The Secret Fear

by Solomon Carter

  “For a second there, John, you almost sounded like an optimist.”

  “Did I?”

  “Don’t worry, John. I won’t tell anyone.”

  Hogarth smiled as he cut the call.

  “Ignoring the bloody preposterous new fact that Baba Sen died from henbane poisoning and not a thorough beating... I’d still say its game on. Izmir Yuksel is very much back in the frame.”

  “But poisoning? Isn’t that quite a difficult thing to ignore,” said Kaplan from the backseat.

  “All due respect, PCSO Kaplan, I’m not ignoring anything,” said Hogarth.

  “Henbane? It’s Turkish, isn’t it?” said Kaplan.

  “So I hear,” said Hogarth.

  “Interesting,” said Kaplan. “Then it could be significant.”

  “In this case, Kaplan, everything’s Turkish. And everything’s significant.”

  Hogarth pulled up outside Authentic Kebab. There was a handwritten sign in the glass door.

  “What now?” he muttered. He got out of the car and peered at the sign. Palmer joined him. Kaplan looked up to the upper floors as she saw the net curtains flutter in a window above the shop.

  “Someone’s at home,” said Kaplan. “And I think we’ve been spotted.”

  Palmer went quiet. Hogarth dragged a hand through his tousled hair and read the sign out loud.

  “To all our Westcliff Friends. Thank You for your flowers and kind messages. We would like to invite you to a brief informal ceremony for all those who would wish to pay their respects to Baba. Due to the police, the ceremony must be held at Fauntleroy’s instead of the shop.” The date and time were given as two pm on the next day.

  The little pub on the corner wasn’t exactly far, but Hogarth knew it hardly suited Baba Sen’s religious disposition. The only religions Hogarth had noticed at Fauntleroy’s were Celtic and Stella Artois. “Dickens didn’t release the crime scene, then,” said Hogarth.

  They walked around to the back of the shop and buzzed for attention. The back door opened but this time it was the young man with the ponytail who answered. He looked sullen and doleful as usual.

  “Good morning,” said Hogarth. “Is your father in?”

  “He’s been in and out all morning. I think he’s running errands for tomorrow’s ceremony.”

  “The memorial service?”

  “That’s what he’s calling it.”

  Hogarth gave the young man a quizzical look. It was the first time he’d ever truly heard more than a few words from the boy’s mouth. He seemed the serious type, introverted too. Not the kind to grow up to run the family kebab business. Baba Sen had more charisma in his spectacles than this lad.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it’s not a memorial service, is it? You police still have his body. And no one knows when you’ll let us have it back after all your prodding... or do you?”

  “We don’t have your grandfather’s body. The pathologist does. But all being well, your grandfather’s body should be released in the next day or two. I can’t make promises of course...”

  The young man nodded. He looked neither satisfied nor pleased. He looked the sort who’d rather be listening to rock music in his room. An overgrown teenager. Hogarth quickly appraised him. A young man in a long-sleeved black T-shirt with no logo. There was a red fabric band around his wrist, probably a fashion statement item or a reminder of some favourite music festival he’d been to. After the young man didn’t step back and offer them entrance, Hogarth changed tack.

  “How long’s your father going to be out?”

  “Who knows? He’s buying meat and all kinds of things.”

  “Not from the Yuksels, I’d say.”

  The young man didn’t smile. “I don’t think so, do you?”

  “We need to wait for him. There’s a few things I’d like to ask. Do you mind if we look around the shop first?”

  “Again? They said you’d finished with the shop,” said the young man.

  “They did, did they? Ah well. Life’s full of surprises. Don’t worry. We won’t be long. And we won’t disturb your peace and quiet. You can go back to doing whatever it is you’ve been doing. Just one thing, Mr Sen. Azif, isn’t it?”

  “No. My name is Ahsen.”

  “Ahsen. Right. Where were you on the morning when your grandfather was killed?”

  “You’re actually asking me?” The young man seemed offended. “He was my grandfather! I’ve known him all my life.”

  “Yes. But we must ask. It’s part of the job.” Hogarth waited. The young man frowned.

