The patriarchate had no record of any burials under or near the ayazma of St Katherine. But the priest admitted that during times of conflict between his people and the Turkish majority, sometimes bodies had been buried in unusual locations and in a hurry. Also, Teker knew that some branches of the Orthodox faith, namely the Armenians, still practised animal sacrifice. She’d seen it once up at the Church of the Holy Archangels in Balat. So even if bones were found, they might not be human.
The priest gently pulled the cloth out of the ground. Teker could see that the fragment was blue. The fact that the pigment had survived could indicate that the cloth wasn’t very old. But what did she know?
Father Phokas looked for a moment and then tipped his chin upwards.
‘No?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Just empty cloth. Who knows? If the child had anything like a proper burial, there would have been a shroud.’
‘And a coffin?’
‘One would hope so,’ he said.
Teker told her officers to take a break for drinks and cigarettes.
İkmen gave Süleyman Rauf Karadeniz’s address.
‘I would hold off and wait for you and your witness,’ the older man said. ‘But I’m keen to at least meet this man.’
‘Fucking traffic!’ Süleyman said. ‘Fucking Turkish drivers! On their fucking phones again!’
There had been an accident on the Bosphorus Bridge, and although Süleyman had initially screamed at the traffic officers to clear the obstructive vehicles out of his way, he’d soon realised that wouldn’t be possible because there were fatalities.
‘Without Ali’s ID – if he makes an ID on this man – you’ve just got some visits to a German graveyard,’ he continued.
‘We know that his stated reason for those visits was to lay flowers on Rudolf Paşa’s grave, and we can take DNA. And I can talk to him. Given what you’ve just told me, maybe I can make a connection . . .’
‘Yes, I know, but . . . Oh God, another ambulance has arrived. I’ll have to go.’
He ended the call and İkmen put his phone in his pocket.
‘OK, Kerim,’ he said, ‘let’s go and see your Rauf Bey.’
Kerim Gürsel, who had been observing activity down in the ayazma, said, ‘Still nothing, sir.’
İkmen shrugged.
Chapter 24
The Sea of Marmara was one shade of blue, while the sky was another. Where they met, there was a faint line of lilac that very gently oscillated in the heat.
‘You have a fine view, Rauf Bey,’ Kerim said as he consciously concentrated on the old man’s vast living room window.
‘Yes, isn’t it?’
The old man was in the kitchen. He’d been clearly disgruntled when he’d seen that Kerim was not alone. He’d shown Kerim and İkmen into what he obviously considered to be a normal room; either that or he’d asked them to sit there as a form of punishment. Kerim had never been exposed to so much taxidermy in his life. The exhibits ranged in size from small scorpions right up to an adult wolf.
‘This is not normal,’ he whispered.
İkmen put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re an İstanbullu, Kerim,’ he said. ‘You can take it.’
But İkmen wasn’t sure he actually believed that. In spite of the fact that he was desperate not to pre-judge the old man, he did find his apartment unsettling. And it wasn’t just the faintly musty smell from the taxidermy that was making him feel queasy. It wasn’t just the eyes of the stuffed creatures watching İkmen and Kerim Gürsel perch uneasily on Rauf Bey’s sofa. Ikons hung on every piece of wall that wasn’t covered with photographs of a handsome woman in Victorian clothes. She was very dark and very tall, and sometimes she stood beside an even taller, thinner, luxuriantly moustached man in a long black coat. There was a look around his eyes that reminded İkmen of Rauf Bey.
The old man walked in from the kitchen. ‘I do apologise,’ he said. ‘This diabetes is a nuisance. Do you mind if I eat while we talk? In fact, why don’t you join me? It’s lunchtime.’
‘Thank you, but I rarely eat lunch,’ İkmen said. He looked at Kerim. ‘But Kerim Bey, if you would like to . . .’
‘Oh, I would be thrilled if you would,’ the old man said. ‘I’ve prepared halibut. Very light. I eschewed meat many years ago because of my cholesterol. But fish I can eat, in moderation.’
‘I’d be delighted to join you,’ Kerim said.
‘Excellent.’
He turned.
