Dirty Business (The First Acer Sansom Novel)

by Oliver Tidy

  Sansom flopped back on to the bed. He needed to formulate some sort of plan for what Smith had euphemistically referred to as the ‘operation’. The man had been right, of course. He needed to start thinking more like a military man – less heart, more head. He needed to find out when Botha would be due in Bodrum and where he would be likely to moor his yacht. Given the size and outward luxuriousness of the vessel he’d seen tied up at Botha’s Istanbul home-side quay, Sansom doubted that the man would be staying anywhere else but on it.

  The phone rang again, disturbing his train of thought. He looked at the display. Eda’s number showed. Mindful of the caller who had last used the number, he answered cautiously.

  ‘Acer?’

  ‘Eda.’ He swung his legs off the bed to sit, unable to prevent the pleasure of hearing her voice affecting his own.

  ‘I wasn’t sure it was you,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you were someone else, too.’ They shared a small laugh.

  ‘The family lawyer,’ she said, by way of explanation.

  ‘What’s happened? Where are you? Are you all right?’

  ‘Slow down,’ she said.

  Sansom heard the angry blasting of a vehicle’s horn somewhere in her background. ‘Are you driving?’

  ‘Yes. They let me go. They don’t have any evidence to detain me, for now. You were right.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Have you been home yet?’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘Don’t.’ She didn’t answer him. The sounds of a struggle filled the line. ‘Eda? Eda?’

  ‘Sorry. I needed two hands for a moment. I’ve parked.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Nowhere particular.’

  ‘Don’t go home; it’s far too dangerous for you there now. They came to kill me, maybe you too. Who knows what they will do to you if they get hold of you again?’

  ‘Where are you?’ she said, knowing that he was right.

  ‘Bodrum.’

  ‘How on earth did you get there?’

  ‘Their vehicle. After your lawyer called me with your message last night, and one of his own, I decided to drive through the night. How did you know that Botha is headed for Bodrum?’

  ‘I remembered that the dead men talked of it. They were less than pleased that they had been sent to deal with you instead of enjoying a cruise in the Aegean.’

  Mention of the dead men reminded Sansom of her ordeal of the day before. ‘After all that, how are you?’

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘You can’t go home,’ he repeated.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you have somewhere you can stay? Somewhere you would be completely safe? Somewhere they couldn’t find you?’

  ‘I can find somewhere.’

  ‘You mentioned family before.’

  She made a noise. ‘Not an option. What about you? What are you doing?’

  They discussed his position in Bodrum, the information he would need regarding Botha’s likely itinerary and details of his yacht. Sansom admitted that all he knew was the name of the vessel and a vague idea of what it looked like from his snatched glance. They both knew that he still needed her help and that she would be able to get information for him that he didn’t have a hope of finding out himself.

  ‘I’ve put you in enough danger already,’ he said. ‘I can’t ask you for anything else.’

  ‘But it would help?’ she said, thinking that it was also as much her fight now as his. She felt too that she was no longer safe where she was and she had an idea.

  ‘Yes, it would help.’

  ‘Give me an hour,’ she said. ‘I’ll go to the paper’s offices. I’ll be able to find out something there.’

  ‘Thank you. Be careful.’

  She ended the call, performed a U-turn to the obvious consternation and displeasure of motorists around her, and headed back into Istanbul.

  *

  The first thing Tallis did after checking into his hotel room and turning on the air conditioning to its full extent was to take a cold shower. At his age, level of fitness and body mass, the Istanbul climate was going to be tough.

  Since deciding to follow Sansom’s trail to Istanbul he had deliberated over what exactly he would do when he arrived. In no official capacity, he would be completely alone, devoid of all support.

  All he knew was the name of the man that Sansom had to come to Istanbul for and the pseudonym that Sansom was travelling under. An Internet search had turned up next to nothing on Botha.

