Death by Design (10 page)

She wrote it down on the little order pad she had in her hand. ‘And to eat?’ She made a motion with her hand towards her mouth and then made chewing noises.

İkmen got up from his seat and beckoned for the girl to follow him. He went outside the café and pointed to the meatballs and spaghetti through the window.

‘Ah.’ The girl smiled. ‘You’d like meatballs.’

‘Evet,’ he said – Turkish for yes. She didn’t have a clue what it meant but she did now know that he wanted meatballs which, when they finally arrived, he ate with relish. When he had finished, the girl took his plate away, talking all the while to another waitress, apparently an English girl.

‘I don’t have any idea where he comes from,’ the Polish girl said to her companion. ‘Maybe he is something like Iranian or something? He said a word that was very strange.’

‘Looks a bit like an Arab to me,’ her companion said. The urge to jump up and say, ‘I’m a Turk!’ was very strong, but somehow İkmen managed to resist it. He concentrated on keeping his features as blank and unmoving as possible, but it wasn’t easy and he knew he was struggling even with this small and unimportant foray.

He spent the rest of that day in and around Leicester Square and Tottenham Court Road. At the famous Foyles bookshop he practised his monoglot act again and consequently took nearly fifteen minutes to buy a Turkish-English dictionary.

He got back to the Rize at just after 6 p.m. that evening. He was tired and his back hurt from all the unaccustomed exercise. But he did not go straight up to his room; instead he sat with the men who were sharing bread, cheese, olives and black tea in the foyer. Apart from one, who was tall, slim, young and bearded, they all looked like middle-aged, overworked Turks. They looked just like he did.

Mehmet Süleyman knocked on the door of Commissioner Ardıç’s office and then walked in.

‘Sir?’

‘Yes.’ The commissioner lifted his great meaty head from contemplating a document on his desk and motioned for Süleyman to sit down.

‘I’ve just had another call from the assistant chief of police in Diyarbakır about Ahmet Ülker,’ Süleyman said as he sat down in front of Ardıç’s desk. ‘Apparently there is a belief amongst some of Ülker’s contemporaries that he has business interests abroad.’

‘Oh?’ Of course Ardıç knew full well that Ülker had business interests in Britain at least but he couldn’t tell Süleyman that.

‘It’s generally believed that he has some sort of involvement with a factory in Cambodia. Although rumour has it that he is a somewhat junior partner or minority stakeholder in that,’ Süleyman said. ‘A stronger lead is to an operation in London. Ülker, it is said, is married to an English woman and runs a legitimate business there in her name. But some men from Diyarbakır, it is alleged, have been employed by him in London illegally. They’ve gone over without jobs or visas, entered illegally and then worked for Ülker. Now if his business is legitimate, that would be quite difficult. The UK, I believe, has quite stringent employment legislation. So what I think may be happening is that Ülker could be running an illegal operation alongside his legitimate business. I mean, if he’s knocking out fakes here in İstanbul and in Cambodia then I don’t see why he can’t be doing that in London too.’ And, of course, there had been that fragment of the London Underground map found just behind where Tariq had detonated his grenade. Süleyman looked at Ardıç expectantly.

The commissioner, who knew all about the London connection, was nevertheless intrigued by the idea of Ülker providing foreign work for the men and boys of Diyarbakır. The Cambodia connection was new too.

‘Do you know,’ he asked, ‘whether any of these Diyarbakır men Ülker has given work to in London have returned?’

‘No, I don’t, sir, but I can try to find out,’ Süleyman said.

‘Do that,’ the commissioner said.

‘Sir, do you want me to contact Scotland Yard about a possible connection between Ülker and London?’ Süleyman said.

‘My English is adequate, I’ll deal with Scotland Yard,’ the older man said. ‘You concentrate on interviewing those illegals we found at the Tarlabaşı factory and on Diyarbakır.’

‘Sir, there was part of a map, the London Underground map—’

‘I have informed Scotland Yard about that already,’ Ardıç said.

