“Oh no!” said Palmer. Her face darkened, and she rushed past Kaplan and the young man and yanked the back door open. Palmer stepped out into the alley and looked back at the young man. “Where is he going? What does he intend to do with that knife?”
“I don’t know,” said the young man. He suddenly sounded hesitant.
“Listen to me. If you want to prevent another murder and stop your father going to prison, then you’d better tell me where he’s gone – right now.”
Kaplan moved close to Palmer’s side. Weight of numbers seemed to make the difference to the young man’s priorities.
“Where has he gone?” demanded Palmer. “If he hurts someone and you don’t tell us, you’ll be partly responsible.”
“Okay, okay! He didn’t tell me... but I think I know. He was angry about the Yuksels. I’m sure he’s gone to see the Yuksels.”
“The Yuksels?” said Palmer.
“Another Turkish name,” said Kaplan. “And I think I know this one.”
The young man glared at the PCSO. She ignored him. “They have a big shop across town.”
Palmer turned to Kaplan. “Right, Kaplan, you’re coming with me. PC Dawson. You keep a close eye on this one. We don’t need any more surprises.”
“Will do,” said Dawson.
Palmer and Kaplan ran down the steps in a hurry and rushed out of the back door. They raced down the rutted lane to reach Annerley Road where the small gaggle of journalists and local media were standing in their huddle, peering down the alley like gossips in the school playground.
“Detective Sergeant Palmer,” called Alice Perry. “Care to tell us why one of the kebab shop staff stormed off in such a hurry just now? He looked extremely upset...”
The girl’s mouth wasn’t smiling but her eyes were.
“Piss off,” said Palmer.
“Can I quote you on that?” said Perry. Her colleagues snickered.
Palmer gritted her teeth as her eyes scanned the area in the direction the journalists had been looking – back to the main drag of Hamlet Court Road. Palmer and Kaplan ran to the street corner and looked left and right. There was no sign of Orcun Sen in either direction.
“Okay,” said Palmer. “So where is this Yuksel place?”
“It’s a cash and carry on West Road. I noticed it a while back – because of the name.”
“West Road? Okay. I’m over there,” Palmer nodded across to the roadside parking bay outside the black and gold frontage of Haven’s Department Store. Placards of perfume-promoting supermodels pouted from the shop windows above the dented bonnet of Palmer’s old car. She and the PCSO raced across the busy street under the eyes of straggling shoppers and journalists. There wasn’t time for dithering or discretion. They needed to move. Palmer unlocked the Corsa, and they clambered inside and set off, accelerating noisily up the street.
Further up the street, PCSO Bec Rawlins was emerging from a spot of walk-and-talk in the local butcher’s shop. She saw the back end of Palmer’s hatchback hurtling away around the corner.
“You lot are making a real song and dance this morning,” said the rotund, pink-faced butcher from behind the counter. “It’s beginning to feel like we’re at the movies.”
Rawlins rolled her eyes at him and smiled. But behind the smile, Rawlins was concerned. It looked like PCSO Kaplan was getting out of her depth.
Five
Hogarth pushed the door and walked into the spacious white-walled interior of Yuksel’s Cash and Carry. It was a large, ramshackle place, clean but not plush, and it was overstuffed with countless pieces of stock crammed into metal racks which filled the entire shop from floor to ceiling. The shop was essentially a rectangle, with one long counter at the back. Behind the counter was a cluttered back space with two or three doors set in the back and side walls. There were a couple of staff working quietly behind the counter. None of the merchandise was well presented. There were vast vats of budget range instant coffee stacked up high. Giant tins of baked beans for the greasy spoons. And for those serving a more exotic cuisine, Hogarth could see aisles containing enormous jars of all kinds of chillies and peppers. Underneath each item was a barcode and two prices. One with VAT and one without. A place like this – on this side of town – Hogarth wondered if there was also a secret cash price. A price you could only get with a whisper over the counter. He stopped at the end of one aisle and looked at the stock of cooking oil. Every oversized can was red and white, with the name Yuksel labelled on one side and another sticker ‘Product of Turkey’ on the other. It seemed there was no other vegetable oil in stock. There was certainly no Greek oil anywhere. Hogarth strolled past a couple of aisles watching idly as two sets of customers – both foreign, maybe Turkish, maybe Asian – discussed their shopping lists among themselves. When one of the customers noticed Hogarth watching them, he stopped talking and gave him a hard look.
