An Oriental Murder

by Jane Bastin

  “Good work, Sergeant.”

  Suleymaniye Mosque, the greatest architectural feat of the Ottoman world, Sinan’s mother had cried when she first came to Istanbul. Its minarets circled the many domes of the mosque and she thought she had never seen anything so beautiful. Whenever Sinan made the journey home, she always insisted on seeing a picture of her beloved mosque so that she knew it was still there and not destroyed to make way for yet another shopping centre. Sinan removed his shoes and stepped inside. The coolness hit him and he felt his irritation slip away. Although not religious at all, there was a stillness that Sinan envied in the mosques of Istanbul. Tiredness, the speed of his thoughts and the acrid taste of car exhaust at the back of his throat eased whenever he stepped inside. Perhaps it was the calming blue of the Iznik tiles that adorned most of the walls, he thought. Built in the sixteenth century at the behest of Sultan Suleyman the Magnificent, Sinan felt a surge of pride in his namesake, the architect Sinan, who had designed so many of the impressive buildings in the city.

  The imam had just returned from a long overdue sleep, he insisted. Waking before dawn to lead morning prayers had to be rewarded with additional sleep during the day, he said self-consciously. A small man of about forty with an unkempt, prematurely greying beard and beetle-like eyes, he became hostile as soon as Sinan introduced himself as a police officer. Something to hide, Sinan thought, but left it to rest.

  “At about 10 a.m. where were you, sir?”

  “Why?”

  “We have reason to believe that someone who has been murdered met someone at this mosque. We would naturally like to speak to him.”

  The Imam blanched and stumbled. Sinan caught him by the elbow.

  “Are you okay, sir?”

  “Fine, fine. It’s just that many people come and go from here but you know it would be impossible to tell you who was here at 10 a.m. How would I know?”

  Sinan said nothing. The imam fidgeted on his feet, locked and unlocked his fingers.

  “Do you know Teoman Mutlu?” The imam eventually blurted out in a hushed voice.

  “The name rings a bell,” Sinan offered, unsure but ready to encourage the imam’s confidence.

  “Teoman Mutlu, no good. Bad news. Worked for the secret police and your lot, you know when you had torture rooms.”

  “Torture rooms?” Sinan ground his teeth.

  “Small, wiry man, not much hair, looks like a rat. He is well known around here, in fact he lives in that wooden house over there, just behind the mosque. You can’t miss it, it’s falling down.” The imam stopped to laugh before continuing. “The torture rooms over at Sisli Police Station. Don’t tell me you don’t know of them. If we know of them, then you as a police officer, for your sins, should know of them. Well, Teoman is pretty well known as an expert in torture in this area. Upside down hangings, beating on the soles of the feet – that’s what he did to me. I know it’s not in the name of compassion but I have banned him from the mosque. The cheek. He tried to join evening prayers and I had to have him removed. Lives with his mother. Go and ask.”

  The imam turned quickly and left the mosque, whipping dust from the tail of his cloak.

  Sinan held the mobile close to his ear, conscious that reception was not easy in many parts of the city. “Sergeant Mehmet, get some info for me on a Teoman Mutlu. Used to work up at Sisli when Chief Inspector Mustafa Cenk ran the place, you remember, like a para-military squadron.”

  Sinan strolled across from the mosque to a house that looked as though children had built it from matchsticks. Slanted window sills and a lopsided door like a drunk man’s grin. Sinan saw the twitching of a curtain in the downstairs window. At least someone was at home. Although the wood of the door was almost rotten, the lion-shaped door knocker had been polished to the point of brilliance and Sinan lifted it carefully. He wasn’t sure if the sounds he heard were coming from within the house or outside as a group of old women with loose flowing scarves and billowing trousers emerged on the surrounding doorsteps. Cracking sunflower seeds in the sides of their mouths and screeching at each other, they kept a surreptitious eye on Sinan. Their chatting ceased suddenly when the door creaked open. The darkness of the interior struck Sinan and he strained to make out the shape of the person in front of him. It took a few seconds of silence and confusion on both sides of the doorway before each identified the other.

