Petrified (16 page)

‘I know I shouldn’t encourage you,’ he said as he offered his packet and lighter to his brother-in-law, ‘but . . .’

‘But the dying should have everything they want,’ Talaat finished as he helped himself to a cigarette and lit up.

‘I didn’t—’

‘No, I did.’ Talaat smiled at his usually strident brother-in-law’s obvious discomfort. ‘I don’t mind talking about death, my death. It’s going to happen, Çetin, and when it does that will be that. And so if I don’t smoke, laugh, drink and think wicked thoughts now, I’ll lose the opportunity.’

‘Strange the way religious belief seems to be limited to the women in your family,’ İkmen said as he lit his cigarette and leaned back in his chair.

Talaat laughed. ‘Yes, Ali, Father and I were always in awe of the way mother and the girls believed in all of that perfumed garden after-life stuff. Mother was convinced that it was going to be sherbet, lokum and chocolate all the way for good Muslims. She always saw everything in terms of food – even death.’ He frowned. ‘But I just couldn’t see it. Still can’t.’

‘You believe that death is the end.’

‘Yes.’ He looked up into İkmen’s smoke-wreathed face. ‘I know that you have other ideas, Çetin, things you got from your mother . . .’

‘The witch.’ İkmen laughed, a thick bronchitic sound. ‘You know, Talaat, I sometimes think that my mother taught me too much.’

‘What do you mean?’

What İkmen actually meant involved things that he couldn’t say, not to his brother-in-law, not to anyone. Yaşar and Nuray Akdeniz were caught up in a horror beyond understanding. What form this torment might take and who might be doing it to them, he didn’t know. But just as one look into Talaat’s yellow-tinged eyes told him that this brother-in-law would be dead by the end of the week, so that brief glimpse into Gonca the gypsy’s heart had revealed the truth about the Akdeniz twins. There had to be a connection, between Gonca and the children or their father – probably the latter. Gonca had had sex with Melih – of course she had – Gonca would and did have sex with many men. Her blood had mixed with his and his with hers . . .

‘You know it’s at times like this I can all too easily understand how you confuse my sister.’

İkmen, only just roused from his musings, said, ‘What?’

‘You with all your background in the occult,’ Talaat said. ‘Your oblique references to things that others, people like Fatma and me, couldn’t understand. Just now you said that your mother taught you too much.’

‘She did.’ İkmen put his cigarette out and then immediately lit another.

‘Yes, but what?’

‘It’s not important.’ İkmen looked down at the floor, smoking in a concentrated fashion.

‘Ah, but it is, though, isn’t it?’ Talaat replied. ‘In fact, it’s so important, so frightening even, that you have to lock us out, keep it to yourself.’

İkmen looked up and regarded his brother-in-law sharply. Now lined with pain, humbled and shaded with death, Talaat Erteǧrül, one time beach bum and lothario, had finally arrived somewhere close to understanding.

‘You know I used to wonder why you chose to specialise in murder,’ Talaat said as he too put his cigarette out and then, like İkmen, immediately lit another.

İkmen frowned.

Talaat moved his chair closer to İkmen so that he could easily whisper in his ear. ‘I know you have experience of what it is to die, what men go through,’ he said, ‘and I know that sometimes you know when it is coming, as it is for me.’

‘Talaat . . .’

‘Just don’t tell my sister when it’s her turn – that’s all I ask.’

İkmen turned away, just as he always did when he got the feeling that he might see death or pain in someone that he loved.

‘And don’t tell her that the perfumed garden for the good Muslims doesn’t exist.’

‘What makes you so sure that it doesn’t?’ İkmen said, and then in response to a ring on the doorbell he got up and left the kitchen.

Mehmet Suleyman rubbed a hand across his tired, greying features and sighed.

‘So nothing,’ he said to the small equally weary group of officers standing in front of him, ‘you’ve found nothing. Not even in the trunk they brought from the airport?’

‘No, sir,’ Hikmet Yıldız replied.

‘You’ve been everywhere? Searched everyone?’

‘Almost. There’s two enormous kitchens in the basement.’

‘Then get down there,’ Suleyman said as he looked out of the window at Rostov’s garden, a lush oasis now flooded with sunlight. It had been a long, hot and frustrating night.