“Don’t mind me,” said Hogarth. “I’m only sightseeing.”
But the men kept their eyes on Hogarth all the time as he passed them until he turned into the next empty aisle, which was stacked with pots, pans, and all kinds of knives and cooking implements, all wrapped in swathes of plastic. The tour of the shop was nothing to do with the murder of Baba Sen. At least not directly. It was a theatrical gesture intended to draw attention. Hogarth knew he looked and dressed like a cop. And if there was a CCTV camera around – ah yes, he found one trained on him from a high corner – then a curious staff member was bound to come his way. The name Atacan had brought him here. A name that had caused so much trouble on the streets of London in the past two decades. But the power of the Mafyasi Atacan had waned in the last few years. The joys of globalisation and all that. As newer gangs from across the world had arrived and bitten chunks out of their business, the Atacans had seemed to be on the way out. By the time Hogarth transferred from the Met police to Essex, the Atacan family had lost their most feared warrior. The infamous and bloodthirsty Ferkan Atacan – a bulldog and a warrior, the one everybody had heard of. Ferkan did whatever he pleased and damn the consequences, including attempting to build his own side-empire in the backwaters beyond London. But in the end, Ferkan Atacan had paid a heavy price. He was found dead with multiple bullets in his back and head. But Hogarth had also remembered something else. Back when he had first started in Southend – when the name Atacan still caused some anxiety, there was a rumour that one of the Atacans had moved to Southend to escape Ferkan’s fate. That rumour had faded from Hogarth’s memory until now – until he had seen the letter ‘A’ carved into the wound on Baba Sen’s head and the new PCSO had uttered the name. And if anyone in Southend was likely to know if a Turk called Atacan was running a business in Southend, it had to be a Turkish cash and carry. If the rumour was true, the Atacan in question must have surely been through these doors. Whether they would admit it was another story. There were other reasons for his visit too. Questions about why a man like Baba Sen would have been a target for anyone. Other questions were emerging, not yet formed but soon to take shape. Hogarth let the questions ferment in his mind as he waited for attention. He walked deeper into the store, getting closer to the counter, when something caught his eye. He stopped and picked up a filter coffee machine and considered buying one for the office. Then he saw the price. He put the box down in disgust.
“Yes. Can I help you?” said a female voice. The voice was soft and heavily-accented, but her English was faultless. It was also a voice he recognised. His prepared police smile – half friendly, half tough guy - faltered as he turned to the woman and his eyes flashed wide before he regained his composure. She was a sight for sore eyes, and yet it wasn’t altogether good to see her. As much as the sight of Miray’s familiar olive-skinned beauty warmed him, seeing her now made it feel like the power of the Atacan name was truly back in his life. Seeing her was like a double blow to the gut.
“Miray...?!” he said. He noticed his heart beating far harder than was healthy. Yes, even after all these years she was still
very pretty. Hogarth took a breath and remembered a dangerously romantic dinner date that shouldn’t have happened... Whispers in the dark and holding hands... A line that had almost been crossed, finishing with the merest hint of a kiss – abandoned at the last moment. He and Miray had been ships in the night which had tacked away from each other before a disaster which would have destroyed them both. Ferkan Atacan had been Miray’s husband, but never a good one. Their affair would have ended as a horror story. A warning to all others who coveted what belonged to the Atacans. Looking back. Hogarth reckoned his entire life had been a succession of near misses.
“Miray,” he said warmly. “What are you doing all the way down here in Southend?” He feared the answer, but he had to ask.
