The House of Four

by Barbara Nadel

‘Ah, but of course I put her in a bowl in my bedroom,’ Rauf Bey said. ‘Silly old fool! I am so forgetful these days!’

  İkmen peered closely at the picture of the fish on the empty tank.‘Is that why you have a photograph of Zenobia?’ he said. ‘To remind you what she is?’

  The old man smiled and said nothing. He did that a lot.

  ‘You know, if you have a lot of children, as I do, you get to know some very strange things,’ İkmen said. ‘You follow their interests and their passions. For instance, two of my sons trained as doctors. One is a surgeon. Theoretically, as opposed to practically, Orhan taught me how to amputate a leg. Not a skill I will use every day, or even at all. But I can talk about amputation with some degree of authority. Then take one of my younger boys, Bülent—’

  ‘Does this have a point?’ the old man said.

  Kerim reached across the table to take another sliver of sushi.

  İkmen held up a hand. ‘Not yet, Kerim Bey.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Rauf Bey said, ‘Oh but—’

  ‘When he was twelve, Bülent wanted a tank of piranha fish,’ İkmen said. ‘My wife almost fainted when he put this to her. She imagined fish floating about in a tank beside her chair with human fingers in their mouths. So my son compromised. He told his mother he wanted a puffer fish. He showed her a picture of a nice, friendly-looking beast and she said yes. Puffer fish don’t bite off fingers, do they? I checked them out and they are perfectly harmless. Unless you eat them.

  ‘Young boys often want a dangerous animal or two. It makes them feel powerful. Zenobia is a puffer fish, isn’t she, Rauf Bey? I recognise the picture. And although you didn’t know whether either Kerim Bey or myself would be able to recognise a puffer fish, that didn’t really matter did it? That was just a potentially amusing detail?’

  The old man laughed.

  İkmen looked at Kerim. His face was white.

  ‘Do your lips feel numb?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘No, why . . .’

  ‘You’re OK. The flesh is usually harmless; it’s the liver that is particularly toxic.’ He pointed to the dark mass in the middle of the table. ‘Rauf Bey, why did you kill Zenobia when you couldn’t have known we were coming to see you?’

  ‘But I did know,’ he said.

  There were fragments of cloth twisted around a few of the ribs and across the head. The tiny corpse had probably been shrouded. But it hadn’t been put in a coffin.

  The priest muttered words that Teker didn’t understand over the baby’s dark resting place. She took her telephone out of her pocket and made a call. When it was answered, she said, ‘Dr Sarkissian? Good afternoon. Or rather, it would be . . .’

  Chapter 25

  They all turned towards the direction of the front door at the same time.

  ‘Who else has a key to your apartment?’ İkmen asked.

  ‘Only the kapıcı.’

  İkmen stood. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Mustafa Bey.’

  ‘Mustafa Bey,’ İkmen called out, ‘is that you?’

  ‘Çetin Bey!’

  It was Süleyman’s voice.

  ‘We’re in the kitchen.’

  Kerim Gürsel, the old man and İkmen around a table covered with food was not what Süleyman had been expecting.

  ‘You get my text?’ he asked İkmen.

  ‘Yes. Enlightening. This is Rauf Karadeniz,’ İkmen said. ‘Rauf Bey, this is Inspector Süleyman.’

  The old man said, ‘Delighted.’

  Süleyman stared. Once he had recovered his breath he said, ‘Also known as Rouvin?’

  ‘We were, I believe, coming to that,’ Rauf Bey said.

  Süleyman called back into the hall. ‘Constable!’

  A slightly world-weary constable came in cuffed to Ali Erbil.

  ‘Look at this gentleman here, Ali,’ Süleyman said. ‘Think carefully and then tell me whether you recognise him as the man you saw talking to a priest when I took you to the Koço restaurant.’

  It clearly wasn’t easy for Ali. He’d been crying in the car as tendrils of grief for Elif broke through the methadone. These had been sprinkled with fury as he accused Süleyman of lying. An entire scenario about police officers raping and then killing Elif had spilled out of him. Could anything he said be relied upon?

  Then the old man spoke. ‘You must tell the truth, you know. Don’t be frightened.’

