‘I thought they’d finished,’ the Russian said as he tipped his head towards the retreating officers.
‘We still haven’t searched your kitchens, Mr Rostov,’ Suleyman said.
‘And what do you hope to find there?’ Güneş smirked. ‘A small amphetamine production plant—’
‘There’s nothing but food in my kitchens,’ Rostov cut in. ‘I don’t want it spoiled.’
‘I can understand that. Why don’t I just go and make sure that my people don’t damage anything,’ Suleyman said with a smile. ‘Would that put your mind at rest?’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Rostov snapped.
‘There’s no need . . .’
‘It’s my house!’
‘I’d let them get on with it if I were you Valery,’ Güneş said as he relaxed back on to one of the tasteless sofas. ‘You and I both know that there’s nothing . . .’
‘Mind your own business, Lütfü,’ Rostov said as he fixed his eyes on Suleyman’s. ‘I wish to go with the inspector.’
‘Then so you shall,’ Suleyman, still smiling, replied. And then as he extended one arm towards the salon door, he said, ‘Shall we?’
Valery Rostov, his eyes mobile with what could have been fear, moved slowly forward.
Nurettin Eldem knew that, from a professional point of view, it wasn’t a good thing to have either favourite or hated clients. Although it was difficult not to like a pleasant person more than a miserable one, as a lawyer he had to try at least to remain impartial. There were, however, exceptions. The thin, grey woman sitting in front of him now was a very good example. Rich as well as charmless, Dr Yeşim Keyder was, Nurettin thought silently to himself, a grasping old hag.
He put on one of his grave, concerned smiles and said, ‘Unfortunately you won’t be able to gain access to the apartment until the police have finished their investigations.’ He shrugged. ‘I know it’s inconvenient—’
‘It’s incomprehensible,’ the woman replied hotly. ‘Both Rosita and this other character they apparently discovered with her died of natural causes. I can’t see why they’re still involved.’
‘They do have to check with the Argentine authorities,’ Nurettin said, ‘and if the identity of this other body is in question—’
‘Rosita’s family are dead,’ Yeşim Keyder said tightly, and then added under her breath, ‘thanks be to God. And as for this other body, well, as I said to that officer, Çöktin, that has nothing to do with me or my family.’
Although Nurettin had always known that the Keyder family were not religious people, he was still a little taken aback by her use of ‘God’ instead of ‘Allah’. Maybe it stemmed from being around Rosita for so many years. And, of course, she had spent some time in Argentina with Veli when he met Rosita all those many years ago.
‘Yes, but then whatever we may think, Dr Keyder, there is nothing we can do until the police have finished. I’ve tried to impress upon them the importance of not damaging what will be your property.’
‘Yes, but they will, won’t they?’ she retorted. ‘It’s what they do, stamping around in their great, oppressive boots, stealing things they take a fancy to.’ She looked up into Nurettin’s fat, jowled features. ‘I do know what goes on, Mr Eldem. I am under no illusions about the trustworthiness of our legal institutions.’
‘Dr Keyder!’
‘And don’t think that just because your father was my lawyer before you, I trust every utterance that issues from your mouth,’ she continued coldly. ‘I know that a few words in the right ear can utterly transform situations like this. I’m rich . . .’
‘Yes, Dr Keyder,’ Nurettin, stung, cleared his throat, ‘which is why I can’t quite understand why you are so anxious to take possession of the Kuloǧlu apartment. Although I don’t suppose it will be long now, Mrs Keyder’s body hasn’t even been released to you as yet.’
‘I told the officer Çöktin that as soon as it’s ready, the priest Vetra can take care of it,’ she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, ‘and if I am, as you say, Mr Eldem, “anxious to take possession” of the Kuloǧlu apartment, then that is my business. In addition, I believe that my brother and his wife gave you some documents for safekeeping.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘You and I both know, Mr Eldem, that the Kuloǧlu apartment belonged solely to my brother Veli. As his only living relative, that, together with all contents not personally belonging to Rosita, now automatically reverts to me.’ She fixed the lawyer with a hard-eyed stare. ‘This, according to my understanding, also includes Veli’s and Rosita’s joint documents.’
