Petrified (3 page)

‘No, but I feel I’d like to know what was planned anyway. Where in Sarıyer they were going and who, if anyone, they were going to see are questions we need to ask Melih Akdeniz.’

The woman, Sergeant Ayşe Farsakoǧlu, had worked directly for İkmen for just over six months. Prior to that she’d been in uniform, and had worked on operations he had commanded. She’d known about him outside of work through his previous sergeant, who had once been her lover. Not that she liked to dwell on the late Sergeant Orhan Tepe for too long these days. Since Orhan’s death she’d thrown herself wholeheartedly into her career, which was why, she assumed, İkmen had chosen her to be his deputy. He was, however, as Orhan had always said, an odd character. Details, like this Sarıyer business, something that on the face of it meant very little to the investigation, bothered him. But then sometimes, as Ayşe knew from past experience – particularly with İkmen – these details were often crucial to the resolution of an investigation.

‘Do you want me to call Akdeniz and let him know we’re coming?’ Ayşe said as she made to pick up her telephone.

‘No,’ İkmen replied, ‘let’s surprise him.’

‘He might be out.’

‘No, he won’t be.’ İkmen rose from his chair and put on his jacket. ‘The wife goes out, remember? Prostrate with grief she might be, but Eren Akdeniz is still the one who goes out to get the bread and cigarettes. Melih’s “great” work must continue . . .’

‘You don’t like Mr Akdeniz very much, do you, sir?’

İkmen smiled. ‘As a professional, Ayşe, I don’t “like” or “dislike” anyone. But as you’ve so rightly observed, although my experience of Mr Akdeniz is as yet slight I know he’s not exactly my type of person. I can sympathise with the state his various drug habits have plunged that awful body of his into. I mean, he makes me look fat and healthy! But the “art” that has been fuelled by the drugs, well . . . I’m sorry but it does nothing for me, and as for his insistence that “the work” carry on in spite of the disappearance of his children . . .’

‘Some people deal with stress like that.’

‘Yes, I know,’ İkmen said, ‘and I expect that if he were a traditional calligraphy artist or a Greek monk painting an ikon, I’d feel entirely different. But I’m afraid I find it difficult to appreciate the value of carpets depicting the inner workings of the scrotum or that “mosaic” of Tarkan.’

‘The one made of . . . ?’

‘Condom wrappers, yes.’

‘It’s a very good likeness,’ Ayşe said as she fought to suppress the laughter this work of art evoked in her. Tarkan, monumentally successful pop star, was practically worshipped by his teenage fans. Vast numbers of young girls screamed and fainted at his concerts, as she well knew, having been on duty at a few of them. Tarkan rendered in condom wrappers was an irony she could see only too easily.

‘I admit it’s a good likeness,’ İkmen said as he took his car keys out of his pocket and then picked up his lighter. ‘Akdeniz has talent. I can even appreciate some of the statements he’s making about society and culture, what I object to is the money art collectors and galleries give him for spending an afternoon gluing some bits of tinfoil on a sheet of paper. And all the nonsense the critics write about it. But then I’m old, what do I know?’

Ayşe didn’t reply. İkmen was always a bit tetchy and had been particularly agitated for the past few months. She wasn’t sure why although there were rumours. His already bulging apartment – five of the nine İkmen children still lived at home – had recently swelled to accommodate another relative. And then there was the ‘problem’ of his daughter Hulya, who was in love with a young Jewish boy. Although İkmen himself didn’t care for or practise his religion, his wife was, apparently, a devout Muslim and both she and the boy’s father, an old colleague of both Ayşe and her boss, opposed the relationship. All that on top of the job had to be stressful.

‘Well, let’s get over there,’ İkmen said, opening the office door and allowing Ayşe to pass into the corridor. ‘I’d like to have a stroll around some of the streets lower down the hill while we’re there too. I know the men are doing house-to-house, but that’s intimidating,’ he smiled. ‘It’s cooling down now, let’s see if we can engage some of the locals in a little off-the-record conversation.’

They walked side by side towards the stairs.

‘I haven’t worked in Balat for some years,’ İkmen continued. ‘I was still working with Inspector Suleyman at the time. In some ways the place has changed. Fewer Jews, more migrants, not as run down.’

‘Well, the houses are very beautiful,’ Ayşe said. ‘The Akdeniz house is stunning. If I had enough money I’d buy a house in Balat and restore it.’