  There was a long silence as Ali appeared to look deeply into Rauf Bey’s face.

  ‘Ali . . .’

  ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘The man I saw at Koço was definitely the man I saw in that house we squatted in.’

  ‘Yes, but was it this man?’

  ‘I feel dizzy.’

  Kerim Gürsel stood up and gave him his seat.

  ‘I only caught a glimpse of him,’ Ali said. ‘That he was there, in that context, shocked me. The priest was upset. That’s all I know.’

  İkmen looked at Süleyman, who shook his head.

  ‘Well,’ İkmen said, ‘what do we do, gentlemen?’

  The old man said, ‘I—’

  ‘What we do, Rauf Bey,’ İkmen answered his own question, ‘is take you into our custody and hopefully get some sense out of you. I have what I believe is a reasonable suspicion that you have been involved in some way with the illegal activities that have taken place at the Teufel Ev. I may also charge you with the attempted murder of my sergeant.’

  Süleyman said, ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll explain later. In the meantime, Sergeant Gürsel, would you please inform headquarters that they need to send a forensic team down here to analyse this fish.’

  ‘To be honest with you, Sergeant Mungun, he is not, as yet, responding to treatment. We’ve only had him a few hours. If anything, his condition is still deteriorating.’

  Aslan Gerontas’s psychiatrist sounded young, and so Ömer Mungun felt rather more inclined to trust her than most psychiatrists he came across. So often they were disillusioned men in their fifties or sixties, waiting to retire. At least this woman, Dr Berkan, seemed interested.

  ‘He remains convinced he sees the Devil. He still believes it is in some way his fate to confront this entity. The Devil and his agents are everywhere. It’s apocalyptic stuff. Looking at his history, there is a clear case for a diagnosis of religious mania. But this has all been exacerbated, in my opinion, by recent developments in domestic and international politics.’

  ‘You mean like the situation in Syria?’

  ‘That would be a big part of it,’ she said. ‘Aslan is an Orthodox Christian. These people, unlike groups such as American Evangelicals, are not known for dwelling particularly on, well, end-of-the-world myths. But in the Christian Bible there is a book called Revelation, where what they call “the last days” are described. Given that we know from his mother that Aslan as a child was influenced by a priest who dwelt on such subjects, I’m fairly sure I know where all of this has come from. Doing something about it, however, is something else. When terrible things that only serve to confirm such beliefs happen in your region every day, it’s difficult to refute any sort of theory about cause and effect, and that includes the supernatural. He will be denied TV access and shows no inclination, at present, to read. But I can’t control what he hears on the ward or what happens in his head.’

  ‘Can he, in your opinion, be charged under criminal justice?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not as he is now. What are you going to charge him with? Possession of a firearm? My understanding is that he was given the gun, which he then fired at a rat. Aslan is a very agitated young man, Sergeant. He’s already had to be restrained twice.’

  ‘Has he tried to kill himself?’

  ‘He believes that the Devil has been unleashed into this world to engage in a final battle with God,’ she said. ‘He sees him everywhere. But he also claims that, at the same time, he is hiding in the body of a particular human being. I don’t know how that works for him. Logically it doesn’t, but then de
lusions are not always internally consistent.’

  ‘Has he given you any idea about whose body the Devil might be hiding in?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Though according to the notes that Dr Aksu passed on to me, it’s none of the usual suspects – politicians, terrorists, the Pope. According to Aslan, the Devil has a comfortable home in the body of a very ordinary person. That, he says, demonstrates his truly tricksy nature. A sort of cosmic illusionist. For me, it’s fascinating. But for Aslan it must be torture.’

  ‘Might I have something to eat, do you think?’

  İkmen looked at the old man sitting next to him. ‘I’m afraid, Rauf Bey, that your fish is off the menu.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. You will discover that it was indeed halibut, as I told you. But I am feeling a little queasy now. My diabetes . . .’

  İkmen shook his head. He addressed his colleagues in the car with them. ‘Anyone got anything to eat?’

  No one had.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘We’ll get you something when we arrive at headquarters.’

  ‘I can’t wait that long.’

