Mustafa Özen was also casually but smartly dressed in jeans and a neat but more youthful piqué top in bright pink bearing the logo of a Swedish quality label on the breast. It suited his dark coloring and revealed the well-pumped biceps with their thick veins that snaked like mountain paths over the skin.
They were greeted by a high, shiny counter topped with a light-gray laminate. A man in a bright blue uniform shirt and a mournfully droopy moustache sat behind it. He picked up the phone as soon as Özen informed him of who they were.
Another unformed man soon appeared and ushered them through a locked door and up a flight of stairs and in through another locked door. They found themselves in an office environment, not completely unlike that at home, but more crowded. The city rumbled on outside.
A man and a woman came to meet them. The man was relatively short and clean-shaven, with a wreath of grizzled hair at his neck and, startlingly, one blue and one brown eye. He looked fit. This was Superintendent Fuat Karaoğlu. The first name posed no problem, and Özen had taught him how to pronounce his surname on the plane. A g with a little hat was swallowed, the hat indicating that the proceeding vowel was long. Karaoolu, in other words.
“Hos geldiniz,” said Karaoğlu and took Claesson’s hand. “Welcome!”
That Merve was a woman’s name was something that Claesson had also learned on the plane. She was both younger and taller than her boss, and had large, friendly eyes with glossy black hair that she’d pulled back into a ponytail. She greeted them with the same phrase and introduced herself as DI Merve Turpan.
Unlike Fuat Karaoğlu, who was plainly dressed in short-sleeved shirt and pants, the DI wore a uniform consisting of dark slacks and a blue blouse bearing the police emblem on the breast, showing the white crescent moon and star against the red background. Both looked inquisitively at Mustafa Özen. A more detailed introduction was required, and that was done in Turkish.
Finally the introductions were out of the way.
“Very good,” said Karaoğlu companionably to Claesson once he realized that they’d managed to find a Swedish detective with a Turkish background.
“Then let us get down to work. We must use the time well now that you have traveled so far,” said Karaoğlu.
They were seated around a table in what served as the police station’s conference room. Apart from a white screen that was stretched over part of one end and a large map showing Istanbul’s myriad streets and alleys and sprawling suburbs, the walls were bare.
DI Turpan left the room. They were to wait a minute, Karaoğlu informed them. For what, he didn’t explain – but Claesson could tell by Mustafa Özen’s facial expression that he at least knew what was going on.
Karaoğlu also left the room. He returned shortly, walking in and out with armfuls of maps, and then fired up a laptop that was on the table. In the meantime, Claesson unpacked his briefcase and placed the papers on the desk in front of him, along with a notebook and pencil that he then proceeded to roll between his fingers.
His stomach panged and grumbled discreetly. Otherwise, he was of Dromadarian descent and could go for a few more hours without food.
He was also a wizard these days at waiting for babies to fall asleep. He was thinking of Klara, and of how sensitive she was. If she picked up on his restlessness when he was feeding her and on his intention to abandon her, her eyes would pop open and he’d have to start all over again.
He could at once feel her soft body beside him, and began to wonder how they were getting on back home.
Özen interrupted his reverie by explaining that they were preparing refreshments, and in Turkey that nearly always meant tea.
Tea was what invalids had with their toast, thought Claesson. But hey, when in Rome.…
Karaoğlu returned and checked the quality of the image on the screen. Now they just had to wait for Merve Turpan.
Claesson couldn’t properly gauge the size of the police station, but there was no doubt it was bigger than theirs in Oskarshamn. And it was more crowded here, too. The offices that he’d walked past were like cubbyholes, shared ones to boot. Now in Oskarshamn they were spoiled. They were housed in a former newspaper printer’s that was both spacious and centrally located, but undisturbed by traffic.
