The Secret Fear

by Solomon Carter

  “Yes, sir. I think I do...” said Hogarth through gritted teeth. “Give me ten minutes.”

  “Quick as you can,” said Melford, and then he hung up.

  Hogarth glared at his phone.

  “This is getting out of bloody hand,” he muttered. Hogarth considered the email Melford had claimed he received – the bulletin about the threat of crime to local businesses. The whole idea stank. It was ridiculous to receive such an email one morning, and then the threat to be realised the very next. Weather could be forecast, but not crime. Hogarth decided it was time to kick the legs away from that particular table just to see if it would still stand. He jogged back to his car, already dialling his mobile to call someone who could help dispel Melford’s myths. Liv Burns – maybe she would lend a hand. Liv was out of the local police loop too, which was handy. And working in the Met, chances were she’d have a contact who knew about DCI Melford’s crime bulletins. She picked up the call inside three rings.

  “Liv, it’s Joe Hogarth again. Listen,” he said, panting as he ran. “I’ve got another favour to ask you.”

  “Joe? You’ve got a bloody cheek after you dumped me in it with Carson before.”

  “I don’t think that’s all my fault, now is it, Liv?”

  The woman humphed. “Why are you running? Atacan’s not chasing you, is he?” she said. He heard the smile in her voice.

  “Not at present.” He slowed down, feeling a little ridiculous. “I’m calling because I think my gaffer is having a nervous breakdown.”

  “Hmm. It must be catching,” said Burns.

  “Listen, Liv. I need you to check on something – and keep it schtum.” Hogarth got into his car and slammed the door. “Can you find out if the brass gets emails about forthcoming trends in crime and the like – anything like that.”

  “Of course they do, Joe.”

  “Okay, put it another way. Is there any chance you could get me sent a copy of the last crime bulletins, forecasts, reports – whatever you want to call them, I really need to see them.

  Liv Burns gave a thoughtful hum, the kind which made Hogarth wonder what was coming next.

  “Joe... If I can get you one of those bulletins – what’s it worth?” she said. There was a playful tone in her voice. Intriguing. She sounded flirtatious. Then he remembered Liv Burns had just got out of a messy relationship with Carson. It made him hesitate. But then he decided; what the hell, Carson was forty miles away in a whole different structure.

  “I don’t know, Liv.” he took a gamble. “How about... dinner?”

  “Dinner sounds a bit drastic for you, Joe. Why not start off easy.”

  Hogarth raised an eyebrow and started the engine. Start off? Start off what?

  “Fair enough,” said Hogarth. “Then how about a pint?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Burns. “For a pint – remember,” she said.

  “Liv, how could I forget a promise like that?”

  When the call ended, Hogarth was left with a mischievous grin on his face. “Well, I never,” he said, glancing at his craggy face in the mirror. Liv Burns, eh? Another dark-haired woman in his life... albeit one he’d never thought of in romantic terms. But there she was. And the more he thought about it, the better the idea seemed. “One man’s loss, DI Carson,” he muttered. And then Hogarth drove away down West Road, only to be stopped by a sudden red light at the junction. Hogarth smiled again. Melford could wait. Served him bloody right.

  PALMER KNOCKED ON THE door of the Sen apartment. After a long moment, Orcun Sen answered the door. He blinked at her, uncertain. Palmer felt herself blush. She cleared her throat.

  “Mr Sen,” she said.

  “DS Palmer. Good to see you. I heard that you came before. Ahsen told me.”

  “Yes. We needed to look at the crime scene. Just another check over.”

  “And you looked. So now you have something else to ask. Come in, come in,” he said. He led the way back upstairs to the apartment.

  “Tea?” said Sen. Palmer couldn’t help thinking of the ginger tea downstairs.

  “No thanks.”

  “Something stronger?” he said with a smile.

  “Afraid not, Mr Sen. I think my raki days are behind me.”

  The man bowed his head and walked to the kitchen. She hoped he had taken the hint.

  “Ask away, detective,” he called.

  “I noticed the décor. It’s a very modern apartment. With your father being so religious I assumed he would have shown a sign of it in your home.”

