Arabesk (2 page)

Sinan sat down beside his father and took one of his hands gently between his fingers. 'Perhaps you should look upon this time in the same light you do when you are waiting for a break in one of your cases.'

'Dead time.'

Sinan laughed. 'Is that what you call it?'

'Yes,' Ìkmen said, his thin face resolving into the ghost of a grin.

'So what do you normally do during dead time then?' Sinan asked hopefully. Perhaps his father could use some of his dead time activities now.

'Well, first I bend my mind to the problem in as concentrated a fashion as I can,' Ìkmen explained.

'And then?'

'And then I get horribly drunk, consult a few dubious soothsayers and generally come up with some sort of plan from thereon.'

'Dad!'

'Well, you asked,' Ìkmen said, his eyes twinkling evilly. 'You asked, I told you, you didn't like my answer. . .'

'Which leaves us precisely where?' Sinan said, letting go of his father's hands and lighting another cigarette.

Ìkmen, who joined his son in yet another smoke, put his head down into his hands and sighed. 'Awaiting developments, I suppose’ he said. And then through gritted, furious teeth, 'Patiently, fucking waiting!'

When what is now Ìstiklal Caddesi was called the Grand Rue de Pera, back in Ottoman times when heavily fezzed Sultans routinely appointed food tasters, comical midgets and other such exotica, the apartments that still line this great thoroughfare were predominantly residential. More recently, however, due to a combination of high rents, lack of modern amenities and a certain shabbiness not entirely acceptable to younger Turkish citizens, many of these
dwell
ings are now used as offices or storerooms. Nestling between shops selling Nike, Armani or Hugo Boss, once impressive, heavily stuccoed doorways can easily be found by those with an eye for such things. Lintels bearing legends written in the Roman alphabet proudly proclaim 'Apartments Paris', 'Apartments de Grand Rue de Pera'; examples all of the late nineteenth-century Ottomans' love of and undying admiration for anything and everything Gallic. That most of these once elegant apartment buildings now house either large numbers of fake Lacoste sweatshirts or groups of young men and women working diligently at word-processors and chattering mainly in Turkish is merely, a reflection of how quickly and totally times have changed. So common is it for these once elegant, now draughty apartments to be used for commercial purposes that the few that remain as residences are almost ignored.

It was therefore into an Ìstiklal Caddesi unaccustomed to the tragedies of birth, marriage and death that the young man with the sharp Kurdish features ran when he found the body of the young woman. Out of his home in the Apartments izzet Pasa and into a street that, early in the morning as it was, remained almost as still as it had been at four and five, the dead hours of the night. Only two old men, peasants in felt caps, smoking cheap cigarettes and clacking rosaries between their fingers, saw the youngster as he passed, weeping and red-faced, like a fallen angel tearing madly away from his wrathful God. Not that the men commented, of course. The young man obviously had problems of some sort, but given his current condition, it would be both difficult and probably prurient for either of the old men to inquire what they might be.

What they did comment upon, however, was his identity.

'Wasn't that, you know,' the shabbier of the two asked his slightly more modish companion, 'that singer, the one who . . .'

'Has relations with that blonde,' the other replied in hushed, scandalised tones. 'Allah will punish such unnatural behaviour,' and then raising his arms heavenwards in a gesture of supplication, he added, 'if it please Him.’

His friend sighed heavily as he watched the rapidly retreating back of the young man and then said softly, 'I think his punishment, by the look of him, has already come to pass.'

Living with others, however kind and tolerant those others might be, is never easy. Ever since he'd separated from his wife the previous year, the newly promoted Inspector Suleyman had been renting a room from one of his more lowly colleagues, Constable Cohen. Although completely different in nearly all respects, including age, religion, class and values, Suleyman and Cohen had first become friends when the former was still in uniform. And in spite of Suleyman's rapid rise to inspector, they had remained close. Indeed when the younger man had first left his wife, Cohen had permitted him to stay rent-free to allow, as he put it, 'the bastard lawyers to screw your bank account'.

Loud, colourful and kind, Cohen and his wife Estelle included the elegant and cultured Suleyman in all their pursuits both familial and religious. As well as being expertly catered for by them with regard to his own Muslim calendar, Suleyman had been included in celebrations to mark Passover and Chanukah. He had also attended a vast and, as it turned out, ill-fated meal to mark the return of the Cohens' eldest son, Yusuf, from his tour of conscript duty in the eastern provinces. Wounded in places the eye could never see, this young man's bizarre behaviour at that dinner had been just the start of what turned out to be a very rapid descent into psychiatric instability. When Yusuf was finally admitted to an institution, Suleyman, as well as the Cohens themselves, had felt sad but relieved.

