The Secret Fear

by Solomon Carter

“Yeah. No malice. That sounds like Liv...” said Carson, with more than a hint of sarcasm. “I’ll go when the time’s right.”

  “Fair enough. You do what suits you, pal,” said Hogarth, keen to change subject.

  “Liv mentioned the Atacans,” said Carson. “You really think you have an Atacan problem on your hands?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” said Hogarth. “Trouble is, which one am I dealing with? The guy I saw looked slight and middle-aged, but still mean as hell.”

  “That describes about half of em, I’d say. Yeah,” said Carson. “I remember hearing that one of the scum moved out there. Ferkan himself started all that, you know. When the other gangs started encroaching on their territory, Ferkan started looking further afield. But then after Ferkan was topped a few others ran off to pastures new, hoping to avoid his fate. But from what you’ve said... and where you work these days... I’d say the man you’re looking is Devirim Atacan. The fourth son of the brood. He was always a troublemaker, but nothing like Ferkan. Devirim Atacan was the quiet type. The kind who did his stuff and we only found out about it later. Ferkan was more the fireworks type of villain. We always knew when he was up to something.”

  “Devirim? So what’s he like. What’s he into?”

  “Black market cash. Underhand deals. Exploitation, extortion. Anything he can get. Just like the rest of them. But he was the most secretive of them all, which is why it doesn’t surprise me that we haven’t heard of him until now... Liv told me there was gunfire. So, come on then? What’s he up to? How’s Dirty Dev making his money these days?”

  “Funny thing is, I’m not quite sure yet. See, I know who is making some money here. There’s a family importing low-grade cheap food and passing it off as high-quality Turkish produce for the local takeaways. If I believe what we’ve heard, this family are forcing local Turkish businesses to pay an inflated price for it.”

  “Like a protection racket.”

  “Exactly. But this one doesn’t look like a perfect fit for an Atacan. For one, a man called Yusuf Yuksel runs the show. I thought the Atacans always liked to be the top dog in the pack.”

  “They do.”

  “Have you heard of this Yusuf Yuksel?”

  “Southend’s not my show. It’s yours, but the short answer is no. Doesn’t ring any bells here.”

  “Okay. So maybe Devirim has settled to be a lowly employee now,” said Hogarth. “Content to take a cut for playing the enforcer so he can keep off the radar. But the thing is, if he wants to keep off the radar, then why would he kill a local kebab shop owner and cut the letter ‘A’ into the top of his head?”

  “What?!” said Carson. “That’s just like the old days. That’s what they did in their prime!”

  “I know. This one’s a real mess, Carson. An Atacan in hiding who draws attention to himself by using a famous M.O. to tag a new dead body... That doesn’t work, does it? If you want to hide, you hide, you don’t shoot a flare into the sky.”

  “That’s for sure,” said Carson. “And they were all in hiding. The Atacans are like trophies for these new wave hoodlums.”

  Hogarth frowned. “Then we’ve got an Atacan murder that isn’t an Atacan murder. And we’ve got another layer of Turkish feud and mysterious payments on top of it.”

  “Sounds like a case and a half,” said Carson. “I wish you luck with it. Just keep your head down when you see him coming. Devirim is like a scorpion. I mean it. Play safe.” Carson’s flat voice spoke volumes. Liv Burns was right. The man already sounded detached from the job.

  “Thanks for the advice,” said Hogarth, raising a sarcastic eyebrow Palmer’s way. “Just one more thing.”

  “Yes?” said Carson.

  “Miray Atacan.”

  “Miray? You mean Ferkan’s wife. Isn’t she the one you nearly ended up—”

  “All water under the bridge,” said Hogarth, cutting in. “Miray Atacan turned up at the Yuksels’ cash and carry business. She works there. And like you said, it looks like the front for a protection racket. What’s Miray doing down here, do you know?”

  “She moved away after Ferkan was killed. After that, I’d say Miray had become a kind of a trophy too. If she’d stayed in London, she might have ended up being claimed by one or other of these new wave gangs. Transferred to some other hoodlum’s bedroom. The spoils of war and all that. Or worse for her, she might have been killed.”

