Deep Waters (35 page)

‘Couldn’t you have just made a grab for her arm?’

‘Ali would never have let go of his sister’s neck while he remained alive. She was starting to turn blue. Think about it, Zelfa,’ İkmen said as he led her to the top of the cobbled ramp. ‘I only know a little of what was going on in that boy’s mind, but you just think about what you know of his internal universe and then tell me what you would have done in Mehmet’s place.’

She looked at İkmen with mobile, blank eyes.

‘This is the second time in your career that you’ve thrown yourself into a hostage situation without adequate preparation,’ Commissioner Ardiç said sharply. ‘You are impetuous.’

‘Sir, with respect,’ İkmen said, looking across at Suleyman as he spoke, ‘Inspector Suleyman’s involvement in that earlier case came about because the assailant specifically requested his presence at the scene.’

‘Yes.’ Ardiç looked at İkmen, his large face drawn. ‘But that doesn’t apply to this incident today, does it, İkmen?’

‘No.’

‘Today we received a call from a very public place which Inspector Suleyman responded to with rapidity, which was commendable, but also with a lack of forward planning I find unacceptable.’ Turning his fierce gaze upon Suleyman, he said, ‘You attended the scene with a small group of officers, deploying only one man to mark the assailant from another part of the building. Your lack of knowledge about the geography of the museum meant that you did not make provision for getting behind the assailant, which resulted in the boy effectively taking charge of the situation.’

‘The boy was insane, sir,’ İkmen offered, ‘and actually under treatment.’

‘From Dr Halman, yes. I know.’ Although calm in tone, Ardiç was actually really dangerous now. ‘Dr Halman who is an occasional police consultant and who is engaged to be married to Inspector Suleyman. Looks good, doesn’t it, İkmen?’

‘Sir—’

‘Ali Evren was a dual Turkish–British national. Which means,’ Ardiç said round a large cigar, ‘that the United Kingdom authorities are going to want to know everything there is to know about this incident. And rightly so. While they are in most respects a friendly ally of our country, their misconceptions about our policing methods are the same as those shared by all the other members of the European Union. In addition, their pressmen are some of the most ruthless and unscrupulous in Europe. Between them and the Italians . . .’ Ardiç shook his head.

İkmen knew better then to interrupt at this point.

‘And to say that we are not all vicious bastards will not do, İkmen! We tried saying that when fucking Leeds United came to play Galatasaray and look what happened – death and chaos ensued. We were accused of complacency then; now we’ll no doubt be accused of – I don’t even dare think of what! We all know that there are good and bad officers and I know that both of you are basically decent, truthful men. But the British don’t know that! All they’ll see is him,’ he pointed rudely at Suleyman, ‘with a gun in his hand shooting a child!’

‘With respect, sir,’ İkmen countered, ‘neither I nor Inspector Suleyman considered any of these issues at the time because an officer’s first duty is to the hostage. I am convinced that once all the evidence is in, you’ll see that Inspector Suleyman really had no choice. That padlock should never have been in that state in the first place. If the door hadn’t been accessible we would have had much more time. The psychiatrist—’

‘Dr Halman will have to submit her clinical notes on the Evren boy to the investigating officer.’

‘Inspector İskender?’

‘No, me,’ Ardiç replied. ‘The international aspect means that I must take personal charge. You’re lucky it’s not the Director General himself,’ he added ominously. ‘We must do this right, İkmen. I want written reports from every officer at the scene on my desk by this evening.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Ardiç cleared his throat. ‘Now, the Evren woman – where are we with that?’

‘She’s under guard and sedation at the Cerrahpaşa, sir,’ İkmen replied. ‘The psychiatrist – not, I should add, Dr Halman – says that we can speak to her tomorrow morning.’

‘Not before?’

‘No. She’s incoherent.’

‘And the woman’s father?’

‘A forensic examination is taking place as we speak,’ İkmen said. ‘Dr Sarkissian has now removed the body to the mortuary. It was obvious from what was said at the Aya Sofya that Miss Evren, if not her brother, was aware of his demise.’

Ardiç leaned back in his chair and fixed his eyes, once again, on the colourless face of Mehmet Suleyman. ‘I see. Think she did it, İkmen?’