Her hair was still as lush and black as ever. He looked for a trace of grey but couldn’t find a single one. Hair dye maybe, but she looked good for it. And her face showed no trace of lines either. Well, maybe one or two. But fewer than most women her age. And then there were those dark, shining eyes – the ones he used to kid himself were just like those of the mysterious girl from the Turkish Delight commercial. Full of Eastern Promise, and all that jazz. Silly boy. Yes, he’d played a very dangerous game. Well, almost...
“Joe? This is amazing! Maybe I should ask you the same. Why are you here?”
“I can’t help it, Miray. I work here now.”
“In Essex?” She looked at his clothes, his manner. “You’re still with the police? But surely, this place doesn’t suit you. Does it?”
“I couldn’t care less, Miray. Awkward squad. You know me.”
“But why did you ever leave London?” she said, her eyes sparkling at him.
Hogarth shrugged. He hadn’t yet settled on his reasons. Was it burn out? A nervous breakdown? Mid-life crisis? It was all those and none of them. “I just had enough of the big smoke.”
“Then this is a coincidence,” said Miray, with an endearing little shrug. She flicked her hair from her eyes. Was it his imagination or did she have that same glint in her eye he remembered from the early days? The spark of attraction... but that was back when they were in their early thirties. Still keen. Still lustful. Ten years was a very long time...
The woman spread her arms to indicate her surroundings. Hogarth noticed there was no wedding ring on her finger anymore. “And I work here now too.” Her eyes flicked between his. They regarded one another in brief silence, seeing what was the same and what was different. By the time the silence was over, they both looked embarrassed.
“A coincidence,” said Hogarth, forcing himself to look away. Maybe a cruel coincidence. Hogarth noticed Miray was still slender and shapely beneath her white work blouse. High on her chest was a red plastic badge bearing her name, beneath the store name ‘Yuksel’. Miray’s lower half was draped in the standard uniform of female shop and office workers up and down the country. Black nylon slacks. But she even wore those well. Hogarth cleared his throat.
“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” he said.
“Yes, a long time,” said Miray with a sigh. She nodded and he watched the twinkle in her eyes retreat into darkness. “I take it you are here on business? Same as before?”
Hogarth nodded. “Yes, afraid so. But please consider this visit no more than a routine precaution. I take it that you, um... you’re no longer involved with the Atacans?”
Miray’s face flickered. She blushed for a moment.
“Joe, so much has happened. I came here to make some big changes... but like you say, London is not as far as we would like. Some problems don’t go away so easy, you know?”
“You can say that again,” said Hogarth, scratching his eyebrow. He wondered about the woman’s enigmatic statement about the past not going away. Anybody else, and he would have pushed them on it. But Miray was different – there was history between them. Though her comments caused the cloud in his mind to darken.
“Don’t look upset, Joe. You know, I am happy to see you. Very happy. By now you must have a wife, and children, yes?”
Hogarth shook his head. He raised his ring finger. “Nope. Afraid not.”
Miray raised her eyebrows and Hogarth couldn’t help checking to see if the woman seemed pleased. If she was, she hid it well. Miray tilted her head.
“Well,” she said with a sigh. “You might know something of my predicament...”
Hogarth frowned. It had to be at least two years since he had heard that Ferkan Atacan had been gunned down in East London. Thankfully, Hogarth had not been involved on that case. Ferkan had been killed during the final throes of his Met days, back when he was looking for any way out he could find. When he’d heard about the murder, he’d sent his condolences to Miray with a short, mostly empty, sympathy card. He had been sorry for her loss, but he had been more sorry for what they had missed.
“You deserved better, Miray. You always did. Surely there’s someone else by now.”
The woman blushed.
“Someone else...?” She was struggling for the right words or avoiding the question. Probably both. Hogarth smiled at the absurdity of two middle-aged adults acting like teenagers. Their strange spell was broken by the approach of a dark-haired young man wearing another red Yuksel badge. The man bounced on his heels as he walked and put on a smile for Hogarth’s benefit as he got nearer.
“Miray. You have found us a new customer,” he said as he approached. Hogarth put the man in his late twenties or early thirties. He had a young face and black hair, which was already starting to recede. Hogarth checked the man’s eyes for the brutal hardness he usually found in a killer; the cold, selfish look he’d seen on so many faces down the years. Hmmmm. There was something there. Something bright and edgy, a killer...? No. Hogarth found it impossible to tell. He certainly wasn’t an Atacan. He was too soft, more of a grazing animal than a predator. Hogarth would have recognised a predator anywhere.
