‘Well, Mr Kuran’s phone is now on, but engaged,’ İkmen said frowning.
‘The Akdeniz’ number is engaged too,’ Ayşe said as she replaced her phone in her handbag. ‘Could just be a coincidence, sir.’
‘It could, but I’m going to ask for a trace anyway,’ İkmen said as he punched another number into his phone. ‘If Eren is on the phone to her brother we may be able to find out where he is.’
‘Oh, of course!’ Ayşe said enthusiastically. ‘Triangulation of the signal.’
‘I don’t know what it’s called,’ İkmen said as he put his phone up to his ear. ‘Technology and myself are almost total strangers,’ he smiled, ‘it’s a magical system I have yet to study.’
‘But then if Mr Kuran has nothing to do with the children’s—’
‘Oh, but he does,’ İkmen said.
‘What, just because he’s got a record? Or is it because—’
‘That’s where my particular brand of magic, as I’m sure you’re aware, comes in,’ he said gravely. ‘I know, as I’ve asserted before, that he’s involved in some capacity.’
It was such a pitiful attempt at breaking and entering that the solitary young officer who had been assigned to guard the Kuloǧlu apartment could barely contain his amusement. The ‘criminal’, an elderly Spaniard who had tried to open the door first with a length of wire and then with a credit card, was for some reason that was lost on Constable Akçura, demanding to see the pathologist Dr Sarkissian.
‘If you call Dr Sarkissian, all will be explained,’ he said as he looked with some distaste down his nose at the officer’s hand upon his forearm. ‘My reasons for wanting to gain access to this place are totally about the furtherance of knowledge.’
‘You tried to break the lock,’ Akçura responded tartly. ‘You damaged someone else’s property.’
‘Call Dr Sarkissian—’
‘What’s this?’
The voice, though obviously female, was as hard as it was expressionless. Both the policeman and the Spaniard turned.
‘Madam,’ the officer said as he observed the grey severity of the figure before him. ‘What can I—’
‘You and this – person,’ she replied as she looked scornfully at the Spaniard, ‘can do little for me besides moving away from the door of my property.’
The policeman, in line with what he’d been told about the place, started to talk about how the apartment had belonged to a Mrs Keyder, but . . .
‘I am Mrs Keyder’s sister-in-law,’ the woman said as she removed her ID card from her handbag, ‘Dr Yeşim Keyder, the legal owner of this property.’
‘Ah,’ the Spaniard’s eyes lit up, ‘then if you are a doctor, an educated person, you will fully understand why I have to gain entry to this apartment.’
Yeşim Keyder looked at the man so sharply her gaze could have been construed as hatred. Even the policeman shrank from its viciousness.
‘Who are you?’ she spat. ‘What are you doing?’
‘My name is Fernando Orontes,’ the Spaniard said. ‘I am an academic, a man of science.’
‘What do you want?’
‘There is something in your apartment, madam, a chemical substance of great value—’
‘What kind of scientist are you?’ she asked. ‘What do you mean?’
Señor Orontes drew himself up before saying, ‘I am an embalmer, madam, a master anatomist. There is, I believe, a substance somewhere in this apartment—’
‘You’re mad!’ Yeşim Keyder vomited the words as close as she could get to the Spaniard’s face.
‘No! It is, this substance, something, I believe, will preserve the dead indefinitely and imbue them with life, suppleness—’
‘Get away from my property!’ she hissed, and then, turning on Akçura, she said, ‘I want to get into my apartment.’
‘It’s still under investigation,’ the young man said, as he tried to avoid directly telling this fierce old woman that she couldn’t go in.
‘It is my property!’ she said as she reached into her handbag and removed a sheaf of papers from its depth. ‘Here, my brother’s papers, proving—’
‘I can’t let you in, madam.’
‘If you would just call Dr Sarkissian,’ Orontes interrupted.
‘If you think I’m going to let you into my apartment to look for some “substance”, then you are very much mistaken,’ Yeşim Keyder said as she turned once again to the Spaniard. ‘Quite how you knew that I was coming—’
‘He didn’t,’ Akçura said and then added more to distract this vicious old woman than to actually damage Orontes, ‘I found him trying to break in.’