As the officers left the salon, Rostov and his lawyer, Lütfü Güneş, returned. Although the two men hadn’t actually followed the police around as they searched they had remained awake and, in Rostov’s case at least, obviously attentive to what was happening.

‘I thought they’d finished,’ the Russian said as he tipped his head towards the retreating officers.

‘We still haven’t searched your kitchens, Mr Rostov,’ Suleyman said.

‘And what do you hope to find there?’ Güneş smirked. ‘A small amphetamine production plant—’

‘There’s nothing but food in my kitchens,’ Rostov cut in. ‘I don’t want it spoiled.’

‘I can understand that. Why don’t I just go and make sure that my people don’t damage anything,’ Suleyman said with a smile. ‘Would that put your mind at rest?’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Rostov snapped.

‘There’s no need . . .’

‘It’s my house!’

‘I’d let them get on with it if I were you Valery,’ Güneş said as he relaxed back on to one of the tasteless sofas. ‘You and I both know that there’s nothing . . .’

‘Mind your own business, Lütfü,’ Rostov said as he fixed his eyes on Suleyman’s. ‘I wish to go with the inspector.’

‘Then so you shall,’ Suleyman, still smiling, replied. And then as he extended one arm towards the salon door, he said, ‘Shall we?’

Valery Rostov, his eyes mobile with what could have been fear, moved slowly forward.

Nurettin Eldem knew that, from a professional point of view, it wasn’t a good thing to have either favourite or hated clients. Although it was difficult not to like a pleasant person more than a miserable one, as a lawyer he had to try at least to remain impartial. There were, however, exceptions. The thin, grey woman sitting in front of him now was a very good example. Rich as well as charmless, Dr Yeşim Keyder was, Nurettin thought silently to himself, a grasping old hag.

He put on one of his grave, concerned smiles and said, ‘Unfortunately you won’t be able to gain access to the apartment until the police have finished their investigations.’ He shrugged. ‘I know it’s inconvenient—’

‘It’s incomprehensible,’ the woman replied hotly. ‘Both Rosita and this other character they apparently discovered with her died of natural causes. I can’t see why they’re still involved.’

‘They do have to check with the Argentine authorities,’ Nurettin said, ‘and if the identity of this other body is in question—’

‘Rosita’s family are dead,’ Yeşim Keyder said tightly, and then added under her breath, ‘thanks be to God. And as for this other body, well, as I said to that officer, Çöktin, that has nothing to do with me or my family.’

Although Nurettin had always known that the Keyder family were not religious people, he was still a little taken aback by her use of ‘God’ instead of ‘Allah’. Maybe it stemmed from being around Rosita for so many years. And, of course, she had spent some time in Argentina with Veli when he met Rosita all those many years ago.

‘Yes, but then whatever we may think, Dr Keyder, there is nothing we can do until the police have finished. I’ve tried to impress upon them the importance of not damaging what will be your property.’

‘Yes, but they will, won’t they?’ she retorted. ‘It’s what they do, stamping around in their great, oppressive boots, stealing things they take a fancy to.’ She looked up into Nurettin’s fat, jowled features. ‘I do know what goes on, Mr Eldem. I am under no illusions about the trustworthiness of our legal institutions.’

‘Dr Keyder!’

‘And don’t think that just because your father was my lawyer before you, I trust every utterance that issues from your mouth,’ she continued coldly. ‘I know that a few words in the right ear can utterly transform situations like this. I’m rich . . .’

‘Yes, Dr Keyder,’ Nurettin, stung, cleared his throat, ‘which is why I can’t quite understand why you are so anxious to take possession of the Kuloǧlu apartment. Although I don’t suppose it will be long now, Mrs Keyder’s body hasn’t even been released to you as yet.’

‘I told the officer Çöktin that as soon as it’s ready, the priest Vetra can take care of it,’ she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, ‘and if I am, as you say, Mr Eldem, “anxious to take possession” of the Kuloǧlu apartment, then that is my business. In addition, I believe that my brother and his wife gave you some documents for safekeeping.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘You and I both know, Mr Eldem, that the Kuloǧlu apartment belonged solely to my brother Veli. As his only living relative, that, together with all contents not personally belonging to Rosita, now automatically reverts to me.’ She fixed the lawyer with a hard-eyed stare. ‘This, according to my understanding, also includes Veli’s and Rosita’s joint documents.’

‘I would have to—’

‘Which I would like to see now, please,’ Dr Keyder said coldly.