He wondered what their clearance rate was. It was hardly appropriate at this initial stage of their partnership to ask. They were probably stuck with the same investigative backlog as they were at home, where some cases were written off right away owing to lack of time: thefts, break-ins, even robberies. But murder inquiries they always put resources into. They were rare at home, one or two a year in Oskarshamn, but the cases could still run aground and go cold.
Nowadays, Sweden had special cold-case teams for unsolved crimes; its forensics experts were making huge strides and were able to provide answers to what were once unanswerable questions.
He thought of the victims’ relatives. It was easier not only for them but also for him to tackle the feeling of emptiness that an unsolved murder could often elicit if a genuine attempt had been made to find the killer, at least. Some would call now and again, wondering if there were any developments in the case. Crimewatch was a regular feature of the TV schedules. The need for closure was deep.
He’d primed Özen as the pen holder – or tape recorder operator, as it turned out – since he could speak Turkish and English as well as Swedish, and would therefore probably grasp most of what was said.
Or rather miss less of it.
The door opened and in walked a man carrying a circular tray of tea and round buns coated with sesame seeds.
“These buns are called simit,” said Özen.
Claesson broke off a piece and found it tasty.
It was now time for business. There were four of them in the room: Superintendent Fuat Karaoğlu, DI Merve Turpan, cadet-detective Özen, and Claesson himself.
You could hardly accuse Karaoğlu of beating about the bush, Claesson thought. He prattled away in English with a frenzy enough to inspire envy in the best of them. He had an accent, naturally, a thick one even, but that didn’t stop him, which on one level made Claesson relax. At least his own regionally inspired English accent would cause him no shame.
“We were called to Eminönü ferry terminal at twenty-three minutes past four pm, about eight minutes after the ferry had docked and the passengers had left. We were there about seven minutes later. It was one of the crew who had called us.…”
He turned to Özen and said something in Turkish.
“Helmsman, I think it’s called,” translated Özen and Claesson nodded.
Karaoğlu then turned to Merve, who showed them on the map behind them where the ferry had its berth. Claesson thought that Özen and he should pop down there later, if they had time.
Karaoğlu pulled up a picture onto the screen. It showed a young man, around twenty with slightly drooping eyelids and a totally expressionless face.
“This is the witness who found Olsson. His name’s Ilyas Bank,” he said.
Merve wrote the name on the white board and Özen copied it down.
“He sells tea on board, walking around among the passengers with a tray. He worked in telemarketing for a few months, but says he wants to make a future for himself. When the ferry was docking and all the passengers were crowding through the exit, he went around collecting glasses.”
Claesson nodded, lifted his own glass of tea and sipped.
“Then he found Olsson by the railing on the… port… on, er… which is it… the left side in the direction of travel. Anyway, he was on the side facing the Marmara Sea rather than that facing Istanbul and the Galata Bridge.”
A new picture appeared on the screen.
Claesson and Özen both gave a start. The color photo was exceptionally high quality. There was something tender yet grotesque about the neatly dressed gentleman who sat with head hanging heavily and the entire front of his shirt saturated with blood. You could see his intestines slipping out through a gash in t
he material.
The silence that had descended on the room was allowed to settle for a few seconds as a kind of homage to this aged Swede whose life had been so brutally taken, here in Istanbul.
“Yes…so this is how the witness found Olsson,” said Karaoğlu in a hushed tone. “He tried to feel for a pulse in his wrists, he told us, before he understood just how bad things were. The body had actually not had time to become cold before we arrived. It was also quite a hot day, around sixty-eight degrees. According to the coroner, Olsson died minutes before he was found, no more than half an hour before, but we suspect that he was killed just as the boat was emptying.”
“There is a good deal of confusion then,” continued Karaoğlu. “If you are planning to kill someone that is probably the best time, even if it is also very risky.… If nothing else, someone might catch the murderer in the act. Even from one of the passing boats, the quay is very busy, you understand. But just at that time there was apparently no boat passing. We have asked around, but we have no information that someone saw something. Anyway, his wallet was still in his back pocket. Driver’s license and a little money, but nothing to kill for… If, that is, it is the same man on the driver’s license, of course.”