  Sen called from the kitchen. “My father was also a very practical man. He knew I was not one for turning to Mecca five times a day. He wanted me to be more religious, but he knew it wasn’t so. And as for Ahsen, well, he’s far more a modern British boy than a Turk.”

  Orcun walked into the front room holding a small glass cup of steaming brown liquid. For Palmer, it was another memory of holidays past. Turkish tea in a tiny glass cup with hot sunshine streaming overhead.

  “Our lack of interest irritated my father greatly but it’s true. Ahsen is not like him at all. If my father had started putting his music and his Islamic art all over the walls, Ahsen would have freaked out.”

  “Really?” said Palmer.

  “Yes. They had enough arguments about religion and politics in the shop as it was. Don’t get me wrong. They were close, but there was distance too. The usual distance of generations and attitudes. But there was respect.”

  “And what about love?”

  “Love? But all people love differently, do they not? Baba was a workaholic. He was hard to love sometimes. He was driven. He wanted things his way. And as you see, the shop was where he kept most of his religious oddments. He lived in the shop kitchen. It made sense to keep it there.”

  “And he never tried to force it on you?”

  “Religion? In the beginning, yes. But later? Not really. He made it clear he had preferences. He made it even more clear that Ahsen needed to mend his ways.”

  “His ways?”

  “He was born here. He was too western for my father’s liking. His behaviour, I mean. Insular, modern, a bit lazy maybe... too much in love with himself. Baba thought he was debauched and decadent. This is what my father saw, I know. All I see is a young man finding his way. Struggling too. All young men must be debauched and decadent at one time in their lives, no?”

  Palmer listened. “Still, it must have be hard for you,” she said.

  “Without a mother... without a wife... yes, it was.” Palmer looked at the window. There was a moment’s pause.

  “So religion became an issue between them?”

  “Please, don’t blow this out of proportion. Religion is a problem for everyone. In families, it is more intense maybe. But man, when it came to politics, that was when tempers flared. In the end, I made them both swear not to talk about it. But they broke those promises. I found them arguing with such ferocity sometimes. Ahsen lost perspective every so often. So did Baba. They said things which hurt each other occasionally. About each other’s beliefs.”

  Palmer’s eyes flicked to Sen’s. “Really?”

  “Politics and religion. You know what they say. It is Erdoĝan’s fault, of course. I never said this to my father, because I liked peace too much. But my boy is young. He’s an idealist. Baba imagined he was like one of those westernised liberals, like the ones behind the coup.”

  “That’s how he saw his grandson? As one of those radicals? But his grandson grew up here.”

  “Yes, but Ahsen always spoke on behalf of the young ones – the protesters. And Baba said Erdoĝan was right to crush them. I think Baba saw Ahsen, stupidly, as becoming a revolutionary. This was only when passions were high, not all the time. Baba loved us. He loved his business. But when he was hot-tempered, he seemed to love Erdoĝan even more. Once Ahsen called him myopic.” Orcun grinned. “When Baba worked out what this meant, he went insane. That was not so long ago, actually. It was one of their most heated arguments. But i
n the end, things calmed down.”

  “When was that?” said Palmer.

  “A few weeks back. But, detective, it was nothing. It was raw emotion, but it was family stuff.”

  Palmer nodded but stayed quiet.

  “So your father loved Erdoĝan. How much do you think?”

  “You want me to quantify? To give you a percentage?”

  “If you like,” said Palmer.

  “I already told you, I wished he had a girlfriend. Those pent-up passions could have been spent elsewhere.”

  “And what about your son?”

  “Peace. He wants peace. A free world. All that kind of John Lennon nonsense people believe in before they grow up and have to earn a living. He needs a girlfriend too.”

  “So... he’s a hippie?” said Palmer.

  “No. He’s an angry young idealist, but tell me, what does he have to be angry about? He has a job with us. He has money. He has a home for as long as he wants. Like most sulky young men, he should find a girl and count his blessings. One day, he will. Like I do.”

