‘In view of what you’ve found on these machines, I may get some of the younger officers into these Goth places,’ Süleyman said. ‘See if anyone can remember a Gülay Arat or a Cem Ataman.’
‘Gülay hadn’t been involved for some months,’ Çöktin said, ‘and, dark as he was, we’ve no evidence that Cem Ataman was actually part of the Goth scene.’
‘That’s true,’ Süleyman agreed, ‘but I feel it’s worth checking. I’m going to ring that friend of Gülay’s her brother told us about today too. You know, the one she fell out with.’
‘Sırma . . .’
‘That’s it.’
İkmen, his mind still relentlessly upon the arcane, said, ‘There is another connection here too.’ And then he told his colleagues about what he had seen at the Church of the Panaghia and Max’s partial explanation of it.
‘Thirteen penises!’
‘Max says that strictly there should only be, at the most, two,’ İkmen said.
‘I’ve never heard anything sexual about Mendes,’ Çöktin said. ‘As I said before, we don’t even know what sex Mendes might be.’
‘And yet you know people who have made contact with this entity?’
‘Yes,’ Çöktin looked down again, ‘but it’s a bit like, do you remember that American series on TV some years ago, The A-Team?’
‘Yes,’ Süleyman replied, ‘what of it?’
‘Well, sir, they used to say on that that if you had a problem that no one else could help you with and if you could find them you could hire the A-Team.’ He smiled. ‘It’s exactly like that with Mendes. He isn’t good, he isn’t bad, but he is invisible.’
‘But you know people—’
‘Mendes, sir, can only be a legend if he retains his anonymity. Working for us could threaten that and it could also destroy his credibility.’
Süleyman looked at İkmen and said, ‘What do you think, Inspector?’
İkmen shrugged. ‘It’s your case, Mehmet. Personally, I’d be inclined to at least try and locate this hacker, if that is possible.’
‘Well, is it?’ Süleyman looked across at Çöktin.
‘I can try . . .’
‘Then do so,’ Süleyman replied.
‘Yes, sir.’
Just the thought of it made Çöktin feel sick. He shouldn’t have mentioned Mendes and yet, with so many apparent mysteries contained within these machines, what else could he do?
Demir Sandal didn’t have an office.
‘I have a warehouse,’ he said to Jak Cohen as he plunged one hand into the enormous holdall at his feet, ‘but I don’t advertise its location. A man can’t be too careful.’
‘No.’
The two men had, as they’d arranged, met outside the KaVe coffee bar in the little pasaj opposite the top of the Tünel funicular railway. This, the quieter end of İstiklal Caddesi, was perfect for discreet meetings – all the better if one could hide oneself in amongst numerous tall green plants. And for what the corpulent Demir had in mind, plenty of cover was essential.
‘Look at this,’ he said as he pulled a sequin-and-satin-thread-encrusted ensemble from his bag. ‘You’ll like this.’
Although the bra and skirt the pornographer held were far more ornate than anything Jak had ever seen before, that wasn’t quite what Demir was drawing his attention to. As he pushed the many metres of satin away from the spangled knickers beneath he said, ‘Look, Jak Bey, knickers split at the crotch.’ He leaned towards him. ‘When they dance you can see everything.’
‘Mmm. Nice.’
‘I can sell as a set or just the skirts alone if you want your girls to go topless.’ Demir licked his lips. ‘I have sequins for the nipples too – all sizes.’ He laughed. ‘I had this girl once, Jak Bey, nipples like finger cymbals – which I can supply too by the way. But this girl,’ he leaned forward yet again, treating Jak to a strong blast of body odour, ‘beautiful. Men would come from all over just to touch those big nipples. One of those women you replay screwing in your head, you know?’
Jak just smiled. In the last hour he had been treated to many stories from Demir Sandal’s past, including his experiences of sodomy. Dealer in smut he might be, but Jak wasn’t and had never considered himself a pervert – unlike Demir Sandal who, he had to admit, his brother had been right about.
‘What sort of quantities can you supply, Demir Bey?’ he said as he gently touched one of the skirts.