‘Quite a few of the illegals we have interviewed so far have told us that their ultimate aim was to get to an English-speaking country. The UK was of course one of those. Now if Ülker is operating there and living there then—’

‘Inspector Süleyman, you can rest assured that there is a very good line of communication between myself and my opposite number in London,’ Ardıç said. ‘If you must know, I contacted him as soon as that map fragment was found. You need not worry about that in any way. Just continue with your own investigation and keep me informed.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Had İkmen been around, he would probably have been the one making contact with London, Süleyman knew. İkmen’s English was so good. But İkmen was ‘out of town’ somewhere and so Ardıç was taking it all, apparently, upon himself. There was also talk that a European had been to see Ardıç just after the explosion at the Tarlabaşı factory. Süleyman wondered how much of what he had just told Ardıç was already known to him. As he made to leave, Ardıç said, ‘Oh, and Süleyman, we still don’t have any idea about who the boy who killed himself was.’

‘Tariq.’

‘The boy with tuberculosis, yes,’ Ardıç said. ‘The workers in the factory are being checked for the disease and so far all have been negative, fortunately. Inspector İkmen was of the opinion the boy was either an Afghan or a Pakistani. Every effort must be made to try and locate where this boy was staying. None of those he worked with either know or are prepared to tell. Apart from anything else, tuberculosis is a notifiable disease and we do not want an outbreak of that amongst the poor and dispossessed – or anyone else, come to that.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Süleyman turned at the door. ‘Sir, with regard to Inspector İkmen—’

‘He is out of town and currently beyond our jurisdiction, Süleyman,’ Ardıç said. ‘The man has other things to do for a while.’ He waved a dismissive hand at his inferior and added, ‘Now go about your business.’

Süleyman left. He had much to do, what with the illegal factory workers, liaising with Diyarbakır and trying to track down traces of Tariq. But he also resolved to find some time to go and speak to Dr Sarkissian too. After all, he had always been Çetin İkmen’s best friend and Süleyman was far from happy about what Ardıç had told him. İkmen, he felt, was not where anyone would expect him to be. He was also possibly at some risk. Lately things between Çetin and his wife had, he knew, been very bad. And if Fatma İkmen really was freezing him out because of Bekir’s death, it was possible that his colleague had volunteered for something very unwise and reckless.

It was the owner of the Rize Guest House, Abdullah Yigit, who asked İkmen to sit down with him and the others to share food. A wide, short man in his sixties, Yigit wore a pair of tattered striped pyjamas just like a lot of traditional café and pansiyon proprietors did in the far east of Turkey. Yigit, according to İkmen’s ‘niece’ Ayşe, was a full UK citizen but he spoke English really badly. It was his wife, apparently, who did all the business and was the brains behind the operation. Mrs Yigit it was who would personally remove those who did not pay their rent. Abdullah Yigit, it seemed, was the (almost) acceptable face of the pansiyon.

‘I understand you are from İstanbul, brother,’ Mr Yigit said as he passed a plate over to İkmen and then gestured for him to sit on the floor beside the low table with the other men.

‘Yes,’ İkmen said. ‘My niece—’

‘The young lady from the nail shop.’ Mr Yigit smiled. ‘Yes, she spoke about you to my wife. How long do you hope to be in England, brother?’

İkmen wasn’t accustomed to people calling him ‘brother’ but he knew that migrants from Anatolia often used the word freely amongst themselves.

‘I don’t know yet,’ İkmen replied. ‘It depends how things work out.’

‘What things?’ The man who asked was thin like himself. He wore rather more tidy and fashionable clothes than the others.

‘Well . . .’ İkmen didn’t want to come straight out with some sort of request for work. But then again he knew that they knew the only reason he was in the UK was for just that reason. ‘I used to be a security guard, back home,’ he said. ‘They got rid of me.’

‘They?’

‘I worked at a shopping mall,’ İkmen said. ‘Now I’m here. A man must do what he can to support his family.’

‘That’s true,’ an older, very hairy man said miserably. ‘We all have to do that.’

‘Can you speak English?’ asked the young bearded man who stood leaning on the reception desk to one side of the eating group.

İkmen finished the olive he had been eating before he said, ‘No.’

‘Oh, well, then you won’t stand a chance,’ the young man said. ‘You might as well pack up and go home now.’

‘Ali!’ Mr Yigit said angrily. ‘How can you say such a thing?’

‘I can only say what is truly in my heart,’ the young man said. ‘He doesn’t speak any English, what can he do?’

‘Well, I don’t know, but . . .’Mr Yigit shrugged and then smiled at İkmen and said, ‘A security guard, you say? Mmm. I am sure that Allah will provide an answer for you, my brother.’

