Arabesk (10 page)

'Oh, and if you do think of anything else you would like to tell me about your evening with Mr Urfa, you will contact me, won't you, Mr Mardin?'

A little more guardedly, the man said, 'Yes.'

'So I expect we will meet again.' Suleyman held his hand out to Mardin.

The man shrugged as his dry palm touched Suleyman's hand. 'Maybe. Goodbye.'

'Goodbye.'

As he walked out into the searing midday sunlight, Suleyman took his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and put them on. Then, as casually as he could, he briefly glanced across at the rather stylish Japanese car that was parked outside the carpet shop opposite Mr Mardin's hotel. So, still there then. Still containing the same amiable-looking married couple. He sighed. Following him to Mardin's place was one thing but now that he was going back to Tansu's ghastly housed he did not need this. As it was, he would probably have to fight his way through the gang of press vultures who were, apparently, camped around the singer's property. But how to deal with his tail?

If Ìkmen had taught his protege’ anything it was that meeting certain, usually unimportant but troublesome people head on was much better than ignoring their irritating behaviour. The 'doing it with humour' bit did sometimes elude him, not being a natural like his old boss, but he was prepared to give it a try.

He crossed the road and, with a smile, knocked on the window of the car. With a smooth swooshing sound, the window descended to reveal a widely smiling young man and his equally youthful female passenger.

'I just thought I'd let you know,' Suleyman said, 'that I'm not going to drive like a lunatic in order to get away from you. The late Princess Diana's driver made that mistake when attempting to get away from the French press. I'm certainly not going to die for the sake of their Turkish counterparts.'

'Ah . . .'

'So, by all means follow me if you must. But the drive will be slow and boring and could, quite possibly, involve a hold-up courtesy of my friends in the traffic division. Do I make myself clear?'

The man's over-friendly expression resolved into a scowl.

'I suppose so,' he said, but then brightening just a little he added, 'May I quote you on that then, Inspector?'

She'd just managed to get the child down for an afternoon nap when there was a knock at the door.

I'll go,' she said to her mother. Madame Kleopatra had been restless for the last few hours and Semra, now seated quietly in the little back yard, was exhausted.

'Oh, it's you,' Mina said as she opened the door to a small, middle-aged policeman with attitude.

Cohen shrugged. 'I heard that Madame is really dying now. I've come to say my goodbyes.'

‘I didn't know you knew her that well,' Mina said as she moved aside to let him in. 'I thought maybe you'd come to see me.'

He put his hand gently under her chin and pulled her face close to his. But he didn't kiss her as she thought he might. 'Not this time, my little soul,' he said. This time is for Madame alone.'

She took his small dry hand in hers and, with only a quick glance back to ensure that the child's door was shut, she led him up the creaking wooden staircase to the strange eyrie that clung to the side of the old baths' caldarium. The story was that Madame's husband had built this bedroom because he had poor circulation and was therefore always cold. The heat from the caldarium had, so the tale went, made his life much easier. Given the present scorching conditions, Cohen was glad that the baths were no longer in use.

Although it was obvious from the rattling sounds that emanated from the rickety wooden bed that they were in the presence of one who was dying, the pattern of light from the delicate filigreed shutters made Madame Kleopatra, if not lovely, not unpleasant to look upon.

Mina motioned Cohen into one of the chairs beside the bed and then sat down herself. With a smile the policeman took one of the old woman's hands in his and then kissed it.

'You know,' he said looking at Madame but addressing Mina, 'when I was a child Madame used to let me and my brothers bathe here for free.'

'Why did she do that?'

He looked away from Madame just briefly in order to smile at Mina and then he said, 'We were poor, you know. My mother died when we were very small and Dad was just a useless drunk. We moved here from Balat so that the old man didn't have to go so far to get to Cicek Pasaj.'

'A Karaköy story.'