‘What? The skirts and the bras or—’
‘I like them as a set,’ Jak said, ‘and besides, my girls aren’t going to be wearing them for very long, are they?’
‘No,’ Demir laughed, ‘you want them off, Jak Bey, because “off” means money for you, right?’
The pornographer nudged Jak in the ribs and laughed again. But Jak only smiled. Maybe it was living in England for so long that made him so reserved, but maybe not. His father had always made a lot of noise, drunk sounds, frequently accompanied by violence. And then there were his brothers – Leon, a drunk just like his father, and Balthazar, so like this Sandal character it almost made Jak weep.
‘I’ve got three clubs,’ Jak said simply as he attempted to bring the conversation back up to a recognisable business level. ‘I want Middle Eastern nights twice a month in each club during the winter period, and so . . .’ he paused to look down at the notebook in his hands . . . ‘I’ll need forty-five full costumes.’
‘Plus accessories?’
‘Plus finger cymbals and, say, three veils, the heavy ones you showed me earlier, per costume.’
Demir Sandal shrugged. ‘I can do that.’
‘Good.’
‘I can do anything you want, Jak Bey,’ the pornographer continued. ‘I can even supply some things I know in my heart you will never have seen, Jak Bey.’
‘The costumes are what I came for, Demir Bey.’
‘Ah, but you have shops too, Jak Bey, I know. I’ve seen the shops in England.’ He raised his arms upwards in a gesture of appreciation. ‘Everything to help a man have sex! Everything! Except,’ he moved in closely yet again, ‘the thing I have or will have here in our own humble third world country.’
‘I’m not interested in anything illegal.’
‘No, of course not!’ Demir suddenly looked offended. ‘Not a gentleman like you, Jak Bey.’
‘My brother used to be a police officer.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Demir said soothingly, ‘but you are, as I have said, Jak Bey, an honourable man. In my mind I can’t even picture you standing in the same room with those evil sons of Satan.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You know even now some of them come to my places, fuck like madmen – all for free!’
Jak believed him. In spite of the fact that the Turkish police force had had to clean its act up considerably in recent years, things like this still went on. In fact, Balthazar had probably been part of such things when he’d been well. Not everybody was like Çetin İkmen or that nice Mehmet Süleyman who Balthazar was so friendly with. Jak just couldn’t understand why Çetin wasn’t delighted that his Çiçek was so taken with that impressively cultured man.
‘What I have, what I will be getting, Jak Bey, will make you very rich. Even in England.’
Jak, roused from his temporary reverie, looked up.
‘Oh?’
‘Beyond belief,’ the pornographer leered, ‘if you ask for my worthless opinion.’
Jak was used to this. There was always some new and wonderful sex aid that was going to make everybody millions of pounds. They never did. The last ‘magic item’ he’d seen had been so ridiculous, he’d laughed out loud. But on principle he never passed anything by and so he said that he was interested.
‘You won’t regret it, Jak Bey,’ Demir said as he took down notes about the quantities and colours of costumes required. ‘I will call you when it is ready. You will be amazed.’
‘I’m only here for another twelve days, Demir Bey.’
‘Oh, that’s plenty of time,’ the pornographer said breezily, and
then fixing Jak with a rather more steely glance than before, he continued, ‘Now the price per costume, Jak Bey, giving due regard to the workmanship involved . . .’
CHAPTER 7
The girl Sırma Karaca was, Süleyman felt, typical of modern, overprivileged youth. Grudging in her agreement to come into the station to answer his questions, she now sat before him, all in black, pouting. Her mother, who was about the same age as Süleyman, was pleasant if a little nervous.
They’d established that Sırma and Gülay used to be best friends and that the dead girl would sometimes stay over at Sırma’s house.
‘But all of this stopped about six months ago,’ Süleyman said.
Sırma rubbed some sweat from her forehead with one of her long, black sleeves. ‘Yeah.’
‘Why was that?’
‘I think that Gülay moved on, as it were, Inspector,’ Mrs Karaca said with a knowing smile.
‘Mum!’
‘What do you mean, “moved on”?’
