The House of Four

by Barbara Nadel

‘Are you sure?’ Süleyman said.

  He paused again, but this time only for a second. Then he said, ‘Yes. I’m sure.’

  Nobody understood. The Devil didn’t parade around swishing a tail, showing off horns or doing any of that crazy medieval stuff priests talked about in church. He was everywhere. That was the point! He was in the air that everyone breathed, behind the shoulders of the businessmen who worshipped at the altar of money and in the eyes of the people who sought to cheat the poor. Every day he was getting stronger. But there was no one who could oppose him because he’d taken over everyone’s thoughts. Even when he’d worn metal on his head to keep the Devil out, he’d still been able to hear him in the distance.

  Even when that kind girl had given him a gun, he hadn’t been safe. There could be no defence against the Devil. But her kindness had touched him. She’d been an unusual light in his dark world even if the man with her had been saturated with evil.

  The boy sat in a corner of his cell and watched something skitter across the cold stone floor. Now the Devil was tormenting him. He shouted, ‘Stop the tricks!’

  For a moment, when his cell door opened, he thought that was one of his little temptations too. But when he saw who was in the doorway, he wondered . . .

  ‘I really do think that the Lord of the Flies should consider getting himself a publicist,’ Çetin İkmen said. ‘He seems to be everywhere these days.’

  Sami Nasi didn’t smile, but İkmen ignored him. Sami had always been in a strange psychological place with regard to the supernatural. Not unlike Çetin İkmen himself.

  ‘We’ve a boy down in our cells who’s been going around the city, as far as we can tell, in pursuit of the Devil,’ İkmen continued. ‘Not that his philosophy is easy to get a handle on. We didn’t even know who he was until this morning, when his mother came to find out if she could see him. She found his picture online. Apparently we sometimes put photographs of unknown people online these days. I didn’t know. I don’t do online unless I can help it.’ He paused and looked Sami in the eyes. ‘What is it? Why are you here? Do you have any—’

  ‘I lied to you, Çetin Bey,’ Sami interrupted. ‘I didn’t tell you something and I’ve been punished.’ He put his head down. ‘Now I must confess.’

  İkmen said nothing. He’d known Sami a long time and knew that whatever it was he had to tell him needed to come out in its own time. Silently he offered Sami a cigarette, which he took. İkmen knew he hadn’t smoked for years, but somehow it seemed appropriate. Also he wanted a smoke himself. He locked his office door and opened the window. Dust from the car park floated in and made him cough. He lit Sami’s cigarette and then his own.

  ‘Last night I almost killed Rüya,’ Sami said.

  ‘Almost?’

  ‘We were practising the head trick,’ he said. ‘It went wrong.’

  ‘How?’

  Sami just looked at him.

  ‘I see,’ İkmen said. ‘If you told me, you’d have to kill me.’

  ‘Something like that.’ Sami breathed in deeply. ‘All you have to know is that Rüya is fine. In fact she’s much better than I am. If I let her, she’d try the trick again today. But I’m not up to it.’

  ‘So you’ve come to me for . . . what do the Catholics call it? Absolution?’

  ‘I’ve come to give you information,’ he said. ‘Listen, Çetin Bey, my grandfather knew Rudolf Paşa well. The German pursued him. Knowing that his father had been Josef Vanek, Rudolf wanted to know how he performed his magic.’

  ‘Did he tell him?’

  ‘Of course not! Rudolf Paşa was obsessed with the occult. He was convinced that my grandfather performed his tricks with the aid of the Devil. He saw him as some sort of Faust. He offered him money, a position at court, sex . . .’

  ‘Sex?’

  ‘Rudolf Paşa was a paedophile,’ he said. ‘There were even rumours about his daughter.’

  ‘So I gather,’ İkmen said.

  ‘You know?’

  ‘Some intelligence has reached me to that effect. Is that what you came to tell me, Sami?’

