Why did he want to bury himself alive with a madwoman? Even before they’d found that place in Moda and she’d set up her little fantasy home in the basement, she’d done crazy shit. One day, when they’d been sleeping in the street, she’d punched the tiny child of a woman who had tried to share their pitch in a shop doorway.
But if he went to prison, there’d be no one.
Later, she couldn’t remember what he’d come to see her about. İkmen had just called to say that he was going out to the German consulate with Sergeant Gürsel. Then Süleyman had walked into her office.
They had spoken, but about what had gone completely from her mind. Her shirt had still been unbuttoned because of the heat, and someone had locked her office door, but Barçın didn’t know who. She assumed it was him. What she did know was that as soon as they were locked in, he put his hands on her breasts and then squeezed her nipples. Immediately aroused, she pulled off her underwear so that he could fuck her. She climaxed almost as soon as he was inside her. He too didn’t take long.
Afterwards, he whispered, ‘You’re beautiful.’ Then he kissed her. A long, dirty, sensual kiss. She’d not been expecting that. She kissed him back, and as time went on, he became aroused once more. Faintly she could hear the sound of Ömer Mungun on the phone, and more loudly, voices from outside the open window in the car park. But over and above all that, she wanted sex again. With him. Her father would have called her a shameless whore. She bent over her desk, scattering old Ottoman documents on the floor. Again, it was just sex, but that was all she wanted.
As they rearranged their clothing, he bent down to kiss her breasts.
After he had left, Barçın wondered whether any of that had actually happened. How had he known she wanted him? She’d never said so. And what was wrong with her that her need for sex, once awakened, wouldn’t go away? Was it some kind of mental illness, or was she just the filthy slag Şeymus had called her when they’d split up?
But then she smelt Süleyman on her and she had a violent urge to call him and ask him to come back. She knew what she’d say. She’d say she wanted his cock inside her again, that she wanted to feel his tongue licking out her mouth. That she wanted to fellate him. But she didn’t. He was in his office talking to Ömer Mungun, who she had also pleasured within the last week.
When she’d first met him, Çetin İkmen had told her she was wasted in Traffic. But at least there, interacting almost exclusively with CCTV screens, she wouldn’t feel like this. Her mother, she’d always thought, had never had a sexual feeling in her life. Barçın was clearly making up for that. And it didn’t make her happy. Süleyman had used her because he was handsome and because he could, but if she got the chance, she’d let him do it all over again.
The German consul had been polite. İkmen had never been to the vast Prussian-style consulate on İnönü Caddesi before, and he found it an interesting place. In terms of his investigation, too, the visit was enlightening. The Bauer family of Munich were unknown to the consul, but he said he would make enquiries about them. His secretary, however, a man in his sixties, was well aware of Rudolf Paşa.
‘He was an opportunist,’ Herr Steinmeier said. ‘He was in the military in Germany. The Kaiser surrounded himself with a lot of nationalistic people, many of whom were extremely unreliable. Here in Turkey he was offered much and took much. He is buried in the German cemetery in Tarabya.’
‘A Christian cemetery?’ İkmen asked.
‘Largely, yes,’ Herr Steinmeier said. ‘Why?’
‘Rudolf Paşa had a strong interest in the occult,’ İkmen said.
The German smiled. ‘Ah, that story. Rudolf Paşa liked to frighten people. Particularly his Ottoman troops.’
‘I’ve heard from a most reliable source that he—’
‘Trust me, Inspector, it’s nonsense,’ the German said. ‘He had an adjutant, a Greek, a kindred spirit. They controlled their troops, who looked upon Rudolf as an infidel, through fear. Also, in the desert it is said that they sexually abused their men. I don’t know if that is true. But the Greek, Dimitri Kazantzoğolu, he was the really bad one. He had many vices.’
It was the first time İkmen had heard Dimitri Bey’s surname.
‘Could that not just be a German story?’ he asked. ‘Made up to take the blame away from a fellow countryman?’