  Hogarth frowned. “The spoils of war? I never thought of it that way.”

  “These gangs aren’t like you or me, Joe. This is ancient tribal stuff. Medieval. Even the women are like badges for some of these scum.”

  “Then you think this Devirim might have come here to protect her from all that?”

  Hogarth recalled the man in the shop talking to Yuksel. The man just out of sight. The man in the suit. Miray’s awkwardness around him when the suited man was there. It was him.

  “It’s possible. But do yourself a favour, don’t get involved, Joe. Not if you can avoid it.”

  Hogarth couldn’t stop himself replying. The words burst out with a wry smile.

  “From what Liv told me, you’re a fine one to talk.”

  A hard silence filled the line. Hogarth realised it was the only reply he was going to get. His smile didn’t diminish.

  “Thanks for the info,” said Hogarth. “And good luck with what’s next, whatever happens.”

  “Yeah,” said Carson. “And the same to you.”

  The call ended in fast and frosty fashion.

  “What was that about?” said Palmer.

  “Oh... turns out my old compadres, DI Carson and DS Burns crossed the invisible line and jumped in the sack together.”

  Palmer kept her face neutral. “And?”

  “And? Everything went shit-shaped between them of course, and now he’s acting weird and she’s gone after his job.”

  “That’s not good,” said Palmer.

  “That’s typical of what happens when you mix work and pleasure. Which is why I think we’ve got it sorted, Sue. It’s all professional in our team. There’s nothing going on apart from the team clearing scumbags off the street.”

  Palmer nodded in silence. Hogarth glanced into the rear-view mirror.

  “Useful advice, Kaplan. Don’t mix police work with your private life.”

  “Advice I don’t need, thank you, sir.”

  “Everyone says that. Until temptation comes knocking,” Hogarth’s eyes glazed over and turned to the road. “Devirim Atacan. Why is that bugger down here?”

  “To protect Miray, isn’t that what Carson said?”

  “Look at him and Liv Burns. Carson’s not always right. And the Atacans have never been altruistic. So what does he really want?”

  “To earn a living? From Yuksel’s racket?”

  “That’s just a means to an end. Atacan’s not a grafter. He’ll be after something else.”

  There was a brief silence, followed by another Hogarth pronouncement.

  “He didn’t kill Baba Sen, you know.”

  “What? How can you be sure?”

  “If we’re going to nail this killer, we need to be sure about what we do know. And I know Devirim or any other Atacan worth his salt wouldn’t leave the murder scene in such a bloody mess. And he wouldn’t have ever left a clue if he wanted to hide. They only used to leave a calling card when they were the top dogs in town. It’s not Devirim Atacan. Which means it has to be Izmir.”

  “But if it is Izmir, that means he would have tried to make it look like his father’s enforcer – Devirim Atacan – had killed Baba Sen.”

  “I don’t have all the answers, Sue. But I do know Baba Sen wasn’t killed by the Atacans. We need Ed Quentin to help us out here. He knows something. Hopefully, something which can lead us right to Izmir Yuksel’s door. If Quentin delivers that, we could even nab him today.” Hogarth looked into the rear-view. “Fancy a trip to the mortuary, PCSO Kaplan?”

  The PCSO squirmed. “Only joking, Kaplan. Maybe next time, eh?
”

  QUENTIN WASN’T SURPRISED to see Hogarth, but neither was he happy. He saw Hogarth through the porthole windows of the lab, and he took his time, making Hogarth wait as he stripped off his surgical gloves and plastic apron and made his way to the door. The big man walked out, his face half serene and half severe. Hogarth didn’t know which half of Quentin he was going to be dealing with but the Atacans had changed the game. He was past playing along with Quentin’s waiting game. Quentin seemed to sense his urgency.

  “Ed. You said you knew something, right? The Baba Sen case is really getting serious now. If you have something new up your sleeve, I need to know what it is and I need to know now.”

  “But I can’t give you what I don’t have, inspector.”

  “Come on. You must have something? You already had an inkling yesterday, but you chose not to share it. I didn’t push, but I’m running out of options here.”