  Palmer nodded. “You say he sulks. You say he’s angry. Like your father was?”

  “No. Not like my father.”

  “You seem definite about that,” she said.

  “I’m less definite about where your questions are going,” said Orcun.

  Palmer nodded. “I’m trying to understand your family, Orcun. When your father was killed... that morning...”

  “Please, I’ve been through this...”

  “One more time, please.”

  “Okay. Okay. I was asleep. I worked late. Not as late as Baba, but still. I had a beer or two, went to bed, and slept. I had a bad dream, so who knows, maybe I heard something in my sleep, but I didn’t wake up until at least six. The curse of the bladder always wakes me too early.”

  “And you didn’t check downstairs until...”

  “Until after nine. It didn’t occur to me that anything would be wrong. I thought my father was sleeping in or had gone out to shop.”

  “And Ahsen?”

  “Ahsen was up. He’s a night owl and an early riser. He’s one of those young people who spend too much time on the internet at night. He needs to grow up, I know.”

  “That’s unusual. Most teenagers stay in bed until lunchtime. What time does he get up?”

  “I don’t know. I heard him at six when I went to the loo. I think I heard music from his room, anyway.”

  Music in the morning. One more reason why Ahsen hadn’t heard anything. Palmer thought of the ginger tea, toxicology still unconfirmed. She thought of the Atacans but refrained from using the name. She thought of the knife Orcun hadn’t recognised.

  “It’s been almost two days now, Mr Sen. Have you thought of any reason why this could have happened?”

  “You mean, besides the Yuksels?”

  Sen’s eyes flared. Palmer shook her head.

  “When will you people see? I have never spoken of this because I’ll admit, I was scared of them I heard what could happen. I didn’t want that for Baba, my son, or myself...”

  Palmer waited.

  “This is an interview, yes? An official thing... what will happen if I say it?”

  “That depends, Orcun.”

  He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “The Yuksels are extortionists. The reason they make so much money in this town is only because of threats. Yusuf Yuksel – have you seen past the mask yet?”

  “We’re beginning to, Mr Sen.”

  “He thinks he’s a Turkish Don Corleone. The Godfather. And until a while ago, I didn’t take him seriously. But then I heard about a few people who tried to cancel their accounts with Yuksels. Their shops got vandalised. Staff got hurt. So they kept buying the awful drek Yuksel passes off as good food... But Baba simply wouldn’t pay them and he wouldn’t buy from them. He even told others ‘screw Yuksel, let him think what he likes. I don’t know what Baba’s reason was. Stubbornness, religion, or just refusing to buy such awful food – but Baba never paid Yuksel a penny. That was risky enough, but Baba wouldn’t keep his mouth shut. He spoke to people in trouble with Yuksel. He wanted to help them. This is why they killed my father. He paid the highest price for his principles. And because of that, I will not stay silent either anymore.”

  “Then maybe Ahsen gets his principles from you, Orcun.”

  “No. He is like his grandfather. They were both too stubborn for my liking.”

  “Can I speak to the boy myself?” said Palmer.

  “Yes, and maybe after that, you will need a large raki!” said Orcun, with a jovial grin.

  She gestured for his permission to go upstairs.

  Orcun nodded. “The door opposite the top of the stairs.”

  Palmer knocked on Ahsen’s bedroom door. The music behind the door was turned down to a lower volume. It was an American rock band – a raucous and shouty tune she recognised from the radio. The door opened and Ahsen stood in the gap. His hair was untied, hanging loose by his shoulders. He tucked a lock behind his ear. Palmer noted that he didn’t look surprised to see her. She guessed he must have heard her arrival or seen her through the window. Ahsen was quiet, but he liked to observe. He’d been the one at the window.

  “You’re back again,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Palmer. “This time to speak to you.”

