Dance with Death (8 page)

‘I have never told anyone this before but Aysu offered to marry Ziya Kahraman, Çetin Bey,’ the old man said. ‘She knew he had been asking me for her and so, once she knew that Kemalettin’s family would not accept her, she said she would marry Ziya.’

‘But he was a lot older than her, wasn’t he?’ İkmen said. ‘Didn’t that make you feel uneasy? You are a man, are you not, Haldun Bey, of fine sensibilities?’

‘I like to think so, yes,’ Haldun replied. ‘But I am also a poor man and, in those days, Çetin Bey, I was a poor man with a poor daughter no one but the most destitute peasant would consider. Aysu was a clever girl. Ziya Kahraman had only ever managed to have one daughter, Nazlı, by his first wife. His second wife he had divorced because she had been barren and Ziya Kahraman needed a son to take over his lemon empire . . .’

‘Lemon empire?’

‘The caves round here make very good storage for lemons,’ Haldun said. ‘Ziya’s father had left him many such caves as well as the Kahraman family lemon groves which are down on the south coast, by Alanya. Nazlı Kahraman is now a very wealthy grower of lemons. But that is beside the point. Aysu saw a way for us to maybe leave this poverty you see around you behind and so she married Ziya Kahraman.’

‘But didn’t you try to stop her?’ İkmen said, knowing that what he was saying probably didn’t make sense in the context of Muratpaşa circa 1983. After all, not everyone, even now, allowed their daughters to marry young Jewish boys they fell in love with as he himself had done.

‘No,’ the old man said. ‘May Allah forgive me, I admit that I experienced greed! She went to him, he and that evil daughter of his, and I only saw her twice before she disappeared. They made me speak to her through that great gate Ziya had made for his courtyard. She told me she wasn’t yet with child and I heard Nazlı order her about as if she were a servant. My daughter was used by Ziya and, I think that when he discovered that she, like his second wife, was not taking his seed, he killed her.’

İkmen, who had just reached into his pocket to retrieve his cigarettes, stopped and frowned. ‘But the police seemed, I understand, more interested in the possibility of Kemalettin being at fault.’

‘With respect to yourself, Çetin Bey, they would be.’ The old man sighed. ‘Ziya Kahraman used to be able to buy people. Miserly with those who worked for him, very free with money to people he wanted or needed. His daughter is just the same. Seventy years old she may be, but last year Nazlı Kahraman married a boy of twenty-five she met somewhere on the south coast. Oh, no, Ziya Kahraman was barely touched by the police at the time!’

‘But you think that he killed your daughter?’ İkmen said as he finally took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit up.

‘Yes. I have always believed she was murdered. Half the village still think that, somehow, Kemalettin Senar killed my daughter, but I do not agree. I know that the boy has since become rather strange, but I really do believe that is because he misses Aysu. He loved her so much! Now he just drifts, talking to himself and . . .’

‘So what do you think I can do about this, Haldun Bey?’ İkmen asked. ‘I am a policeman just like those in Nevşehir . . .’

‘Ah, yes, but you are from İstanbul, aren’t you!’ the old man said. ‘And in İstanbul you have tests that can be done to see who killed who sometimes years and years before. I have read it in newspapers.’ His face assumed a proud glow. ‘I can both read and write.’

İkmen smiled. Coming from İstanbul it was sometimes easy to forget that the ability to read and write was still, for some citizens of the Republic, a considerable achievement and one to be trumpeted.

‘In Nevşehir they will not do such tests on my daughter’s body,’ Haldun continued. ‘All they will say is that they will find out how she died. I said, “What about these tests to see who killed her?”, but that inspector over there, the same idiot who came here twenty years ago, he just ignored what I said and told me they would release Aysu to me as soon as they could. They would not even tell me whether they think she was murdered. I know that she was. I know that you must know that she was, too, or else why would you be here?’

İkmen smiled. A simple man he may be, but Haldun Alkaya was far from stupid. ‘So what exactly do you think I can do, Haldun Bey?’

‘Menşure Hanım tells me that you are an honest man, Çetin Bey,’ the old man said. ‘You are also a clever man. Not just me, but this whole village needs to know who killed Aysu. We will never be at peace until this matter is settled. As it is, those who believe the Kahramans to be wronged will not speak or do business with the Senars or with me either. It is very bad for business.’