  “Because an inkling is just an inkling, inspector. I’m looking at some quite arcane clues here, signals which could yet be disproved by the science. Surely, you don’t want me to give you bad advice just when the case is getting complicated. I can’t put my verdict on paper until the toxicology comes back.”

  “Ed, a known killer is on the loose out there. This morning a man was shot right in front of me. I need something. A direction of travel at least. A clue as where you’re likely to end up.”

  Quentin chewed his big bottom lip.

  “Hogarth, you really can’t hold me to this. I don’t have definitive results yet.”

  Hogarth shook his head. “Just tell me, Ed.”

  “If you insist. Very well. There were several possible causes of death, agreed?”

  “Several?” said Palmer, standing to one side. Quentin shot her a look before continuing to address Hogarth.

  “First there is clear evidence of severe trauma to the head, along with signs of strangulation. Contusions to the face, fractured cheekbones, a broken molar, broken nose, bruising to the throat, related damage to the larynx and the windpipe – all showing signs of stress and crushing.”

  “Yes, it was extremely violent...” muttered Hogarth. “We knew all that. But an Atacan wouldn’t bother with all that. Especially the strangling bit. It’s too... intimate. Too hateful. The Atacans were cruel, but never personal. It has to be someone else.”

  “But,” said Quentin, raising a finger and pausing before he continued, “some blood tests and tissue samples did raise other significant question marks. But this isn’t conclusive. Not yet.

  “What’s not conclusive?”

  “Baba Sen had been drinking an excessive amount of liquid before he was killed. In this case tea. And to be precise ginger tea.”

  “I saw he had a tin of ginger tea,” said Palmer.

  Quentin nodded curtly before proceeding.

  “The man’s bladder was full, but his tongue and mouth area were strangely dry. Too dry for what we’d expect even from a corpse left for a few hours. And this had nothing to do with time of death, or with any strangulation. There was just too little saliva residue in his mouth for it to be normal.”

  Hogarth frowned. “So? Ginger tea does that? Think I’ll stick with my standard brew.”

  “No. Ginger tea doesn’t do that,” said Quentin. “Because it’s not a diuretic. It doesn’t dry you out like standard tea or coffee. Then again, the man had a surprisingly full bladder. It had leaked a little after death, but it contained a great deal of urine which had not been discharged. He’d been holding it for a time. Then there were intriguing signs regarding his eyes. Very dilated, unusually so. And some faint rashes on his skin – pink blooms, like a faint blush on the face, neck, and body

  “What is it? What are we looking at here?”

  Quentin bit his lip as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to say.

  “Ed?”

  The big man sighed. “I expect that toxicology will come back showing signs of poisoning by Hyoscyamus niger.”

  “Hi-Oss what?” said Hogarth.

  Quentin shook his head. “Some aspects of this toxin seem like alcohol in effect. But the man had been working all night, so alcohol didn’t make sense. But Hyoscyamus niger has a similar profile, without such a heavy inebriating affect. In large doses, this chemical can have a compound effect. And with a sufficiently large final dose, it can certainly kill... with results like I have described to you just now. Rashes, dilation of the pupils, a sleepy, drunken sensation for the user... From the signs I saw, I’d suggest Baba Sen had been taking this poison for a while before he received his final dose.”

  “Poison?” said Hogarth. “That can’t be right, Ed. The man was beaten to a pulp, strangled beaten, and cut.”

  “Yes, but I think he died from poisoning. Henbane. That’s the other name for it. And though I’ve long been aware of the stuff I’ve never dealt with a henbane murder before. It’s very rare, inspector. Hence my need for utmost caution.”

  “I’ve never heard of the bloody stuff,” said Hogarth, irritated and confounded. “Are you sure?”

  “You wanted this information, and I’ve told you. There’s no point getting angry with me, inspector. Get angry with the toxicology report instead. I’ve said more than I should already.”

  Hogarth grimaced as Quentin turned away. Poison. Hogarth felt as if the rug had been pulled from beneath his feet.

  “Okay, Ed. Thanks for telling me. Just one more thing,” he said. Quentin paused by the doors of the lab.

  “Yes?”

  “Is there anything we should know about this henbane stuff? Anything that might help us find the killer?”