  Ahsen’s mouth straightened. He turned and left the door wide open. She looked inside to see a functional bedroom. Posters covered the wall, all music related, all bands with long hair and dark clothes. Like Ahsen. There was a double bed by the window and a computer set on a cheap wooden desk, along with a whole bunch of other electronic equipment stacked in a plastic basket beside it. She glanced at the gubbins in the basket. It contained an iPad, another tablet, a phone, and other assorted cables and devices, all in black. The computer was on, its queasy glow filling the room. The day was still murky outside, and the net curtains were bunched along the big window, making it darker still. Palmer noted a clock shaped like the map of Turkey decorated with the national flag hanging from the wall.

  “I didn’t expect to see the Turkish flag in here,” she said.

  “No. Baba always said that surprised him too,” said Ahsen. A bittersweet smile appeared on his face. Ahsen backed over to the chair by the desk, sat down, and folded his arms. He closed the laptop and nodded to his bed. “Sit there if you like,” he said. Palmer nodded in thanks and perched on the edge.

  “I had you down as too cool for patriotism. And I hear you’re a pacifist.”

  “I believe in peace and freedom,” he said. Then he added, “as an end aim. It doesn’t mean I don’t like the country of my blood.”

  Palmer looked around. “Do you spend a lot of time in here, Ahsen?”

  “I don’t know what business that is of yours. Have you found the scum who killed my grandfather yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?” he said. “You know where my father went yesterday. Surely it isn’t too hard to work out who killed him and why.”

  “You’re saying the Yuksels are to blame?”

  “I’m suggesting old man Yuksel is to blame. And his goons.”

  “His goons? What do you mean by that?”

  “Goons. Buddies. Henchmen. Baba spoke to everyone about how the Yuksels operated whenever something bad had happened to one of the businesses. Baba said Yuksel gave us all a bad name. But as Yuksel mostly preyed on other Turks, very few people outside the community ever knew. Until now.”

  “You really believe Yusuf Yuksel killed Baba?”

  “What else am I supposed to think? That it was a robbery? No. It looked like one, yes. But the poor people here, even the junkies and the drunks, they loved Baba. They would have protected him. I know Baba took care of them. He let them get too close sometimes. Baba gave them treats, free food, and such. I know he even gave them money a few times. I used to think he imagined it was charity, in line with his religious beliefs.”

  “But it wasn’t charity?”

/>   Ahsen made a considered response. “I haven’t read the Koran, but I don’t think it says to give away yesterday’s half-rotten food and give money to drug addicts. That wasn’t charity. That was a free disposal service and donations for drugs. But I guess Baba knew what he was giving his money away for.”

  “You think your grandfather was using these people?”

  “Hey, you’re putting words into my mouth. Baba did things which were good for both parties. The hobos and the drunks didn’t mind eating free food, cold or not. The money... who knows? But the food – Baba got to save money and feel good about himself. It was a transaction of a kind.”

  “When did he do all this?”

  “He left out food just after he finished his shift every night – he left it in a box by the front door.” Environmental Health would love that, thought Palmer.

  “And the money?” she asked.

  “The money. Hmmm. I don’t know the details, but I saw him give money to some hard-up types at least once. The same types who take the free chicken.”

  “Who?”

  “Some hobos. Two of them. Not so long ago.”

  “Do you know them? Would you recognise them?”

  “No. Knowing them was my grandfather’s thing, not mine.”

  “You don’t sound like a huge fan of your grandfather,” said Palmer.

  “Please. Every family has authoritarian figures, don’t they? But I had to live and work with mine every day. Tell me. Does that mean I should have loved him every minute of the day? Did you love your parents every minute of the day?”

  “I suppose not,” said Palmer.

  “But you still loved them, didn’t you?” said Ahsen.

  “Yes, of course,” said Palmer.

  “Then it is the same here. Baba was set in his ways. As he got older, he got even worse. He was angry about things. Especially about religion, about politics. It didn’t make him happy, but he kept on about it. I didn’t like having his views forced down my throat, but this was his way. He used to turn me into a substitute for people he didn’t like. He didn’t like Jeremy Corbyn, so I became Corbyn. He didn’t like Israel, so I was suddenly Netanyahu. It was always like this. I think he was working too hard, always tired, a little crazy even. Unfortunately, he seemed to take this out on me. I wanted things to be better than they were.”