Although quite how, İkmen wondered, this beautiful policewoman would fit in with either the working-class locals or the eccentric artists he couldn’t imagine. But he kept these thoughts to himself as he followed Ayşe down the stairs and out to the car park.

Father Giovanni Vetra, unlike some members of the foreign clergy, liked Turkey and the Turks, and had bothered to learn their language. Based at the church of St Anthony of Padua in Beyoǧlu for the past twenty years, he delighted in both the history and vibrancy of İstanbul. He had many friends in the city, one of whom had been Rosita Keyder.

‘I don’t know exactly when Rosita came to this country,’ he said as he passed the tiny cup of espresso coffee to Çöktin. ‘I know it was in the nineteen fifties, but when . . . ?’ He shrugged.

Çöktin looked down at his cup and smiled. Turkish coffee was good but real Italian espresso, well, that was a treat. He took one glorious sip before moving to his next question.

‘Did Mrs Keyder ever talk about Argentina?’

‘Not often,’ the priest said as he leaned back into his metal patio chair and looked up at the now darkening sky. ‘By the time she met me, it was already a very long time ago. She spoke about it more in her early days here, to Father Carlo.’

‘He was your predecessor?’

‘Yes. Father Carlo knew the Keyders well – Veli, the husband, as well as Rosita. Unfortunately by the time I arrived to take over from Father Carlo, Veli was already dying. Poor Rosita has been alone now for nineteen years. There is a sister-in-law who lives in one of the Bosphorus villages, I believe, but I don’t think there’s anyone else. Rosita never had children and to my knowledge she never went back to visit any relatives she might still have had in Buenos Aires. She came to church and I visited her once a week.’

‘You never saw anyone else in her apartment when you were there?’

‘No. Why?’

Çöktin looked down at the warm terracotta-coloured floor of the courtyard before replying. ‘Look, sir, this is at present confidential—’

‘Of course.’ The priest smiled. If nothing else he had to be accustomed to confidences.

‘We found another body, aside from that of Mrs Keyder, in the apartment,’ Çöktin said. ‘That of a young man. There was no ID on the body.’

‘A young man . . .’ Father Giovanni shook his heavy Roman head. ‘No. She never mentioned, certainly not to me, any other relatives apart from her sister-in-law, who was or is single. She had a few acquaintances at church, elderly ladies. This young man couldn’t have broken in to her apartment?’

‘We don’t think so.’ Çöktin finished his coffee and placed the empty cup on the table beside him. ‘He was wearing clothes we think Mrs Keyder may have given him and we believe he was blind.’

‘Oh, how—’

‘The body has glass eyes.’

‘Oh.’

They sat in silence for a few moments after that, Çöktin, in a state of static agitation. Catholic priests, or so his boss, Mehmet Suleyman, had told him when Çöktin had spoken to him earlier, were privy to their parishioners’ innermost secrets during confession. Things said in confession were between the priest, the parishioner and God. This was, so Suleyman had said, absolute. His wife was a Catholic so he should know. But then if that were the case, perhaps Father Giovanni may know more about Rosita Keyder than he had offered so far. But how was Çöktin ever going to extract that information if it was told during confession?

‘Father Giovanni,’ he said, ‘I know this might be difficult for you, but—’

‘You want to know whether Rosita ever told me anything in confession,’ the priest smiled. Although neither handsome nor young, his face had a sort of hawkish, battered nobility that was easy to warm to. ‘No, she didn’t, Sergeant. And before you start wondering whether I’m lying to protect her, please remember that by lying I would be committing a sin. Had she told me anything pertinent in confession I would tell you that had happened. But she didn’t.’ He shrugged. ‘Rosita’s “sins” revolved around events like cursing a stubbed toe.’

‘I see.’ The priest’s statement, on the face of it, just added to the notion that nothing untoward had indeed happened in the Kuloǧlu apartment. If both Rosita Keyder and the young man died from natural causes the only problem the police would have would be one of establishing the latter’s identity. But that wasn’t criminal work and wouldn’t therefore concern Çöktin.

As if reading the young officer’s thoughts, the priest asked, ‘Do you know yet how Rosita died?’

‘No, not yet, sir,’ Çöktin replied.

‘And this man . . . ?’

‘No.’