'You have it,' he sighed. 'Well, Dad didn't exactly have a lot of control over us and so, as young boys will do, we went around pretty filthy most of the time. At school we were looked down upon, scruffy uniforms.' He laughed as he looked down at his less than perfect police uniform. 'Until, that is, Madame happened to see us one day. "Bring those poor Jewish boys to me," she said to that skinny old eunuch with the gold teeth she'd taken in God alone knows how long before.' 'A eunuch? What—'

'It's a long story,' he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. 'But anyway she led us in, directed us to the men's section and we had a bath. Then before we left she told the eunuch, in front of us, "You are to let the Jewish boys in whenever they wish and you are to charge them nothing.'' She said it very haughtily, which is what she was like.'

'So when did you last see Madame then?' Mina asked.

'Oh, it has to be thirty years ago now,' Cohen said. 'I know that the baths were closed by then and everyone said Madame was dying.'

'So why are you here now?'

'I was passing and she just stuck her head out of this window.' His gaze drifted across the filigree shutter. 'I raised my cap to greet her and she smiled one of her haughty ones. "So they made you a policeman, did they, Jew?" she said, and I replied, "They wouldn't have done if you hadn't cleaned me up, Madame." Then she scowled. "Oh rubbish," she said, or something like that "They would have had you anyway. You're a clever little man, I could see the brightness in you and your brothers always. And if your police friends should ever say otherwise, you send them to me." And then she slammed the shutter closed and was gone.'

'Did you ever know Madame's husband?'

'No. Why?'

'Well,' Mina said, 'my mum says Madame had no family of her own but her husband's people should probably be told that she's dying.'

'I have no idea who they are,' Cohen said. He turned back to look at Madame just as she opened her eyes. 'God!'

'No,' the old woman rasped, 'not God.' She lifted up one papery hand and patted the side of his face. 'Come close, Jew.'

Her breath was both laboured and rank and although he knew logically that she was just an old, dying woman, Cohen felt repelled. As she began to whisper, he winced. By the end of her little speech his expression was, however, one of shock rather than repulsion. At first Mina thought it was the rapidity with which the old woman sank back into coma that so disturbed him. But as soon as she saw the policeman whisper inaudibly into the old woman's insensible ears and then jump up from his seat as if scalded, she thought that perhaps Madame had said something shocking.

'What did she want?' Mina asked as she followed his rapidly retreating figure out of the room.

'Nothing,' he said shortly, hurrying down the stairs. 'Yes, but

Just as Cohen drew level with the door to the child's room, the baby began to cry. For a moment, possibly because his head was still full of whatever it was Madame had said, Mina thought that he hadn't noticed.

But she was wrong.

'Is that a baby?' he asked as, uninvited, he pulled the door open.

'Yes,' Mina said, 'it's a friend's. I'm looking after it for her.' Then, pushing past Cohen, she went over to the bed upon which the baby lay wrapped in a pretty gold brocade cover.

'I didn't think you lot often had children,' Cohen observed as he let his eyes drift distractedly around the room. Then, as if to himself alone, he added, 'What a terrible place to house a baby.'

'It's not so bad,' Mina said and held the child protectively against her chest.

Cohen shrugged. Then turning quickly he walked smartly out of the room without another word. As he disappeared, Mina let go of the breath she had been holding and then kissed the baby's head. Whatever Madame had said to Cohen had certainly shocked him. But in the circumstances that was probably a very good thing.

As soon as Suleyman's car disappeared down her drive, Tansu's demeanour changed completely. Whereas her mood had been one of soft conciliation and even at times tearful distress while the inspector was in her house, his departure provoked something far more malevolent.

'I can't believe you agreed to speak that posh boy's words without any discussion,' she snarled at a grey-faced Erol. 'We're stars. We don't just get pushed around!'

'He is a policeman, Tansu,' Latife said as she put a calming hand on her sister's shoulder.

'When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it!' Tansu roared and then hurled herself down at Erol's feet. 'You just say whatever you feel you need to in order to get Merih back, my darling. Don't worry about whether the police are there.'

Had Erol Urfa had any emotional resources left with which to respond he would probably have stroked Tansu's head as was his custom. But he was like stone now. Anxiety and sleeplessness had taken their toll and when he did respond it was with only a very weak smile.

As Tansu covered Erol's leaden legs with tear-stained kisses, Latife felt that the time had come for her to leave. There was no point in talking to either of them in their current moods and besides, if Tansu as she so often did managed to provoke Erol to lovemaking in spite of his own feelings, she did not want to be around. She strode out of the room, her face set and grave. But when she was once again by the swimming pool her mood lightened. She picked up the book she had been reading before the policeman arrived and, with a smile, resumed her studies.