  Sami coughed, but carried on smoking. ‘Only in part. Rudolf Paşa’s interest in the occult went back a long way, back to Germany. But it really took root in the First World War. This came from my grandfather to my father to me, so it may not all be correct.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Rudolf was with General Fakhri Paşa’s troops in 1916 guarding the Hejaz railway and the city of Medina in Arabia,’ he said. ‘Those troops really suffered. Subjected to constant raids by the British and the Arabs, driven mad by thirst, and those under the direct command of Rudolf Paşa also had to contend with his cruelty. With the help of his İstanbul Greek adjutant, he’d peg men out in the sand to make examples of them. They didn’t even have to do anything wrong. He was brutal and he delighted in his brutality. His men called him the Devil; Dimitri Bey the Devil’s Disciple. It was even said by some that they sacrificed young soldiers in weird black magic ceremonies.’

  ‘My understanding of the campaign in the desert is that things did happen that some attributed to the supernatural,’ İkmen said. ‘I believe General Fakhri Paşa himself experienced visions. Knowing what we know about deserts and mirages, I think that maybe these things have been overstated.’

  ‘When Rudolf Paşa arrived back in İstanbul, he went to see my grandfather and threatened him. His secrets or his life. My grandfather said he looked like a madman. He raved about how he had forced his wife to carry the child of the Devil. My grandfather was very frightened and so he agreed to go to the paşa’s mansion with all his magical paraphernalia and show him. But he didn’t. The city was under occupation by the British by then, so my grandfather moved his family to another part of town. The empire had been defeated and a lot of people were on the move. But he did discover later on that year, when he saw Rudolf Paşa at the club, that he had become a father again. He already had three boys, but now he had a girl.’

  ‘Fatima.’

  ‘The child of the Devil. I should add here that it was my father who was superstitious and he was the one who told me this story. Like my great-grandfather, who started life as a physicist back in his native Hungary, my grandfather was a rationalist. He thought Rudolf Paşa was mad. But he kept away from him and my father told me to keep away from his children. There were stories. Kemal desecrated a shrine. And the death of Rudolf’s wife.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I expect you have discovered that it was in childbirth,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Do you know who the father was?’

  ‘No. As I’ve already told you, Rudolf Paşa practised alchemy. A blood sacrifice was rumoured to have been involved, although as far as we know, the paşa never managed to produce gold. What my father always reckoned was that that sacrifice allowed him access to what he called the dark arts. Some would describe it as raising the Devil. A very Christian notion, but then Rudolf came from a Christian country. Now whether you believe in such things or not is irrelevant. Rudolf believed in them, and he probably passed that belief on to his children. I don’t for a moment think that Perihan Hanım’s doctor, Kevork Sarkissian, deliberately killed the child she had by another man, but I wonder if he was persuaded by those children not to save its life.’

  ‘That’s possible,’ İkmen said. ‘The doctor was an Armenian in a city that didn’t like Armenians.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  İkmen leaned on his desk. ‘Sami,’ he said, ‘do you know anything about Kemal’s desecration of the shrine of St Katherine?’

  ‘Only that one of the Rudolfoğlus’ servants caught him.’

  ‘After which he was dismissed. By the children.’

  ‘Probably saw any intervention to stop them doing what they wanted as some sort of insult,’ he said. ‘Especially a servant.’ He finished his cigarette. ‘You know, Çetin Bey, it was my father’s belief that Perihan Hanım herself killed her baby. That she just couldn’t bear the thought of it having to live in that house w
ith that girl.’

  ‘Fatima.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Fatima, who had promised the father she loved too much that she would make sure her mother behaved. How had the twelve-year-old felt when she discovered that her mother was pregnant and therefore she’d failed? Had Fatima killed the baby? Was that why her brothers had hated her? But that couldn’t be right, because they would have been dishonoured by their mother too. Would they not have applauded their sister’s actions?

  But if they had, why had they all lived separately and only communicated by letter for ever after? And what, if anything, did that incident many decades ago have to do with their murders?

  There was an axiom he’d read somewhere to the effect that murder got easier with every killing one performed. Ali didn’t know; he’d never killed anyone. But he’d seen it done.

  When had Elif decided that she was going to kill? He didn’t know. They’d left that house in Moda when he’d seen the man, and then she’d become depressed. Dark, as she called it, until the light took over, as it did, and she decided she was going to be famous. She’d skipped about like a gazelle.