  “I was at home, upstairs. In my bedroom. Only my grandfather needed to work such ridiculous hours. One way or another, old Baba could never rest.”

  “And you didn’t hear anything? And your father didn’t hear anything?”

  “I didn’t know anything until the morning. No. But the man had to be a professional killer, didn’t he? That’s what some are saying. That he even left his mark on my grandfather’s head.”

  The young man seemed to regret speaking.

  “Who are saying?” said Hogarth, intrigued.

  “The newspapers are saying. It’s in there today, did you not see?”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Hogarth. He narrowed his eyes and shot a look at Kaplan across his shoulder. “Kaplan. Do me a favour. Get me a copy of The Record, will you? I take it the story is in The Record?” said Hogarth.

  The young man nodded. “Where else? Please. Can I go now? I am busy.” Kaplan nodded and walked down the alley in the direction of the shops.

  “You can go, Ahsen. Just one more thing first. Did you get on well with your grandfather?”

  “I get on well with everyone,” said Ahsen with a shrug. In a detached kind of way, thought Hogarth.

  “Your dad suggested your grandfather wasn’t always easy to get along with. That he kept secrets. I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”

  “My grandfather being difficult or about his secrets?”

  “Both,” said Hogarth.

  “His pride and his religion sometimes made him difficult to live with. As for his secrets... they really weren’t so secret. You could see what he was thinking in his eyes.”

  “Really now? And what did you see, Ahsen?”

  “A man always making big decisions.”

  “Big decisions, such as?” said Hogarth.

  “I don’t know for sure. Business decisions. Maybe religious decisions. I could see them but could only guess what he was thinking.”

  “And you’re not religious like your grandfather was?”

  Ahsen shook his head. “Me? I always preferred the truth,” said the young man.

  “The truth, eh?” said Hogarth. “And what is the truth exactly?”

  “Whatever people decide it is,” said Ahsen.

  “How very modern of you, Ahsen. As a policeman, I’m sure you won’t mind if I disagree.”

  Ahsen smiled weakly. “You have your reasons to believe what you do.”

  “And what is your reason?”

  “I don’t want recycled opinions, or old rules handed down. I only want freedom. Doesn’t everyone?”

  Hogarth’s brow dipped over his eyes.

  “Interesting talking to you, young man. No doubt we’ll speak again.”

  The young man shrugged. He ran upstairs and took a key from the sideboard inside the doorway of the upstairs flat then ran down again to open the rear door to the kebab shop. The shop was still dark but smelt cleaner than before. No one complained. Hogarth didn’t need that kind of evidence. The only reason he’d come was hanging in the doorway to the kitchen.

  “Thanks, Ahsen. That’s all we need.”

  The young man drifted away and closed the door behind him. They heard his feet thudding on the steps as he returned to the family living quarters.

  “Another bedroom philosopher, eh?” said Hogarth. “Just what the country needs. I don’t know why the parents indulge overgrown youngsters like that. I ne
ver knew there was such a thing as a Turkish Goth.”

  “It wasn’t all philosophy,” said Palmer.

  “Music then. Most of that tosh he was spouting probably came from his music...” Hogarth advanced in the direction of the strip curtain hanging in the doorway between the corridor and the kitchen. He stopped in front of them and looked them up and down.

  “Actually, it struck me he was talking about politics. Turkish politics.”

  “Not more bloody politics. Then you were listening to something else entirely,” said Hogarth. “All I heard was nonsense about the truth, the universe, and everything.”

  “Oh, I think what he said was coded. But then in Turkey, most of it probably is.”

  Hogarth’s attention to her words drifted in and out as his eyes tracked down the length of the strip curtains, searching for one special orange strip.

  “Coded? Now you’ve lost me,” he said.

  “Think about it, guv. In this place, downstairs you’ve got that picture over there in the corner of the kitchen. A picture of Erdoĝan, the Turkish president. The man who turned himself from a prime minister to a president, just because he could.”

  “Erm... didn’t the Russian guy do that once?” said Hogarth.

  “Yes. He did. Neither man is exactly a democrat.”

  “So that’s why you think the boy was prattling on about freedom? He’s anti-Erdoĝan?”