By five o'clock that afternoon the results of the fingerprint analyses had come through. They necessitated the reappearance of Cengiz Temiz in Interview Room 3. A very tired-looking Suleyman observed the trembling man sitting opposite him with something between odium and pity. Çöktin, who sat beside his boss, leafed briefly through the documents before looking up again as Suleyman spoke.

'So, Mr Temiz,' Suleyman said, 'I ask you again, where were you on the evening of the eleventh of August nineteen ninety-nine?'

Cengiz Temiz just carried on shaking, his mouth lolling open, soundlessly.

'I do need some sort of answer from you, Cengiz,' Suleyman continued in what he hoped was a rather more conciliatory tone.

Cengiz Temiz's small eyes darted rapidly between the two faces in front of him. Although he did not feel able to admit it, he wanted to go to the toilet quite badly.

'I didn't hurt Mrs Ruya,' he said as he pushed his hands between his legs and leaned forward.

As this was the first thing that Suleyman personally had actually heard Temiz say directly to him, it was quite a breakthrough. It also gave him the opportunity to tackle the man regarding more recently acquired evidence. Before he began he tried to bear in mind what Zelfa Halman had told him about speaking to people like Cengiz. It also briefly passed through his mind what the psychiatrist had said about the chances of someone like Cengiz being able to both plan and execute quite a complex murder. In the face of the evidence, however, he had to put that to one side.

'Cengiz,' he said leaning forward in order to show the man his fingers, 'do you remember when one of the officers downstairs asked you to put your fingers in ink and then press them down onto paper? It made finger marks or prints.'

'Mmm.' It was a grunt without any accompanying movements. Suleyman assumed that it meant Cengiz understood.

'Well,' he said, 'what we do is, we look at your prints and the prints of some other people and we try to match them with finger marks our forensic people collect at the scene of the crime.'

Nothing. Suleyman looked across at
Çöktin
who, for some reason, was smiling at Cengiz Temiz. When Suleyman cleared his throat, the younger officer changed his expression.

'Now it seems,' Suleyman continued, 'that your fingerprints match some of those at the scene of Mrs Urfa's murder. Not that you are alone in this. We've also found prints from Mr Urfa, baby Merih, and Mrs Urfa's prints on lots of things including kitchen equipment and her pen. The problem we have with you is that only your prints have been found on Mrs Urfa's body. Forensic have found your marks on the lady's spectacles and on a gold bangle round her wrist. Do you know what I'm saying here, Cengiz, or—'

'Didn't hurt Mrs Ruya! Didn't do it!'

'Didn't do what, Cengiz?' Suleyman insisted. 'What didn't you do?'

Once again the silence rolled in across the terrified wastes of Cengiz Temiz's face.

'Look, Cengiz,' Çöktin put in, 'if you didn't hurt Mrs Ruya or if what happened was an accident then you don't have to be frightened, do you?'

'When people die people get hung.'

'Not now. People do go to prison but . . . Look, Cengiz, if you didn't kill Mrs Ruya then just tell us when you touched her and—'

'She was cold after .. .'

'She was cold after what, Cengiz?' Suleyman asked, feeling his heart racing with the anticipation of one who knows he might be on the verge of a breakthrough. 'After. . .'

'Must go to the toilet now.'

'Yes, all right, but first—'

'Now.'

Çöktin, who was much less excited about what Cengiz might be about to say than Suleyman, said, ‘I think you ought to let him go now, sir.'

'Yes, in a—'

'Now!' Cengiz's face was really quite contorted. As he grimaced and gummed his way through a succession of expressions, Suleyman, who had not noticed this need in his prisoner before, lost valuable seconds in argument.

'This urgency is really very sudden, Cengiz,' he said, 'in view of what we have been talking about.'

'I think it's all part of his condition, whatever it is,' Çöktin whispered into Suleyman's ear. 'I think you'd better let him go.'