  “Teoman Mutlu?” Sinan’s brain slowed down as he registered every element of the small, bony man in front of him. A sharp nose that seemed to emerge directly from his forehead, small round eyes that darted fitfully and a lipless, puppet-like mouth. Dressed in pyjama bottoms and an off-white string vest, Sinan reckoned that he was probably not working or had worked earlier and was now resting. The man’s outstretched arm, holding the door, was thin with a small yet prominent bulge of muscle. Sinan knew from experience that those who looked physically underdeveloped could often be the most dangerous fighters: scrappers who attack at every angle. As he turned his arm, he saw the tattoos: Asena, the wolf of Turkic mythology beloved by right wing nationalists. Further along his upper arm, Sinan saw the initials of an outlawed nationalist group.

  “Yes.” The man agreed that his name was Teoman Mutlu and moved to close the door. The women on the doorsteps resumed the cracking of their sunflower seeds. But, Sinan placed his foot in the crack of the door.

  “Sir, Inspector Sinan Kaya of Istanbul Police. I would like to ask you a few questions if I may.”

  “I’m busy.”

  Teoman Mutlu’s voice was remarkably deep for such a slightly built man.

  “Who is it, Teo?”

  An old woman emerged from the darkness. Her face a map of lines, prematurely etched by poverty and cold, thought Sinan. Wrapping her scarf tightly around her head, she peered around the doorway and shouted on to the street.

  “Ayse, Sinem, Ebru and the rest of you, haven’t you got anything else to do than poke your nose into other people’s business?”

  Sinan turned to watch the women’s reactions but they continued as though nothing had been spoken.

  “Teoman Mutlu, may I come in or would you prefer to answer my questions down at the police station?”

  “Police station? What? What have you done now, Teo?” Slapping her hand firmly around his small head, Teoman’s mother screamed.

  “Sir, where were you between the hours of ten and twelve this morning?” Sensing the escalation of a family drama, Sinan posed his first question quickly. But instead of considering his response, Teoman Mutlu resorted to the primitive response of flight. Being small gave him an advantage. Twirling on the balls of his feet, kicking off his ill-fitting rubber slippers, he dodged his mother’s waving arms and shot through to the back of the house.

  Sinan was not often caught unawares, although it probably happened more than he accepted. One minute, Teoman Mutlu was standing in front of him about to answer a standard question, the next, he had disappeared in a flash of vest and pyjama bottoms to the back of the house. Pushing past his remonstrating mother, Sinan dashed along the narrow hallway, tripping on boxes and cupboards spewing toys and clothes. Through to the kitchen, the back door was hanging on a hinge, wide open. There was no garden, just a back alleyway littered with plastic bottles. Sinan stopped, briefly aware that every second was one that gave Teoman Mutlu an advantage. Which way? To the right, Sinan could see the main road that led back to the mosque. To the left was the tramway. Slowing his thoughts down so that everything appeared in slow motion, Sinan glimpsed Teoman’s scrawny body. He turned right. He ran across the road. A car nipped his elbow and let loose a long beep. Where was he now? The women on the doorsteps, pointed to the side door of the mosque. There was a slight swing. And then silence. Where?

  Suleymaniye Mosque was enormous and Sinan knew little about the building other than the entrance. Sinan had a vague memory of his father taking him once to the village mosque and then never again. His mother prayed at home and that was his only experience of religion as a child.
Thus, he had little idea of the layout of the mosque. A sudden clatter. Sinan flicked his head up. A flash of skin and then nothing other than the faint sound of footsteps. Sinan ran to the side. Nothing. A wall of Iznik tiles, cold to the touch. Sinan ran towards the doorway.

  “I told you I didn’t want that man in my mosque.” The imam’s voice sounded from above. Leaning over the pulpit, Koran held high in his hand, the imam glared.

  “I didn’t bring him in here. Which way did he go?”

  The imam paused, flicking pointedly through the Koran.

  “We are about to call for prayer. I need him out.”

  Silently, the imam pointed to a small door to the side of the main doorway.