‘But if, as you believe, Haldun Bey, Ziya Kahraman killed your daughter, if he’s now dead . . .’

‘Ah, but the tests can be performed on his relatives, can they not?’ Haldun said. ‘My friend Rahmi has a satellite dish and we saw this programme on his television about a murder in Ankara. The police there took some water from the mouth of a man who was the brother of a murderer.’

‘Yes,’ İkmen said, ‘DNA testing. And yes, we do do that in İstanbul, Haldun Bey. But if Nevşehir do not have the facilities . . .’

‘Then you will have to bring this DNA to them,’ the old man said. ‘Menşure Hanım told me that you came to Muratpaşa for some reason other than this. But the fact that you are here at this time is kismet and so you must help. Allah has sent you to us, Çetin Bey, in His infinite mercy, to heal the soul of our poor village.’

Even though he could feel the panic rising in his chest as the old man spoke, İkmen just nodded politely by way of recognition. How on earth was he going to ‘bring DNA’ to Nevşehir? If any of the local men were like the few country officers he’d met over the years who had been transferred up to İstanbul, introducing anything even slightly contemporary to them was going to be like trying to drag a caveman into the jet-age. And besides, he wasn’t a scientist who could ‘do’ DNA himself. He had no jurisdiction, no scientific knowledge, and he didn’t even really know the hellish village that well. Bloody cousin Menşure, he could have killed her, talking him up as if he were some sort of genius!

But then if he was going to stay, he would have to keep busy. Asking elderly Cappadocians about the possible appearance of an English girl in their midst in the 1970s was hardly likely to account for all of his time. And Muratpaşa, weird and lovely as he knew it to be, was also not İstanbul and İkmen knew that if he didn’t go home immediately he would get very bored. So why not hassle the local grunts and see whether he could help this lonely, poverty-stricken old man for a few days? Allah knew there were already quite enough poor people suffering injustice. Why should Haldun Alkaya be just another statistic?

İkmen looked deeply into the poor man’s fire and said, ‘All right, Haldun Bey, I’ll do what I can.’

‘I knew that you would,’ the old man said with a smile. ‘It was written.’

Captain Altay Salman was pleased that his old colleague had not wanted to meet him at Menşure Tokatlı’s hotel. Although he had a lot of respect for the woman she did, he had to admit, make him feel both guilty – for his non-observance of Ramazan – and inferior in equal measures. But then meeting at the Tasmanian Devil was not exactly without its problems either. Just because Rachelle Jones was happy to serve non-fasting Muslims during the hours of daylight and even help them smoke their cigarettes, didn’t mean that she was necessarily comfortable to be around – at least not for Altay. As he sat in her discreet courtyard, sipping his coffee and making conversation, the good captain wished that the Australian would not display quite so much of her chest quite so close to his face. İkmen was late, and considering that he had made this appointment, effectively dragging Altay away from his wife and daughter, the captain was not a little annoyed.

At length the İstanbul man appeared, and Altay Salman forgave him immediately. İkmen, although not exactly a close friend, had always been an honest and helpful colleague as well as, periodically, great fun to be with in one or other of İstanbul’s numerous meyhanes. The Australian moved aside to allow the two men to embrace and then went off to bring the captain more coffee and İkmen a glass of tea.

After thanking his friend for coming, İkmen said, ‘I’m sorry I rang you so late last night, but I’d just come back from visiting Haldun Alkaya and I was a bit fired up. Menşure believes that you know all there is to know about this Alkaya business.’

‘I know it’s split the village,’ Altay replied. ‘Alkaya and the Kahramans and their people don’t speak. Kemalettin Senar, who, if you are staying, you will have to make your own mind up about, drifts around even now under a cloud of suspicion. He doesn’t talk to anyone and behaves, well, oddly at times. I have no idea what might be wrong with him. His mother and brother can be quite vocal about Nazlı Kahraman, or, rather, what they think of her late father.’ He sighed. ‘But now that the police in Nevşehir have Aysu Alkaya’s body maybe this puzzle is about to be solved.’

‘And what do you know about the body?’ İkmen asked.