‘Oh, did you?’ she snarled, her eyes now moving from the cringing Orontes towards Akçura’s face.
‘You may wish, madam, to—’
‘Charge him with attempted burglary!’ Yeşim Keyder said as she moved to get behind the officer and into the apartment. ‘Take him away and let me into my property.’
‘But I can’t do that madam, as I explained . . .’
Trying to keep hold of Orontes while at the same time attempting to block access to the apartment was proving difficult. The old woman was intent upon getting in and, by the look on her face, she didn’t care too much about what she had to do in order to achieve that.
‘Now look here, young man . . .’
‘Just please call Dr Sarkissian the pathologist, he’s my friend!’ Orontes cried. ‘And he is in charge of the body . . .’
‘Madam, if you don’t move away, I’ll have to arrest you along with him!’ Akçura said as he tipped his head in Orontes’ direction. ‘This apartment is at present the subject of an investigation into the death of an unknown man. Until we know who he is, I can’t let you in!’ He narrowed his eyes just a little as he awaited the full force of her furious outburst.
Strangely, however, particularly considering that Akçura was alone, this didn’t come. She just very deliberately, looking at Orontes the whole time she did so, replaced her papers inside her handbag and then, after what looked like several seconds’ thought, she cleared her throat.
‘Oh, well,’ she said, ‘I suppose you are just doing your job.’
Akçura signalled his assent by inclining his head to one side.
‘And I suppose I will be given access as soon as that is possible,’ Yeşim Keyder continued.
‘Yes.’
Moving away from the door now, Yeşim Keyder shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘I should go.’
Strangely, and with alarming rapidity, she walked towards Orontes and took one of his hands in hers. The Spaniard visibly cringed.
‘Madam?’
‘Oh, and you might as well let this mad fellow go too,’ she said as she looked across at a now very confused Constable Akçura. ‘He’s obviously in need of some sort of intervention and I am a doctor.’
‘Oh, you’re a psychiatrist?’
‘I think that maybe you should come with me,’ Yeşim Keyder said to a now heavily sweating Orontes, ‘tell me about this substance that is supposed to be in my brother’s apartment.’
‘Well . . .’ Orontes began and launched into the tale he’d told Arto Sarkissian about the perfectly preserved boy, about Pedro Ara and about the mysteries that still surrounded his methods. As he spoke, Yeşim Keyder watched as Constable Akçura’s expression veered between disbelief and disgust. Seemingly enjoying both the officer’s discomfort, as well as Orontes’ effusive exposition, she smiled.
Rostov had asked to be interviewed in his own home. This had been granted and Çöktin was currently with him in his office. Suleyman and İskender, relaxing as much as they could in the Russian’s salon, were waiting for him to finish.
‘You know that even if he has done something to Masha, Rostov won’t tell you,’ İskender said as he bent down in order to light his colleague’s cigarette.
‘He will if I threaten that thing in the freezer,’ Suleyman replied grimly. ‘He’d do anything to protect that.’
&nbs
p; ‘I disagree,’ İskender said as he sat down on one of Rostov’s overstuffed armchairs. ‘He’s dealt with the lovely Betül Ertüg, he’s talking to Çöktin about that bizarre embalmed body of his and we hope that at some point some of his contacts in the drug trade may be sacrificed too. Personally I think that in view of the fact we’ve never actually found any drugs on Rostov or his associates, that is a long shot. But Masha? He’d have to own up to all sorts of things if he admitted to her existence.’
Suleyman shook his head, his eyes narrowed. ‘He’s done something to her. I could see it in his face,’ he said. ‘Maybe if I tried to contact her . . .’
‘Maybe if you tried forgetting her.’ İskender leaned forward towards Suleyman and lowered his voice. ‘I don’t know what went on between you and that tart, and quite honestly I don’t want to know—’
‘Nothing!’ Suleyman’s face reddened instantly. ‘Nothing happened!’
