But Berekiah wanted to tell İkmen. That the ugly drawings were proliferating was something that he felt his father-in-law would want to know. And besides, he and, more importantly, Hulya, had been upset by the experience. Jak was bringing in a different workman every day to do something nice to the house, but the area, if not the property itself, still felt tainted. Something about that image was striking at a place very deep within his psyche and he didn’t know why. Telling İkmen about the desecration of the other places of worship would, he knew, be breaking Brother Constantine’s confidence, but on balance he felt that he had to. Something bad had crept into Fener and if someone didn’t act to stop it, there was a possibility it might take root.
But now Jak, woken as he had been by Balthazar’s cries, entered the room and yet another conversation about sex began.
‘Are you going to see Demir Sandal again soon?’ Balthazar said, without preamble, to his weary-looking brother as he entered.
‘In a few days, yes,’ Jak said as he raked his fingers through his hair, smiling as he did so at Berekiah. ‘I can’t understand why you are so perpetually awake, Balthazar.’
‘Maybe it’s because I’m so bored!’
‘Then do something.’ Jak threw himself down into a chair and lit a cigarette.
Berekiah, sensing that an argument was brewing, left the room.
As soon as he had gone, Balthazar leaned forward in his chair and said, ‘If you would get me a girl, from Demir Sandal—’
‘Balthazar!’
‘All she’d have to do—’
‘Look, he’s going to give me some “new product” or other that’s supposed to be really erotic and I’ll get you some magazines,’ Jak said wearily. ‘But you’ll have to organise how and when you use them. Think of Estelle, for God’s sake!’
‘What other woman do I have to think of?’ Balthazar replied bitterly.
She’d thought that İlhan would probably never speak to her again. But he had – sort of. She’d run straight to the ferry stage after Zuleika had humiliated her in front of Mehmet Süleyman. If she hadn’t turned up, Fitnat would have got him to fuck her for sure. Not that it mattered now. Now there was another, better man.
A policeman had been to see İlhan, but she didn’t know what had been said. İlhan wouldn’t tell her. What he did say, however, was that he wasn’t going to go down to Atlas for a while. He didn’t want to talk about it and he’d still be her friend, but he just didn’t feel it was right at the moment.
She had been angry at first and had gone straight down to Atlas, drunk several vodkas and then gone into the Hammer. She didn’t go there often, but in such a black mood as she was, full of resentment towards her overcautious stepmother, it seemed somehow perfect. Full, as usual, with the customary selection of freaks with false fangs and big-breasted women with scars up their arms, she’d been surprised to find someone like him in there. Tall, dark, handsome and about the same age as Mehmet Bey. A man – interested in her – or so it seemed.
‘Are you a virgin?’ he asked as he laid her down on the bed and began to untie the laces of her bodice.
‘Yes.’
His sharp intake of breath told her that this had excited him. That he was fiercely attracted to her had been evident when they’d met at the Hammer. Talking, about her mainly, had quickly led to a kiss that had then become the feel of his erection against her belly. She’d gone back with him, at first rather more to spite her stepmother, who had to be worried about her by this time, than anything else. But now that she was here, in this great big Beyoğlu apartment, overlooking the Golden Horn, stylish and expensive – well . . .
He had a good body. She wanted to give him her virginity, even though she knew that she shouldn’t – even though she knew that she did need to wait. But for how long? She wanted it now! However, although he was excited this man proceeded slowly. Until the sun came up he teased both her and himself in ways she would never even have imagined. Without ever once coming close to penetrating her body, he made her feel things that brought her alive. And, when she did finally leave to the sound of the ferries making steam down at Eminönü, it was with a picture in her head of a bed battered and stained by orgasms created with hands, lips and breasts.
‘Call me,’ he said as he kissed her goodbye at the door. ‘I want to take you further.’
Fitnat, her hand clutching tightly the card he had given her, knew that she would.