“His wife and two children are due to arrive tonight,” said Claesson.
“Then they can identify the body tomorrow. Very good! Can you be present?” wondered Karaoğlu, peering at them over the rim of his glasses with his different-colored eyes.
Claesson and Özen nodded.
“Merve will help you, also.”
This she confirmed with a nod as Karaoğlu gathered his breath.
“Have you ever heard of Wasp knives?” he asked.
“I know what they are but that’s about it,” said Claesson, and looked at Mustafa Özen. “We’ve heard about this knife from our forensics guys, but never seen the effects of it, not where we come from. But I guess it’s just a matter of time…”
“A great nuisance,” sighed Karaoğlu with a shake of his head. “An American knife, originally made to be used against aggressive sharks and other wild animals, so the manufacturer says.”
He brought up a picture of a knife on the screen with a matchstick under it. The handle was thick and sturdy.
“But it works just as well against two-legged animals, too,” he continued. “The handle conceals a carbon dioxide cartridge that is triggered when the knife is stuck in its victim… and… then there is a…”
He was searching for words. Merve Turpan tried to help him. They had to resort to Turkish and were saved by Özen.
“Overpressure,” he said in Swedish.
“Thank you. Inside the body this has a terrible effect,” he continued. “The carbon dioxide then leaves the body. This causes trouble for the pathologist, an agent that cannot be measured is always a problem. According to the autopsy report, Olsson died from abdominal tearing. His intestines and major blood vessels were punctured in many places. The blood emptied quickly. But now we have seen this type of injury so many times that we can see a pattern and can hazard a guess at the weapon,” Karaoğlu continued. “We suspect that it was this type of knife that was used to kill the victim. The knife causes an effective and quick death. Olsson would hardly have had time to catch his breath before it was all over.”
Mercifully, thought Claesson.
“It is also true that we at this police station, and, yes, at other police stations in Istanbul, have confiscated copies of this knife that are made in Russia and a bit easier to handle. Smaller, quite simply… lighter to carry, and I suppose cheaper to buy. One might suspect that the manufacturer did not intend it to be used so much against four-legged animals as against two-legged.”
A new picture on the screen showed a somewhat slimmer version of the same knife.
“You can order them on the Internet and hope that the customs people are blind that day. Or buy one almost anywhere here in Turkey. I do not know how it is in Sweden with illegal weapons?”
“They’re common,” replied Claesson curtly.
Karaoğlu drew a breath. He had a warm voice that mingled pathos with strength.
“Why?” he said in a slow exhale, and then fell silent, as if he had taken a course in dramatic effect. “Do you have any ideas?”
What, in other words, was the motive?
“No, not yet,” said Claesson.
His head started to get muggy. As far as he knew, Carl-Ivar Olsson had never been involved in any kind of criminal activity, and he said so.
“But we are not ruling out drugs,” said Karaoğlu.
“Drugs?” repeated Claesson and exchanged glances with Özen.
You had to keep an open mind for any eventuality, even if it seemed a little far-fetched. After all, it wasn’t that long ago that they’d busted a sixty-year-old man dressed as a Catholic priest at the border crossing on the Öresund bridge. He’d claimed that he was going to be traveling around looking at medieval Swedish churches. He had double-lined underpants stuffed with heroin.
“Nah, I shouldn’t think so,” said Claesson evasively. “We’ve got no reports of Olsson being involved in drug smuggling. But sure, there’s a lot we don’t know. But on the other hand, we’ve got quite a bit on a rug. Or rather a fragment of a very old and valuable rug from central Turkey, but we can take that later.”
Karaoğlu nodded to Merve Turpan, who took over the keyboard. Her fingers flitted while she focused on the white screen until she had brought up a detailed map of the Bosporus.
