Petrified (26 page)

‘I didn’t know you were working with him,’ Suleyman said, ‘but go on.’

‘Akdeniz’s wife has just come to see Dr Keyder,’ Roditi said.

‘Do you know why?’

‘No,’ he shrugged, ‘they just went into the sofa together and Dr Keyder closed the door. I couldn’t really insist that she keep it open, could I? I mean it’s weird, this embalming stuff, but it’s not like she’s actually done anything wrong.’

‘No,’ Suleyman said frowning. ‘No, you were quite right, Roditi. Thank you.’

‘Sir.’

And then he left.

Suley man turned to Çöktin. ‘I wonder what Mrs Akdeniz can want with Dr Keyder,’ he said.

‘Maybe one of her relatives has died and she wants to use Dr Keyder’s “service”.’

‘Don’t you think that’s somewhat odd in view of what is happening with her children? I don’t think I’d be capable of attending to such a thing if I were worried about my son.’

‘If this job and particularly this case has taught me anything, sir, it’s that people are weird,’ Çöktin replied, shaking his head from side to side as he spoke. ‘As Inspector İkmen always says, life is infinitely variable and anything is possible.’

‘Mmm . . .’ Suleyman took his mobile phone out of his pocket. ‘I think perhaps I should pass this information on to him, don’t you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

However, before he could bring İkmen’s number up on the screen Dr Keyder returned carrying yet another folder which, this time, proved to be full of invoices. Rather oddly, she was smiling.

İkmen first looked down at what he’d just written in his notepad and then turned his attention to the red-faced young woman by his side.

‘Right, so,’ he said, ‘the car was a Mercedes, it pulled in to the open gates at the back of the house . . .’

‘Someone I couldn’t see closed the gates,’ the young woman put in breathlessly.

‘And then, ten minutes later, the gates opened and the car rolled out.’

‘Yes.’

‘Could you see who was driving the car?’ Ayşe Farsakoǧlu asked.

The girl with the red face, young Sibel Yalçin, bit down on her bottom lip. ‘Er . . . a man.’

‘On his own?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘What was he like?’ İkmen asked. ‘Young, old, fat, thin . . . ?’

‘Er . . .’

‘You didn’t get the licence plate number, Sibel,’ Ayşe Farsakoǧlu said, more as a statement than a question.

‘Er . . .’

İkmen, suddenly infuriated beyond reason by the youngster’s seeming lack of attention, said, ‘All right, Constable, that will be all. Thank you.’

‘Oh, but, sir, don’t you want me to stay?’

‘Allah forbid, no!’ Realising from the hurt look on her face that he had gone way too far for her delicate sensibilities he moderated his tone. ‘No, thank you, Constable. That will be all for today, thank you.’

‘Sir.’ She saluted, sloppily, but with conviction – something that wasn’t lost on İkmen, who duly saluted back. Both İkmen and Farsakoǧlu watched as the young woman trudged grimly back down the hill and away from the Akdeniz house.

Once she was out of earshot, İkmen said, ‘You’d think wouldn’t you, Ayşe, that someone like Ardiç would have learned his lesson with that girl’s father.’

Ayşe, a little embarrassed to be discussing another senior officer with one of his fellows, simply looked down at the ground.

‘I mean poor old Hüsnü Yalçin has always been a liability. Allah forgive me, I mean him no harm, but wouldn’t you think that Ardiç would draw the line at employing the old man’s idiot daughter? She sees nothing, hears even less . . . The only thing she can ever be counted upon to do is wander around after Inspector Suleyman whenever he’s in her vicinity.’

‘Sir . . .’

‘Oh, well,’ İkmen shrugged, ‘at least I suppose we can be grateful that she noticed the car. I would have liked a licence plate – even a colour would have been nice – but . . .’ He placed a cigarette firmly between his lips and looked up into the seemingly sightless windows of the Akdeniz house. ‘OK, Ayşe, let’s see what Mr Akdeniz is up to today.’

C
HAPTER
16

Melih Akdeniz was in his garden standing in front of the great swathe of material strung between his trees. When he saw İkmen he took a long swig from his ever-present medicine bottle and then wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt.

‘Have you come to see Reşad?’ he said as the policeman and his assistant approached.

‘No, Mr Akdeniz.’

‘Haven’t got the results from all those tests you made on his van?’

‘No, sir.’ İkmen, now level with the artist, smiled into the other’s sick, bloodshot eyes. ‘As I told Mr Kuran, these things take time. Sadly.’

