On the Bone

by Barbara Nadel

  ‘She’s—’

  ‘Mr Vural, do you intend to go back to this lady or—’

  ‘As soon as I’m free, I’ll marry Nazdar, as if it’s your business,’ Vural said.

  Selma began to cry again.

  Vural looked at her with disgust. ‘So as you can see,’ he said to Kerim, ‘this is a domestic issue. I’m safe and well and there’s no need for further police involvement.’

  He was right. Now it was between Celal and Selma, however distasteful that might be. Vural was clearly the sort of man who was short on conscience, but then maybe his life of poverty had finally ground him down to a place where any chance of escape had to be taken. It was still a vile thing to do to his wife and children.

  ‘You know you will have to provide for your dependent children,’ Kerim said.

  ‘When I marry Nazdar, I’ll take them with me.’

  It was then that the slight figure of Selma Vural attacked her husband with her nails.

  Kerim Gürsel considered letting her tear him to pieces – he deserved it – but he also knew that a nasty piece of work like Celal would use such an act against her. He pulled her off and said, ‘Don’t let him goad you. Please!’

  Celal, laughing, went back inside the apartment to be with his children. Kerim heard him say, ‘Yes, Mama went mad, didn’t she?’

  Selma looked up into his eyes and then began crying again. Kerim Gürsel took a card out of his pocket and pressed it into her hand.

  ‘Here are my numbers,’ he said. ‘Contact me. If there’s anything I can do …’

  ‘There isn’t.’

  She pulled away from him. Inside the apartment, the children began to cry. Their father raised his voice.

  ‘If he lays a hand on any of you, call me,’ Kerim said.

  She looked down at the ground, a hopeless expression on her face.

  ‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘He has betrayed and impoverished you. He deserves to suffer for that, hanım. He is in the wrong, not you.’

  It was so hot, smoking outside was impossible unless it was in the shade. Cetin İkmen and Mehmet Süleyman stood underneath the porch over the kitchen door. Noises of both the search and discontent because of it came from inside the Art House. But the two men were fixated on what was happening in the garden.

  ‘The most likely scenario is the official version,’ Süleyman said. ‘We have to accept that.’

  ‘I do,’ İkmen said. ‘But what I also accept is that every ISIS death is a propaganda tool.’

  ‘But the imam has spoken to his other son in Syria, and he says his brother died in battle. Why would he lie? Burak Ayan didn’t like these people any more than his brother did. Surely if they killed him he would want them punished?’

  İkmen shrugged. ‘I see that,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think that what Burak Ayan says can necessarily be relied upon. This war against ISIS – and if we’re serious about it, it will have to become a war – is one of smoke and mirrors, on their part.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean they are not what they seem.’

  ‘I think we know that.’

  ‘Do we?’ İkmen said. ‘If we put aside the money this group makes from its donors, from the sale of archaeological artefacts, oil, gas and, some say, illegal drugs, what do we have? A relatively small group of mainly young men and women, many of them from the West, who have been groomed. This is religion with extras. I wish I’d thought of it.’

  ‘Cetin!’

  He laughed. ‘Joke. Did you never hear that quote from the founder of Scientology, L. Ron Hubbard, about how the quickest way to get rich is to invent your own religion?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He said it, trust me,’ İkmen said. ‘Older men are the real forces behind ISIS. You’ve seen that picture of Burak Ayan. For a tiny lad like that, what’s not to like about people who will make you a man? And now we know that he probably has Bloom syndrome …’

  ‘But it’s his brother we’re looking for, and he was apparently normal.’

  ‘Ah well, let us see,’ İkmen said.

  ‘I need to go to the café. I need coffee.’

  The voice came from inside the kitchen. İkmen turned. Uğur İnan was marching away from him.

  ‘Ah, Mr İnan …’

  He stopped.

  ‘I’m sorry, but you can’t leave these premises,’ İkmen said. ‘Not until the search is complete.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘No,’ İkmen said. ‘No exceptions. If you need liquid for rehydration purposes, then I’ll send one of my men out to buy water. But you’ve got water here.’

