‘What do you mean, she’s your daughter?’
Suleyman, his officers and Rostov were now in the main body of the kitchen, away for the moment from the strange and contentious package in the freezer.
The Russian drew on his cigarette before replying. ‘I mean that what is left of my daughter, her body, is contained within those plastic bags,’ he said.
‘But I thought . . .’
‘That I was gay?’ Rostov smiled, not only at Suleyman but also at the two astounded officers who stood on either side of his chair. ‘I do like young men, yes. But it wasn’t always so. When Tatiana was born things were very different. I lived and worked in Moscow; I had a wife.’
Suleyman glanced briefly back at the freezer before asking, ‘So when was, er, Tatiana born?’
‘Nineteen ninety-two.’
‘And her death . . . ?’
‘She died in nineteen ninety-nine.’ The Russian’s face visibly sagged at the memory of it. ‘Leukaemia – and what is laughably called the Russian health service.’
‘So why’s she in your freezer?’ Karataş, not a man known for his empathy, asked. ‘Why haven’t you buried her, like a decent person?’
Rostov, who until this moment had appeared to be mollified, reddened to the ears.
‘Have you ever lost someone,’ he hissed, ‘someone whose face you can’t bear to see disappear into a muck-filled hole?’
Nobody answered. Somehow, although Suleyman could barely now remember the sequence of events involved, they had got from Masha and her tales of lost Russian boys and tantalising amounts of heroin, through gifts of incense to old priests, to this – a dead child, cold as the reputation of her mobster father’s heart.
‘The law demands that the dead must be buried,’ Suleyman began.
‘Your laws, yes,’ Rostov replied, ‘but I am not Turkish.’
‘I’m sure that Russian law—’
‘She stays where she is!’
‘But what for?’
All of them turned to face the source of the question, the large figure of Constable Avcı.
‘It’s not like you can look at her, all through those plastic bags and ice is it?’ he said. Not known for his intelligence Avcı nevertheless, on this subject, had a point.
Suleyman turned back to look down into the pale face of Valery Rostov.
‘Well, Mr Rostov?’ he said. ‘Can you give me any good reason why I should flout the laws of my own country and allow your daughter’s body to remain in this house?’
Rostov looked briefly at the two junior officers before returning his now concentrated gaze to Suleyman’s face. He was obviously considering something, a course of action designed perhaps to mollify these hostile foreign policemen in some way.
After a few moments, during which Suleyman successfully held his gaze, Rostov said, ‘I’d like to speak to you alone, Inspector.’
Suleyman considered the request for a few moments before saying, ‘All right. I’ll give you five minutes.’
‘Sir!’
‘It’s OK, Avcı,’ Suleyman said. ‘I—’
‘I won’t do anything!’ Rostov snapped. ‘Not with you lot crawling all over my property!’
Suleyman told Avcı and Karataş to leave and then seated himself down opposite the Russian.
‘So, Mr Rostov . . .’
‘I can make you rich beyond your wildest—’
‘I think this conversation just came to an end,’ Suleyman said as he rose smartly from his chair.
‘What about the bad press you’re going to get from last night’s event up at St Stephen’s?’ Rostov said as he watched Suleyman move towards the door.
Suleyman stopped. According to İskender the woman from Radikal was proving problematic, to say the least. And besides, if Rostov did actually admit that Betül Ertüg had been accompanying his man not, as he had originally said, to observe an act of Russian generosity but to set up the police, then who knew what else he would admit to? Masha’s involvement in all this perhaps? The name of the person inside the department who had told Rostov so much about Suleyman’s personal life? Obviously that poor little body in the freezer was Rostov’s weakness. He hadn’t wanted anyone to find it; he’d already fought to protect it once. For him as well as the police, things had not gone to plan.
Suleyman came back and sat down once again. ‘So you sent Betül Ertüg—’
‘No I didn’t,’ Rostov replied, averting his eyes as he spoke. ‘She was invited along to observe what my organisation is doing for the Orthodox community. She just happened to be there when you—’
‘Nonsense!’