  Ali had tried to remember whether he’d even known that the killing in the Grand Bazaar was happening. But he couldn’t. Everything else was clear, but not that one. He’d asked her afterwards who it was she had stabbed, and she’d said, ‘Just a boy!’ Then she’d laughed and Ali had laughed with her. He liked it when she was happy. He’d do anything to keep her that way. She’d be far happier in hospital than she would be in prison. And so would he, because he’d be near her. He’d have to be mad.

  He’d looked at that house and he knew he’d registered no recognition whatsoever. Madmen didn’t. The only thing that worried him was the man who had, albeit unconsciously, driven them out of the house. They’d been back at the Koço when he’d seen him, and Ali was sure it hadn’t showed on his face. Süleyman hadn’t been looking at him, but had he maybe noticed something different about him later? The man himself had been oblivious, or so Ali felt. He had always been sure that he hadn’t seen either of them in the house, but could he be certain?

  One thing he was sure about was that it was best to keep quiet about the house, the man and everything else. If he was going to be with Elif in hospital, he’d have to do something quite dramatic. Remaining silent and possibly unmoving was a good place to start.

  Chapter 16

  The boy’s mother was Armenian. Her husband, who was deceased, had been Greek.

  ‘We shouldn’t have taken our son to church,’ she said to Mehmet Süleyman. ‘I never wanted Aslan to be religious. I am not myself. I rejected my faith a long time ago. But my husband was different. Orthodoxy is in the bones of the İstanbul Greeks. Whatever was going on, Petros would take Aslan to Divine Liturgy every Sunday. Sometimes I’d go, sometimes not.’

  ‘You think the boy’s faith was bad for him?’ Süleyman asked.

  ‘Not in itself,’ she said. ‘I’m assuming you’re a Muslim, so what you must understand is that our churches are full of pictures.’

  ‘Ikons.’

  ‘Exactly. They represent sacred figures like Christ, the Virgin Mary and the saints. I’m sure you know these images well.’

  He smiled. His brother’s late wife had been an İstanbul Greek.

  ‘What you may not know,’ she said, ‘is that some of these ikons also represent images of the Devil. He’s usually tempting a saint or hiding in an olive grove. He’s always up to no good and he almost inevitably has horns, red skin, a tail and hooves. The Orthodox are not as bad as the Catholics; the stone devils on the roofs of their churches are truly terrifying. But for a sensitive child like Aslan, even the pictures were too much. He has been afraid of the Devil since he was a small child. I think I fooled myself he would grow out of it, whatever that means.’

  Süleyman liked Mrs Gerontas. About his own age, she was an attractive, intelligent woman who worked as a researcher for the national television station, TRT. By her own admission, her job was her life, particularly since her husband’s death.

  ‘I neglected my son,’ she said without emotion. ‘I am multilingual and so my employers often sent me on assignment abroad. I left Aslan with my husband’s mother, who filled his head with superstitious rubbish. I should have put a stop to it, but I didn’t. I wanted to work, and when Petros died, I had no choice.’

  ‘We think your son has been living on the street for some months,’ Süleyman said. ‘And yet I can’t find any record of a missing person called Aslan Gerontas.’

  She shook her head. ‘Again that is my fault, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I knew Aslan was only taking his medication sporadically and was becoming bizarre. I knew I needed to take him back to his psychiatrist. But when he told me that he was going to visit an old school friend in Alanya, I was relieved, I admit it. The friend, Barbaros, had always been a good companion for Aslan. He seemed to understand him, he could calm him down, and he is a doctor.’

  ‘Did he get to Alanya?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Although I didn’t know that until yesterday, when I saw his photograph online. I know it’s useless and pathetic to say that I’m consumed with guilt – I mean, who cares? – but I am. I went to France to do some research into the life of the Empress Josephine, then on to Spain to set up meetings with the local gypsies in Seville. It was fascinating.’ She sighed. ‘I didn’t give a thought to Aslan. I’d like to say it’s because I’ve been driven to distraction by his illness over the years, but that isn’t true. Not entirely. I am a selfish bitch.’

  ‘No,’ said Süleyman. ‘From what I understand about mental illness, it is very difficult to live around. One receives very little in the way of, well, reward.’

  ‘He’s my son, he doesn’t need to reward me,’ she said.