However, to say that Suleyman had experienced a quiet life since Yusuf's departure would be erroneous. As well as having to endure the sound of Estelle's frequent rages at the endless sexual faithlessness of her husband, there were the neighbours to take account of too. Cohen's apartment, though large, was not situated in the best part of Istanbul. Karaköy, which is that district that runs from the eastern end of the Galata Bridge up the hill of the same name to Ìstiklal Caddesi, is not for the faint-hearted. Though dotted with many fine old buildings, some of Genoese and Armenian origin, plus the now lovingly restored Neve Shalom Synagogue, Karaköy also possesses its share of tatty apartment buildings. The one the Cohens had moved into twenty-six years previously was the one they still lived in now. Not once in all those years had the place been so much as painted, let alone properly decorated. With the notable exceptions of one new television and an even more erratic plumbing system, nothing much had changed in all that time, at least not for the better anyway. The locals had always been dubious but in the last ten years they had become, to use a Cohenism, far more 'serious’. Despite the very best efforts of the city authorities, now run by the traditional Refah party, to flush such elements out, the old ways died hard. Indeed, in this case, they actually prospered. And, although the cheap dancing girls, petty thieves and even the legal brothels had gone away, they had been replaced mainly by full-on, streetwalking prostitutes and drug dealers. The very loud and very young girl who lived in the apartment next door and who routinely woke Suleyman in the middle of the night with her harsh laugh and passion-filled screams was quite openly a cocaine addict. That she knowingly lived next door to two police officers did not restrict her behaviour in any way. It had about as much effect upon her as it did upon her enormous pimp who liked to laugh out loud at Cohen's diminutive figure. That the criminal had access to far more sophisticated and greater numbers of weapons than the law man had much to do with this casual disdain. The effect upon Suleyman of all this was to make him angry and, despite his feelings for Cohen, very anxious to leave as soon as his finances permitted. Sleeplessness of the order he was experiencing now was neither healthy nor good for his new, far more responsible position in life.

Until almost exactly four weeks previously, Mehmet Suleyman had been a sergeant working for the city's leading homicide detective, Çetin Ìkmen. Although happy in his work, Suleyman was both ambitious and, especially since his separation from his wife Zuleika, extremely needy where money was concerned. So at the end of the previous year, 1998, he had put in for promotion. Supported by Ìkmen he had, after not too long a wait (given the gargantuan bureaucracy of the Turkish police establishment), achieved the promotion he desired and had hoped to work beside his old boss for quite some time before being let loose on his own initiative. But then Ìkmen, who had, as far as Suleyman was concerned, always complained of stomach pains, had suddenly become very ill indeed. Initially admitted to hospital, Ìkmen had been diagnosed with multiple duodenal ulcers. Although he would need surgery at some time in the future, for the moment he was prescribed medication, dietary restrictions and rest Just thinking about this regime made Suleyman's handsome features resolve into a wry smile. The 'old man' was almost as passionately attached to the notion of eating irregularly (and then only junk) as he was to his beloved brandy and cigarettes, his twin, if second-league, obsessions. His first was his work. According to the inspector's eldest son, Sinan, to whom Suleyman had spoken the previous evening, Ìkmen was not only plotting to get hold of alcohol at every possible opportunity but was also going a little mad from his enforced idleness.

Suleyman put his tired head in his hands and yawned. Although there were other experienced detectives in the homicide division with whom he could, theoretically, discuss the more troubling aspects of his new position in life, he knew that they saw him as a dangerous rival - people like old Yalcin who openly mocked Suleyman's aristocratic background while at the same time telling others to 'watch out' for the younger man's keen intelligence. You didn't get this sort of thing from Ìkmen who, better than the lot of them put together, would have gladly backed his protege in any argument with old guard types - and enjoyed it

