Land of the Blind

by Barbara Nadel

  Ömer’s phone rang. It was the front desk.

  ‘There’s a woman here wants to see you. A foreigner.’

  Mary Cox entered the office Ömer shared with Süleyman as if she were approaching the gates of hell. Sweating and hollow-eyed, she looked at him round the door and said, ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He stood up.

  ‘I don’t have measles.’

  ‘I know.’

  She widened her eyes as if he’d just told her something almost unbelievable.

  Ömer offered her a chair. ‘What can I do for you, Miss Cox? Would you rather speak in English? I can do that if it’s easier for you.’

  ‘No . . .’ She sat and looked down at her hands. ‘I lied to you, about where Mr Öden was the night that woman in Moda died,’ she said. ‘I said he was with his daughter all night.’

  ‘And he wasn’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where was he?’

  She looked up. ‘I don’t know. He told me he was looking at a new development site somewhere in the Belgrade Forest.’

  ‘But you didn’t believe him.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But if he did go there then maybe he went again and that’s where he is now. He said that homeless people live in the forest and I’m afraid they might have hurt him. He could be lying injured in the forest now. I had to tell you.’

  Ömer sat back in his chair. Her passion for Öden was strong. It had overcome her fear of, possibly, implicating him in Gülizar the gypsy’s murder. ‘Does Mr Semih Öden know you’re here?’

  ‘No. He took Kelime, Mr Öden’s—’

  ‘I know who Kelime is.’

  ‘He took her to his sister’s apartment in Nişantaşı. I came here. I can’t bear to think that Mr Öden’s life may be in danger while I know something that might help.’

  ‘Why did you lie about Mr Öden’s whereabouts the night his mistress was murdered?’

  He saw her cringe. She knew he knew why. It wasn’t difficult. But he helped her. ‘Because you’re in love with him,’ Ömer said. ‘It’s all right, you don’t have to answer, I know.’

  ‘He couldn’t have killed that woman,’ Mary said. ‘He couldn’t kill anyone.’

  ‘Why not? He was out somewhere the night she died. You don’t really know where . . .’

  ‘Look in the forest! He could be injured or even dead!’

  ‘Oh, I will,’ Ömer said. ‘I will also tell Inspector Süleyman that Ahmet Öden no longer has an alibi for the murder of his mistress.’

  ‘Oh, just find him, will you? Find him! He could be in a coma now! He could be dead!’

  She began to cry. Ömer Mungun watched her without emotion. Why did some people fall in love with characters who were so obviously complete bastards? This woman had got herself in trouble in a country that wasn’t her own for a man who probably didn’t even look at her from one year’s end to the next.

  He called Süleyman and told him.

  ‘Keep her there until I arrive,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Inspector İkmen is releasing Yiannis Negroponte so he can care for his mother until we have more forensic evidence,’ Süleyman said. ‘Mary Cox pathetically in love with Öden, is she?’

  Ömer looked at the woman who, he was sure, had heard what Süleyman had said. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Some of the Taksim Solidarity people are going to go to Ankara for talks with the Prime Minister,’ Kemal said.

  ‘Oh, really.’ Samsun flicked her cigarette ash on a dead tear gas canister and then kicked it away. ‘You think he’ll listen to a load of students, hippies and faggots?’

  ‘Well, we have to—’

  ‘Forget all this bullshit,’ Samsun said, waving a hand at what remained of the protest camp. ‘You’re young. Leave it to the old warhorses now. If they kill us, then so what? We’ve lived. And believe me, kid, arthritis, vertigo and all the other age-related shit old bastards like me have to put up with are no fun. Go home, hug your mother, then take your father to one side and tell him you’re gay.’

  Kemal blinked. Then his mouth opened.

  ‘I’ve suspected for years,’ Samsun said. ‘Then when I saw you in Sugar and Spice with all those little faggots, I knew.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And no, I won’t tell your mother, mainly because I don’t think I can stand the histrionics. But you must tell Çetin. Your father will protect you. Any marriage nonsense your mother may have in mind will be aced, you understand?’