‘I would have to—’
‘Which I would like to see now, please,’ Dr Keyder said coldly.
Many years ago, just shortly after Nurettin had taken over the practice from his father, Dr Veli Keyder and his attractive Argentinian wife had given him a selection of sealed envelopes for safekeeping. Young and rather awed by the academic status enjoyed by Veli Keyder, Nurettin hadn’t even thought to ask him what these documents were. The unpleasant Dr Yeşim might know, however, and if the gravity of her already severe features was anything to go by, they were really rather important. Nurettin just briefly played with the idea of getting to them before the woman who was, it was true, their rightful owner.
‘If you’d like to make an appointment, Dr Keyder,’ he said, ‘I can arrange for the safe to be opened . . .’
‘I’d like my property now, please, Mr Eldem,’ the woman replied coldly.
‘Yes . . .’
Dr Yeşim, despite her age and the intense midday heat, stood up quickly. ‘Take me to the safe, and let’s get this part of your duty to me, for which I pay you handsomely, over with.’
Deep in the basement, and insufficiently ventilated, Valery Rostov’s kitchens were very unpleasant places to be at the height of summer. Even the sartorially immaculate Inspector Suleyman had removed his jacket in order to supervise the hot and uncomfortable search.
However, Rostov’s freezer cabinets were another matter. Suleyman had chosen Yıldız and Gün to search those. There were two, what were in reality, small rooms, full of sheep carcasses, fish, chicken and large quantities of dairy products, all covered with thin layers of plastic wrapping. The inspector had told them that every item had to be looked at and, if necessary, unwrapped. In contrast to the rest of the team, Yıldız and Gün were both blue with cold. Unwrapping, wrapping up again, searching through the innumerable layers of polythene for the small bag containing cocaine, the oilcloth-shrouded pistol . . . And then there was Rostov. Shaking with cold, he’d stood there in the doorway, his lips a grim shade of purple, watching Yıldız’s every move.
As he peered through several layers of plastic at three plucked chicken carcasses, Yıldız tried to decide whether Suleyman was punishing Gün and himself by putting them in the freezers, or whether, on this very hot day, it was an act of kindness. Either way, Yıldız’s initial sense of gratitude towards his boss was beginning to pall. Sergeant Çöktin, with whom Yıldız was developing a very friendly relationship, worshipped the ground Suleyman walked on. Quite why, the young constable didn’t entirely understand. Suleyman, though generally fair, wasn’t the easiest man to be around. Unlike İkmen he never joined the lower ranks for the occasional drink and, these days at least, his face rarely moved out of its tense, scowling expression.
Yıldız put the chickens down and began to tackle what looked like a side of mutton. Wrapped in plastic bags as opposed to polythene, this object was going to take him some time to get into. He slipped one hand underneath and dragged, he couldn’t possibly lift, the object to the side of the shelf on which it rested.
‘Put it down.’
Yıldız, surprised by the sound of a voice, especially the glowering Rostov’s, looked up.
‘Inspector Suleyman has given instructions that every item—’
‘Put it down!’
‘Sir—’
‘Touch it again and I’ll fucking kill you!’ the Ru
ssian shrieked.
Yıldız placed his one free hand over his gun holster. The Russian’s pale eyes, motionless through the swirling vapour from the ice, reminded Yıldız of the still glass eyes of the strange dead boy of Kuloǧlu. The memory of that image made his throat tighten and he had to swallow hard in order to be able to speak again.
‘Inspector Suleyman,’ he called. ‘Sir . . .’
‘I’ve told you—’ Rostov began as he moved towards Yıldız.
‘Inspector!’
Yıldız removed his gun from its holster just as Suleyman entered the cupboard.
The senior officer could see instantly that something was very wrong.
‘What’s going on here?’ he said as he too removed his weapon from its holster. ‘Yıldız?’
‘Mr Rostov doesn’t want me to unwrap this piece of meat,’ Yıldız said as he attempted to tear his gaze away from Rostov’s snarling features.