CHAPTER 13
Mehmet Süleyman was really too tired for this. Despite İkmen’s suggestion that he should, he hadn’t yet been home. The surgeons hadn’t finished operating on Metin İskender until 5 a.m. and at that point going home had seemed like a waste of time. Besides, although Metin was still alive, he was far from out of danger. The shot, as well as shredding part of his intestines, had also damaged his spleen to such an extent that it had to be removed. His wife, the normally cool and stoic Belkıs had, apparently, screamed like a peasant when she’d seen him for the first time just after Süleyman and İkmen had left. And now here was Mr Tekeli, brother of Lale, the latest victim, possibly, of what could be some sort of ritual killing, wanting answers.
‘She was stabbed through the heart,’ Tekeli said slowly, as if trying to get the facts straight in his mind. ‘But if you know this then why can’t I take her for burial?’
‘Your sister’s death is part of an on-going investigation into the rape and murder of young girls.’
‘She was raped . . .’ He said it slowly, as if to himself.
‘As I told you, sir, yes,’ Süleyman said. ‘I’m so sorry – for your loss and for the distress this is causing. I know how hard it must be to have one’s beliefs tested in this fashion but unfortunately I cannot release your sister’s body to you and, further, I must ask you to allow us access to her possessions.’
Tekeli first shook his head and then said, ‘What possessions? What do you mean?’
Süleyman looked across at Çöktin, who just simply shrugged. In a sense and in light of information Çöktin had just that morning received from the hacker Mendes, even if Lale Tekeli had a computer and had been involved in any of the sites that the other youngsters had been, it was doubtful anything concrete could come of it. As Çöktin had suspected from the start, there was no way of tracing either of the target contributors to the two newsgroups they had identified. Although local in origin, the source, as far as it could be traced, was in Argentina, where it was extremely doubtful any logs or records would have been kept. There was, however, some virtue in seeing whether Lale Tekeli conformed to the pattern so far.
‘We need, specifically, to look at any computer equipment your sister may have possessed,’ Süleyman said.
Tekeli looked up, his eyes red with barely contained tears. ‘She only used her computer for her academic work,’ he said.
‘Did she have Internet access?’
‘Yes, but she viewed only Islamic sites,’ he said. ‘I know, I monitored her. Lale was very studious, very pious. She even had extra tuition for some of her subjects.’ He began to sob. ‘Raped! She was always covered!’
‘Mr Tekeli—’
‘She wasn’t one of those closed at the top and open at the bottom girls!’ Tekeli said hotly, referring to the way that some Turkish girls cover their heads while wearing skirts slit to the thigh. ‘Some of her turbans were pretty – from the Tekbir shop, you know – but—’
‘Mr Tekeli, I know that this is going to be difficult for you to answer,’ Süleyman said, ‘but did your sister have any interests outside of learning and her religious obligations? Any friends—’
‘No. No, she was a good girl. You know, she wanted to be a teacher . . .’
They all sat in silence for a few moments until Tekeli spoke again. ‘If you think that looking at Lale’s computer will help, then you may have it,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Mr Tekeli,’ Süleyman said. ‘My sergeant, if he may, will accompany you home to do that.’
‘Whatever you think i
s for the best.’
And so Çöktin left with Tekeli while Süleyman prepared for the meeting Ardıç had called with İkmen and himself. But nagging away at the edges of his mind was something else too. Today was the day he had to go to see Krikor Sarkissian and get his test results. As he assembled all the information he needed for his meeting, he was disturbed by just how much his hands shook.
‘One of my officers is fighting for his life,’ Ardıç said as he looked from İkmen to Süleyman and then back again. ‘In addition, a foreign national has gone missing and, to my way of thinking, we’re not putting our backs into it. Care to explain?’
Although seated, softly spoken and outwardly calm, Commissioner Ardıç was holding on to his smouldering cigar as if his life depended on it. Those who knew him well, like İkmen and Süleyman, would know that he was in a very dangerous state.
‘Sir,’ İkmen began, ‘it’s complicated . . .’