‘Mmm . . .’ Melih Akdeniz looked up into the sky and squinted as he bathed his face in the rays of the midday sun. ‘So what is it, İkmen?’ he said huskily. ‘Have you found my children?’

‘Unfortunately no, sir,’ İkmen said. ‘No, my visit is just a courtesy.’

‘Wanting to know why that car pulled into my drive this morning.’ The artist looked back at İkmen again and smiled. ‘I saw your little retard write it down in her little book,’ he continued unpleasantly. ‘You must try harder, İkmen. Is it any wonder that my children are still missing when the İstanbul police are reduced to employing the mentally subnormal.’

İkmen, choosing to ignore this little tirade, said, ‘And so the car, sir? What was that about?’

‘It was about,’ the artist mimicked both the depth and seriousness of İkmen’s voice, ‘some materials I need for my performance exhibit.’

‘Ah . . .’

The clearing of a throat from over by the house signalled the appearance of Reşad Kuran at the back door. His hair tousled and his face unshaven, he looked as if he’d just fallen out of a very uncomfortable bed.

‘I’m having a preview here tonight for the media,’ Melih continued. Turning his gaze from İkmen to Ayşe Farsakoǧlu, he added, ‘It’s at eight. Want to come?’

‘Er . . .’

‘Melih, I don’t think that police people,’ Reşad Kuran ladled the last two words with pure contempt, ‘would either want to come or be capable of understanding.’

‘The women police can come,’ Melih laughed, swigging yet again from his bottle as he did so, ‘all except that stupid girl.’

‘Well then, maybe Sergeant Farsakoǧlu might be prevailed upon to attend,’ İkmen said, ‘although if I were you, Mr Akdeniz, I would be careful about over-stretching myself at this time.’

‘What do you mean?’ the artist snapped.

‘I mean that you appear to be needing rather a lot of your medication at this time, sir.’

‘You think so?’ the artist laughed. Bending down in order to be level with İkmen’s ear he said, ‘How do you know I don’t just take this stuff for fun?’

İkmen smiled. ‘Because I have checked to discover whether it is prescribed for you, Mr Akdeniz,’ he said, ‘and because if it wasn’t you’d currently be in one of my cells.’

‘True.’ The artist stood up straight again and looked through the trees at the sun.

‘You’re going ahead with your show despite everything that has happened?’ Ayşe Farsakoǧlu asked.

Still looking at the sun, Melih replied, ‘Art is the only reality. My children know that. They are my works – I produced and own them.’

To İkmen the artist looked sicker by the minute, especially with the full rays of the sun on his thin, grey features. Skeletal – both his appearance and his words were unnerving. He seemed, İkmen felt, on the very rim of death. There was even some sort of smell, a decay on the air.

‘The performance is based on Karagöz.’

‘I’d gathered that.’

The artist looked down at İkmen once again, staring him now straight in the eyes. ‘By which I mean that the piece is in shadow,’ he said. ‘The theme, if not the storyline, is contemporary.’

‘Right.’ İkmen cleared his throat. ‘So these supplies, Mr Akdeniz . . .’

‘Costumes,’ Melih smiled. ‘For my puppets.’

‘Ah, so traditional Karagöz?’

‘The puppets wear the traditional gear, in a way, yes,’ Melih replied. ‘It is, as I’ve said, the theme that is modern, in a way . . .’ He looked vaguely distant again for a moment. ‘Our relationship, as a society, to ourselves is flawed. Like Hacıvat, the Ottoman pedant, we live in a land of delusion. Only the simplicity of the common, foul man, the Karagöz, if you like, is real and has value, that and only that can be a permanent everlasting statement. You know that Karagöz corresponds to the ‘Fool’, Tarot card?’ he smiled. ‘The Fool is the most potent symbol in magic – good and bad he is the ultimate mage. Materials, my materials – blood, strongly pigmented paints, piss – reflect both magic and honesty. My themes of biological sex – it’s not romantic, it shouldn’t be kind, and death, neither good nor bad, are staring a man in the face from the hour of his birth. Take it, push it in the eyes of our people, give them that finality that is the only reality. Condense and preserve it—’

His tirade was cut off by the ringing of İkmen’s mobile telephone. As the policeman turned aside in order to answer his call, Melih Akdeniz, who had now been joined by a somewhat anxious-looking Reşad Kuran, sat down on the ground.