‘Well then, leave it!’ İskender hissed. ‘Forget about her and concentrate on what we’re going to do about Rostov.’ He leaned back in his chair again and sighed. ‘We can’t leave that child’s body in that freezer,’ he said. ‘We only have Rostov’s word that she’s his daughter. She could be anyone. She could have been murdered, for all we know. We need to get her out of here, thawed out,’ he raised his eyes incredulously towards the ceiling, ‘and get a post-mortem performed.’
‘But once she’s out of here, our chances of getting anything out of Rostov—’
‘Once Çöktin has finished with him, you and I had better attempt to persuade Mr Rostov that it would go better for him and his “daughter” if he gave us some useful information,’ İskender replied. ‘If she is his daughter, if we really have found his Achilles heel, then that might perhaps work. I doubt it, but . . . If, however, she was some junkie he’s killed and was preparing to ditch, we’ll have to do some work to prove it.’
Suleyman shrugged. ‘Either way we should come out of this with something.’
‘If not quite the enormous drugs haul Ardiç was anticipating,’ İskender responded bitterly.
‘No.’ Suleyman lowered his eyes. The thought of what Ardiç would say and do when he learned that this costly operation had yielded nothing beyond the frozen body of a child in the Russian’s freezer, was not comfortable. Of course, things could be worse – if the Radikal journalist had indeed written up the Father Alexei incident, for instance. But it wasn’t good and İskender was absolutely right to be doubtful about the eventual outcome. If only he himself could concentrate fully on the task at hand! If only he could forget about Masha and about the malicious light that had danced in Rostov’s eyes when he denied all knowledge of her existence. After all, the girl was only, as İskender had said, a tart. She’d had sex with him, which is what tarts do. So what?
So, first she’d relieved the sexual frustrations of months and she’d done it, or rather he had, with no protection. Because he’d been so deprived for so long, it had all happened far more quickly than it should have – he hadn’t had time to make preparations. He hadn’t meant to do it at all – especially not with a woman he knew was a junkie. Almost as soon as it was over, he’d started to worry about what she may or may not have given him in terms of disease. But then at the end she’d said that she loved him – Zelfa hadn’t said that for such a long time. Poor Masha, if she were indeed dead, in a way he’d killed her . . .
Çöktin entered the lounge and sat down in the chair next to İskender. Suleyman, roused from his thoughts by the appearance of his deputy, looked up.
‘So?’
Çöktin shrugged. ‘Rostov says that he learned about the existence of this amazing embalmer some months ago,’ he said. ‘From what I can gather, some other Mafia types here have used this person’s services for their dead wives, mothers, dogs, whatever. These bodies are quite the “must have” item. So when Rostov heard about it, he wanted it too. His daughter had, as I think he told you, been cryogenically preserved back in Russia. But somehow he managed to persuade the kid’s mother that this was a better option so “Tatiana”, still in deep freeze, turned up here yesterday.’
‘How?’
‘In that trunk he picked up from the airport.’
‘That didn’t have anything on it denoting human remains.’
‘This is a Russian gangster we’re talking about, sir. They have friends everywhere, including the airport,’ Çöktin said with a grim little smile. ‘Apparently preservation of the dead is very important to Russians. They like to keep the departed around, they always have. Saints, Rostov said in the old days, and more recently politicians too.’
‘So did he tell you who this master embalmer is?’ Suleyman asked.
Çöktin sighed. ‘No, sir,’ he said wearily, ‘not exactly. A friend put him in touch, as you know, with Dr Keyder, who assured him Tatiana would be dealt with in due course. Now whether that was by her or—’
‘Do you believe him?’
Çöktin shrugged. ‘I can’t see why he’d lie, sir. If that body downstairs is his daughter, then he must want to know exactly what is going on as much as I do.’
‘Then all you have to do is go and see this Dr Keyder,’ İskender put in.
‘Yes, sir,’ Çöktinreplied, ‘I will. However, if she is reluctant to tell me . . . I mean, embalming isn’t a crime, is it?’
‘No. But if Rostov was recommended to this embalmer by other Mafiosi then they, surely, would know.’
‘Yes, well, he’s named several people who’ve used the service.’ Çöktin took his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up.
‘As I said before, they will know, won’t they?’ İskender said.