  İnan looked at him for a moment and then walked away.

  When he’d gone, Süleyman said, ‘I must say, the work they’ve done out here has intrigued me. We Turks love our gardens, but we’re not exactly gardeners, are we?’

  İkmen smiled. Every plant he’d ever owned had died within a month. That was Fatma’s area.

  ‘I thought it had to do with being environmental and green and all that,’ Süleyman said. Then he frowned. ‘Cetin, what do you think you might find here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ İkmen said. ‘But I’m sure I’ll find something. Getting that phone call from London will help, I feel.’

  Chapter 28

  Was it raining, or was it just in his head? Boris Myskow looked out of the aircraft window and saw grey tarmac and early evening sunshine. OK, so summer had to be possible even in the British capital. Not that it was relevant. He didn’t have time to leave Heathrow Airport before his flight to the Big Apple. But it didn’t matter. Now that he’d left Turkey, he was cool.

  When the aircraft came to a halt, he got up and took his bag out of the overhead locker. He was only transiting so there’d be time for a drink. Boris felt quite buoyed up. Leaving Istanbul had been totally the right thing to do. Sometimes you just had to cut your losses, especially when things got too complicated. There was always a certain amount of schmoozing that had to be done when one was working in a new territory, but Turkey had been ridiculous. He’d never really got those men he’d been advised to pander to. OK, they’d made sure he’d made money by getting all their friends into the hotel, but there’d also been a political dimension he’d never understood. And the pork thing had just been insane …

  Boris thanked the British crew, who smiled indulgently as he deplaned. He put his bag on his shoulder and began to walk up the ramp and into the airport. But then a hand stopped him.

  ‘Mr Myskow?’

  The voice was British, its owner a large man holding something up for him to see.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Police,’ the man said.

  Boris’s good humour evaporated.

  She’d sat out there – with Barış. Birgül İnan put a hand up to her mouth and shook her head. Her husband, İsmet, tiptoed away from their sleeping baby and joined her at the window.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.

  ‘They’ve found something,’ Birgül said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know, but look, they’ve put one of those tents up.’

  İsmet peered down into the darkening garden. ‘One of those tents?’

  ‘That the police use to cover dead bodies,’ she said.

  ‘Dead bodies? Why would there be a dead body in our garden?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Birgül said. ‘But there was a lot of shouting earlier. That’s what made me come over to the window. Those two detectives ordered that tent erected and then they went inside and spoke to your father.’

  ‘Did you hear what they said?’

  ‘No. Your dad came upstairs and I heard him go to his room.’

  İkmen ended the call and put his phone back in his pocket. Sitting across the Art House’s kitchen table from Mehmet Süleyman, he said, ‘The Metropolitan Police will hold Myskow in custody overnight and then put him on a plane back here in the morning.’ He shook his head. ‘One piece of positive news, I suppose.’

&n
bsp; Süleyman put his cigarette out. ‘What was she doing here?’ he said. ‘There’s no way this was on her route from the hotel back to her apartment.’

  ‘Unless she was brought here.’

  In spite of having been buried deep underneath the Art House’s garden, the body of Constable Halide Can had not degraded to the extent that she couldn’t be recognised. Luckily for the police, the probable cause of Can’s death had not involved her face. It was the back of her skull that was smashed to a soil-drenched pulpy mess.

  ‘Do you think the untouchable Boris Myskow killed her?’ Süleyman said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he found out she was a police officer? He has tried to run …’

  ‘Why would he be frightened of a police constable with the spooks in his corner?’ İkmen said. ‘No, this is either a lot more complicated than it looks or very much simpler. And at the moment, to me, it looks like the latter.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You saw the back of Can’s head,’ İkmen said. ‘That’s either the work of a lunatic, someone in the grip of terror or the result of something really heavy falling on her head.’

  ‘If it had been an accident, it would have been reported …’

  ‘Which leaves us with a lunatic or a very frightened person.’