Sırma sighed heavily. ‘She left the scene. Got fed up with the music and the clothes.’ She threw a disgusted glance at her mother. ‘Grew up.’
Süleyman looked down at his notes. ‘Gülay’s parents, from what I can gather, were unaware of her interest in the Goth scene,’ he said. ‘Do you know why?’
‘They didn’t know much about her,’ the girl replied with a shrug. ‘She didn’t want them to.’
Mrs Karaca, for some reason, put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder and smiled.
‘Her mum’s into designer stuff,’ Sırma continued. ‘Gülay used to keep most of her clothes in my room. We used to get dressed to go out together.’
‘I, of course, had no knowledge about this,’ Mrs Karaca put in quickly.
‘So Gülay would come to your home, change her clothes and you’d go out?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘Where we all go. To Atlas Pasaj. Sometimes we’d go and listen to bands at Kemancı. Gülay was really into Brain Dead.’
From which, Süleyman knew, she had not apparently ‘moved on’. Kemancı again – where Fitnat and her black-clad friends were wont to go. He wondered if Sırma knew his ex-wife’s stepdaughter.
‘What brought your friendship to an end?’
‘Gülay.’ Sırma looked up into Süleyman’s face, her own features grimly impassive. ‘One day she said that she was fed up with it all. She wasn’t going to come to Atlas with me and the rest of our friends any more. She said it was stupid.’
‘So she did this suddenly, without any warning?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did any of your other friends notice anything odd about her behaviour around that time?’
‘Only, like me, that for a couple of weeks before she left she was spending more time at her lessons and at home.’ Sırma looked down at the floor. ‘It was weird. Gülay hated extra classes – she didn’t like learning and she didn’t get on with her parents.’
‘And the clothes she kept at your home?’
Sırma shrugged again. ‘She said I could keep them, but they were too small and so I threw them away.’
So Gülay Arat the Goth had worn the right clothes, listened to the right music, moved in the right circles, and then . . . and then she’d just stopped everything except the music. Then she’d disappeared, or so it would seem, into a far more settled and contemplative lifestyle.
Süleyman leaned forward and smiled. ‘Sırma,’ he said, ‘do you ever look up information on the Internet about the bands you follow? Do you maybe, contribute to newsgroups about them?’
‘I go on the Internet sometimes,’ Sırma said, ‘to websites, but it’s all a bit boring. I’ve seen the newsgroups.’
‘And?’
‘Full of weirdos who just want to “chat” about nothing all the time. Kids stuck at home with no life. Why?’
The policeman ignored her question and went on to the next item on his agenda. ‘You’ve said, Sırma, that Gülay didn’t get on with her parents? Do you know why that was?’
The girl and her mother exchanged a brief look before Sırma said, ‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because if there’s something you’re afraid to tell me . . .’
‘They’re just never there,’ Sırma said. ‘They want her to be like them and do what they do, but they don’t want to know what she wants – wanted.’
‘But nothing more than that?’ Süleyman said. ‘Nothing you can think of that might have caused Gülay to take her own life?’
Sırma looked away, at her mother. ‘No.’
‘Very well.’ Süleyman wrote down some brief notes and then said, ‘And you didn’t, after the break up of your friendship, see Gülay again?’
‘Only once, about a month ago,’ Sırma said, ‘at Akmerkez. She was wearing what my mum would call a pretty dress.’
‘Did she speak to you?’
‘Yeah, said she was happy now.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘No.’
‘Did you ask?’
‘No.’
‘Was she with anyone?’
‘No.’
‘So you just said hello, she told you she was happy, and you parted?’
‘Yes.’
What a strange and stilted little conversation that must have been. But then tribes like the Goths were probably not very welcoming to those who had left their ranks. And Gülay Arat had apparently left completely – unlike Fitnat, who was playing at being ‘normal’ for the sake of her father and Zuleika. But then Fitnat, unlike Gülay, hadn’t as yet found anything else to replace her adherence to the tribe. Not that Gülay had entirely broken with the scene. She had obviously still retained her interest in the music, but from afar. Someone or something had prevented her from going out. Maybe her parents? There was a problem there, beyond the usual middle-class dysfunction, which Sırma and her mother knew more about than they were prepared to divulge. Maybe Çöktin was right that the answer to at least some of these questions lay within the girl’s computer files. Or maybe another conversation with Gülay’s brother, Nurdoğan, might prove instructive.