  “Maybe. And upstairs, there’s no sign of any of it. No Erdoĝan or religious stuff. The family seems quite modern upstairs. But down here – this was Baba Sen’s place. It has his stamp on it. His Islamic stuff tucked away. His Erdoĝan photo. This was his domain.”

  Hogarth followed the lines of orange plastic down to the floor. The first three were all straight and true, without a nick or tear in sight.

  “At the Yuksels,” said Palmer. “They didn’t have a picture of Erdoĝan, did they?”

  “No. They had Yuksel’s moustachioed mush all over the place. And the photobomb with our new pal, Devirim Atacan.”

  “Besides that, they had an image of Atatürk.”

  “So?”

  “The two different Turkeys, again. That could be a reason behind their feud. One family is of the Erdoĝan stamp. The other is a secular Turkish family.”

  Hogarth picked one strand and looked back. “Now you’re reading too much into it. If old Baba Sen had a thing for dictators, I don’t see how that can have caused his death. Their feud is about cash, blood and money. You found that paperwork to prove it.”

  “But what has that proved yet? Nothing. And we also found out about the henbane. Turkish henbane. Administered through Baba Sen’s ginger tea...”

  “So we did. Marris and Dickens will be kicking themselves over that one. Quentin found it before they did. But still, none of it is proven, even Quentin said that. We have to keep chasing until the real psycho is exposed... which is exactly why we’re here... Bingo! Gotcha!”

  Psycho? The connotations of the word made Palmer’s eyes glaze in thought.

  Hogarth teased one strip free from the curtain with the nail of his little finger. He flipped it up and laid it over the back of his blazer sleeve and stared at the small triangular shaped nick in the side of the piece. He looked down the length of the strip and estimated the height where the tear had been made.

  “I think this is it, Sue. We’ve got a chance here. This nick here – you see it? It could well have been ripped out when your attacker tried to escape. Let’s just hope you bloody slashed the bugger as well. If Izmir was cut, we’ll have enough to twist our man Izmir into all kinds of knots. Even if he isn’t our killer, he’s been holding out on so many things I’m looking forward to seeing him squirm.”

  “So long as it means Baba Sen’s killer’s put away, fine.”

  “Yep. And if the Atacans disappear as a result, we’ll all be laughing.” Hogarth used his mobile phone to take a camera shot of the nick in the edge of the orange curtain strip. “Come on then. Let’s go and pick up Kaplan. She must have got lost in the sweet shop.”

  “I thought you wanted to speak with Orcun.”

  “Not now. I think we’ve got all we need...”

  As Hogarth started to walk away, Palmer strode through the curtains and walked into the kitchen. Dickens’ floor markers were gone and Baba Sen’s cupboard had been set back into place. Palmer opened the door, fully expecting the knife to be gone. But there it was, laid in the middle of the top shelf. She pulled her sleeve up over her hand and reached in and plucked the knife up. She scanned the blade for any mark of origin, but there was none. Even so, Palmer thought the knife looked very similar to the pack at Basildon.

  Hogarth opened the back door and saw Kaplan approaching, newspaper folded in her hand. She handed it to him and Hogarth flattened it out. The story he was looking for had made it to the front page, big, brash, and ugly enough to sell a ton more newspapers. GANGSTERS CLAIM KEBAB SHOP KILLING

  Hogarth grimaced. “What utter bull... Where did this even come from?” He wasn’t surprised to see the name beneath the headline. Alice Perry. “Written by that teenage guttersnipe as usual. What the hell are these people playing it?”

  Palmer picked up the knife, wrapped it in a cellophane punched-pocket and put it into her handbag and walked out of the kitchen to join Hogarth by the door. She read the paper over his shoulder.

  “But where’s the substance?” said Palmer. “Where’s the quote come from?”

  “There is no quote. It’s a ‘sources confirm’ job. A tip off.”

  “From who?” said Palmer.

  “Whoever stands to benefit from the finger being pointed at the Atacans. Well, not many people would. Not the victim, not the family, not the police. Which leaves our friend, Izmir.”

  “But the poison, guv, the henbane, it’s not going away.”

  “But even that points back to a Turkish villain. It doesn’t disprove that Izmir killed Baba, does it?”