The German, who was almost as thin as İkmen, smiled a swift, grey smile. ‘You will see a crucifix on Rudolf Paşa’s grave,’ he said. ‘He was no saint, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Dimitri Kazantzoğolu was a known abuser of boys.’
‘How do you know that?’
He smiled again. ‘Inspector, the German imperial government employed a lot of spies in the lands of their ally the Ottoman Empire. Dimitri Bey had his own file. And no, I will not show it to you without a warrant. But believe me, it exists.’
‘So do you know what happened to Kazantzoğolu after the First World War?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘We were defeated; why would we have any further interest in an Ottoman Greek with a penchant for buggery? Maybe he left for Greece? All I know for sure is that Rudolf Paşa is buried in Tarabya, and that from time to time, someone asks permission to visit his grave.’
İkmen frowned. ‘The cemetery is closed?’
‘Yes.’
‘German relatives, maybe?’
‘Oh no. As the consul himself told you, we know nothing of the paşa’s family. These are Turks.’
‘Who?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’
‘Can you look it up?’ İkmen asked.
‘I can,’ the German said. ‘Which years do you want me to look at?’
Chapter 22
The psychiatrist was a fucking nuisance. Droning on, not letting him think. Eventually he said, ‘Where’s Elif? I want to see Elif.’
She was in another cell. He’d even been able to hear her once or twice. But not lately.
The psychiatrist said, ‘Did Elif begin an act and then you joined in?’
‘Where is she?’ Ali reiterated. ‘I want to see her!’
‘You—’
‘I’m not even going to listen to your fucking questions until you take me to Elif!’
A look that Ali didn’t like passed between the psychiatrist and the police constable who was guarding him.
‘What’s happened to her?’ he said.
Neither of them spoke, and so he yelled, ‘What have you done to her!’
İkmen read: We are siblings, and siblings stay together . . .
‘I can’t find a reply,’ Barçın said.
‘But you believe this is from Kemal to Fatima?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said.
‘Trouble is, it can be interpreted in so many different ways,’ İkmen said. ‘Maybe an exhortation for all four of them to tell the same story about what happened to baby Sofia? Possibly some sort of threat . . .’
‘Reminding Fatima that as a sibling she owes her brothers something?’ Kerim said.
‘Like what?’
‘Loyalty? Love?’
İkmen sighed. ‘Fatima had a child. It had or has a Greek name. Does that mean its father was Greek? Maybe her mother’s lover? Her father’s adjutant?’
‘I can’t see Konstantinos Apion wanting anything to do with Fatima Rudolfoğlu,’ Kerim said. ‘She killed his child.’
‘Maybe it was rape.’
They both looked at Barçın Demirtaş.
‘Sex as punishment,’ she said.
İkmen shook his head. ‘She was an adult by then. She would have aborted. Besides, I think Yiannis Apion would have told us if that were the case.’
‘If he knew.’
‘True.’ İkmen lit a cigarette. ‘What about Dimitri Kazantzoğolu?’
‘He liked boys,’ Kerim said.
‘And maybe sometimes he liked girls,’ İkmen said. ‘You heard what Herr Steinmeier said: he was a bad man.’
‘Yes, but that’s a very German perspective . . .’
&nbs
p; ‘Possibly. Possibly.’
Barçın hadn’t contributed as much to the conversation as she could. Still in a daze from the activities of that morning, she wondered what Mehmet Süleyman was doing and whether he felt guilty. She tried to concentrate. ‘Maybe Kemal wanted Fatima to do something for him? Or perhaps for him and his brothers?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Some sort of sacrifice? That’s how it comes across to me, at least. As a sibling, you have to do what the rest of us do. I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m just putting it out there.’
They sat in silence. Barçın pictured Gonca Şekeroğlu and thought about how much it was said she loved Süleyman. But what she’d done with the gypsy’s man had just been sex. Though it had been good sex . . .
‘Siblings can and do work in gangs,’ İkmen said. ‘I know my own children, even now, will line up against in-laws at times. I don’t approve, but I can see how it happens. My sons are still ruled by their sisters. However, I don’t think, or rather I hope, that wouldn’t extend to breaking the law.’