  ‘Myskow?’

  ‘Maybe,’ İkmen said. ‘But we can start interviewing everyone in the house now.’

  ‘Except for Bülent Onay.’

  ‘Yes,’ İkmen said.

  Ömer Mungun came into the kitchen and placed a large holdall on the table. He looked exhausted.

  Süleyman said, ‘Give you a bad time?’

  Ömer sat down. ‘Makes me wonder whether other nationalities are so wedded to their phones.’

  ‘Ah, the romance between the Turk and his mobile phone!’ İkmen smiled. ‘Our technicians will have a busy time with that lot. How’s the mood, Sergeant?’

  ‘Subdued. They know we’ve found something, but if Uğur İnan has told anyone else, he or she is keeping it quiet. The guy with all the tattoos is a bit wired.’

  İkmen looked down at his list of residents. ‘Ziya Yetkin. Friend of Bülent Onay. Does he know where Onay has gone?’

  ‘He says not,’ Ömer said.

  ‘Then we’ll need to speak to him more formally. According to Uğur İnan, Onay came back here briefly last night. Except we know he didn’t, because Kerim was watching the house all night. Be interesting to see what his room-mate can tell us about that.’

  ‘Sir,’ Ömer said. ‘About Constable Can …’

  ‘You must all be upset,’ İkmen said. ‘I know I am. Losing a colleague is one of the worst things we have to experience in this job. Sadly, it comes to almost all of us at one time or another.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But if it’s any consolation, Commissioner Teker herself has taken on the awful task of informing Can’s family.’

  ‘Is Dr Sarkissian …?’

  ‘Yes, he arrived about fifteen minutes ago,’ İkmen said.

  When Ömer had gone, Süleyman said, ‘Cetin, I do hope you don’t blame yourself.’

  ‘What do you think?’ He lit a cigarette.

  ‘You shouldn’t,’ Süleyman said. ‘You sent Can in there, at Teker’s suggestion, as a way of investigating a missing person case without treading on the security service’s toes. It made perfect sense.’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘It did.’

  İkmen said nothing. Süleyman knew there was nothing he could or would say that would make him feel any better. Then İkmen laughed.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘What’s funny, Mehmet, is that the missing person I sent Can to the Imperial Oriental to track down has not only reappeared but has turned out to be a complete bastard.’

  Süleyman shook his head. He’d heard Kerim Gürsel’s account of his doorstep interview with Celal Vural. ‘But he’s a win, Cetin,’ he said.

  ‘Crime statistics.’

  ‘We’ve found Vural and Volkan Doğan …’

  ‘And our own Halide,’ İkmen said. ‘But we haven’t found Mustafa Ayan, have we, Mehmet?’

  ‘No. If indeed Mustafa Ayan is here in Turkey for us to find.’

  İkmen nodded.

  Ali, the photographer, was almost as hot and sweaty as Arto Sarkissian. Why, the doctor wondered, were these tents so small?

  Halide Can had met her end by sustaining repeated blows to the back of her head. Exactly what the murder weapon was had yet to be determined, and so the next stage in his investigation had to be removal of the body to the laboratory. He’d phoned Cetin İkmen to obtain permission to remove the corpse. He didn’t need to see her again and he had enough on his hands with the residents of the Art House, who all had to be under suspicion.

  It nevertheless struck the doctor as odd that any of the socially conscious people in the squat should do anything violent. Once Ali had finished photographing the scene, he called his orderlies in to lift the corpse and place it in a body bag. They were good lads who worked well together and were always respectful, but he still felt the need to supervise. He always did.

  The two boys came in and put the bag down on the ground.

  The doctor said, ‘I’d like to retain the soil on the body. Just take her as she is.’

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  Poor Halide Can was covered in earth and many of the creatures that lived in it. She’d not been placed, but dumped. Chucked into a hole, her legs wide apart in a way that had upset Cetin İkmen. It didn’t please the doctor. Did her open legs signify sexual assault?