‘Ah, Rauf Bey,’ İkmen said.
He turned back and smiled. ‘Yes?’
‘You have a lot of taxidermy. Is it a hobby?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I prefer animals to be alive. But my father fancied himself as something of a hunter. These are some of his kills. He enjoyed a challenge. He believed it was honourable to track and kill dangerous species. I’d rather conserve them.’
‘And the rather handsome couple in these photographs,’ İkmen said. ‘Are they perhaps your parents?’
‘Indeed,’ said the old man. ‘And do you know something, Inspector, you know exactly who they are.’
‘What’s going on?’
Süleyman had cuffed Ali Erbil to one of his constables and was out on the bridge talking to a traffic officer.
‘Shut up,’ the constable said.
‘I was only asking,’ Ali said.
‘Shut the fuck up.’
Süleyman ran back to the car.
‘They’re going to let us through,’ he said.
‘What’s happening, sir?’
‘The moron who was on his phone is dead, but his wife is trapped. They’re going to have to cut her out.’
‘What about the other driver?’
‘I don’t think there’s enough diamorphine in the city to help him,’ he said.
The fish had been prepared in what İkmen could only describe as an oriental fashion. There were thin raw slices fanned out on a vast white plate. Fried pieces in a bowl were accompanied by a green salad and an eggcup full of thin brown liquid. There was pide bread, and in the middle of the table, a dark gelatinous item sat in solitary state on a blue tile. The delicate spread, probably Japanese-influenced, looked out of place in an apartment apparently given over to dusty dead animals, photographs of the departed and forbidding renditions of saints.
‘I’m afraid you have the better of me,’ İkmen said as he sat down at the table. ‘Your parents, Rauf Bey, are unknown to me.’
The old man blinked. ‘Of course,’ he said. He put a jug of water on the table and then some glasses. ‘Please help yourselves to water.’
‘Thank you.’
Rauf Bey sat, and then Kerim.
The old man commented upon it. ‘My goodness, it’s so refreshing to see a young man with such fine manners!’
İkmen looked at his sergeant. Rauf Bey’s proclivities hadn’t just been in Kerim’s imagination.
‘Rauf Bey, to get to the point—’
‘Oh how very un-Turkish of you,’ the old man said. ‘I should have imagined that a man of your vintage would have been rather more traditional in his approach.’
‘Ah, but we all have our crosses to bear, don’t we?’ İkmen said. ‘Or rather you do.’
Rauf Bey said nothing.
İkmen continued. ‘I’m simply repeating what you said to Kerim Bey when he called you on the telephone. And if I put that expression together with the marvellous collection of ikons in this apartment, I could, I believe, sir, be forgiven for thinking that you have Greek connections.’
The old man smiled. ‘Please do help yourselves to food,’ he said.
Kerim took a small fried nugget from the bowl, and some salad.
‘The sauce is soy,’ Rauf Bey said. ‘One should really use chopsticks to dip the meat, but I find that Turkish people don’t do well with those.’
‘Rauf Bey,’ İkmen said, ‘can you please tell me why you visited the German cemetery in Tarabya three times in the course of the last year? I’d also like to know, beyo
nd your assertion to my sergeant that the tale about Konstantinos Apion and Kemal Rudolfoğlu is a commonly known story, how you heard about it.’
Şeymus had pursued her because she was the most beautiful girl in the quarter. He’d fallen so hard for her because she was also the only girl who would willingly do what he wanted. He hadn’t had to teach her to suck him off. She’d just done it – and enjoyed it. Later, when she broke up with him, he’d accused her of fucking every man in the area. That was when she’d left. Only Turgut, who was already in İstanbul, had supported her. Only poor, emotionless Turgut had possessed the balls to stand up to Şeymus. But then, bully though he was, Şeymus was no fool. It had taken time, but eventually he’d stopped hassling her, because Turgut had threatened to kill him. And Şeymus knew that Turgut Zana never made idle threats.