‘She, Miss Fatima, is being asked to fall into line,’ Barçın said.
‘So maybe they were planning something,’ Kerim said. ‘Barçın Hanım, do you know when that note was written?’
‘No, but it’s recent,’ she said.
She’d only just managed to rescue it from the floor. Süleyman had almost stepped on it when he left.
‘But if they were planning something, then what?’ İkmen said. ‘They were all older than time. What do you plan to do when you’re about to die, for God’s sake?’
Guilt must have been a feature of his thinking, because he showered thoroughly before he even touched Gonca. Then he made love to her, slowly and with so much passion she was left breathless.
But when he took her from behind, he was reminded of Barçın Demirtaş. Gonca was softer, and so he was more gentle; it was loving, but it wasn’t as sexy. It didn’t make him come in seconds, and Gonca, though his one and only true love, didn’t writhe beneath him like a bitch on heat. He’d never known a woman quite that sexual before. He hoped she only wanted sex from him.
He buried his face in Gonca’s hair. ‘I love you.’ He meant it. But he was replaying the sex with Barçın in his head. Hard and dirty and urgent. He knew that if he’d stayed she would have given him more. But he’d had to leave, because why had he even been there in her office, fucking her on her desk?
She’d had sex with Ömer Mungun as a substitute for him, and then dumped him. Süleyman had seen her desire the first day he’d set eyes on her. He’d also seen Ömer’s interest in her. Had he superseded his deputy as a way of establishing his superiority? Or had he just needed to have what he couldn’t?
He knew he shouldn’t have anything to do with Barçın Demirtaş again, but he also knew that he would. Apart from the fact that her body was firm and tight, she wanted him so much it was irresistible. Women had wanted him all his adult life, but few of them had been like her. Later, as he lay in Gonca’s arms, he tried to forget about Barçın but found that he couldn’t.
The ayazma was closed. There was no one inside, but there would be. He knew that the police wanted to excavate. Yiannis Apion wondered when they’d start and whether he would ever get to see what they found. His blood was underneath that floor. It should stay there.
It had been a strange day. Ever since he’d woken up, he’d been followed around by a memory he couldn’t place. His father had taken him to the shrine – how old he was, he had no idea – and they’d met someone. A woman. She’d been Greek, or rather he assumed she was Greek, because that was the language she had spoken. But he had no idea who she was because he hadn’t been able to see her face. He didn’t know why.
The woman and his father had touched, but not in a sexual way. Rather in a manner to give each other comfort. He remembered looking at the floor with them but he couldn’t recall whether Sofia’s name had been spoken or not.
Up in Koço, he could hear voices. Regulars and tourists enjoying cool drinks on a hot evening. But this memory had taken place in the winter. Why was he thinking of it now? He wiped sweat out of his eyes. Had the woman been Fatima Rudolfoğlu? How would he know when he’d never even seen her?
He was about to go home when he heard footsteps on the stairs leading down from Koço. At first he thought it might be a policeman, come to guard the shuttered shrine or even start work on unearthing its secrets. But then he recognised one of the regulars from the café.
‘It’s shut,’ he said.
The man, an old Turk, smiled. ‘You must be disappointed.’
‘Disappointed? What do you mean?’
‘I mean I’ve seen you come to pray sometimes,’ he said. ‘At least I assume that’s what you’re doing.’
The old man turned and went back up the steps. Yiannis breathed in deeply and went as if to follow him, but then stopped. The woman in his daydream had been veiled; that was why he hadn’t been able to remember her face. In black, but not in purdah like a Muslim woman; in mourning.
The psychiatrist had phoned Mehmet Süleyman, who was on his way.
‘Your job is gone,’ Dr Aksu told the quivering constable, who had begged to be forgiven.
‘Bey effendi . . .’
‘Shut up!’
He wanted to hit the ignorant, thick-fingered fool. But he didn’t. From inside the cell the sound of Ali Erbil’s weeping was punctuated only by the voices of those who were restraining him. Aksu heard one of them say, ‘She’s in hospital, but she’ll be OK. It was just a joke . . .’