'Yes, but—'

It was then that the sound of running water accompanied by deep, humiliated sobs were heard coming from Cengiz's large sad frame. Although unable to understand the more subtle aspects of life's diversity, he did know that in this horrible, dirty little room with policemen firing questions at him he was once again in trouble that would cause him pain. And this time, he knew, they would not just send him home when they had finished their questions. This time they were going to keep him.

Tansu stood on the very edge of the cliff, her eyes streaming with tears. Then with a flick of her proud head she turned to the man wearing some sort of foreign uniform who stood beside her and spat, 'I would rather die than be your woman!'

And with that she, or rather a stuntwoman, launched herself into the deep blue abyss below.

'Singers should never act,' Çetin Ìkmen said as he lit a new cigarette from the butt of his last smoke. 'Elvis Presley stands as a warning to us all.'

'Oh, I enjoyed his films,' Fatma said as she passed briefly in front of the screen herding a reluctant child towards the bathroom.

'None of us is perfect,' her husband muttered as he watched a picture of a group of young army conscripts flash up on the screen. Erol Urfa performing his duty for the Republic.

'You know, Fatma,' he called out over both the sound of the television and the running water from the bathroom, 'if I wanted to know when Tansu Hanim was born or where Erol Urfa comes from I wouldn't have the faintest idea from this programme.'

'She's a little shy about her age,' Fatma yelled back. 'It's why she chooses to change what Allah has given her.'

'The plastic surgery?'

'Yes.' With dripping hands she re-entered the living room and stood for a moment, her hands on her hips. 'Have you seen Bulent yet?'

Ìkmen's face darkened. 'Only from the balcony.'

Fatma raised her eyes towards heaven. Then changing the subject once again she said, 'Did I hear you say that Kleopatra Polycarpou is finally dying?'

'You shouldn't listen when I'm on the telephone,' Ìkmen said with an expression of what could have been mock sternness on his face.

Fatma, who was accustomed to such looks, simply carried on, 'But is she or—'

'Yes, it would seem so,' Ìkmen said with a sigh as he watched a piece of film showing Tansu and Erol on the beach at Bodrum. 'Cohen went to say goodbye.'

'And phoned you up to tell you?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Because there is a problem with . . .' Suddenly realising what he was being drawn into, he stopped, looked at Fatma and said, 'And you know Kleopatra Polycarpou how, Fatma?'

'Oh, I've never known her myself,
Cretin;
' she said with a smile. ‘I know of her because I've heard you speak of her and because Mrs
Onat
kept house for her for a while before she took on that,' she sniffed as if she had a bad smell under her nose, 'that woman.'

Ìkmen frowned. 'Nothing was ever proven against Semra Arda.'

'Only because that girl was dead by the time she got to hospital!'

'Well, nobody else came forward to say she'd been doing abortions on them too!' Ìkmen said with some heat in his voice. 'If there's no proof there's no case!'

'Unless it's pol—'

'I don't want to even begin to talk about areas of law enforcement that I do not,understand!' he shouted. ‘I deal with straight criminal homicide, Fatma, as well you know. I don't do political stuff. I do what happens when some greedy son decides to put rat poison into his father's Ayran. Along the way some of my suspects are actually exonerated, one of those being Semra Arda.' He held up one finger to silence Fatma and then said, 'Who is, by the way, not a subject you or Sibel Onat or anyone else should be discussing in terms of guilt!'

Before Fatma could answer, a child's voice floated in from the bathroom. 'Mummy!'

'I don't know how that child gets so filthy!' Fatma said as she turned to move away, her rising temper now moving in a different direction. 'She's like a boy, that one!'

'Which one?' Ìkmen asked.

'Gul,' she answered, and then added spitefully, 'You should learn the children's names sometime, Çetin!'

Before she left the room, she stopped briefly to listen to a very mournful song that seemed to be wrenching itself painfully from Tansu's unnaturally white throat.

'So which one is this, then?' Ìkmen asked, tipping his head towards the television set. 'Seeing as you are some sort of expert on this stuff.'

'"Hate is My Only Friend". One of the bitter ones I told you about,' Fatma replied and then with a toss of her head she added, 'I can sympathise with this sometimes.'

And then she was gone, leaving only her husband's scowl in her wake.