  The boys lifted her out and put her in the body bag in one smooth movement. They didn’t need supervision. Arto watched them take her out of the tent. Forensic investigators would follow. He put his instruments and his paperwork back in his briefcase and prepared to leave.

  But, as was customary for him, he took one last look at the crime scene. Of course forensics would have found what he saw as soon as he had gone, but Arto was glad that he managed to see what had been underneath Halide Can’s body with his own eyes. Otherwise he might not have believed it.

  They were all being taken to police headquarters. Even his son, his daughter-in-law and his grandson. Uğur İnan looked at Deniz Baydar but said nothing. What was there to say? The old soldier had come to his room so they could talk, but neither of them had said a word.

  To Uğur, Baydar looked stoic and calm. He probably wasn’t inside. But Uğur also acknowledged that at least the old man didn’t look like him. Because he both looked and felt mad.

  The police had found her. When İkmen had called him out to the garden, it had been the first time that Uğur had seen her. What a mess!

  Now this wait. He’d watched all sorts of people arrive and go inside that tent they’d erected over her. But now she was gone, which meant that it was all about to get an awful lot worse.

  He was watching İkmen go back inside that tent again when there was a knock on his door. A voice said, ‘Mr İnan, can you come downstairs, please?’

  Baydar looked at him as he rose to his feet. Uğur knew that there was nothing in the old soldier’s expression that said ‘do this’. He knew that what he did next was entirely up to him. He couldn’t face İsmet. It was impossible.

  Uğur İnan walked over to his door, turned and then began to run.

  Cetin İkmen said, ‘What is it?’

  Arto Sarkissian shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  İkmen peered down at the place where Halide Can’s body had been.

  ‘Flesh?’

  ‘I think so,’ the doctor said. There wasn’t a lot that could make him feel squeamish, but the sight of what appeared to be a pile of rotting meat had turned his stomach. The stench was appalling.

  ‘Get the boys back in here with a bag and we’ll have it analysed,’ İkmen said.

  Arto was about to call his orderlies back in when the ground moved slightly underneath his feet. ‘Oh God,’ he said, ‘n
ot now.’

  Istanbul had been waiting for its next big earthquake since the last one in 1999. Both İkmen and the doctor had lived through several quakes over the years, of varying degrees of strength. But now this one, if it was an earthquake, seemed to have stopped.

  Then he heard someone yell.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake!’

  He pulled the tent flap to one side and saw one of his uniformed officers running across the garden.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said.

  But the officer didn’t answer.

  İkmen couldn’t afterwards recall whether he saw the body on the ground first or whether he heard the voice. But from the window of Uğur İnan’s room he distinctly remembered Deniz Baydar saying, ‘What a ridiculously excessive thing to do!’

  He had finally left her. And what timing! How was she supposed to organise Volkan’s funeral all on her own?

  Nothing had been done. Nothing!

  Defne Baydar walked in circles. She didn’t even know any imams. What was she supposed to do? The whole thing was ridiculous. Volkan had never had any notion of a god.

  She sat down. They’d always had an arrangement, herself and Deniz. He did what he wanted and she never asked questions. He never bothered her for sex, which was something she was grateful for, but to actually leave …

  That had never been part of their domestic arrangement. But ever since he’d started going to that awful squat, he’d been even less in evidence than before. Prison had driven him mad. And when he’d come out, he’d easily found an audience for the ideas that had been festering in his mind for years. All sorts were dissatisfied with the status quo. Not all of them were entirely savoury. But Deniz Bey had never cared much who listened to him, as long as someone did. He’d always loved the sound of his own voice.

  Defne stood up again. All the men she knew were his friends, so she couldn’t call any of them. And anyway, they’d be useless. They’d just reassure her that Deniz Bey would be back soon and that everything would be all right. They were good at fairy tales.

  İsmet İnan wept. The police doctor had thought he’d detected signs of life, but he hadn’t. Uğur İnan was dead. That stupid old soldier, Deniz Bey, was protesting his innocence to İkmen.