Just a joke! Aksu had left Ali Erbil’s cell for no more than five minutes, but when he’d returned, the prisoner had been like a wild man. Constable Stupid had thought it was almost unbelievably hilarious to tell him that Elif Büyük had killed herself. Then he had compounded it by telling him she was going to go to hell. The doctor looked at the constable with disgust. Sometimes he wondered where they got some of these officers from. He tried not to imagine sun-baked villages full of illiterates, but found that his mind wouldn’t go anywhere else.
When Süleyman eventually arrived, the psychiatrist told him everything. At first he thought the inspector might actually hit the idiot officer, who by this time was cowering on the floor. Instead he glared at him and said he’d deal with him later.
Süleyman was well known to have a violent temper, but Dr Aksu couldn’t be bothered to expend any sympathy on the constable.
‘I’ve no idea why he thought telling Ali that Elif had committed suicide was a good idea,’ he said as he and Süleyman walked towards Erbil’s cell. ‘But then who knows what goes through the minds of such people?’
Süleyman knew what he meant. Conservative men who had been raised in rural Anatolia. Barely educated and almost wilfully ignorant, according to people like the doctor. On occasion Süleyman would agree. But he’d been dragged away from his sleep and didn’t have time for city-versus-countryside debates.
‘Did he ask for me?’
‘Yes,’ the doctor said. ‘He wants to see Elif, naturally. Do you know how she is?’
‘She has brain damage,’ Süleyman said. ‘Am I supposed to show her to him as she drools?’
God, he was angry. Dr Aksu almost felt sorry for Constable Stupid now.
‘He says that if you show him Elif, he’ll tell you something,’ the psychiatrist said.
Süleyman stopped. ‘Tell me what?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Süleyman knocked on Erbil’s cell door. ‘Open up!’
Now that all the police tape had been taken down and the house was boarded up, Selin could lay flowers. No one cared about the garden, and so she placed her bunch of tulips and roses in the space Kemal Bey had asked her to clear all those months ago. Then she sang. Whether her pronunciation was correct or not, she didn’t know. But someone who did know recognised it.
‘A hymn for the dead.’
She turned and found herself looking at a ghost in m
odern clothing. She only just managed to stifle a scream.
‘Who are you?’ she said. ‘Oh God!’
The man crouched down beside her. ‘I’m Konstantinos’s son, Selin Hanım,’ Yiannis Apion said. ‘I remember watching you when you were a small child, running around in this garden. My father used to tell me that when he worked here, your grandmother made his life hell. As a child I was afraid of this place. But I only knew why when my father was dying. Why do you sing a hymn that means nothing to you?’
‘You . . .’
‘My name is Yiannis, I am Konstantinos’s son. I am also Sofia’s brother.’
She turned her head away. ‘Oh God!’
‘What?’
‘He came here once,’ she said. ‘Maybe five years ago. He was sick. He wanted to kill her. I sent him away.’
He sat down on the cool night earth. ‘If you’re wondering, I don’t know what I’m doing here,’ he said. ‘I went to the ayazma but it was shut, so I came here. You know the police think I killed them.’
‘They think I killed them too,’ she said. Suddenly chilled, she pulled her cardigan around her shoulders and sat beside him. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Me neither. But then I would say that, wouldn’t I?’
She shivered. ‘I don’t know you,’ she said. ‘And I’ve nothing to say.’
‘Except you sing a Trisagion hymn for the dead that I can only think has to be for my sister. Although why you do it here . . .’
‘If you know the story, then you know that she died here,’ Selin said. ‘My grandmother was a wicked woman, but my mother was kind. She sang what she called the baby’s hymn whenever she could.’
‘And yet you lay flowers as if you’re visiting a grave.’
‘That’s because this should have been her grave.’ She touched the bunch of flowers and smiled. ‘The old gentlemen wanted her to come home. I even cleared a space. But she wouldn’t have it.’
‘Fatima Hanım?’
‘The Devil’s child,’ she said.
‘Sofia is better off where she is.’
The House of Four Page 24