‘It always is with you, İkmen.’ Deep brown eyes almost hidden beneath thick black eyebrows surveyed İkmen with some malice. ‘But the fact remains that İskender is still critical, he cannot speak and so we cannot ask him who attacked him. Until we can, or until some evidence to the contrary comes to light, I feel that the necessity to speak to this Maximillian Esterhazy is paramount. I am therefore issuing a warrant for his arrest.’
‘But, sir,’ İkmen said, ‘what could be Max’s blood was found in his study the day he disappeared.’
‘Yes, I know all about that,’ Ardıç said. ‘Dried-up, old stuff. I know about the other blood too. What I also know, however, is that the only prints found in the study came from Esterhazy himself, his maid and her boyfriend.’
‘Neither of whom has type AB negative blood,’ İkmen said.
‘No, but beyond the fact that the AB blood exists there is nothing else in that room to suggest the presence of its owner,’ Ardıç said, and then added caustically, ‘Are you sure İkmen, that your magician friend didn’t sacrifice small children? Sorcery, may I remind you, is still nominally a crime in this country.’
‘Sir!’
Ardıç pointed a thick finger at İkmen. ‘I want him found, İkmen,’ he said. ‘He was a teacher, I understand; get in touch with his students.’
İkmen then explained how he had tried to do this and why he had failed. Ardıç’s face appeared to grow redder with the telling.
‘Allah preserve us!’ he said under his breath as İkmen finished. ‘Well, we’ll have to put something out in the media then, won’t we? Why haven’t you come to me before about this?’
‘Well, sir—’
‘And you, Süleyman?’ he said, turning his attention now on the younger of the two officers. ‘What about these dead girls?’
Süleyman gave his superior a résumé of what had happened since they last spoke. ‘It seems to me, sir,’ he said, ‘that in spite of the rather disappointing lack of evidence from the children’s computers, Atlas Pasaj and its inhabitants are going to be worth what we plan for tonight.’
‘You’ve officers lined up?’
‘Yes, sir. However—’
Ardıç looked up sharply. ‘What?’
‘This new victim, Lale Tekeli, as far as we are aware, had no connection to Atlas Pasaj and no “dark”, shall we say, interests.’
‘Not as yet.’
‘No, sir. Miss Tekeli was a very studious girl and a devout Muslim.’
Ardıç leaned back in his chair and sighed. ‘Well, maybe she was just better at hiding her “dark” interests than the others. Not that I believe in any of that nonsense myself,’ he said. ‘Bring the poor deluded kids at Atlas in by all means, but you won’t find Satan or any of his demons with them – except, of course, their wealthy parents. So as I’ve said before, Süleyman, caution.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ardıç turned back once again to İkmen. ‘Oh, and by the way, İkmen, it has recently come to my attention that at least one other place of worship, apart from the Church of the Panaghia, has been daubed with disturbing images. Maybe your magical Englishman—’
‘I went to Max to get help with that, sir!’ İkmen cried. ‘He didn’t understand the image in that form any more than I did!’
‘It is much more likely to be connected to things we suspect may be happening at Atlas Pasaj,’ Süleyman put in. ‘If Satanic practices are coming from anywhere it’s there.’
‘Well . . .’ Ardıç shrugged and then dismissed them.
Once outside Ardıç’s office, they both lit cigarettes.
‘I know this is going to sound bad, Çetin,’ Süleyman said, ‘but I’ve got a real fear about this Lale Tekeli.’
‘About her not conforming to Gülay Arat’s profile?’
‘Yes. With Cem, although he did certainly kill himself, and Gülay, there is a connection via Atlas Pasaj. But with Lale . . .’
‘Maybe they’re all connected in other ways we don’t yet understand,’ İkmen said, and then looking down at his watch he added, ‘I must get over to Max’s. I’m meeting Karataş over there.’
‘Going over what happened yesterday again?’
‘Yes, and also he has been seconded to me for a few days,’ İkmen said. ‘I think he should be at home, but . . .’ he shrugged. ‘Anyway, he’ll be useful to do the labouring work, fetching and carrying while I look through Max’s stuff. I don’t know whether this media idea of Ardıç’s will work.’