  He noticed that her eyes were wet. But he didn’t allude to it. This was a proud woman who had, if not deliberately, let her own son down.

  ‘I came back last month,’ she said. ‘No word from Aslan, so I fooled myself he was having a wonderful time by the seaside. Petros’s mother died last year, which meant I didn’t even have her to spur me into action. I gather Aslan hasn’t hurt anyone.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I arrested him for being in possession of a gun, which we later discovered had been given to him by another person living on the street.’

  ‘God!’

  ‘He attempted to shoot a rat, which is how we became aware of his presence in Tarlabaşı, but he missed.’

  ‘He doesn’t know how to use a gun,’ she said.

  ‘Clearly.’ He frowned. ‘Your son needs hospital treatment,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you know, but I am simply passing on what I have been told by our psychiatrist. Aslan is clearly mentally ill and so the prosecutor will not be seeking a conviction.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ she said. She shook her head. ‘You know, I don’t just blame the images in the church. Aslan did fixate upon them, but the priest didn’t help.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I’ve no idea why – I’m not Greek, so how can I – but he was always on about the Devil,’ she said. ‘Apparently he is everywhere, there’s no escape, and where we lived when Aslan was a child was a particularly bad place for sin.’

  ‘Where was that?’ Süleyman asked.

  ‘Moda,’ she said. ‘Liberal and lots of fun. I loved it.’

  İkmen stood in what had once been Fatima Hanım’s drawing room. Now empty, it had been an elegant room that must have had beautiful views of the Sea of Marmara before the surrounding apartment blocks were built. When Rudolf Paşa lived here, it had probably been a bedroom. He wondered whether it had been Perihan Hanım’s room. Had she and her baby died here?

  One set of unknown DNA had become three. It didn’t help. In his more fanciful moments he wondered whether the spirit of the dead baby had come back to avenge itself on the family. But he knew that was nonsense. The dead were always the least of anyone’s worries; it was the living who caused trouble. It was the
living who had raised the spectre of the Devil – whatever that was – in the city, and the living also who had killed four old people in their beds.

  ‘You know, sir,’ Kerim Gürsel said, ‘that old man I met at the Koço, who first took me to the ayazma, said that some people believed that it was Fatima rather than Perihan who gave birth to the Devil’s child. Do we know whether Fatima ever had a child?’

  ‘No. That’s a good point,’ İkmen said. ‘I don’t yet have Dr Sarkissian’s full report on the body. I’ll ask him. God, her own father’s child! Makes you shudder. She was nine when Rudolf Paşa died. If she did give birth, it must have torn her apart.’ He shook his head. ‘Can such a young child even become pregnant?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  His phone rang.

  ‘İkmen.’

  ‘Çetin Bey.’

  It was Süleyman.

  ‘Mehmet Bey,’ said İkmen, ‘what can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s what I may be able to do for you, actually,’ he said. ‘Do you know a Greek Orthodox priest called Father Anatoli Ralli? His church is the Aya Triada in Moda.’

  ‘Yes,’ İkmen said. ‘A pugnacious sort of man. But he gave me enough information to track down the son of the Rudolfoğlus’ gardener. Why?’

  ‘It transpires that he may have had a heavy influence upon Aslan Gerontas, our black-tracksuited boy. According to Gerontas’s mother, Father Anatoli was apt to give sermons about the wiles and ways of the Devil.’

  ‘Was he now?’

  ‘Mrs Gerontas believes that these homilies had a profound and negative effect upon her son, who as I’m sure you know has severe mental health problems.’

  ‘Ah, Moda,’ İkmen said, ‘the very entrance to Hell.’

  ‘So it would seem. But seriously, I thought you’d like to know, given your Devil’s House and its attendant legends. Hopefully Aslan is going to be taken to Bakırköy tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Hospital’s the best place for him.’

  ‘I agree. But in the meantime, I wonder if you’d like to help me try and get something out of him about, amongst other things, Father Anatoli. Aslan is a native of Moda, so you may find him interesting. Also the male partner in my random street-crime duo seems to have clammed up, while the woman is, well, heavily sedated. He didn’t identify your Teufel Ev, I should also tell you.’