“Here is Yeniköy,” she said. “Our witness Ilyas Bank thought it possible that the carpet dealer boarded here. Other witnesses think so, too.”
The place was on the European side a little upstream.
“Yeniköy is a very, very old place.” Something dreamy came into her eyes. “It is from the Byzantine era. There are yalis there, beautiful nineteenth-century villas down by the water. Very, very beautiful.”
Claesson had picked up on Merve Turpan’s way of expressing pleasure. Very, very nice, old, beautiful…
She’s a good ambassador for her city, Claesson thought. A manifest pride and not that blunt matter-of-factness that some people suffered from at home among all the sights there. Was he as good an ambassador for Oskarshamn?
“Excuse me, but I’ll go and see to some more tea,” Merve said suddenly and walked out.
She might need to go to the bathroom, thought Claesson. He needed to himself, and stood up with a slightly embarrassed air. Karaoğlu read his mind and pointed down the corridor.
When Claesson had returned, Karaoğlu told them that they had questioned every member of the ferry’s crew, but not all the passengers since tickets were bought anonymously and so couldn’t be traced.
“The man in the kiosk thought he had noticed a person.”
Claesson wiped his neck with his hand. No one here would suggest opening the window as it would probably make no difference.
A driver’s license photo of a slightly older man appeared. His name was Ergün Bilgin and he was standing behind the counter of the little onboard kiosk, Karaoğlu told them. He’d seen how all the passengers had crowded into the front in order to get off first. He’d also noted a man of Scandinavian, American, or German appearance who’d been standing right at the back holding a dark cloth bag. Bilgin could also, with a certain tentativeness, venture that the man had come from the same direction in which the body was found, from the port side, just before he disembarked. From the left-hand side, that is, if they got off at the front.
“Could he give a description?”
Karaoğlu read aloud. Just over five-foot-ten, slim, young middle age perhaps, wearing a long-sleeved top with wide blue and green stripes and a collar. He also had on a cap with some kind of red logo, or so he thought.
“We questioned Ilyas Bank again, the man who found Olsson, and he also thought he had seen this man and had an idea that he was wearing a white cap with red writing on it.”
“Yes, well,” said Karaoğlu wi
th a shrug. “It is a shot in the dark… But it is a shot nonetheless.”
Merve Turpan returned and turned to Karaoğlu, who signaled to her with a nod.
She started writing energetically on the computer again. She radiated freshness and health, and reminded Claesson a little of his first love, even though she’d been blonde and blue-eyed. But this wholesomeness was the same and the softly rounded contours, even though Merve would still be considered slender. It was a figure that could easily become rounded if one wasn’t careful. “She plumped out with age,” as his father would always say of women who didn’t manage to keep their hands off the pastry tray. Men, on the other hand, “acquired a certain gravitas with age.”
Merve Turpan clearly had an astute mind, you could tell that at once. There was something about her bearing and the expression in her eyes. “A sparkling intellect,” as his dad might well have called it. Not on one single point did she fit Claesson’s image of a Turkish woman as being a subservient housewife whose main purpose in life was to have babies and look after home and husband. Instead, she seemed to be an urbane and highly educated woman, probably well on the way up the career ladder. Like Louise Jasinski back in Oskarshamn. What’s more, Turpan’s English was the best in their little group. Her entire being, from her posture to her way of speaking, bore witness to vigorous self-esteem.
She flashed up an amateurish photograph that could have been taken with a simple digital camera.
And it had been. One of the ferry’s crew had taken it to test his new cell phone. The buildings had looked so nice, he’d said.
In the photograph could be seen one of the beautiful villas that their Turkish colleagues had mentioned before. This yali was several stories high and had columns, mullion windows, and sumptuous embellishments. It lay right at the water’s edge beside a villa in the same style but decorated differently. In the next photograph, the house could just be made out in the background. In the foreground was a quay bathed in sunlight. The heat was almost tangible.
Death of a Carpet Dealer Page 19