  “The ginger tea... would Izmir have even known to put the poison in it?”

  “Too many questions, Sue, not enough answers. We need to ask the right people.”

  “Like who?” said Palmer.

  Hogarth frowned and shook his head.

  “Maybe it’s time to take a step back. Just a brief one. We’ll look at what we know, then unless it rules him out, we go after Izmir Yuksel, and we go hard. Because apart from uncovering the Yuksels’ racket, Izmir is pretty much all we’ve got.”

  IN THE CAR, PALMER and Kaplan watched quietly as Hogarth found himself dialling a mobile number. He’d noticed the cash and carry’s number a few times on the sign for the shop. Even though he had no idea what he was going to say Hogarth knew exactly who he wanted to speak to. And it wasn’t Izmir. Hogarth’s heart raced with morbid excitement as he waited, but when the phone was connected it went to voicemail. The old man’s voice was on the greeting.

  “This is Yuksel’s Cash and Carry. Leave a message after the beep.”

  Hogarth narrowed his eyes.

  “Mr Yuksel. This is Detective Inspector Hogarth. I’ve just been to your warehouse in Basildon. But you’ll know that by now because your stooge will have told you all about it. You’re a crook, Yuksel, and now I know it.”

  Hogarth hung up, grinned, and started the engine. Palmer held her tongue, as did Kaplan. But the looks on both women’s faces spoke volumes. Hogarth was out of his mind.

  “Rattling cages,” Hogarth explained. “Sometimes it pays off.”

  “And the other times?” said Palmer.

  “Never mind about them,” said Hogarth.

  Twenty

  Hogarth tore a sheet from the creased flipchart and Blu-Tacked it to the narrow, cluttered wall by the office door. The flipchart marker hung between his teeth. There were names in royal blue, scrawled in hasty capital letters, some circled, with frequent arrows leading from one to the next. The names featured all the players they knew about. Baba, Orcun, Ahsen on the Sen side, Yusuf Izmir, Miray, and Devirim Atacan on the Yuk
sel side. At the foot of the page, there was a scrawl about unknown WhatsApp contacts and Istanbul S/Salman. Hogarth paused to review the sheet, then turned back to their little meeting table and started scrawling on the next blank sheet.

  “So, we know Baba Sen was beaten to a pulp, throttled, cut, and now it seems, probably poisoned. Turkish stuff. Henbane... which means...”

  Underneath Baba Sen and Poison Hogarth wrote ATACAN? IZMIR? Then beneath the names, he wrote FEUD. “Why? What in the world would Izmir have to gain by killing Baba Sen? And the same for Devirim Atacan? This Atacan fled from London two years ago after the other gangs topped his brother and started taking the Atacan empire apart. He needs cash. So we can assume he’s on an earner from Yuksel’s racket. He would have only killed Sen on the old man’s say so. But he wouldn’t have killed the man in such a useless way. It would have been neat, clinical, wham, bam, and gone.”

  “Two years. Isn’t that when Miray turned up as well?”

  “It is, roughly. But then if he came down to protect her after Ferkan died. that would make sense.”

  “Two years in hiding. Two years without killing anyone, guv. Dev Atacan could have been rusty. Maybe that’s why he bodged the mark on Baba’s head,” said Palmer.

  “Two years keeps popping up, doesn’t it...? Hmmm. I’ve been through the Atacan scenario. It’s possible he killed Baba, but unlikely. I want it to be him, believe me. It’d give me a reason to get him off the street...”

  Hogarth stared at Palmer as she drifted. “Your attacker didn’t look like an Atacan did he?”

  “It was pitch black, guv.”

  “You cut him, so there should be a mark. A wound, or something.”

  “I said there might be.”

  “And you said he seemed fit and strong. You think Devirim Atacan could fit that bill?”

  “He seemed athletic enough when he was chasing us with a gunman.”

  “Fair point,” said Hogarth. “I want it to be him but... I don’t see it,” said Hogarth. “And the Atacans never used poison in their whole career in London.”

  “I heard what your old colleague Carson said. He said Devirim was the sneaky one. Maybe he’s smart enough to cover his tracks. To use a new method to kill. To make his signature look like a botch.”