‘Well, whatever the truth of it, I do have, shall we say, some influence with Miss Ertüg.’
‘You mean she’s a junkie.’
Rostov held both hands aloft. ‘I didn’t say that!’
‘You didn’t have to.’
‘Did you find any drugs in my house?’ Rostov shrugged. ‘No! I don’t deal drugs, I’m an antiques dealer.’
‘That’s not what I’ve been led to believe.’
‘Then you’ve been misled.’
‘What about Masha?’
The Russian took in a deep breath and then let it out slowly through his nose.
‘You know,’ Suleyman said as he leaned forward in order to get closer to his quarry, ‘the whore you sent to set me up? The woman who told lies about Father Alexei, who knew I’d find only a paragon of virtue here in this house.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Rostov replied. ‘I’m gay, I don’t know whores,’ and then, suddenly looking Suleyman straight and coldly in the eyes, he said, ‘I don’t know anyone of that name, Inspector. No one of that name exists.’
All the hairs on the back of Suleyman’s neck stood on end. He’d got rid of her! But, of course, if she didn’t exist, tracing the leak at the department back to Rostov was going to be next to impossible. Suleyman wanted to scream but he managed somehow to prevent himself from doing so. However, his throat was dry and so he had to swallow hard to lubricate it. Rostov saw this and, Suleyman fancied, he smiled just faintly.
‘So if I were to contact Miss Ertüg . . .’ Rostov began.
‘If you—’
‘Provided you agree to leave Tatiana where she is I can do that,’ the Russian said as he took a mobile phone out of his pocket.
Suleyman looked first at the instrument and then at Rostov.
‘I’ll need to think about that,’ he said.
‘Well don’t think for too long.’
‘No.’ Suleyman took his cigarettes out of his pocket and, with a shaking hand, he lit up. ‘No, but while I am thinking, why don’t you tell me about your daughter?’
Rostov’s face darkened with suspicion. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I can’t believe you just simply intend to keep her here for the rest of your life. I mean, I’ve heard of this cryogenic process—’
Rostov laughed, mirthlessly. ‘Which is the biggest con going! Bringing people back to life at some time in the future – my ex-wife believed in it which is why my daughter is in the state she’s in now. I paid those people millions of roubles,’ he said. ‘No, Tatiana is only to be embalmed, Inspector.’
Suleyman frowned. ‘Yes, but surely you could have had her embalmed in Russia? Years ago, I imagine.’
‘Not so she’d look like she was when she was alive,’ Rostov replied on a sigh. ‘That’s only possible here. That’s why I finally persuaded my ex-wife to send her to me. The most skilled embalmer in the world lives in İstanbul,’ he said, his eyes now lighting up as he enthused. ‘Bodies that look as if they’re about to move; sitting up in chairs, books in their hands! I’ve seen things that would take your breath away.’
Suleyman frowned. ‘But why?’
Rostov smiled. ‘Because they are beautiful. This is art, Inspector. Your loved ones, eternally with you as works of art!’ His eyes shone. ‘People pay millions of dollars for this. People come here from all over, espe
cially from back home. There is even a trade in these works of art, people collect . . .’
‘So you have consulted this embalmer?’
‘Not directly, no,’ Rostov said. ‘I’m still negotiating, through a third party – one of my countrymen has put me in touch with someone associated with this practitioner. The embalmer is always busy, everybody wants the embalmer’s work.’
The strange image of an assortment of Russian gangsters sitting contentedly at home with their lifelike but very dead relatives passed briefly across Suleyman’s horrified brain. He knew about what he considered to be the essentially Christian practice of preserving the dead as much as was possible – Zelfa had told him some very odd stories. However, for such things, admittedly with Christians involved, to be happening in a predominantly Muslim city seemed very out of place – if not unprecedented. He now remembered, vaguely, about Çöktin and the strange little investigation he had become involved with while Suleyman ran around after Rostov. Not a victim of crime, Çöktin’s apparently preserved body of a man was, Suleyman had heard, the subject of an investigation into his ‘ownership’. After that, of course, ‘he’ would have to be buried for reasons of hygiene and public safety – as would Tatiana. But then perhaps it might not be wise to bring that subject up with Rostov yet, not until he had managed to get some more information from him.