‘I told you I wanted to see everything, didn’t I, Rostov?’ Suleyman said and then, looking again at Yıldız and the very large piece of meat on the shelf in front of him, he continued, ‘Open it.’
Rostov’s head whipped round violently so that now his eyes blazed at Suleyman. ‘No!’
‘That’s an order, Constable,’ Suleyman reiterated quietly.
Yıldız replaced his gun in its holster and then slipped his fingers underneath one of the outer plastic bags.
The sound that came from Rostov as he launched himself at Yıldız was more animal than human. Fingers bent, he clawed at the young officer’s face with such ferocity that even when Suleyman, who had been quickly joined by Avcı and Karataş, did eventually manage to pull him off, the damage was already done. Leaving the other two to restrain the still screaming Rostov on the floor, Suleyman went over to Yıldız and took his chin in his hands.
‘Constable Gün!’ he called as he surveyed the tattered side of the young man’s face.
‘I thought he was going to rip my eye out!’ Yıldız said as the shock of the incident set in and he began to tremble uncontrollably. ‘I thought—’
‘Sssh!’ Suleyman, who was accustomed to the effects of shock, put his arms around the young man until Gün arrived to attend to him.
‘Call an ambulance,’ he said as he placed Yıldız into her care. ‘Go with him.’
‘Yes, sir.’
When they had gone he turned to look at Rostov, who was still being held down on to the freezing floor by the other two officers.
‘So what’s in the package, Mr Rostov?’ he said with what the others knew was frightening calmness. ‘I’m going to look anyway so you might as well tell me.’
‘If you take her out of here, I’ll kill you!’ the Russian screamed.
Both Avcı and Karataş looked up at Suleyman with questions in their eyes.
‘Her?’
‘Some woman’s body, must be,’ Karataş said as he turned back to look into the pale face of the Russian. ‘Some tart he did away with.’
‘No!’
And then suddenly all the rage seemed to drain out of him and Rostov began to cry. Suleyman, still not trusting, but nevertheless affected by this development, squatted down on the floor beside the Russian.
‘So what . . . ?’ he began.
‘It’s my daughter!’ Rostov shouted through his tears. ‘My daughter is wrapped in those bags!’
CHAPTER 10
Ayşe Farsakoǧlu replaced the telephone receiver on its cradle and looked across at İkmen.
‘Reşad Kuran isn’t answering his phone,’ she said wearily.
‘Have you tried his mobile?’ her superior asked.
‘That is his phone, sir,’ Ayşe replied. ‘He’s only got a mobile.’
İkmen looked up. ‘One of us should go round,’ he said. ‘He can’t have gone far without his van.’
Ayşe lit up a cigarette. ‘He could have got on a bus.’
‘Yes.’ Of course he could. People did it all the time, traversing the vast tracts of Anatolia on cheap and, more importantly in this case, plentiful public transport.
‘Am I right in thinking that you’ve got a bad feeling about this, sir?’ Ayşe said as she attempted to catch the dark, hooded eyes of her superior.
İkmen lit a cigarette of his own, inhaled deeply and then sighed. ‘There’s something, I don’t know what, not right about that family, including Kuran,’ he said.
‘You mean like the way Melih Akdeniz just carries on with his work?’
İkmen waved a dismissive hand. ‘No, no. He’s an artist, it’s what he does. It’s odd to us, but art is, if I’m not much mistaken, an obsessive vocation for those who are involved in it. No, it’s . . .’ He looked up at the ceiling as if searching for the right words on its cracked, nicotine-stained surface. ‘I didn’t like the way Melih walked across that glass without feeling anything. He always carries that bottle around with him. Medication, I assume, but what for? We know he used to be a junkie. And there’s his wife . . .’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s obviously distraught,’ İkmen said, ‘but what I don’t get is how she can carry on assisting Melih under these circumstances. She was once, I believe, his student, but she’s got no career of her own now. What’s her motivation? Is Melih, his work, or both more significant to her than her own children?’
Ayşe shrugged. ‘Some women do love their husbands more than their children. It’s not that uncommon.’
İkmen smiled weakly. ‘I suppose not.’
‘Some men actually expect their women to be more attached to them than to their children.’