  He said he did, although whether he’d actually come out to his father was open to question. Kemal had to know how liberal Çetin was but it was still a big deal for the boy, and then there was his mother to contend with.

  ‘Anyway, you stink,’ Samsun said. ‘Go home and have a shower.’

  ‘Stink?’ Kemal sniffed his armpits. ‘I’ve been using deodorant all the time, and aftershave.’

  ‘Yes, which covers the sweat up beautifully and then turns sour,’ Samsun said. ‘Go home, wash and then get some sleep.’ She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I know it’s all very exciting discovering your sexuality, but even faggots with nice bums like yours have to sleep.’

  ‘Auntie? Do I have a nice . . .?’

  ‘Samsun Hanım!’

  ‘Özgür Bey!’

  It was the elderly Muslim they’d all helped to rescue from a police kicking, the one they’d taken to Sugar and Spice.

  Samsun smiled. ‘I hope we didn’t shock you too much, Özgür Bey. I know you’re not used to—’

  ‘You saved my life.’ He took her hand. His type didn’t, usually. Samsun, uncomfortable, forced a smile. ‘Thanks to you and to God, I live to one day see my grandchildren grow up,’ he said. ‘If it please God.’

  ‘I can’t think why it wouldn’t,’ Samsun said.

  ‘Would you – and your nephew, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you like to accompany me to a little cafe I know? It’s a short walk up İstiklal. It is my son’s.’

  ‘Oh, er . . .’ It felt odd standing behind a man in such simple, pious garb when she was wearing red stilettos and cubic zirconias the size of quails’ eggs hanging off her earlobes.

  ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t sell alcohol,’ Özgür said. ‘But I’d love to treat you both to coffee and a meal. It really is the least I can do. We must fortify ourselves for the battle I’m sure is still to come.’

  ‘You’re staying in Gezi?’ Samsun asked.

  ‘Of course!’ he said. ‘We can’t give up now.’ And then he turned to Kemal. ‘Can we, my boy?’

  And Kemal, who smelt like a dirty brothel’s bathroom, smiled and said, ‘No sir, we can’t.’

  The old woman was still sleeping. Çetin İkmen left her son and Hakkı Bey with her and went down to the basement.

  The head of the forensic team, Ali Bey, had come outside the red room and was leaning on one of the kitchen cupboards. When he saw İkmen he said, ‘Where do you find them eh, Çetin Bey?’

  ‘Find who?’

  ‘These oddities,’ he said. ‘As soon as Süleyman left, that old man was down here yelling at us all to stop what we were doing.’

  ‘What? Hakkı Bey?’

  ‘If that’s the ancient’s name, yes.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What, apart from telling him to fuck off . . .’ He shrugged.

  ‘So how’s it going?’

  İkmen lit a cigarette. Both Yiannis and Hakkı smoked in the house and there was a half-full ashtray on the cooker. He dragged it towards him.

  ‘We’ve some hair, a lot of dust, much of it red.’

  ‘It would be.’

  ‘There are some areas where the stone has been damaged and replaced over the years. Can’t find any cavities yet. Stone’s difficult. You can’t get much from tapping it like an ordinary wall. You have to take it down. I’d say it’s Byzantine. You told the Archaeology Museum yet?’

  ‘No.’ He knew he’
d have to but he also knew that as soon as the ‘find’ became common knowledge it would pass, to some extent, out of his control. ‘What about the blood on the slab?’

  Ali shook his head. ‘As I’ve said, trace. Bit on the floor too. But scrubbed almost invisible.’

  ‘The owner of the house says that he slaughtered a goat on the slab.’

  ‘Maybe he did.’

  ‘Will you be able to tell whether or not it’s animal blood?’

  Ali Bey sighed. ‘There’s no real sample,’ he said. ‘Just a trace, a ghost of past blood. And apart from that, the luminol process does damage. You know that.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Ali Bey went off to the toilet.

  Alone, İkmen faced the possibility of leaving the Negroponte House as he had found it. None the wiser and with only the Archaeological Museum getting any benefit from the operation. Yiannis Negroponte was adamant that he’d never known Ariadne Savva and İkmen couldn’t prove him wrong. No one who had known Dr Savva had ever mentioned any man in her life.