Did she love Turgut so much because she’d never slept with him? He was a good-looking man, but there was no desire in him and he was like a brother to her. Even if he had sexual feelings, would he be able to express them, given how he was? It wasn’t just Mehmet Süleyman’s good looks and exquisite manners that made him so irresistible. It wasn’t even that he was a skilled lover. It was his appreciation that Barçın adored. The way he touched her body with such desire, and how he let himself melt into every sexual adventure she offered him. And he had a big cock. She laughed at her own crude thoughts before a dark notion entered her mind. What if she went to see Gonca Hanım and told her what her lover had been doing? What if she ran it by Turgut and asked his advice?
‘She’ll kill you,’ he said when she phoned him. ‘Be content with what you have, Barçın abla. Don’t try to threaten Süleyman or any of his people. He has a poor track record with women. If you must carry on with him, then be his other woman. You will never be anything else.’
When she put the phone down, she wondered why she’d ever spoken to Turgut. She’d known he’d say that. She read the first line of a letter dated February 2015 yet again. In modern Turkish, it had not come from any of Fatima Hanım’s brothers.
Dear Fatima Hanım, dear mother . . .
‘My father knew Konstantinos Apion, and everyone in Moda knows that story,’ the old man said.
‘I beg to differ,’ İkmen said. ‘The Rudolfoğlus had been largely forgotten. Certainly Konstantinos’s son, Yiannis, knows about it . . . oh, and Father Anatoli, the local Orthodox priest, he knew.’
‘So if the local priest knew, the net widens . . .’
‘Not really, no,’ İkmen said. ‘Priests are not supposed to gossip about things told to them in confidence. And I know Father Anatoli took that aspect of his role very seriously. I think you know that too.’
‘I heard the priest had died.’
‘The day after you were seen speaking to him, yes,’ İkmen said.
‘I haven’t spoken to Father Anatoli for years.’ The old man handed Kerim a pair of tongs. ‘Have some of the sushi, it’s wonderful.’
‘Thank you.’
‘He committed suicide,’ İkmen said. ‘A disturbing course of action for a priest.’
‘Inspector, why do I get the impression you are accusing me of something?’
‘Tell me how, when most people in Moda seem to have forgotten the Rudolfoğlus, you appear to know so much about them. I understand you are not a young man, and the Rudolfoğlus’ tales are not young men’s stories. But I’m curious. I’m also curious, I repeat, to know why you have visited the German cemetery in Tarabya so frequently in the last year.’
‘Mm. Now under normal circumstances I would say at this point that I need to consult my lawyer.’ He looked at Kerim and smiled. ‘There are two different types of sushi,’ he said. ‘The slices on the left are delicately flavoured with sesame.’
‘You are entirely at liberty to consult your lawyer,’ İkmen said.
‘Thank you.’ He carried on looking at Kerim. ‘May I help you?’
But Kerim didn’t move. He was looking at something. İkmen followed his gaze to an empty fish tank on the floor beside the kitchen sink.
‘This is halibut?’ the sergeant said.
‘Yes. Fresh today. I bought it after I left the doctor’s office.’
‘You have an empty fish tank . . .’
‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘I’m changing Zenobia’s water.’
‘So where is she?’
‘In the bath. She’s perfectly fine, I can assure you. Zenobia has been my companion for many years, I take her care very seriously.’
İkmen’s phone rang. He looked at the screen and saw that the caller was Barçın Demirtaş. If it had been Süleyman, he would have answered, but the traffic constable could wait.
‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’
‘No,’ İkmen said. There was a small picture of a fish on the side of the tank. ‘Is that Zenobia?’
‘Yes,’ the old man said.
Kerim Gürsel took a piece of sushi and put it on his plate. But he didn’t eat it. Then his phone rang too.
‘Is Çetin Bey at the ayazma?’ Barçın asked.
Ömer Mungun looked up. He’d been put on hold by a nurse on Aslan Gerontas’s ward at Bakırköy. Apparently finding out how the young man was responding to treatment was no easy task. But then the boy had only just arrived at the hospital. Ömer suspected Süleyman had given him this job to keep him out of the way. Now that he was fucking Barçın, he wanted to see as little of her ex-lover as possible. Or was he being paranoid?
‘Yes,’ he said. He knew that his face had assembled itself into a sneer.