When the interview was over, Süleyman showed Sırma and her mother out. When he returned to his desk, his telephone was ringing.
He sat down and picked it up. ‘Süleyman.’
‘Hello, Mehmet, it’s Çiçek.’
‘Oh, hello.’
‘Mehmet, I’m sorry to call you at work, but I have a bit of a problem,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’
He heard her draw a breath, as if she were nervous. ‘You know I share the apartment with another girl, Emine?’
‘I knew you shared.’
‘Well, it’s her birthday tomorrow and I’m cooking dinner for her and her boyfriend and our other friend Deniz and her husband.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Yaşar, he’s one of our stewards,’ Çiçek was an air hostess, ‘was going to come too because it’s couples, but he’s had to cancel. And so I’m looking for a man to sort of be my partner for the evening . . .’
‘And you thought of me.’ Süleyman lit a cigarette and then let the smoke out on a sigh. ‘But, Çiçek, if Yaşar is your boyfriend—’
Çiçek laughed. ‘Yaşar’s gay, Mehmet,’ she said. ‘A lot of the stewards are. Didn’t you know that? No, Yaşar was just coming along because he’s good company and because I don’t want my table to be unbalanced.’
‘So you want me to balance your table?’
‘Yes.’
‘A policeman amongst what I imagine are all airline people.’
‘Not exclusively, no,’ she replied. ‘Deniz’ husband runs an antique shop. And, anyway, everyone knows about Dad and they’re fine with it.’
‘But haven’t you a boyfriend?’
‘No.’ The clipped manner in which she replied told him that this was a sore subject. ‘We won’t talk about Turkish Airlines all evening, I prom
ise.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Look, I’ll just introduce you as a family friend. Everyone knows my family; they’ll love you.’
Mehmet sighed. He wasn’t really in the mood for socialising, but on the other hand he wasn’t in the mood for staying in with his parents either. And anyway, even if the conversation wasn’t glittering, it might help to take his mind off his problems for a while. Çiçek was, after all, a nice enough girl. He’d known her since she was a child – he was, he felt, a sort of uncle to her – and so it would at least be easy to be in her company. He might even be able to relax for a while.
‘OK,’ he said decisively, ‘you have a date, Çiçek.’
‘Great!’
‘What time?’
After they had sorted out the details and spoken a little about Hulya and her quirky new home, Süleyman concluded the call. As he put the receiver down he frowned. His test results were due on the day following Çiçek’s birthday meal – perhaps it would be the last time he’d be able to eat in anything approaching peace. Perhaps he ought to break his usual vow of abstinence and have a drink for a change.
İsak Çöktin just about made it home before he fell asleep. His mother, who wasn’t keen on her son working through the night, fussed and fretted, but he hardly heard it. Fully clothed, he collapsed on to his bed, and crashed into a dreamless sleep immediately.
When, however, he woke to the sound of blasting Fasil music from the apartment opposite, all of the worries that had clogged his brain back at the station returned. It was only 6 p.m., which meant that he’d still had only four hours’ sleep – hardly enough to think rationally about what he might do now. He’d have to talk to someone about it. He picked his mobile telephone up off the floor and keyed in a number he knew by heart.
When the person at the other end answered, he said, ‘It’s İsak. You’ve got to come over. Something’s happened.’
Of course, as soon as his cousin Kasım arrived, his mother insisted that he eat with İsak and his father too. And because there was no rushing his mother, İsak had to remain patient until the meal was over. As soon as it was done, however, he took Kasım out for a walk. A lot of rural immigrants like the Çöktin family lived in the Tepebaşi district of the city. A poor, ragged place, it was littered with people who envied the Çöktins their comparative wealth – people who, more importantly for today’s activities, spoke their language too.
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