Father Giovanni put his hand down to one of the numerous potted plants that filled the floor of the courtyard and gently stroked its leaves. ‘Let us hope that God took them naturally,’ he said softly, ‘and without pain.’

‘It would be nice to think so,’ Çöktin replied.

The priest looked up into the young officer’s face and said, ‘İnşallah, as you Turks so rightly say.’

‘Yes . . .’

‘Putting all things in the hands of the Almighty is not a bad way to live,’ Father Giovanni continued. ‘I’ve often thought how both attractive and sensible your Islamic philosophy of total submission to and reliance upon God is. You learn acceptance, which is a hedge against both greed and disappointment. The trouble with Christianity and I think with Judaism too is that we’re encouraged to believe that we can influence our own destinies, which is most dangerous. The older I get the less I believe in the freedom that desire and choice are alleged to bring. We can’t be anyone we want to be or have anything we want to have any more than we can stop ourselves from dying.’

Çöktin, who had toyed with the idea of mentioning that not every Turkish citizen was Muslim, decided against it. How did one explain the Yezidi faith to others? They were branded devil worshippers by those who knew no better, their philosophical stance on the nature of Satan, a deity they called the ‘Peacock Angel’, being entirely unique. He did, however, have to say, ‘I don’t disagree with you, sir, but I must say that I think that some Turks can be just as greedy and anxious as anyone from Western Europe.’

But Father Giovanni didn’t reply. Now looking really rather sadly at the vine-covered wall in front of him, he just finished his coffee and then sighed.

‘I must leave you now, sir,’ Çöktin said as he rose from his seat. ‘Thank you very much for your help and the delicious coffee.’

The priest looked up and then rose to his feet.

‘You’re very welcome, Sergeant. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to be of more assistance. Had I had Veli’s sister’s address . . .’

‘That won’t be difficult to find,’ Çöktin said. ‘If, as you say, she isn’t married, she must have the same name as her brother. Anyway, we’re still looking through Mrs Keyder’s things.’

‘Mmm. And there is, of course, her funeral to consider.’ Father Giovanni opened the door that led back into his house. ‘I know she would want a Catholic funeral.’

Çöktin entered the priest’s living room. ‘Yes, although we’ll have to try and contact her sister-in-law and any relatives she might still have in Argentina first. The story will hit the newspapers tomorrow. That may jog somebody’s memory. But I’ll tell our doctor to keep you informed.’

They walked through the building, past many pictures and statues of saints, to the front door.

‘It’s fortunate, under the circumstances, we don’t have any time limits on the burial of our dead,’ the priest said as he opened the door on to the street. ‘You Muslims have to be in the ground within twenty-four hours, don’t you?’

‘Yes, although in circumstances like this that isn’t always possible,’ Çöktin replied as he stepped across the threshold. ‘Thank you again, Father Giovanni, for your help and your hospitality.’ He smiled. ‘Your courtyard is delightful. It’s like being in a little corner of Italy.’

Father Giovanni laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s designed to be. I love it here but I do miss my home – if you can understand that.’

‘Yes,’ Çöktin said, ‘I understand that.’

And then he left, his mind suddenly possessed by images of his village home that he could only dimly remember. A place where everyone was Yezidi and there were no silences where the truth should be. But there wasn’t, then or now, any work, any money or any hope. Only the strange and harsh beauty of eastern Turkey and the certainty of the closeness of the Peacock Angel, the Yezidi image of the miraculously restored and benevolent Satan.

They were not an overtly unusual couple. Lots of men and women had sex in doorways and deserted courtyards after dark in this part of the city, especially Russian women – like her. Voluptuous and blonde, she was quite different from the man whose hands were on her. He was obviously local. He wasn’t, however, her usual type of customer. Tall, well groomed and very handsome, he looked like a lawyer or a doctor, someone who could afford far better than her. He curled his long arms round her back and whispered in her ear.

‘Why should I believe you, Masha? There’s no body. For all I know Vladimir could just be a figment of your imagination.’

‘But he isn’t!’ she hissed. ‘I told you, Inspector Suleyman, he was my love and now he’s gone. Killed by that animal Rostov! I want, I need justice!’

Inspector Mehmet Suleyman took his head away from her ear and stood straight and tall in front of her. There was no one about: he could afford to be a little less cautious, just for a moment.