‘Yes, although that does mean owning up to possessing unburied bodies,’ Çöktin said darkly. ‘There’s also another secret, possibly a very lucrative one, involved here,’ he continued wearily and then he told his colleagues about his meeting with the embalmers at the mortuary, about Pedro Ara and about the possible existence of miraculous techniques and balms.
İskender, shaking his head in disbelief, said, ‘It’s all quite beyond me, especially in view of the fact that both the Keyder woman and the boy died naturally. I can’t see why you’re still involved, İsak.’
‘If we knew who the boy was, I wouldn’t be,’ Çöktin replied, ‘but we don’t. We asked Dr Keyder if she knew who he was. She said that she didn’t. She must have lied.’
‘The bodies of the Russians who have already been embalmed must have been delivered to this embalmer in some way,’ Suleyman said.
‘Dr Keyder, apparently, arranged for them to be picked up,’ Çöktin said.
‘By whom?’
‘Rostov doesn’t know. Dr Keyder didn’t tell him much about the process because it was still a way off. Nothing about how Tatiana might be maintained after treatment.’
‘What do you mean?’ İskender asked. ‘Maintained?’
Çöktin gave his superiors a brief résumé of the possible course of this process and then said, ‘It’s very intensive. If several bodies are involved, the embalmer must have to have help.’
‘So you think there might be other people working with or for this embalmer? The person providing the transport perhaps?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You said he named some of the other Russians who’ve already had their loved ones preserved?’ Suleyman said as he put his cigarette out in his ashtray.
‘Yes, I’ve made a note of them, sir,’ Çöktin said. ‘Three very big names, if you know what I mean. But then if their bodies, like mine, weren’t unlawfully killed . . .’ he shrugged. ‘I mean, I suppose that if people want to get this done . . .’
‘Keeping a dead body in a private residence is a public health issue,’ İskender said as he rose thoughtfully to his feet. ‘The dead should be buried and if they are not being disposed of properly we need to investigate.’ He looked down at Suleyman and smiled. ‘We could gain access to the homes of some people we’ve been watching for a while, Mehmet.’
Suleyman looked up. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘although I still want to talk to Rostov first.’
‘Of course,’ İskender replied, ‘but bear it in mind. We’ve got to capitalise on this situation, weird as it is. I mean, there’s a real trade we had no idea about going on here. And if they can bring bodies in without detection what can they bring in with or in those bodies, eh?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if some Ivan’s dead mother can come across the Black Sea or on a plane without hindrance, then why not insert a kilo of heroin into her for good measure? It makes excellent business sense and the old woman is hardly likely to complain, is she?’
Çöktin looked across at Suleyman, who shook his head a little as if trying to dislodge this unpleasant image from his mind.
‘I think this is all a bit more kind of to do with their beliefs and their aesthetics, sir,’ Çöktin said.
‘Nonsense!’ İskender retorted. ‘The people we’re talking about here are murderers and drug dealers, they use every opportunity, however personal, to maximise their profits.’
Suleyman leaned back in his chair and briefly closed his eyes. İskender was so much more dispassionate than he. In Metin’s world things were good or bad with very little in between these polarities. The Mafiosi were bad and so of course they would, if possible, use their departed loved ones to courier drugs. Masha was a tart and so one didn’t have anything to do with her, however sexy she was. One certainly didn’t have sex with her, enjoy it, fantasise about repeating the experience, risk the integrity of one’s career . . .
Suddenly, and with an urgency he hadn’t experienced for some time, Suleyman felt the need to speak to İkmen.
CHAPTER 12
Estelle Cohen watched with sad eyes as Zelfa Halman Suleyman left the apartment holding her baby, Yusuf, in her arms. The psychiatrist wasn’t a happy woman. Everything seemed to irritate her these days. Estelle took the baby round to Fatma’s for the morning and she didn’t like that – this time she’d stayed at home in Karaköy with him and that was, seemingly, unacceptable too. Perhaps it was because Fatma was with her? Estelle had always thought that Zelfa liked Fatma. Maybe it had to do with what her friend was doing? Not that she was engaged in anything Estelle felt was unusual.
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