  Only mosques built for sultans could have four minarets, Sinan remembered from his school days. He was now walking up a spiral stairway to one of them. The muscles in his thighs began to ache. This might be for nothing, he thought irritatedly. Four minarets, Teoman Mutlu could have taken any one of them. Bending his head and back for so long, twisting his legs as every step turned like a helter-skelter, Sinan emerged onto the small balcony blinking and stooped. He took a second to take in the bird’s eye view of Istanbul before a heavy weight broke across his skull.

  Teoman Mutlu’s footsteps descending the stairway echoed. Blocking the pain, Sinan leapt down the steps, tripping on the sharp corners.

  “Teoman Mutlu, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder, you will not escape,” Sinan shouted.

  The call for prayer, he remembered when he collided with the muezzin. Like a garden gnome, small and bearded, the muezzin calmly pointed down a few steps to the crumpled body of Teoman Mutlu.

  Teoman Mutlu sat, sullen in the interrogation room. Sinan and Sergeant Mehmet sat at the opposite side of the table. Three police officers flanked the doorway. Inspector Haris was in a long meeting with the Chief Inspector and ministers from Ankara, and as yet unaware. Sinan remembered he had met another police officer recently who had worked at the Sisli torture rooms. Ahmet Sari at the Pera Palas Hotel.

  Chapter Seven

  You may proclaim that one must live

  not as a tool, a number or a link

  but as a human being.

  Sinan was tired and irritable. A police officer brought him a large glass of tea and a glass of water for Sergeant Mehmet. Teoman Mutlu stared at the table that divided them. He was used to being on the other side. He knew the word-trickery used to get people to divulge secrets before they were aware of what they were saying. And he knew with a frisson of excitement what happened if you didn’t. But, that was a few years ago. The torture work had mostly dried up now that the government was set on transparency and fairness. Teoman snorted at the thought and Sinan looked up from his tea.

  “Something amusing you?”

  Teoman said nothing.

  “Married, Teoman?”

  Sinan’s question was not what Sergeant Mehmet was expecting. Water stuck in his throat causing him to cough. Teoman slumped forward.

  “No.”

  “Not married? You’re old enough, though aren’t you? Fifty-two?”

  “You look old enough to be married too, are you?”

  Sinan was unmoved by Teoman Mutlu’s reply.

  “You prefer men, don’t you?”

  Sergeant Mehmet stopped making notes, confused as to where Sinan was leading the interrogation. This often happened. Silence ensued during which Sinan slurped his hot, sugary tea and stretched his legs. Every so often cramp seized both of his calves and he leant down to massage the tautness until it eased. Climbing a minaret had not been an experience he planned to repeat.

  “Yes.”

  Sergeant Mehmet looked up, sucked the stump of his pen and noted what Teoman Mutlu said.

  “So, you are a regular visitor to the Barbaros meyhane?”

  Teoman Mutlu said nothing.

  “Is this where you met these civil servants? Or should I start at the beginning? You would meet them there first then later lure them to their deaths by messaging them through Mindr?”

  Teoman Mutlu sliced both hands through the air. Spittle formed in the corner of his mouth. His small round eyes became larger.

  “You talked of three murders. Three high ranking civil servants from Ankara. You have even thrown in the murder of the Prime Minister for good measure. I will give you one easy win, Inspector Sinan.”

  Teoman Mutlu sat back, the gloomy adolescent had disappeared. In its place sat a confident man, back now straight, head projected forward and a smile.

  “Go ahead.” Sinan sipped his tea waiting for yet another stalling. He needed to get something before Inspector Haris got wind that he had him in the interrogation room. He knew that his time was finite; that as soon as his meeting with the ministers finished, he would be told and Sinan would be ordered to stop the interrogation. The stakes were high and he could feel the cramp eat into his left calf.

  “I murdered the first one but not the other two you are trying to pin on me. And certainly not the Prime Minister. What do you take me for? I love my country.”

  Teoman stretched his arm out to show them the tattoo of Asena, the mythic wolf of the Turks. Sinan looked at the clock on the wall behind Teoman Mutlu.