  He reckoned that if he found Botha, he would find Sansom. He had settled on two possibilities for pursuing their whereabouts: the official one, the police, or the unofficial one, the press.

  The detective was pinning his hopes and his week’s leave on being able to find Sansom if he could find Botha. If Sansom was in Istanbul for Botha then he would have to spend time watching him. In Sansom’s shoes, that’s what Tallis would do. And if Tallis devoted his time to watching for people who were watching for Botha then the chances are that he would sooner or later encounter Sansom, who would not know that anyone was looking for him. It made a hazy sense to the policeman and, for the present, that was enough. And, as he reminded himself, he’d had greater breakthroughs with less going for him.

  Despite being a policeman himself, Tallis decided that he would not approach the police. Instead, he would locate the offices of one of the big newspapers in Istanbul, visit them, find someone who spoke English, and simply question them regarding Botha. If he was a high-profile dirty-businessman, he guessed that someone would have taken some interest in him at some time.

  It sounded so simple and direct to Tallis that it settled his mind. What, he asked himself, was the worst that could happen? It might cost him the price of a lunch if the press back home were anything to go by, but it wouldn’t involve all the awkward questioning that the same enquiry might bring if made at a police station. He knew how that worked well enough and his chances of getting any information, again, if his home experiences were comparable.

  *

  Sansom awoke to the ringing of his mobile on the bedside table. Eda’s voice drifted down the line, lifting his spirits instantly. ‘I have information that you’ll be very interested in,’ she said. ‘I know where he’s going and I know why.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Sansom. ‘Let me find pen and paper. I’ll call you back.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You said yourself that Istanbul isn’t safe for me right now and after yesterday I believe you. I think they’ll kill me if they find me. I’m coming to Bodrum. I’ll bring everything I’ve found with me. There’s some interesting information and some pictures of the people who work for him.’

  ‘You can’t,’ he said. ‘You’ll be in even greater danger here.’

  ‘I disagree. They won’t even know where I’ll be. I can help you again. You’re as lost there as you were here. I won’t be. I used to spend all my summers in Bodrum. Most of Istanbul does. My family still own summer houses there. Besides, whether you like it or believe it, I’m directly involved now. They came into my home, threatened my life. I have no doubt that they would have killed me along with you.’

  ‘And what about the police? They won’t allow you to leave Istanbul with two suspicious deaths linked to you.’

  ‘When I’ve left, I’ll contact them and tell them that I’m in fear for my life. I’ll tell them I’ve been threatened directly again. They’ll have to accept my absence. I’m not running from them. I’m keeping safe until this is over.’

  ‘They won’t like it.’

  ‘What is it you English say? They’ll have to hump it?’

  Another time, he would have laughed.

  *

  Dressed, refreshed, rested and hungry, Tallis decided to patronise the restaurant off the lobby of his hotel. He hoped to goodness that they had air conditioning and a menu that would suit his palate and his pocket. Having stuck his head out of the window, he didn’t
relish traipsing around in a humid Istanbul evening in search of food that wouldn’t aggravate his stomach condition. He told himself that first thing in the morning he would make enquiries into the whereabouts of likely newspaper offices with the friendly English-speaking girl on the desk.

  Tallis began to perspire immediately he left his room. He sweated in the lift from the fifth floor to the lobby. By the time he reached the hotel restaurant entrance, his shirt was stuck to his back and he was bitterly regretting wearing a jacket and tie. He flopped down gratefully into the booth that the waiter guided him to underneath a ceiling-mounted fan and gulped down the iced water provided for him.

  ‘I don’t suppose you speak English, do you?’ Tallis asked the young waiter fussing around him.

  ‘Indeed, sir. I speak very English. I go classes each weekly.’ The waiter beamed proudly down at Tallis, who returned his smile.