‘All right,’ he said as he slowly nodded his head in agreement. ‘Make your call to Betül Ertüg and Tatiana can stay where she is for the time being.’
Rostov reached across to pick up his phone. Suleyman put his hand across the gangster’s and looked him gravely in the face.
‘However,’ he said, ‘if you want me to help you protect her in the future, you’re going to have to help me now.’
He was lying, of course: Tatiana would have to be buried in the end whether Rostov liked it or not. But it was obvious from the Russian’s face that he either had no knowledge of this or didn’t want to allow himself to think about it.
‘I want you to talk me through your supply routes, Mr Rostov,’ he said now with a smile on his face. ‘We know that most of the local heroin originates from Afghanistan . . .’
‘You’ve found no drugs! I don’t—’
‘Oh, please, do not insult my intelligence any more!’ Suleyman snapped. ‘Think of Tatiana. Think about what might be more important to you.’ He leaned back in his chair, suddenly and horribly enjoying the sight of Rostov’s seemingly painful confusion. ‘Oh, and while I’m here, you might as well tell me the name of your contact to the embalmer also,’ he said. ‘A friend of mine needs some help in that direction.’
Döne said that some people in the district reckoned that Melih Akdeniz’s house was haunted. It had something to do with, Çöktin recalled, the original occupant, Akdeniz’s ancestor, who it was said had died mourning the loss of his Spanish homeland. Çöktin hadn’t intended to come this way but he was here now and so because he was a little curious about the home of the famous Melih Akdeniz, he did allow himself to peer around the open metal gates at the back of the building. He’d imagined a rather pleasant garden of some sort, perhaps like Döne’s, which had a small fountain in the centre. And it could have been that the artist’s garden did indeed possess such features – it was just difficult to tell with an enormous swathe of white material stretched across almost the entire space.
Çöktin sighed. In spite of everything Döne had ever told him about modern art, it still left him cold. That a pile of bricks, some weird blob made of clay and spit or, in this case, seemingly, a blank sheet, could constitute a ‘statement’ about the world or religion or whatever was beyond him. Smiling at what he considered to be the absurdity of the ‘exhibit’ he was about to walk away when the sheet rippled to reveal what looked like a figure behind it. Someone, perhaps even Akdeniz himself, was doing something . . .
Çöktin moved forward on to the little path that led into the garden and looked more closely. Now he could see that there were actually two figures – elbows jutting through cloth, heads moving, first one way and then the other as if searching for contact. Up in what little he could see of the house he spotted the profile of a thin, anxious-looking woman, a telephone up to her ear, looking, frowning down at the same scene that Çöktin was experiencing – or rather the other side of it. From behind the screen came the familiar grunts and gasps of passion. The woman on the telephone visibly flinched and Çöktin wondered whether Akdeniz or whoever was behind the screen with what, from the sound of its voice, had to be a female, knew that she was there. Watching.
Suddenly aware of and uncomfortable with his own presence at this scene, Çöktin left.
As he made his way down the steps that ran from the top of Balat to the Demirhisar Caddesi below, his mobile phone began to ring. He took it out of his pocket and placed it against his ear.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, İsak?’ The familiar voice of his boss, Inspector Suleyman asked.
‘Sir.’
‘İsak, are you still involved with that, er, preserved body situation?’
‘Yes, although we do know there’s no criminal—’
‘He was embalmed, wasn’t he, the man you found in Kuloǧlu? Expertly so I’ve heard.’
Instinctively, Çöktin looked across the Golden Horn towards the new, ‘European’ city, to Kuloǧlu. ‘Yes, Dr Sarkissian called in some undertakers who were very impressed,’ he said as, even now in this stifling heat just the thought of what Dr Sarkissian secretly called ‘the men in black’ made him shudder.
‘So do you know who embalmed the body yet?’ Suleyman asked.
