes and saw that she meant it.

  “Tell me, Mr—”

  “Orcun,” he said.

  Palmer nodded. “Tell me, Orcun. Was it just your father who was religious?”

  “Maybe if my mother had lived, I would have ended up pious too. But I am too much a modern Turk. Secular, like most of the ones who live in this country.”

  Palmer nodded, but she didn’t understand it all. “And the Yuksels. Are they religious?”

  Sen made a clucking sound of disbelief. “Are you joking? They are the most secular of all Turks. There is no decent bone or drop of blood in their entire bodies. Whoever that bastard villain was, he must have come from them but none of you will see it. Yuksel hated my father.”

  Palmer felt Sen’s eyes on hers, studying her, as she looked down at the cupboard.