  ‘Good,’ said the policeman, and then in slow clear speech: ‘You look after me and I’ll look after you. OK?’ He rubbed the thumb and middle finger of his raised right hand together – a universal gesture understood immediately by the youth, judging by the way his eyes lit up.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You can start,’ continued the policeman, ‘by getting me another big jug of this iced water and turning up that fan a bit.’ He pointed upwards. ‘And then come and tell me in English what all this writing says,’ he said, pointing now at the menu.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said the waiter, scurrying off.

  Tallis loosened his tie, relaxed a little and allowed himself a self-satisfied smile. So far, so good. He sat back, taking in his surroundings and surveying the clientele. A man was sitting a short distance away with a newspaper open in front of him, holding it up as he studied a story within it in the dim lighting. Tallis’s smile faded as he saw the face of Acer Sansom staring blankly back at him.

  ***

  12

  Despite Sansom’s warnings and her own awareness of the dangers, Eda chose to risk a quick return to her apartment to collect some things. There were items that she couldn’t do without if she was to leave Istanbul for Bodrum. Despite knowing that Botha’s people would be searching for them, undoubtedly with renewed resolve, Eda managed to convince herself that they wouldn’t strike twice in the same place – not so soon, anyway, and with Botha and his entourage out of the city. She comforted herself that the door-keeper could be relied upon to notice any strange goings on and he would be sure to be more vigilant, as would everyone else in the building, after the previous day’s events. She could even ask him to accompany her up to her flat.

  In the falling dusk, she eased her car around the top of the road that led down to her apartment building. In spite of her belief regarding the lack of immediate danger to her there, she felt an ominous foreboding settle on her spirit. She crawled the length of the street. There were no remarkable vehicles parked in the road.

  Fearful of the dark underground parking area, she brought her car to a stop opposite her building’s entrance. Looking up at her own windows, her fear was compounded when she thought of what had happened there the day before – how it could have ended and what could still happen to her. Refusing to succumb to her fears, she fought back her misgivings, locked and left the car, crossed the road and entered the complex.

  From a gap in the semi-closed shutters of her kitchen window, calm hooded eyes watched her movements. The intruder held his breath as the woman scanned the building, no doubt afraid, deliberating whether to risk coming in, wondering whether she would be safe. He exhaled as she locked and left her car. His face broke into a satisfied smile as she disappeared from view beneath him. His quarry was coming. Mr Botha would be very pleased with him.

  *

  When the waiter returned to the Englishman’s table, he feared for a moment that the gentleman might be having some sort of seizure. The man, who only moments ago had been friendly and talkative, now seemed oblivious to his presence. His face had taken on a ghostly appearance and his eyes, wide and staring, were fixed on something in the distance, his mouth hung open awkwardly. The waiter wondered, fleetingly, if he shouldn’t just empty the carafe of iced water over the man’s head to revive him.

  To the youth’s great relief, however, the Englishman suddenly came to his senses. His face returned to somewhere near its previous state and he gratefully accepted a glass of the iced water that the youth offered, gulping it down so quickly that some of it escaped his mouth and ran down the front of his shirt.

  ‘That newspaper,’ said Tallis, finding his voice and pointing across the room, ‘you get for me?’

  The waiter, puzzled by this request, said, ‘You read Turkey?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Tallis. ‘You get it. You read Turkey. You tell me in English. Yes?’

  The waiter’s expression registered understanding. ‘Ahhh,’ he said. ‘Yes, yes. I read Turkey, tell all English.’ He cast a look around the dining room, which was filling up. ‘Not now, my friend. Me break nine hour. I read then, yes?’

  Tallis looked at his watch. ‘OK, OK. Nine, you tell me paper story. Now, you help me with dinner food, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the waiter, once more beaming at the thought of the tip that this eccentric gentleman might be willing to give him. How he loved the English.

  *

  As she entered her apartment building’s foyer, Eda’s legs weakened a little. She appreciated that some sort of post-traumatic-shock association was at work and she forced herself to rise above it. She was stronger than that; she was her father’s daughter. Her finger hovered over the lift button for a moment before she withdrew it. Instead, she went to the ground-floor flat of the door-keeper and knocked. She waited a few seconds before knocking again, harder. Nothing. At this time of day she would expect him and his wife to be home.