  İkmen’s phone rang. It was Süleyman.

  ‘Çetin, two things,’ he said. ‘Firstly I’ve just spoken to Ahmet Öden’s nanny.’

  ‘Mary Cox.’

  ‘Yes. Significantly not suffering from measles and now saying that Öden did go out the night his mistress died.’

  ‘Ah. Where?’

  ‘He spun her a story about surveying a new development site in the Belgrade Forest which I think is probably nonsense – why would Öden take a taxi to somewhere like that? He’d drive. But I’ve despatched a team. Puts him back in the frame for Gülizar’s murder, especially in light of his disappearing act.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Second thing involves the Negropontes,’ he said. ‘You know that a body was found in the grounds of the Lise. Middle-aged man, been in the ground for fifty-odd years.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Long story short, Ömer found old dental X-rays that fit. Only problem is that, as far as we can make out – time’s passed and the labelling is unclear – they belong to an N. Negroponte. Wasn’t the old lady’s husband called Nikos and isn’t he buried in Şişli Greek cemetery?’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘Then it has to be another N. Negroponte,’ Süleyman said. ‘Can you ask Madam Anastasia if she knows who that might be? If she can remember.’

  ‘When she wakes up, I will.’ İkmen ended the call.

  He felt cold, but it didn’t stop him walking slowly into the red room. Two forensic investigators were very carefully dusting a wall. Now that the candles Yiannis Negroponte had used had been replaced by arc lights, the room looked much less impressive. Strong white light leeched something important from the stone which made it look dead. İkmen turned to leave. He couldn’t remember any other male Negroponte with the initial N. Madam’s father’s name had been Alexis, her father-in-law and uncle had been Konstantine. Had she had any brothers? Had her husband?

  İkmen took a step. Then he stopped. ‘Did you say anything?’ he said to the two forensic investigators.

  ‘No, Çetin Bey.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  He went on his way. A voice, just a whisper, had come to him. What it said, he didn’t know. No, more a sibilance than a voice. Like a snake.

  Mad people heard things that weren’t there. He’d read somewhere that as the body died, it went mad. Especially the diabetic body. Ahmet Öden put his ear to the wall. Tapping.

  Who was tapping and why? Were they, Negroponte and the old man, tapping to hasten his insanity? Ahmet cringed away from the wall and whispered, ‘Stop it!’

  But the tapping went on.

  Should he scream? If he did, would it only give them pleasure? Make them laugh? His father had said they were inhuman. Their priests were rapists and their men were cheats and swindlers. How some of his own people could have protected them was unfathomable. But his father had said they had. Army officers included. And Hakkı. His father hadn’t thought he would, but he had. He’d taken Anastasia Negroponte out of Beyoğlu and put her back in her house, this house. Where he’d worshipped her.

  ‘Stop it.’

  But they didn’t. Would they come and look at him after he had died? Or would they just leave him undisturbed forever? Hakkı, as a Muslim, would know that a body not buried in the ground would result in the soul being in torment. Was he capable of doing such a thing? Even to an enemy?

  ‘No.’

  His hands shook. The candle flame shimmered. It was almost done.

  ‘No,’ he whispered again. Shaking, he felt sick.

  Then he’d be in the sort of darkness where it is impossible to know whether your eyes are open or shut.

  And still the tiny noises from his tormenters ticked against the side of his brain.

  Chapter 27

  Apart from the toilet, the basement was out of use. Police officers made sure nobody crossed the ‘Crime Scene’ tape slung across both kitchen doors. As he had always done, Hakkı Bey organised the practicalities. A local tea garden provided drinks while his landlady came with food that no one ate.

  Anastasia Negroponte had been asleep for many hours. İkmen suspected that either her son or her servant had given her a sleeping pill or a tranquilliser. Old people, in his experience, rarely slept for such long and concentrated periods of time. One needed less sleep if anything as one aged. Unless one were dying . . .

  ‘Will you go when you’ve spoken to my mother, Çetin Bey?’ Yiannis asked.