Many years ago, just shortly after Nurettin had taken over the practice from his father, Dr Veli Keyder and his attractive Argentinian wife had given him a selection of sealed envelopes for safekeeping. Young and rather awed by the academic status enjoyed by Veli Keyder, Nurettin hadn’t even thought to ask him what these documents were. The unpleasant Dr Yeşim might know, however, and if the gravity of her already severe features was anything to go by, they were really rather important. Nurettin just briefly played with the idea of getting to them before the woman who was, it was true, their rightful owner.

‘If you’d like to make an appointment, Dr Keyder,’ he said, ‘I can arrange for the safe to be opened . . .’

‘I’d like my property now, please, Mr Eldem,’ the woman replied coldly.

‘Yes . . .’

Dr Yeşim, despite her age and the intense midday heat, stood up quickly. ‘Take me to the safe, and let’s get this part of your duty to me, for which I pay you handsomely, over with.’

Deep in the basement, and insufficiently ventilated, Valery Rostov’s kitchens were very unpleasant places to be at the height of summer. Even the sartorially immaculate Inspector Suleyman had removed his jacket in order to supervise the hot and uncomfortable search.

However, Rostov’s freezer cabinets were another matter. Suleyman had chosen Yıldız and Gün to search those. There were two, what were in reality, small rooms, full of sheep carcasses, fish, chicken and large quantities of dairy products, all covered with thin layers of plastic wrapping. The inspector had told them that every item had to be looked at and, if necessary, unwrapped. In contrast to the rest of the team, Yıldız and Gün were both blue with cold. Unwrapping, wrapping up again, searching through the innumerable layers of polythene for the small bag containing cocaine, the oilcloth-shrouded pistol . . . And then there was Rostov. Shaking with cold, he’d stood there in the doorway, his lips a grim shade of purple, watching Yıldız’s every move.

As he peered through several layers of plastic at three plucked chicken carcasses, Yıldız tried to decide whether Suleyman was punishing Gün and himself by putting them in the freezers, or whether, on this very hot day, it was an act of kindness. Either way, Yıldız’s initial sense of gratitude towards his boss was beginning to pall. Sergeant Çöktin, with whom Yıldız was developing a very friendly relationship, worshipped the ground Suleyman walked on. Quite why, the young constable didn’t entirely understand. Suleyman, though generally fair, wasn’t the easiest man to be around. Unlike İkmen he never joined the lower ranks for the occasional drink and, these days at least, his face rarely moved out of its tense, scowling expression.

Yıldız put the chickens down and began to tackle what looked like a side of mutton. Wrapped in plastic bags as opposed to polythene, this object was going to take him some time to get into. He slipped one hand underneath and dragged, he couldn’t possibly lift, the object to the side of the shelf on which it rested.

‘Put it down.’

Yıldız, surprised by the sound of a voice, especially the glowering Rostov’s, looked up.

‘Inspector Suleyman has given instructions that every item—’

‘Put it down!’

‘Sir—’

‘Touch it again and I’ll fucking kill you!’ the Russian shrieked.

Yıldız placed his one free hand over his gun holster. The Russian’s pale eyes, motionless through the swirling vapour from the ice, reminded Yıldız of the still glass eyes of the strange dead boy of Kuloǧlu. The memory of that image made his throat tighten and he had to swallow hard in order to be able to speak again.

‘Inspector Suleyman,’ he called. ‘Sir . . .’

‘I’ve told you—’ Rostov began as he moved towards Yıldız.

‘Inspector!’

Yıldız removed his gun from its holster just as Suleyman entered the cupboard.

The senior officer could see instantly that something was very wrong.

‘What’s going on here?’ he said as he too removed his weapon from its holster. ‘Yıldız?’

‘Mr Rostov doesn’t want me to unwrap this piece of meat,’ Yıldız said as he attempted to tear his gaze away from Rostov’s snarling features.

‘I told you I wanted to see everything, didn’t I, Rostov?’ Suleyman said and then, looking again at Yıldız and the very large piece of meat on the shelf in front of him, he continued, ‘Open it.’

Rostov’s head whipped round violently so that now his eyes blazed at Suleyman. ‘No!’

‘That’s an order, Constable,’ Suleyman reiterated quietly.

Yıldız replaced his gun in its holster and then slipped his fingers underneath one of the outer plastic bags.