“No. Not a customer,” said Miray. “This man is a policeman.”
Hogarth gave a thin smile as he read the man’s name badge. Izmir.
“A policeman,” said Izmir. “Funny, Miray. It seemed like you knew him.”
Miray smiled awkwardly at Izmir. He seemed too young, too... presentable for Miray.
“Yes, it’s true, Izmir. We were friends,” said Miray. Izmir looked surprised. “I knew Mr Hogarth from London. We knew each other a very long time ago.”
Hogarth winced inwardly at the word ‘very’ but didn’t let it show. He felt Miray drawing a line under the past. God knew she had her reasons. So be it. The word ‘very’ had seemed to please Izmir too. It was like a full stop.
“So, can we help you with anything, officer? Or was this a social call?”
“If only,” said Hogarth. “As it happens, I’m investigating a murder at a local takeaway.” Hogarth brandished his ID card.
“A murder? Where?” said Izmir. The man’s surprise seemed genuine. He looked at Miray.
“A business on Hamlet Court Road. A business run by a Turkish family. I was hoping you might know them – that you might be able to shed some light on the family...”
Izmir shook his head in confusion.
“You’re not talking about the Sen family?”
Hogarth slid his ID back into his blazer pocket.
“Unfortunately, yes. How did you know?”
“There’s only one Turkish takeaway on that street,” said Izmir. “Plenty of Turkish barbers, but only the Sens sell food.”
“You must know them all in here,” said Hogarth. He smiled. Izmir failed to heed the warning.
“Yes, I think we probably do,” said Izmir, with a hint of a laugh.
Very handy, thought Hogarth as Izmir’s smile faded. Miray started to toy with the beaded necklace by her throat. It was a self-conscious gesture he remembered well. Miray had always played with her necklace when she felt uncomfortable.
“But the Sens didn’t buy anything from us, inspector. Nothing at all. We have had no dealings with them for years.”
“Oh,” said Hogarth. “Is there any reason for that?”
“The old man Baba Sen was always a good businessman but very aloof. Very arrogant. He thought he was better than everyone else. That he was the best Turk in town...”
Hogarth’s eyes sparkled. New information, opinions, slander. It was all grist for the mill.
“Izmir!”
Izmir and Miray turned abruptly to face a stout old man watching them from behind the counter at the back of the shop. He looked at each of them for a moment before he turned his glaring eyes on Hogarth.
“Mr Yuksel, I take it?” said Hogarth.
The stout old man ignored him and barked loudly in Turkish. The younger man marched towards the counter, replying to the old man as he walked. Hogarth followed. Miray shot Hogarth a look of apology as he went. Hogarth gave a nod of acceptance.
As soon as he reached the counter, the old man turned to Hogarth. The severe look on his face had been tempered by one of shock.
“Baba Sen is dead?”
Hogarth nodded. “Yes. He was killed sometime early this morning.”
“How?”
“I’d prefer to ask the questions if you don’t mind, Mr Yuksel.”
He showed the man his ID. The old man bristled. “I heard what my son said to you just now. Izmir spoke wrongly of Sen, but he didn’t know the man was dead. We have no issue with Baba Sen or his family. It was up to them where they bought their supplies.”
“Then you didn’t think the man aloof? He didn’t act a cut above everyone – because that is what Izmir said?” Hogarth watched and listened.
Izmir looked awkward under the older man’s gaze.
“My son spoke wrongly. We have no problem with Baba Sen. Miray, please arrange to send some flowers to his family.”
Hogarth watched Miray nod obediently at the old man’s command. Seeing her subservience grated. Who the hell did the old codger think he was?
“Izmir, you go and help those customers,” said the old man. “Go.” The old man nodded towards one of the groups in the aisles behind them. The old man waited until they were both out of earshot before he spoke again.
The Secret Fear Page 6