‘No. A few theories, some of them rather odd, but nothing concrete.’ Although quite what interest Suleyman could have in the Kuloǧlu boy, Çöktin couldn’t imagine. ‘Why?’
‘Because I think I may have a lead for you,’ Suleyman said. ‘Apparently there is some sort of master embalmer in the city who has performed this grisly task for various Russian heavies.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes,’ Suleyman replied. ‘Valery Rostov is, apparently, in need of this person’s services for a relative. It’s all most strange.’
‘Ah, so do you know his name then, sir, this embalmer?’
‘No,’ Suleyman said, ‘although Rostov has named his contact, a Dr Keyder.’
‘Dr Keyder!’
‘Yes, an elderly woman, I believe, who . . .’
But Çöktin was no longer listening Yeşim Keyder. Dr Keyder. Well, what sort of doctor was she? He’d never asked. Were embalmers, if indeed that’s what she was, doctors? No, that was ridiculous, she was an old woman, she . . . But then embalmer or not, that had to mean, surely, that she must have known about the boy in Rosita, her sister-in-law’s, apartment. She must, therefore, have lied.
‘Sir,’ he said, cutting Suleyman off in mid-flow, ‘would it be possible for me to speak to Rostov?’
Quite a long period of silence passed before Suleyman replied.
CHAPTER 11
‘There’s very little point in your being here now, Inspector,’ the technician said as she stared down at him through her bottle-bottom-thick spectacles. ‘I’ve harvested samples, but the analysis will take some days, as I’m sure you know.’
‘Yes, but hair is one of the samples you have retrieved?’ İkmen reiterated.
‘Yes,’ the technician replied, exhibiting now just a little of the irritation she was feeling. ‘As I told you earlier, human hair is just one of the materials we’ve retrieved from the inside of the van. Some of it is long, some short.’
‘So some of it could be female?’
The technician, Miss Göle, shrugged. ‘Yes, it’s possible, although until we have completed our tests—’
‘You’re not prepared to make any sort of judgement, I know,’ İkmen said with a dismissive wave of his hand. And then as he moved, apparently deep in thought towards the door of the technician’s office, he did just briefly murmur ‘thank you’ as he left.
Once o
ut in the corridor he made his way quickly down to the front of the building. The Forensic Institute always smelled odd, not in a pleasant way but in a sort of artificial, formaldehyde kind of fashion. It made him want to heave, that and the interminable duration of some of these forensic processes rendered him quite weak. Fucking scientists, everything seemed to take for ever with them. Not that there was anything one could do about it – that was the problem. Science took time, everybody knew it, especially those who practised it and, so İkmen felt, played upon its protracted nature in order to avoid setting helpful deadlines.
Once out in the open but stifling air, İkmen breathed in deeply before lighting a cigarette. Ayşe Farsakoǧlu, who had been waiting for him on one of the benches outside the building, walked over to join him. İkmen couldn’t help noticing that one side of her face had caught the sun rather more profoundly than the other. But he averted his eyes from this ruddiness, which Ayşe either hadn’t noticed or was choosing to ignore.
‘Nothing yet?’
‘No,’ he replied wearily, ‘but then it was unlikely anything significant would come to light so quickly. They know they’ve got human hair, but . . . So Reşad Kuran wasn’t at his apartment.’
‘No,’ Ayşe said, ‘according to a young girl who lives across the road, he left, carrying a sports bag, just after the van was removed.’
‘Anyone else see him go?’ İkmen asked.
‘No one who would admit to it,’ Ayşe replied cynically. ‘I’ve tried calling the Akdeniz house a few times but the number is always engaged. I looked Reşad Kuran up: he’s got a record, attempted sexual assault.’
‘Oh dear.’ İkmen took his mobile phone out of his pocket and pressed the button that unlocked the keypad.
‘Have you got Reşad’s number with you, Ayşe?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Do you want it?’
‘Yes.’
She brought the number up on her own phone and then read it out to him. İkmen, pressing the digits into his handset, said, ‘While I’m doing this, try the Akdeniz house again.’
Several seconds passed before they both terminated their unanswered calls.
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