İkmen thanked him politely and they all began eating again. The young man turned away and İkmen heard him mutter something in English, which sounded like ‘Stupid fool!’ He wore Islamic dress, and İkmen recognised him from the photograph Ayşe had shown him. He was the Iranian, Ali Reza Hajizadeh. Who the other men were he didn’t know and didn’t discover because the rest of the meal passed in silence.

When he climbed into his lonely and slightly greasy bed that night, İkmen could not help but feel despondent. In spite of her coldness towards him of late, he missed his wife. He missed his children too and at one point he felt very tempted to call his son Sınan who was only a few miles away at his new home in Hounslow. But he knew he wasn’t allowed to make contact with anyone from his real life. Only Çetin Ertegrul existed in London. The other men who lived in the pansiyon were not communicative and in his current mood his mission seemed like a huge mountain that was impossible to climb. His thoughts turned to the Iranian Ali Reza Hajizadeh. İkmen had spent a great deal of his working life around young men who were troubled and so he knew the signs very well. Ali Reza was definitely of that ilk although quite how that would manifest itself in the future he did not know. But he found the contemplation of it interesting.

‘Mr Ertegrul! Mr Ertegrul!’

İkmen, sleep-sodden and exhausted, couldn’t make out at first why someone was banging on his door calling out a name that wasn’t his.

‘Mr Ertegrul it is Mr Yigit, your landlord!’ the voice said. ‘You must come downstairs! It’s very important! You must come!’

Realising that he was in fact Mr Ertegrul, İkmen said, ‘All right, Mr Yigit, I’m coming.’

‘Good. Come quick.’ This was followed by the sound of heavy footfalls on the landing outside and afterwards on the stairs. İkmen quickly grabbed his clothes from off the back of a chair and after running a comb quickly through his hair he followed Mr Yigit downstairs. There in the lobby he found his ‘niece’ Ayşe.

His heart pounding, İkmen said, ‘What—’

‘Oh, Uncle Çetin,’ she said, ‘I thought that maybe you’d like to come for breakfast with me. I can introduce you to the İstanbul Büfe, it is my favourite place to eat.’

İkmen, still a little shell-shocked from Mr Yigit’s frantic wake-up call, said, ‘Allah protect me, I thought it was an emergency!’

‘Well, it is,’ Ayşe said, ‘mainly because my first appointment is at nine thirty which gives us only forty-five minutes for breakfast.’ She turned to the landlord and said, ‘Thank you, Mr Yigit.’

The landlord smiled. It was at this point that İkmen realised that Mr Yigit was not alone. Standing beside him and about the same height as the landlord was a nondescript man of about thirty-five. He had a rather doughy face which didn’t really suit the very modern spiked haircut that he sported. He was very smartly dressed in a dark three-piece suit.

‘Come on, Uncle!’ Ayşe said as she took hold of İkmen’s arm and pulled him towards the front door. ‘You must be hungry. I’m starving!’

Out on the street, İkmen noticed a Ferrari parked outside the Rize. Ayşe pulled him into an alleyway on the opposite side of the road and said, ‘That Ferrari over there belongs to Ahmet Ülker. It was Ülker who was standing beside Mr Yigit.’

‘Oh.’ The nondescript man.

‘Look!’

Ali Reza Hajizadeh came out of the pansiyon and stood beside the Ferrari holding a small remote control in his hand.

‘The Iranian,’ Ayşe said.

‘Yes, I met him last night,’ İkmen said. ‘He wasn’t very friendly.’

Ayşe pulled İkmen back a little further and then said, ‘When I saw Ülker go into the Rize I knew I had to find a way for you to see him. He doesn’t come here that often. It was an opportunity not to be missed.’

‘Hence the breakfast.’

‘Hence the breakfast. Talking of which,’ Ayşe said, ‘we will have to go to the İstanbul for breakfast now. If we don’t, someone will tell someone else who will tell Yigit – you know how it goes. This is a small community here in Stoke Newington. Everyone knows everyone else.’

‘I understand.’

‘I have something to tell you too,’ Ayşe said without explaining what.

After taking a last look at the figure of Ali Reza Hajizadeh they set off in the direction of Stoke Newington High Street. Ayşe took İkmen’s arm. ‘Have you met either Süleyman Elgiz or Reşat Doğan yet?’ she asked.

‘I met a group of men last night,’ İkmen said. ‘Together with Mr Yigit they shared their food with me. But I didn’t discover any of their names.’