‘Why not?’
‘Max’s students are well off – rich parents. Would they want the aggravation of their children being associated with someone wanted in connection with a shooting? After all, you can always get another English teacher, can’t you?’
‘Maybe.’ Süleyman frowned. ‘What about Metin? Are you going back to the hospital?’
‘After duty, yes, And you?’
He lowered his eyes. ‘Yes, but only after –’ he turned away just a little – ‘I have to see Krikor Sarkissian tonight . . .’
‘Ah. Well.’
Süleyman forced himself to look round at his friend and then also forced a smile.
‘İnşallah everything will be all right,’ İkmen said and then, after just a moment’s awkwardness, he moved forward to take his friend in his arms. ‘Now go home and take a few hours’ rest,’ he said.
Süleyman, his head on İkmen’s shoulder, squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that were gathering behind his lashes.
The Tekeli apartment was small and very neat. Situated above a religious bookshop in the holy village of Eyüp, which is almost at the far northern tip of the Golden Horn, it was a very fitting place for the pious Osman Tekeli to live.
‘Are you going to visit the holy shrine while you are here?’ Tekeli asked Çöktin as he placed the cup of apple tea he’d made for him down beside his sister’s computer.
Çöktin, who had been looking intently at the screen, turned to him and smiled. ‘I don’t know, sir. It does largely depend upon time.’
‘I see.’ It wasn’t outright disapproval, but Tekeli obviously felt that Çöktin should make time. The latter, as he often did in situations like this, wanted to say that he was under absolutely no obligation to visit the shrine of Eyüb Al-Ansari or any other Muslim saint, but as usual he held his tongue. Eyüp village possesses a lot of old-world charm, and the tomb for which it is both famous and sacred, that of Eyüb Al-Ansari, the Prophet Muhammed’s standard bearer, is one of the holiest sites in Islam. It is therefore a very quiet and contemplative place – not the sort of area where one would wish to disturb the inhabitants with what might seem like an aggressive statement of one’s difference. Once Tekeli had returned to the kitchen, Çöktin took a quick sip from the cup and then turned his attention back to Lale Tekeli’s computer.
There were no games in evidence and, as far as he could see so far, no involvement in either chat rooms or newsgroups. What there seemed to be a lot of was school-work – essays in Turkish, English and German on subjects ranging from accounts of aspects of Islamic theory and pr
actice to a geographical description of the Marmara region and essays entitled ‘Everyday Life in Britain’. Lale, it seemed, unlike Cem Ataman or Gülay Arat, didn’t have any ‘Gothic’, musical or just plain weird interests of any sort. And as Çöktin looked around the dead girl’s modest bedroom, he spotted what he thought was another difference too – money. Cem and Gülay came from rich families whereas Lale, it seemed, didn’t. But then the Tekelis were not poor either. Osman Tekeli was a school teacher and possessed a considerable library of mainly religious texts. He drove a very recent model Mercedes and the two of them were enthusiastic hadjis, which meant that they went to Mecca on the annual pilgrimage. All this took money, if not the vast amounts that the Atamans and the Arats exhibited.
However, there was something even more fundamentally different than money and which really did bother Çöktin. And so he made his way into the living room to speak to Tekeli again.
‘Sir,’ he said as he looked down at the small, grey man contemplating the blank wall in front of him, ‘if we are to apprehend Lale’s murderer, we need to know as much about her as we can.’
‘Why?’
To Çöktin, schooled for a number of years now in the still rather radical methods of both İkmen and Süleyman, this seemed like an odd question. But then for someone only accustomed to traditional police methods or, as he suspected in this case, no knowledge of the police at all, it had to seem a little strange. To many people, even some inside the force itself, the psychology of the victim and even the perpetrator was largely irrelevant.
‘Because, sir,’ he said, ‘the more we know about Lale, about what she thought, where she went and who she mixed with, the more chance we have of identifying where she might have met the person who ended her life.’
‘I’ve told you everything you need to know about Lale. She studied at my school – I took her and brought her home. We went everywhere together.’
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