Turning back to the television, Ìkmen listened with what became, eventually, interest. This was, as Fatma had said before, very bitter stuff indeed.

You have taken him from me

My peacock one

Now hate is my only friend

One day I will leave here

I'll come to you then

With a knife as my only love

I will cut out your heart

When you are alone

Because hate is my only friend

Although Tansu smiled sadly as she sang, the message within the song was as clear as it was homicidal. It was really very unpleasant .With a frown, Ìkmen leaned forward and grabbed hold of the stack of tapes underneath the television.

Over in Karaköy somebody else was watching, if with rather less interest this account of how Erol Urfa had found fame and now tragedy. Not that Cohen was really taking any of it in. His mind had become stuck several hours ago at the house of Madame Kleopatra and, as he looked at his watch for what had to be the tenth time that hour, he wondered if the old woman was dead yet Mehmet Suleyman, who was quietly sipping tea in the chair opposite his friend, was engrossed, however. Td be prepared to wager that this programme is what TRT have prepared should Erol die suddenly,' he said. 'It's so comprehensive. I almost expect to see a photograph of him at the end with his dates of birth and death underneath.' 'Mmm.'

'I just hope that when he does actually make his plea, Erol keeps to the script we agreed. Çöktin met him at the studios so he should be all right.'

'Why didn't you go?' Cohen asked, looking at his watch yet again.

'I had to see a man about his deluded sisters and anyway Urfa asked for him. Why do you keep looking at your watch?'

Cohen shrugged. 'No reason.' Then creasing his brow he said, 'Why would Urfa want Çöktin? I mean, you're the big man in this one, aren't you?'

'Perhaps it's something to do with their similar origins. Perhaps he trusts him more than me. I don't know.'

'Yes, well, you high-born boys can be a bit—' 'Sssh!'

As Erol's devastated face came into focus on the television, Suleyman leaned forward in order to turn up the volume.

'I don't have much to say,' the star, his voice obviously labouring under tranquillising drugs, drawled, 'except that I would like my Merih back now please.

There are certain foods she must not have, chicken and beans - she has allergies. You could, without meaning to, harm her in this way. Whoever you are, understand that this child is my whole life. If you have a soul then please return her to me. I don't care how you do this.'

. 'Don't mention locations, Erol, there's a good boy,'
Suleyman muttered.

'If whoever has my Merih loves my music then please see from my face how dead I am now.' Tears rose unbidden to Erol's eyes. 'And if you hate me, think of Merih. I am her father, her only family now. Please, everyone, look at this photograph of my daughter and if you see her then contact the police. Telephone and fax numbers will appear at the end of this broadcast Thank you.'

'No "Insallah she will be returned to me" stuff then?' Cohen said as he turned aside to reach for his coffee.

'No. What you heard is what we agreed.'

'I thought you lot always appealed to God.'

'I thought you lot always made a lot of money until I came to live here,' Suleyman snapped back.

Cohen resumed looking at the now frozen image of a baby on the TV screen with a smile on his face which then rapidly and strangely faded.

Suleyman, thinking that perhaps he had gone too far with his remark, apologised. 'Sorry.'

But Cohen was not listening. With a sharp move forward he went in close to the screen and peered myopically at the image.

'Mehmet,' he said as his fingers traced the edges of what appeared to be a shawl the baby was wearing. ‘I’ve seen this before.'

'What?'

'This shawl,' he looked up, his face now ashen, 'I've seen it today.'

Suleyman dropped down onto the floor to join his friend. 'Where? Where have you seen it?'

'At Madame Kleopatra's hamam. With Mina.'

Chapter 6

'And Mina is who?' Suleyman asked as he turned round to look at a very winded Cohen behind him. Because his colleague had shot out of his apartment so quickly after the Urfa broadcast, Suleyman was still missing certain vital details.

'She's a prostitute.' Cohen paused briefly in order to take in a bit more oxygen. Living on a hill did not, as Cohen knew, mean that one could necessarily deal with steep slopes. 'Her mother is Semra Arda who works for Madame at the hamam. I saw the baby with the shawl there.'

Suleyman stepped lightly to one side in order to avoid a large pothole in the road. It was full of old Coke bottles and newspaper. 'So Madame Kleopatra's is where we are going now?'