  The one newspaper İkmen had been able to find – courtesy of a particularly slack-jawed constable – was full of superstitious rubbish. It was a relief to put it down. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘You know she isn’t always lucid.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you not ask us whatever it is you want to know, Çetin Bey?’ Hakkı said.

  ‘No.’

  Outside the sky was dark. The Taksim Solidarity group had left to go to Ankara for talks with the Prime Minister and yet again, the city was tense. But at least İkmen could bask in the knowledge that Kemal was at home. Dusty and, to his mother’s horror, smelly, the boy had returned mid-afternoon and was now sleeping. By way of celebration, Fatma had baked for several hours and had then begun work on a new knitted jumper. She was so easily pleased.

  His phone rang. It was Süleyman. İkmen walked out of the salon and into the hall.

  ‘Mehmet?’

  ‘Without digging it up I can’t be sure that Ahmet Öden isn’t lurking somewhere in the Belgrade Forest, but there’s no obvious sign of anything untoward happening up there so far. And we traced his phone to Tophane, probably in the Bosphorus,’ he said. ‘Ömer’s been in touch with the airports and coastguards since the start and nothing’s come to light from that direction either. Do you think he’s killed himself?’

  ‘No,’ İkmen said. ‘Unless he’s suddenly decided to do jihad, then as a good Muslim he can’t.’

  ‘He’s not got his insulin with him. Could be doing it that way?’

  ‘I don’t get that he’d kill himself,’ İkmen said. ‘Even if he did murder his mistress. He’s a daughter who needs him and more money than is decent. He went out intending to return. That’s my belief. And that’s why he didn’t take his insulin with him.’

  ‘Did I tell you Ömer found an empty box of Viagra in his bathroom?’

  ‘No. Was it prescribed?’

  ‘No.’

  İkmen shook his head. Getting any sort of decent painkiller over the counter at pharmacies was like looking for Atlantis but Viagra was on sale, loud and proud, everywhere. ‘Well if he takes that stuff maybe he’s lying in some hooker’s bed after a stroke,’ he said.

  ‘Have you spoken to Madam Negroponte yet?’

  ‘No, she’s still asleep.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I think she’s probably been tranquillised. I’m staying until she wakes.’

  ‘What about Yiannis and Hakkı Bey?’

  ‘Oh, they periodically ask me
why I want to speak to Madam and I don’t tell them. I know she’s slow and confused but I also know she remembers the past. Until Yiannis reappeared in the early nineties, it was all she had.’

  When he’d finished the call, İkmen went back into the salon where Hakkı and Yiannis were in close, whispered conversation. When they saw him they fell silent, but İkmen noticed that Yiannis looked angry. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Hakkı said before Yiannis could open his mouth. ‘Everything is fine. But I think I may go and check on Madam.’

  ‘Take her dirty washing out of her room,’ Yiannis said. ‘It smells.’

  There were generally a few shabby tents in the forest, mainly, these days, housing displaced gypsies. Kerim Gürsel knew they were generally gathered around old structures like what remained of the Ottoman aqueduct system and the reservoirs. But apart from a couple of alcoholics collapsed in the picnic area, the forest, so far, was empty.

  ‘All the filth has washed up in Taksim,’ one young constable said.

  His colleagues laughed.

  ‘So are you saying that this is not a free country?’ Kerim said.

  ‘Sergeant?’ The boy still had acne spots. He was very young. Kerim had to remind himself of that.

  ‘In a free country people are allowed to demonstrate,’ Kerim said.

  ‘Oh yeah, well, they can demonstrate but—’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Not if they’re doing it for bad reasons.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Part of one of the Ottoman aqueducts loomed out of the darkness.

  ‘Something against Islam,’ one of the other young constables said. ‘Or supporting perversion.’

  ‘I don’t think the Gezi protesters are against Islam, are they?’ Kerim said. ‘They’re against the government—’

  ‘Which is Islamic—’

  ‘Is it?’ Something on the ground caught Kerim’s eye and he bent down to look at it. An old tin can. ‘Surely the government of Turkey is supposed to be secular.’