‘My nephew, who found it, said it was partially preserved,’ Altay said. ‘Scientists have believed for years that many of the caves round here can have that effect upon the human body, just like they do on the lemons. But anyway, the girl’s father could, apparently, tell it was her. In addition there were certain artefacts identified as having belonged to Aysu.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Cause of death was a gunshot wound to the back. The father will be told later on today, then it will be all over the village. Nearly everyone here believes she was murdered anyway.’ He sighed. ‘There will be a ballistics investigation, but facilities with regard to DNA testing and those qualified to do that are limited. That’s why when Miss Tokatlı told me you were coming I was anxious to make contact. If anyone can get someone down from the Forensic Institute it has to be you.’

Rachelle Jones appeared with their drinks. She smiled as she placed them down on the small metal table, principally at Altay.

Çetin İkmen smiled back. ‘She seems impressed,’ he said as he watched the tall woman walk back towards her kitchen.

Altay raised his eyes towards the heavens. ‘It’s the uniform,’ he said. ‘This is a village that has been hijacked by tourism, Çetin. All the old and the traditionalists spend half their time being scandalised while many of the young men and the foreign residents just want to jump on anything that moves. It’s been known that some tourists and some of my boys at the riding school have been followed by one or other sex-starved individual.’

‘Not keen on country life?’ İkmen asked.

‘Oh, I love working at the school,’ his companion replied. ‘It’s great to watch boys who are just adequate riders become highly skilled. And we’ve got some very impressive horses. But socially it’s a little dull. I don’t, I must admit, mind that too much, but my wife isn’t very impressed. In fact, I wish that Sevgi and Miss Jones would get together. Whatever I may or may not feel about her, Rachelle Jones knows this village, its people, and has a tremendous appreciation for the countryside and its history. Also, I know my wife is keen not to lose her English language skills while she’s here. It would be perfect.’

‘What about your daughter?’ İkmen asked.

He sighed. ‘Hande’s okay. She’s got friends and now that her cousin Ferhat is stationed here I feel I can let her explore the area in the safety of his company. This landscape is fascinating by anyone’s standards.’

‘Yes.’ İkmen smiled again, mainly at the sight of probably the most phallic chimney in the village, which was situated just next door to the Tasmanian Devil’s kitchen. ‘I don’t know if I can do anything with regard to getting forensic movement on this,’ he said. ‘I’m only here for a week, but I can make some calls and see what I can do. I didn’t, after all, come here to get involved with this. I came for other reasons.’ He looked away briefly. ‘But I can see how contentious this is and so I’ll do what I can. I don’t want to upset the boys in Nevşehir.’

‘No.’

‘Talking of which,’ İkmen continued, ‘what are they like?’

Altay shrugged. ‘Rural. They tend to be conservative and they are notoriously hard up. I actually have much more contact with the jandarma myself who, as you know, are principally city boys.’

‘We stick to our own, don’t we?’

‘We try to,’ Altay replied. ‘But they’re not bad in Nevşehir. I mean, they would probably be quite impressed, shall we say, to see you. I can’t say pleased exactly . . . I still get a bit of that attitude of “you’re a big shot from the big city who thinks he’s something special” from some of them, but . . .’

‘Because it would help if I could see the body myself,’ İkmen said. ‘Then I could at least describe it to colleagues back home.’

Altay Salman let out a long, tired breath. ‘It may be possible,’ he said. ‘Let me speak to the local jandarma, they’ve far more experience with the police around here than I have.’

İkmen offered his packet of cigarettes to Altay, who took one, and then lit up himself. ‘I’d be grateful,’ he said. ‘I can’t do much, but if I can get a proper forensic analysis underway it may, at least, go somewhere towards satisfying Haldun Alkaya. He seems to regard DNA as some kind of magical solution.’

‘Well he might,’ his companion said as he peered at İkmen through a curtain of smoke. ‘Just like so many of them. But you know, Çetin, that some think he may have been responsible for his daughter’s disappearance?’

‘How do they work that out?’

Altay shrugged.

‘Some think it might have been an honour thing.’

Both men looked up at the source of the Australian-tinged English that had just strolled up to their table.

‘Miss Jones?’

Rachelle Jones put her cigarettes and lighter down on the slightly rickety metal table and sat down. ‘One of the many theories that have flown around this village at one time or another is that somehow poor little Aysu Alkaya managed to get away from old Ziya Kahraman and that her father, shamed by what she had done to the lemon king, killed her.’