'Yes. And no.'

'Eh?'

'It was Mina who had the baby, Mehmet. I can't go back to Madame's now, she's dying and besides . . .' 'Besides what?'

Cohen shrugged. 'I promised Madame that I . . .

. Look, Mehmet, there are some problems around Madame. There are . . . things.'

Suleyman stopped in front of what looked like a tiny, deserted Greek church and then pulled Cohen into the overgrown garden that had once been a graveyard.

'What things?' he hissed, as he unconsciously conformed to his sombre surroundings. 'What do you mean?'

'I promised I'd only tell the inspector.'

'What? Ìkmen?'

'Yes. Which I've done now.'

'How does she know Ìkmen if she's been in bed for the last thirty years?'

Cohen smiled. 'The inspector knows everyone.'

Silently wondering whether he would ever attain the heights of simply being known as the inspector, Suleyman simply said, 'Oh.'

They stood in silence for a few moments. Cohen looked up as Suleyman, without thinking, spelt out the name of some long dead Greek which was carved into a fallen tombstone.

'Cohen, are you absolutely certain about this shawl?'

'Well, I was a bit in shock about what Madame had said to me at the time, but... I think so. It was very sort of gold, like the one on the television.' He frowned a little as he attempted to recall it in detail. 'It had a fringe like that. . . It. . . When I think about it now I think that Mina was a bit nervous. She grabbed the baby up quickly.'

'And it could not have been her own child?' 'She said she was looking after it for a friend.' 'Mmm.'

Two young green-clad conscripts passed by, arm in arm. They gave the two mature men in the graveyard puzzled looks.

'But Cohen,' Suleyman said on a now rather frustrated sigh, 'if we are to see this baby then we are going to have to go to Madame Kleopatra's.'

'No Mehmet, we need to go to Mina's.'

'So we just go marching into a brothel—'

'No. Mina works independently, like they all do round here now,' he paused to look over his shoulder, 'opposite Madame's. She might have the baby there but if she hasn't then her mother will have it at the hamam. Either way, if we can get Mina on her own then I think she'll probably tell us the truth. But we have to get past Mickey first'

Suleyman sat down on the small broken wall of the graveyard and put his head in his hands. 'And Mickey is?'he asked patiently.

'He's an English nippy. He's also Mina's pimp. And he takes heroin.'

Without lifting his head, Suleyman murmured, 'Fantastic'

'It's probably Mickey who took the baby. He's always looking for new ways to make drug money,' Cohen said as his voice rose in the excitement of the moment 'Perhaps he even killed Mrs Urfa too.'

'Unless Mina did, or Mina's mother or any number of other people up to and including the man forensic evidence has placed at the scene of the crime.' He stood up quickly and put his hand to his head. 'What am I doing here?'

Cohen, suddenly angry at being doubted by his friend, reached up and grasped Suleyman by the shoulders. 'Look, Mehmet,' he said, 'that picture on the television shocked me. I know I've seen that shawl and I know where. Can we afford to ignore that? I mean, you play this however you want to. If we have to go to Madame's, well then I suppose we have to do that. You're the boss, after all. But we need to check it out, don't we?'

Suleyman sighed. 'Yes, we do. I want to see this baby - if, indeed, it's still there.'

'And if it isn't?'

'We will meet that eventuality if and when it arises.'. He strode off back towards the road, 'Come on.'

Mickey Anderson threw his arm heavily around the young boy's shoulders and smiled. Behind him, clad only in a thin nylon negligee, his 'property' sneered at the back of his head before going to her room.

'So was that the best lay you've ever had or what?'

'Excuse me?' the boy replied as he attempted and failed to understand Mickey's colloquial English.

'Don't matter, kid,' Mickey said through several layers of food-encrusted beard, 'just give me the five million you owe me and you can get off home to your mum.'

The boy frowned doubtfully. 'Five million?' he said. 'But you say—'

'Ah, but this says seven million and rising,' Mickey said as he quickly pulled a knife out of his belt and held it up to the boy's head. 'Seven, kid,' and then resorting to one of the few Turkish words he knew he whispered, 'Yedi, to you,' into the boy's ear.