It was in these silent, between-shift moments that Suleyman missed Ìkmen the most The old man had always come in early and had always been there when Suleyman arrived, alert and ready for at least a short discussion of any lingering woes the younger man may have carried with him from the previous day. But, sick or well, the relationship between Ìkmen and himself was due to alter, at least in the working environment. Now Suleyman was responsible not only for his own security and actions but for that of his new sergeant too. Ìsak ‘Çöktin, at twenty-five, resembled in some ways the youthful enthusiast that Suleyman himself had once been. Although some had seen his assignment to Suleyman's command as a subtle snub to the stylish aristocrat, Suleyman himself did not view it in that light Whether or not ‘Çöktin was a 'mountain Turk', that bland euphemism for those of Kurdish descent, as some of the older and more conservative elements whispered he was, did not concern Suleyman. ‘Çöktin had been born and brought up in Istanbul, in admittedly one of the more downmarket districts. And though his tousled red hair did point towards blood that was not entirely Turkish, his record as an officer was impeccable. That Ìkmen personally liked him a lot was also a plus, Ìkmen, who by his own admission was the son of an Albanian soothsayer, possessed an almost unfailing sixth sense when it came to judging people's characters. And 'Mickey', as he had dubbed ‘Çöktin because of his almost uncanny resemblance to the scruffy American film star Mickey Rourke, was 'all right'. Just how 'all right' ‘Çöktin was, Suleyman wasn't to learn until he picked up the telephone which now buzzed harshly at his tired ears.

'Suleyman,' he drawled by way of introduction.

'Inspector, it's ‘Çöktin,' a voice barely capable of containing its excitement replied.

Suleyman sat up just a little bit straighter. 'Where are you? What's going on?'

'I'm at the Ìzzet Pasa Apartments on Ìstiklal Caddesi.' Then pausing briefly to take a large, nerve-calming breath, he added, 'I'm with Erol Urfa, or at least I was until—'

'From your tone’ Suleyman interrupted, 'I take it we are talking about
the
Erol Urfa?'

'The Arabesk star, yes, sir.' With even greater excitement he added, 'Actually in the next room from where I'm standing now, actually, sir.'

'Really? Why?'

Silence greeted Suleyman's inquiry and so he couched his question in rather more overt terms. 'Why are you there with Mr Urfa is what I'm trying to get at, Çöktin.'

'Oh, well, because he says his wife has been murdered, sir.'

Suleyman, as if shocked by a current of electricity, stood up. 'What!'

'Yes, here in his apartment. The body's in the kitchen.'

'Are you sure?'

'Well, without jeopardising the integrity of the site more than I had to, I did check and anyway it was quite obvious—'

'No! No!' Suleyman put his hand up to his head and held what was now a lightly perspiring brow. 'What I mean is, are you sure that the woman is his wife?'

'So he says.'

Suleyman sighed, speaking again on the outgoing breath. 'OK,' he said, 'I'll be with you as soon as I can. Keep Mr Urfa away from the site so that the doctor and forensic don't have to deal with too much conflicting information.'

'OK.'

Then just before Suleyman replaced the receiver, a thought occurred to him which rather graphically made him suddenly aware of just how inexperienced he was. 'Oh, and ‘Çöktin, er . . .'

'Yes, sir?'

'What leads you, apart from Mr Urfa's opinion, to deduce that this lady has been murdered?'

'The smell of bitter almonds,'
‘Çöktin
said with the simple clarity of one who knows he need elaborate no further.

Chapter 2

The man who had really rather frightened Ìsak Çöktin when he first saw him running up to and screaming 'Help me!' at the kiosk where he was buying cigarettes was now sitting as silently as stone on what was probably his bed. Dr Sarkossian, although a pathologist by profession, was always mindful of the pain the living frequently experienced in the presence of the dead and had, in order to alleviate Mr Urfa's hysteria, administered ten milligrams of something Çöktin could not remember to the traumatised man. Known simply as 'Erol' to his millions of dedicated fans, Urfa looked in reality rather older than his reported twenty-five years and, probably unsurprisingly, less handsome than his publicity photographs. Not, of course, that those wolves from the press and television stations would be fazed by Erol's uncharacteristically haggard looks when they did, probably sooner rather than later, set up camp outside the scene of this tragedy. Big stars equalled big headlines, especially when they involved not only murder but also a juicy secret. Erol Urfa, known to his most passionate devotees as 'The Sad Nightingale', had shot to fame four years earlier via his rendition of the extremely sentimental song of the same name. Originating as he had from some tiny, obscure village in the east, fame had very quickly overwhelmed Erol who had, according to those who cared about Arabesk, made some very bizarre decisions. The most notable of these was his much publicised affair with the veteran Arabesk star, Tansu Hamm. Although as blonde, if not more so, than Madonna at her sleaziest, and notwithstanding millions of liras' worth of plastic surgery, Tansu had to be, by old Inspector Ìkmen's reckoning, at least the same age as he was. So even saying she was fifty was being kind.