  “Okay, so let’s go with the fact that you killed only one. Tell us how and why. I know that you worked for the police a few years ago in the so called ‘interrogation unit’ over at Sisli. Thankfully it has since closed. Was the murder linked to this?”

  Teoman plaited his fingers together and leant onto the table.

  “I am very proud of my work at Sisli. You cannot treat scum, your enemies, people who want to do your country harm, with kid gloves. They deserve to suffer. It helps us to stop the mass suffering of others. Understand?”

  Teoman ground the knuckle of his forefinger into the side of his head to reinforce his point.

  “How did you manage to get Irfan bey to meet you?” Sinan sat back, and tipped the last of his tea into his mouth.

  Teoman’s new found confidence vanished for a few seconds. Sergeant Mehmet looked up from his notepad. Chatter from the corridor broke the silence. Turkey, Istanbul in particular, had become more accepting of the diversity of ways in which people chose to live their lives, thought Sinan. But Teoman’s corner of Istanbul was still rooted in the Anatolian villages that many had recently arrived from. He was reluctant to speak. Sinan knew this world. Life in his mother’s mountain village had been, and still was, vastly different. People’s sexuality was never discussed. Living so close to the land, dependent on the climate for your survival had made his mother and others hardier than the urbanites of Istanbul where time and money allowed for philosophical deliberations on the complexities of life. There were no such luxuries on the mountain. Mad Mustafa, the goatherd was… simply mad… ate berries, sang with the birds and talked to himself. Whereas in Istanbul, madness might be treated as a symptom of the maelstrom of repressed experiences. Teoman, thought Sinan, was at once part of the teeming, churning, changing face of liberal Istanbul and yet also caught in the old village mentality of his impoverished neighbourhood where everyone knew more than anyone else about his business. Homosexuality in a neighbourhood opposite the Suleymaniye Mosque would not sit easily. Beyond, in Kumkapi with the giddiness of the meyhanes and in Taksim where gender was more fluid, he could live more easily with his sexuality. Sinan tapped the table firmly.

  “Come on. I’ll help you, shall I?”

  Teoman opened his mouth to remonstrate but Sinan held up his hand. It had been a rhetorical question.

  “You found out about his sexual proclivities or at least someone gave you this information. You contacted him directly on Mindr, met up at the Barbaros meyhane and then suggested a nightcap at the Flower Passage. En route, you had an argument, stabbed him and positioned him against the wall.”

  Teoman opened his mouth and closed it again.

  “Correct?’ Sinan asked.

  “Correct.”

  “So, when did you tattoo the wor
d Barbaros on his testicles and why?”

  Teoman shuffled animatedly in his chair.

  “Can I have some water? I did not tattoo him. I have no idea how that happened. Look, I’m petrified of needles.”

  “You? Petrified of needles? A seasoned torturer?”

  “Good point!” grinned Teoman, opening his mouth wide to reveal bare gums. “But, I did not do that. Someone must have followed me and done that later.”

  “And why would they have done that?”

  Teoman shrugged his shoulders and gulped from the glass of water that Sinan’s secretary, Ruhi proffered.

  “Planning to frame me for more murders that they had planned. Look, he was interesting for a while but he was too needy and I …disposed of him.”

  Sergeant Mehmet scraped his chair back. Sinan asked Ruhi for more tea and chewed on the inside of his gum.

  Pulling a sheet of paper from inside a brown file, Sinan placed his finger over a small photograph.

  “Recognise this man?”

  Teoman peered down.

  “Yes. Rick McFarlane. We used to call him ‘Tricky Ricky’. Worked at the US Embassy in Ankara for years. Why? You think he’s the killer?” Teoman laughed, holding on to the ribs that protruded through his vest.

  “In what capacity did you know him?”

  Teoman stared at Sinan before letting loose a long, shrill whistle.

  “He’s not gay, you know. Married. I remember his first wife. Tall Texan woman. Only met her once when I went to see Rick at a bar.”

  “And why did you meet up with Rick? You worked for the Police at the time, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but a little contract work here and there. You know, I have a mother, a sister and her child to support. Extra money always goes a long way.”