  “Henbane,” said Quentin. “It’s herbal. A plant-based poison. It’s been in use for hundreds of years, but not just as a poison. They used to use it to make beer. The victim is Turkish in origin, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. Baba Sen was Turkish.”

  “Then it might be interesting to note that henbane is extremely prevalent in Turkey. I even read a report that henbane was abused by Turkish teens during the nineteen eighties. A good many ended up in comas, and some died. Much in the same manner as Mr Sen did, I expect.”

  Quentin turned away.

  “To be clear, Ed. Baba Sen did not die from that awful beating?”

  “No. The other symptoms prove it. The brain wasn’t sufficiently starved of oxygen, inspector. Not enough signs of oxygen deprivation from the strangulation. The head trauma was alarming, but the results not deadly. Then his stomach was full of layer traces of henbane, and the other symptoms support it. The violence initially looked like the cause, but the henbane is what did the job here. It was probably ingested along with some other substance to mask the flavour. It’s likely to be Ginger tea from the tests we’ve run. The man was sopping full of the stuff.”

  “Henbane, eh?” muttered Hogarth. He nodded a final thanks to Quentin and waited for the big man to go. Quentin looked pleased to get away.

  “Bloody hell!” said Hogarth. “I was all ready to arrest Izmir, and now what? The lad’s alibi gets weaker every time I look at it. Heck, he can’t even back it up himself. And I think he tried to make Devirim Atacan look guilty, which shows how stupid he is. But poison? It throws the whole case wide open again.”

  “Maybe he still did it, guv,” said Palmer. “We’re just not seeing the full picture.”

  “At this rate, I’m not sure if we ever bloody will. But I’m still sure Izmir is hiding something from us. You know, I think there is a way we could put the frighteners on him to get at the truth. I just need to check on something first.”

  “Check on what?”

  “Something at Authentic Kebab,” said Hogarth. “I want to look at Simmons’s obsession – those awful bloody curtains. Tell me. Before you had your moment with big Orcun – when that man attacked you – you said you defended yourself with a knife. Do you think you managed to cut him?”

  “I tried to. And I even thought I’d got him for a second but he didn’t make a sound. No, guv, I think he got away
unscathed,” said Palmer. She drifted in thought then frowned, recalling the other knife beneath the cupboard – the one Orcun assumed had belonged to his father. Palmer recalled the pack of knives on the pallet at Basildon.

  Hogarth misread her frown.

  “Now, now, Palmer. You can’t avoid Orcun just because of one moment of madness. Just think of the poor man’s fragile ego during his time of grief. You wouldn’t want to be mean, would you?” Hogarth grinned. Palmer shook her head and followed him back to the car, still comparing the knives in her thoughts. They climbed into Hogarth’s car. Kaplan was still seated in the back.

  Nineteen

  Hogarth called Dickens as he drove. Simmons had long been stuck on the idea the plastic strip curtains might have contained some evidence. Dickens had only confirmed the curtains were in his reckoning, but as far as Hogarth knew they had no details back as yet. Dickens was no more receptive to pressure than Quentin, but Hogarth had a job to do. He called Dickens as they drove to Hamlet Court Road and asked whether the curtains had showed anything useful.

  “Besides the Sen family’s taste in décor? No. Not much. There’s a very little blood – but all of that comes from Mr Sen. Ivan Marris has run the tests on it. We didn’t find any DNA or trace fibres relating to your possible killer. I get where Simmons was coming from. The curtain’s strands pass over everyone who enters or exits the shop kitchen. But what he ignored was the fact that the material is too smooth and sheer to pick up fibres. Blood yes, but all of that comes from Sen. Not very useful, I’m afraid.

  “Yes, I hear you, John. But what if...” said Hogarth.

  Dickens groaned.

  “Hear me out, John. What if the culprit snagged a piece of the curtain plastic and took it with him without knowing?”

  “That’s a big what if, inspector... It’s theoretical... but I suppose, it could happen. A few of the strips do show signs of nicks and cuts and general wear and tear.”

  “What if we found a garment with a piece of that curtain on it?”

  “Well, I’d be very pleased for you. I’m sure Marris would be delighted.”