‘True.’ He wanted to ask her whether she was speaking from experience, but then decided against it. At thirty Ayşe was both beautiful and single. She’d had affairs – most significantly with her own predecessor, İkmen’s former sergeant, the now deceased Orhan Tepe – which had been at times somewhat complicated. Men had, İkmen knew, used Ayşe badly and although she didn’t have any children of her own, he could imagine men from her past asking her to sacrifice things that were meaningful to her for them. How lucky he and his wife were by comparison. Without doubt still completely in love, Çetin and Fatma İkmen nevertheless had identical views when it came to their children – they were absolutely paramount. Even that troublesome Hulya and her Jewish boyfriend . . .
‘And if you’re worried about what might be in Melih’s bottle,’ Ayşe cut into his thoughts, ‘then why not ask him?’
‘Oh, I’m not exactly worried about it,’ İkmen said, frowning over his heavily burning cigarette. ‘I’m not bothered if Melih’s moved on to some oral opiate or whatever it is. No, it’s not what it might mean that bothers me.’
‘I’m not with . . .’
‘To artists like Akdeniz everything they do, say and think has added meaning,’ İkmen said as he rose from his chair and began slowly to pace the room. ‘Everything is a statement. He’s always got that bottle, he’s seen me watch as he drinks from it. He could assuage my curiosity with one sentence. But he doesn’t because he’s an artist; it’s part of the performance that is his life. And as for all that pompous stuff about Karagöz . . .’
‘Karagöz?’ Ayşe laughed. ‘It’s satire.’
‘For the masses, yes. A bit of state-sanctioned and harmless social comment,’ İkmen said. ‘I know why Melih’s mentioned it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s planning to perform a Karagöz shadow play himself,’ he said. ‘That’s why he’s stretched that material across his garden. He’s going to light it from behind and use those things he’s sewing as props. Very innovative,’ he added sourly.
Ayşe shrugged. ‘Should be fun.’
‘Or not,’ İkmen responded gloomily. ‘I can’t stand Karagöz myself. It gives me the creeps.’
Perhaps, Ayşe thought, it was because of what the puppet show was associated with. Karagöz has always traditionally been performed during the Holy Month of Ramadan, when adult Muslims fast between sunrise and sunset. I
t is also sometimes performed as part of the celebrations following sünnet, the male circumcision ceremony.
İkmen’s reasons, however, were nothing to do with either of those events.
‘You know that the two central characters in the plays, Karagöz the peasant and Hacıvat the Ottoman were once real people,’ he said. ‘They worked as artisans at the Great Mosque in Bursa during the reign of Sultan Orhan.’
Ayşe shrugged. ‘If you say so.’
‘And because the two men joked and gossiped so much it irritated the Sultan and so he had them executed. Later when the guilt started to roll in, one of Orhan’s more obsequious subjects designed the now familiar Karagöz screen and puppets so that, in a way, the executed men could live again. The Sultan was delighted.’ He sat down again and sighed. ‘So what people have laughed at for centuries was born out of state-sanctioned murder. And, well, I always think that’s maybe why we’re only ever allowed to see the characters in shadow.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because in the shadow you can’t see the reality, the blood, the sag of the skin as the life retreats from it. It relegates reality to an illusion. Everyone’s dead but they’re still moving and criticising the status quo so that’s OK. It’s comfortable and cruel at the same time. By presenting the shadow play as a ‘statement’, Akdeniz is only inviting his audience to a funeral of dead, toothless ideas. After all, who takes dead men, djinn, gypsies and all the other Karagöz regulars seriously?’
It was strange that İkmen, who had worked with death almost all of his adult life should suddenly sink into such deep and reflective melancholy. But then it was said that his brother-in-law was dying, which had to have an effect upon him. And also he was no longer young. Perhaps he was feeling the weight of years piling up on him, as his children grew, as his wife’s hair turned from black to white as, perhaps, he felt his own powers of deduction shake beneath the weight of responsibility of looking for missing children – such a heavy load. Ayşe impulsively cut across rank and status and put her hand out to him. İkmen took it between his fingers with a small smile.
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