  They’d just managed to cross the Bosphorus Bridge. Still accident-bound, it had taken them half an hour.

  ‘I sometimes go to the wonderful hotel they made from the ruins of the old Çırağan Palace,’ Rauf Bey said. ‘The Gazebo Lounge serves excellent coffee.’

  ‘Does it.’

  ‘Yes, and one can sit outside. Perfect for smokers.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘And I would pay,’ he said. ‘For all of us.’

  İkmen swivelled in his seat to face the old man. ‘Rauf Bey, I am not going to take a detour so that you can have some overpriced coffee in an Ottoman palace.’ His phone rang. ‘İkmen.’

  ‘Where on earth are you?’

  It was Teker.

  ‘And what is this I hear about poisoned fish?’

  ‘I’m taking a man called Rauf Karadeniz in for questioning, madam,’ he said. ‘I have reason to believe he is the son of Fatima Rudolfoğlu.’

  ‘Do you.’

  ‘According to information I’ve been given by the Ottoman transcriber, yes,’ he said. ‘I also believe he tried to poison Sergeant Gürsel and myself when we went to his apartment to confront him about an alleged conversation he had with the Greek priest who later killed himself, Father Anatoli.’

  ‘Well, we’ve found a body under the ayazma,’ she said. ‘An infant. I’m hoping that Dr Sarkissian will be able to tell us more when he gets here. I’m told that the Bosphorus Bridge is hell on earth.’

  ‘We’ve just crossed, but it wasn’t what you’d call easy,’ İkmen said.

  As they exited the bridge, İkmen felt something jolt against his shoulder. It was Rauf Karadeniz’s head.

  Ali Erbil had fallen asleep. Mehmet Süleyman let him. He was strapped in to his seat and attached to Süleyman’s wrist by handcuffs. He wasn’t going anywhere. Anyway, the policeman understood. When his brother Murad had been told that his wife had died in the 1999 earthquake, he hadn’t cried or screamed; he’d just curled up on his old bed in their parents’ house and slept.

  For Ali, the death of Elif had robbed his life of purpose. Committed to following her into whatever treatment regime she was going to be given, now he was just a prisoner. A heroin addict, temporarily maintained on methadone. He had a rich father who would attempt to redeem him, but what did that matter? For some reason he had exchanged his comfortable life as the son of a doctor for junk and the street and a woman who killed people to get famous. Something had to have been wrong in the Erbil household. But what? And was it even Süleyman’s concern?

  What was clear was that Ali, now that he had nothing more to lose, had no reason not to tell the truth about the identity of the man he’d seen in the Teufel Ev and, later, talking to the priest at Koço. Every motive for concealing information had dropped away. So the fact that he’d been unable to positively identify Rauf Karadeniz meant that either he really had forgotten what that man looked like, or he was so afraid of making a mistake it was clouding his judgement. Behind the junk, he wasn’t a bad man. Süleyman suspected that Elif had not been a bad woman. Desperation had made her a killer; desperation and the promise of a quick fix for a life that was never going to get any better. She had thought that notoriety was the answer, while her only real way out had been the much quieter but more painful option of giving up drugs.

  He was about to close his eyes for a few moments too when suddenly the car stopped.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Inspector İkmen about this already,’ Erdal Bey said. ‘I don’t know the identity of Fatima Rudolfoğlu’s son.’

  ‘I know, sir,’ Barçın said. ‘But we think we may have found that out now.’

  ‘Oh, so the horrific scenario I warned Fatima Hanım about comes to pass,’ he said.

  ‘With the . . .’

  ‘The Oriental Club is the sole beneficiary at the moment, but this could change things.’

  ‘Erdal Bey, it has occurred to me that you may know this man,’ Barçın said. ‘You’re both lawyers.’

  ‘We don’t all know each other, you know,’ he said tetchily.

  She’d caught him just as he’d come back from lunch, which, from the faint slurring of his words, she suspected had been partially liquid.

  ‘His name is Rauf Karadeniz,’ she said.

  Nothing happened for so long she thought that maybe the line had gone dead.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he said.