  After a moment’s deliberation, she took the lift to her floor. Taking a deep breath, she unlocked her door and strode in, forcing herself to demonstrate a confidence that she didn’t completely feel.

  Immediately, she knew something was wrong. It was too cold. The air conditioning had been on. Had the door-keeper simply left it on after he had cleaned up? She listened for the subtle humming of the machine, but there was none. The air conditioner thermostat was broken. It couldn’t turn itself off. It had to be manually operated.

  Eda then became faintly aware of the scent of an unwashed body – the fetid, unpleasant smell of body odour. She froze as her mind screamed ‘run.’

  From the kitchen stepped a man with a pistol extended in front of him. He looked Turkish and, despite the temperature of the apartment, she could see that he was sweating. Eda thought she had seen him somewhere before.

  The man signalled her with a flick of the gun to come in further. She walked unsteadily towards him so that he had to retreat a little to let her pass.

  He spoke in their shared mother-tongue. ‘Into the living room.’

  With the sound of his voice, she remembered where she knew him from. She turned to face him, empowered by her outrage and by the realisation of his deception. ‘You’re a policeman. You were here yesterday. What the hell are you doing in my flat?’

  An unpleasant grin spread across his face. ‘I’m here to find out what yesterday’s fools were sent here for,’ he said. ‘Where is he?’

  She glowered at him.

  With his free hand the man removed a knife from his pocket. The light caught the polished steel as the blade shot out. Eda felt her remaining energy begin to flow out of her body. ‘You will tell me,’ said the policeman. ‘How much it hurts is up to you.’ He took a step towards her. She found the strength to back away on legs that wavered almost uncontrollably. The man’s grin seemed to widen in step with her increased terror. As he approached her, he allowed himself a glimpse, in his mind’s eye, of the gratitude that Mr Botha would show for this work, the money he could make here.

  A coffee table now separated them. He put his boot on it and shoved it across the polished floor, feinted le
ft and advanced right to trap her in the corner of the room. He slipped the gun into his pocket and took the knife in his favoured hand. ‘This is the last time that I will ask you without violence – where is he?’

  A barely-audible scuff of shoe on flooring caused the policeman to turn just as the door-keeper brought down a small spade with all the force that his frail old body could muster. The blow struck the man’s shoulder. Although younger and stronger, he buckled, dropping the knife. Eda seized the closest thing to her – a three-foot-long solid wooden candlestick – and, before the policeman could recover his balance, dealt him a blow to the back of his head that sent him sprawling on to the floor, unconscious. Before the door-keeper could reach her, she had swung and landed two more fierce blows to the prostrate body in an outpouring of her fear and anger.

  The door-keeper managed to get himself between Eda and the figure that lay bleeding and inert – possibly already dead – the third in two days. She dropped the candlestick and threw her arms around her saviour as the horror of what had just happened and what could have happened heaved out of her in hysterical sobs.

  Unable to deal with the situation alone, he settled Eda and went for his wife. Between them they calmed her and brought her back to something like her normal self. All the while the body of the policeman lay dead or unconscious – none of them cared much which – on the floor of the adjacent room. Their priority was Eda.

  Now Eda didn’t need to lie to the police about her reasons for fleeing Istanbul. Her life had been threatened, and by one of their own. That was justification enough. Clearly, she was no longer safe there.

  Once she had regained enough of her self-control, she packed a bag with what she had returned for. She then telephoned her lawyer and explained exactly what had happened and insisted that he should come immediately to her apartment where she was waiting for him. She spoke earnestly with the door-keeper and his wife, asking them to wait until the lawyer arrived before they called the emergency services. Finally, after once again embracing the man for saving her life, she took her bag and left.