‘He’s not answering his phone,’ she said.
‘He doesn’t. I’ve told you before. Call Kerim Bey.’
‘I have,’ she said. ‘He’s not answering either.’
‘I can’t help you,’ Ömer said.
‘Where’s Inspector Süleyman?’ she asked.
‘On his way to Moda,’ he said. ‘I’m surprised you have to ask.’
Barçın felt her face burn. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she said.
‘What do you think?’
She heard someone say something to him on his phone. He said, ‘Yes, I’ll hold.’
She moved towards him. ‘Just because I didn’t want to carry on after that night,’ she said. ‘We were drunk . . .’
‘I felt something,’ he said.
‘Yes. We had sex. It was great. But you’re too intense, Ömer. I’ve been through a relationship that was too intense before.’
‘Oh, so now you sidestep that by taking someone else’s lover!’
For a moment she was speechless. He knew? Of course he did.
‘If Gonca Hanım ever finds out about the two of you, she’ll tear you to pieces,’ he said. ‘As for him . . . You know it’s a dominance thing, don’t you? He has to stick his big, privileged cock inside you just to prove he’s better than I am. He doesn’t want you!’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not talking about this. I’ve got to get in touch with Inspector İkmen – urgently.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘So for God’s sake forget your bitterness for one moment and help me. I know the identity of Fatima Hanım’s son. I’ve just found it in her correspondence. Çetin Bey needs to know, right now. Because if this man behaves the same way that he writes, then he could be dangerous.’
Ömer said nothing for a moment, then he said, ‘I’ll call the boss.’
‘I don’t know why you boys don’t answer your phones,’ the old man said. ‘Why have them if you ignore them?’
‘Why prepare lunch when you don’t eat it?’ İkmen countered.
‘I am diabetic.’
‘Then you’d better eat,’ İkmen said.
The old man smiled.
Kerim said, ‘Sir, may I please use your bathroom?’
‘Of course,’ Rauf Bey said. ‘At the end of the corridor, turn right.’
Kerim stood up and left.
‘Why don’t you eat, Rauf Bey?’ İkmen asked. ‘In fact, why don’t you
eat whatever that is in the middle of the table? Is it the liver?’
Rauf Bey said, ‘Let us wait for Kerim Bey to return, shall we?’
İkmen’s phone beeped, letting him know he had a text. He looked at it and frowned.
‘A problem?’ Rauf Bey asked.
İkmen smiled. ‘No,’ he said.
Kerim returned from the bathroom.
‘Rauf Bey,’ he said as he sat down, ‘there was no fish in your bath.’
Mehmet Süleyman liked to drive himself. That way he was in control. But this time he had no option. With Ali Erbil handcuffed to his arm, all he could do was shout at the constable who was driving.
‘You’ve lights up, and sirens!’ he yelled. ‘Put your foot down!’
‘Sir, there’s a—’
‘I don’t care if it’s a bus full of grandmothers! Push the fucking thing if you must!’
The constable added the sound of his horn to the siren and shouted at the driver of the minibus in front to ‘Fuck off out of the way!’
But the bus driver just shrugged. Like the Mercedes beside him and the Mini in front, he had nowhere to go. İstanbul was at maximum gridlock and it was hot enough to grill meat out on the tarmac.
Barçın Demirtaş had read out the salient paragraphs of the letter Fatima Hanım’s son had sent her only four months ago. It’s not the money, it’s the recognition. It’s about names. I need one. I need yours because yours is mine and mine is yours and you know it. I will have my name before I die! Deny me and I will prove to you in the most graphic way that I can, that I am your son. Recall, Mother, if you can ever forget, that you are the daughter of the Devil, and think about what that makes me.
In spite of the heat, his recollection of his conversation with Barçın made him shudder.
The letter was signed ‘Rouvin’, which was the name Fatima Rudolfoğlu’s baby had been given at birth. So far, so familiar. But what worried Süleyman was Rouvin’s address and his surname.
‘Come on!’ He pounded on the back of the driver’s seat. ‘We need to get to Moda now!’
The House of Four Page 26