‘I don’t know, sir. But I’ll find out. From the little I know about the family, it appears that delusion and madness informed much of their actions. Things that don’t, sir, conform to what may normally be classified as logical.’

‘Psychological stuff,’ Ardiç said with undisguised disdain.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘May Allah have pity!’ He looked down at his desk. ‘Well, you’d better go and write your reports. Take some leave, Suleyman.’

The younger man winced. ‘Sir—’

‘It’s better this way, Suleyman,’ Ardiç said gruffly. ‘When this gets out, the British press will be looking for someone and I don’t want them to find you. Bastards! When the dust has settled you can come back, hopefully with rather more respect for procedure and restraint.’ He then pointedly turned his attention back to a file he had been perusing when they entered and İkmen and Suleyman were dismissed.

Out in the corridor, they both lit up immediately.

‘Well, that’s the end of my career,’ Suleyman said bleakly.

İkmen placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on his colleague’s shoulder. ‘No, I don’t think so. Ardiç wants you back, he said so. He also said that you’re a good man, which I know he doesn’t ever say lightly. No, I think that once we’ve established that the Evren boy was insane—’

‘What difference does that make? I shot him, Çetin.’

‘You had no choice! I caught your eye, I knew what you were going to do! I’ll put that in my report.’

Suleyman managed a smile as he thanked İkmen.

‘Zelfa’s notes should bear out the insanity hypothesis,’ İkmen said as they walked along the corridor towards their offices. ‘Had we been able to consult her about Ali Evren before this incident, I think things would have been very different. But we were not in a position to do that.’

‘No.’

‘Professional confidentiality,’ he smiled, ‘is not always helpful.’ He raised his hands in a gesture of supplication. ‘Kismet!’

‘Indeed.’

And then with a brief embrace the two men parted and Suleyman went into his office to write his account of the day’s events.

İkmen meanwhile sauntered slowly back to his base. He was confident that, even given Zelfa’s connection to Suleyman, her evidence would be taken into account. The boy had clearly been unbalanced although for how long or to what extent he didn’t know. Zelfa had tried to explain the boy’s fixation with vampires to him on their way up to the museum gallery, but there had been so little time, he hadn’t really understood. Something about the sister being a vampire, reflections in mirrors – other Balkan nonsense. As if he hadn’t already had enough of that. Not that now was the time to ponder yet again on his mother. Now he must try and help Mehmet Suleyman and also disentangle this abortion of a case. If Ali Evren had indeed killed Rifat Berisha, possibly with the help of his father, İkmen wanted to know why. Just to drink the Albanian’s blood didn’t seem sufficient reason – although as he now knew from his experiences with the Berishas, the Vloras and even his own family, paltry or stupid reasons did not stop people from committing murder. Quite the contrary. And then there was Felicity’s relationship with Ali to take into account. From the little that he had seen up in the gallery of the Aya Sofya, plus what Tepe had told him about the chauffeur Hassan’s perceptions of the pair, İkmen felt the siblings’ private life warranted a closer look. His mind baulked at the prospect.

The task of telling the Berisha family that murder charges against Mehti Vlora had been dropped fell to Orhan Tepe. And indeed by the time he set off for the family home, Mehti had formally withdrawn his confession. Whether he had done this in response to what must have seemed to him the treachery of his own family in the shape of his brother Aryan, or whether Çöktin had frightened him into it, Tepe didn’t know. But he was glad about it, especially in light of what the drama in Aya Sofya had revealed. Some sort of substantiation was still required but it seemed that one or maybe both of the Evren children had murdered Rifat Berisha.

However, as he was quick to point out to a deeply suspicious Rahman Berisha, charges relating to the death of his son Egrem were still pending against Mehmet Vlora.

‘Aryan Vlora has agreed to testify against his brother,’ he said as he stood over the crumpled little Albanian sitting at his kitchen table, ‘so it does look good, Mr Berisha.’

‘Well, if he wants my thanks, he can want for ever,’ Rahman replied bitterly as he rolled what was left of his cigarette between his fingers. ‘Anyone could have told you that my youngest son was murdered by Mehmet. As far as I am concerned we are still in blood with the Vloras.’

‘Well, that is your affair and your choice,’ Tepe answered stiffly. ‘However, I should warn you that any action taken against the Vloras by yourself will be viewed most harshly. Like it or not, you are now involved in a legal process, Mr Berisha. This involves proof, something which Aryan Vlora is helping us with.’