Ayşe Farsakoǧlu, alarmed by the trembling that had suddenly taken over the artist’s body, went over to join the two men.

‘Mr Akdeniz.’

‘It’s all right, I’m OK.’ He took his medicine out of his pocket and took a long, deep draught from its neck.

‘He’ll be fine,’ Reşad Kuran said as he looked, his eyes full of anxiety into Ayşe’s face. ‘He’s OK.’

All three of them stayed like this, one watched the others watching until İkmen, his face set and grave, returned.

‘Mr Akdeniz,’ he said as he approached the group, ‘that was one of my colleagues, Inspector Suleyman. Your wife has—’

Yet again İkmen’s mobile rang.

‘Shit!’ he muttered as he first held up a hand to indicate that Akdeniz should stay where he was and answered the call. ‘Fatma?’

He moved quickly into one of the far corners of the garden, his deep voice muted by the abundant greenery that clung to every surface. Ayşe and the two men remained uncomfortably silent until he returned.

When he did, there was something different about him. Ayşe couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was, but something his wife had said must have upset him. That, or he was suddenly in a hurry for some reason.

In one swift movement, he hunkered down beside the fallen artist. ‘All right, Mr Akdeniz, I’ve had enough of this now. Your wife deliberately gave one of my officers the slip this morning. One of my colleagues has just seen her at the house of a Dr Keyder – a woman currently under investigation by some of my fellow officers.’

The artist, his eyes now heavy from the massive amount of medication he had taken that day, just looked blankly on.

‘Now you’re going to tell me why she was there and why she felt it necessary to keep her destination, apparently Sarıyer, where your children liked to go, from us.’ He looked up into the face of Reşad Kuran. ‘Or maybe you’d like to enlighten us, Mr Kuran. You deliver things. Have you ever worked for Dr Keyder? Did you perhaps deliver one of Melih’s paintings to her on that evening you seem to remember so little about? I haven’t got much time now so I’d appreciate an answer from one of you.’

‘My client is concerned,’ Lütfü Güneş said as he poured himself yet another whiskey and water, ‘that you may use the information he gave you about certain friends of his, fellow countrymen, to their detriment.’

İskender frowned. Rostov wasn’t in the room with them, which was probably just as well, given the fury that seemed to have built up inside his colleague, Mehmet Suleyman. The latter, fresh from the private mortuary operated by Dr Keyder, sat brooding in the corner, his head in his hands, thinking no doubt rather unhelpful thoughts about that dead prostitute Masha.

İskender cleared his throat before replying. ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘to be truthful I don’t know whether or not that might be a possibility. The fact that Mr Rostov believes that some of his countrymen may have unburied corpses in their homes doesn’t necessarily mean that we will approach them about that at this time. It is, further, a decision that someone far higher up will take, as opposed to myself.’

‘My client is also worried,’ Güneş continued, ‘about the security of his own daughter—’

‘That we cannot guarantee,’ Suleyman cut in sharply. ‘That
thing
down there—’

‘What will happen to Tatiana is not yet decided, Mr Güneş,’ İskender cut in with a very uncustomary smile on his face, ‘but whatever is done, you can assure Mr Rostov, will be performed with due regard to his fatherly feelings.’

Suleyman sniffed audibly.

İskender made his way over to where the lawyer was standing and placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. ‘You may tell Mr Rostov that he has nothing to worry about at this time,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’

The lawyer threw what was left of his drink to the back of his throat and placed the empty glass down on one of Rostov’s many occasional tables. ‘I’ll go up to him now.’

İskender bowed his head just slightly in recognition. Both officers watched Güneş’ back as he left for the upper storey of the mansion.

When he’d gone, Suleyman rose to his feet. ‘So Rostov’s too prostrate with anxiety over his mummy to get out of his bed . . .’

‘Now, look, Mehmet,’ his colleague said as he walked over to stand in front of him, ‘we have to tread very carefully now.’

‘With a murderer?’ Suleyman, a good head taller than İskender, laughed unpleasantly down into his face.

The smaller man raised a silencing finger. ‘We don’t know that he killed that girl, Mehmet.’

‘But who else—’

‘And furthermore, sad though each and every death might be, we shouldn’t care.’

‘What do you mean?’

İskender, moving in closer to his colleague, now lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Look, Mehmet,’ he said, ‘I know you fucked her. It’s obvious. But—’