  ‘He wrote a letter to her,’ she said. ‘In itself, not a lot, I know. But there are details in it that lead me to believe he is genuine. Inspector İkmen is bringing him in for questioning. Do you know him, Erdal Bey?’

  Again he didn’t answer immediately. Then he said, ‘I thought he’d died.’

  ‘Do you know him, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He’s a business acquaintance. Not a close friend, but . . . I met him professionally many years ago, when he was still in practice. We share an interest in property law. He retired a few years ago.’

  ‘Why did you think he’d died?’ Barçın said.

  She heard his breathing labour. ‘He had cancer,’ he said.

  ‘Did he tell you that himself?’

  ‘I had cancer myself some years ago. I’m still required to have regular check-ups. I saw him at my clinic last year. He told me he only had months.’

  ‘I can’t eat that.’

  The old man pushed the simit roll away.

  ‘What do you want?’ İkmen asked.

  ‘Chocolate. Or coffee.’ He looked out of the car window. ‘We are near Çırağan now. Let’s go there.’

  İkmen left the car. They’d pulled up by the side of the road beside the Dolmabahçe Palace so that food could be obtained for the hypoglycaemic old man. The first thing that had come to hand had been a ring of sesame-sprinkled simit bread.

  He walked over to Kerim Gürsel. ‘He won’t eat the fucking bread,’ he said. ‘Is there anywhere to get a bar of chocolate round here?’

  ‘No.’

  İkmen sighed. ‘Then he’ll have to eat it or die. Oh, and Kerim, could you please tell Inspector Süleyman what’s going on. Tell him to go ahead without us.’

  Kerim ran over to the car that had stopped behind İkmen’s, while the older man went back to speak to Rauf Bey.

  ‘It’s the simit or nothing,’ he said. ‘You almost passed out on the bridge, so I would suggest that you at least take a few mouthfuls. I’ll get you coffee and chocolate when we arrive at headquarters.’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean, no?’

  ‘I mean that I can’t eat something like that.’ He pointed to the thick bread ring. ‘It’ll kill me.’

  ‘It’ll kill you if you don’t,’ İkmen said.

  Süleyman’s car pulled out into the traffic and overtook them.

  ‘You don’t understand, Inspector. If I eat that, I will suffer from the most horrific
stomach pains. I can’t take bulk any more, not now. Take me to Çırağan and I’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘You’ll tell me everything anyway,’ İkmen said.

  The old man looked up at him and suddenly İkmen felt very cold. ‘Not if I end up in hospital I won’t,’ he said. ‘If I go there, I will never answer your questions because I will never come out.’

  ‘Çetin Bey is on his way back,’ Ömer said.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Barçın replied. ‘I’ve spoken to him. Several times.’

  She was expecting him to go, but he didn’t. He stood in the doorway.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For being childish about what is clearly your choice. You love who you love, just as everyone does. That I did not appeal to you . . .’

  She put her pen down and raised her hands in the air. ‘What can I say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘We had a good time, Ömer,’ she said. ‘I think you’re great. I really do. What happened . . . Look, I’ve had some bad experiences with Kurdish men, or rather a man. He was too controlling and I know that you’re probably not . . .’

  ‘And, like I say, you’re in love with the boss.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s OK, you can tell me. I won’t tell him. I won’t tell anyone.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘Women fall for him,’ he said.

  ‘Women will fall for you, Ömer.’

  ‘Not the right ones, though, eh, Barçın Hanım?’

  He left just before Barçın began to cry. It was the word ‘love’ that had brought tears to her eyes.

  Chapter 26

  They sat out on the terrace. Kerim Gürsel watched from inside.

  The old man drank his coffee black and full of sugar.

  ‘My name at birth we will come to,’ he said. ‘The name I was given was Rouvin Kazantzoğolu. My father was Dimitri Kazantzoğolu, a Greek from a good family from Trabzon. My mother was Zenobia, also an Anatolian Greek. When I was born, neither of them was in the first flush of youth. My mother told me that they had been trying for a child for fifteen years when God finally gave me to them. I loved my mother very much. She didn’t deserve the life her God inflicted upon her. She didn’t deserve my father.’