Perhaps beyond speech for the moment, Rahman Berisha just shrugged.

‘What would be useful, though,’ Tepe said, ‘would be if you could give us an item of Egrem’s clothing – if of course you still possess—’

‘Why?’ The eyes that looked up at Tepe were shot with blood and dark shadows hung under them.

‘Because some old blood samples were recovered from the Vloras’ apartment, around the area Aryan says Mehmet killed your son. They don’t belong to anyone else in the apartment or even, I should add, to your other boy Rifat.’

‘So?’

A little tired of what seemed to be almost wilful lack of comprehension, Tepe sighed. ‘Well, Mr Berisha,’ he said, trying to be patient, ‘if samples of DNA in the blood match those found in perhaps hair samples on Egrem’s clothes, that together with Aryan’s testimony will prove Mehmet Vlora’s guilt beyond most reasonable doubt. We’re talking legal processes here again.’

Rahman coughed and then said, ‘Well . . .’

It is possible that he may have said more but, as Tepe later felt quite strongly, it was probably more likely that he would have lapsed into silence again. After all, for this man the only justice that was in any way real was that meted out by the
fis
. But it was not Rahman who spoke next. His daughter had appeared at the kitchen door, the hand she held protectively across her damaged mouth failing completely to disguise the bruises around her eyes.

Shocked by her appearance, Tepe simply stared.

‘We still have the shirt Egrem was wearing when he died,’ she said with some difficulty as she tried to control what sounded like a swollen tongue. ‘Will that do, Sergeant?’

‘What are you doing out of your room?’ Her father, enraged, rose to his feet, his hand moving as if to strike her. It was not a giant leap for Tepe to connect the girl’s current appearance with the hand now raised in her direction. And unhampered as he was this time by his boss, he caught hold of Rahman’s arm and twisted it up behind the Albanian’s back.

Engelushjia’s eyes widened in alarm.

Tepe, blessed with the kind of strength in his hands that only military service can develop, smiled at the girl and said, ‘Yes, that will be perfect, Miss Berisha. Perhaps you’d like to get it for me.’

‘Oh, er, yes. Right.’ She moved painfully out of the room.

Tepe waited until he thought she couldn’t hear before turning his attention to her father.

‘Looks like you just stopped short of putting her in hospital,’ he said, pulling Rahman’s arm further up his back.

‘Arrrgh!’ Rahman yelled. ‘She’s my—’

‘She isn’t yours to kill!’ Tepe said and eased the pressure slightly.

‘Would you have a daughter of yours give herself to her brother’s killer!’ Rahman yelled. ‘Putting ideas into her head about the innocence of Mehti Vlora.’

‘Not ideas, Mr Berisha. The truth!’ Tepe put in forcefully.

Rahman was too enraged to listen. He didn’t even notice when Engelushjia re-entered the kitchen carrying a bloodied shirt in her hands.

‘She let him fuck her, I know!’ Rahman waved a hand dramatically. ‘So now she’s ruined and—’

‘How many times do I have to tell you, Aryan and I did nothing bad!’ the girl said, tears running down her swollen cheeks. ‘We both just want to stop this stupid—’

‘Liar!’ Rahman wrenched his arm free of Tepe’s loosened grip and launched himself at her. It gave Orhan Tepe the excuse he needed. His blow lifted the Albanian up off his feet and deposited him on the floor in front of the sink. And there he stayed, pathetic and humiliated looking up at Tepe’s powerful form.

Engelushjia did not rush dutifully to her father’s side; she simply placed the shirt in Tepe’s hands and walked out into the hall.

‘I’ll contact you again when the tests are complete,’ Tepe said to the man on the floor. ‘You will be obliged to give evidence at Mehmet Vlora’s trial.’

Rahman Berisha did not answer and Tepe walked out of the room to join a silent Engelushjia in the hall.

‘Do you want me to do anything for you?’ he asked her.

‘No,’ said her mother, Aliya, who was standing in the doorway to one of the bedrooms. ‘Just go.’

‘I was speaking to your daughter, not you,’ the officer responded roughly and turned back to the girl. ‘Engelushjia?’

She turned her tear-stained face up towards his and said, very distinctly, ‘I want to leave this place.’