“I’m not trying to convince anyone, Ed. It’s a robbery, an angry murder, and a gangland killing, and it’s none of them at all. It’s a mess.”
“I’d say one of those options is right. Maybe more.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing yet – and not because I mean to be difficult, though it can be rather tempting when you push me. I haven’t got an opinion because I’m still running tests on a few things.”
Hogarth eyed the long line of the cut on Sen’s indented abdomen.
“Care to drop me a hint?”
“No,” said Quentin. “If I drop hints you’ll only push for more. I’m waiting for test results, inspector. But I wouldn’t rush to hang your hat on any one theory until I get them back.”
Hogarth nodded. “When?” he said.
“When indeed? When the science is complete, I’ll let you know. No please don’t push, it won’t happen any quicker than it can.”
“Fair enough,” said Hogarth. He started to turn away from the body and Quentin pulled the sheet up over Sen’s face and followed Hogarth towards the double doors.
“So what do you make of it so far, inspector?” said Quentin. “One dead middle-aged Turkish man, beaten to death, cut, robbed...?”
“You make it sound like the beginning of a very bad joke,” said Hogarth.
“Murder doesn’t make for a happy punchline.”
“No. But it usually always serves a purpose.”
“So what purpose does this one serve?” said Quentin.
“I don’t like the robbery idea. Too messy. There are too many easier steals around for the scum to try before they’d ever get to this.”
“What then?”
“A cruel beating and a cut to the head? To my mind that’s retribution. It’s an angry, vengeful kill.”
“And why?”
“Because for all his smiles, for all the alleged goodwill from his boozed-up customers, it looks like our Baba Sen was up to more than he let on. I think Baba must have crossed someone he shouldn’t, and he paid the price.”
“Gangland violence it is then? A revenge killing. The revenge is shown in the beating, I take it?”
“I’d say so, wouldn’t you?”
“Just don’t get too hung up on it, inspector. I’m sure your answer’s coming.”
The playful spark in Quentin’s eyes irritated the hell out of him.
“Thanks for the help,” said Hogarth, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Quentin had a hunch, Hogarth knew it, but Quentin wouldn’t gamble. He would have to wait until Quentin knew for certain what he had. Until then, Hogarth would go with the little he knew. The letter ‘A’ and a dead man caught up in a feud. Whatever Quentin had, all the signs still pointed to a ghost from the past. In his old London days, Hogarth had come close to a brush with the Atacan family. Thankfully, he had pulled back from the brink. Now it seemed, his entire team would have to be just as careful. If the Atacans were around, one wrong move and they would have more bodies on their hands. Maybe even police bodies too...
Ten
DS Palmer walked into the Yuksel Cash and Carry with a faked air of nonchalance. She was just a policewoman with a few questions, that’s all. Nothing for anyone to be worried about. But she was tense and uncertain. Hogarth didn’t know about her visit and he wouldn’t have approved. But he was dragging them towards an impasse. Wait and see wasn’t Hogarth’s usual game. Over time and proximity, he had infused Palmer with his own methods. And Melford’s twitchy behaviour was enough to send anyone out on an urgent inquiry. Palmer looked around.
There were more people perusing the shelves than last time. A pair of middle-aged women were looking at catering equipment while some younger guys flitted through on errands to buy goods for their employers. Palmer watched them come and go. She noticed the customers were almost all foreign in origin – either Turkish or Asian, seemingly buying stock for restaurant or takeaway businesses. If business was this brisk, it said a lot about the success of the Yuksel Cash and Carry. It also said a lot about the diet of the town. Takeaways were doing well and the local NHS would be paying the price. Palmer walked idly down the first aisle, glancing at the shelf labels, listening to the people discussing what they needed to buy – when she could understand it. Izmir Yuksel was engrossed in a phone call behind the counter situated off to one side. He hadn’t seen her from his position standing sideways to her, staring at a computer screen as he spoke. The call seemed to be conducted entirely in Turkish, but Palmer gathered it was very much a business call. Dealing with Izmir would come later. For now, Palmer had a different target. She kept out of sight of the counter by walking between the narrow aisles until she saw Miray handing change and a receipt to a tall Asian man holding a stack of boxes by the tills. The man thanked her in English and she smiled at him. Palmer got a good look at the woman. She was prettier than Palmer remembered, with the striking but subtle glamour of a lot of Mediterranean women. Her face had strength and yet elegance too. Even without much make-up in evidence, Palmer saw yet another of Hogarth’s women who seemed naturally attractive without much effort. It was almost dispiriting. The woman was of Hogarth’s age – or just shy of it – two or three years older than Palmer. As Palmer looked, Miray glanced down the aisle and saw her. Palmer wasn’t sure whether the woman would run and tell her superiors that she was hanging around in the store, but she gave a subtle nod and Miray offered an apology of a smile. She looked left and right before she stepped from the till and walked towards her.
“DS Palmer,” said Palmer, offering a hand. One brief shake and Miray let go. Business-like. Her eyes were inquisitive, nervous too perhaps. Palmer noticed the woman reached to the beads around her neck. A gesture she had seen before.
“Miray,” she said. “Did Joe send you?”
“Joe?” The name sounded so odd, for a moment Palmer couldn’t place it. “You mean DI Hogarth? No. He didn’t send me. But I am here on his behalf.” It was a half lie at best.
“Baba Sen,” Miray said with a nod. “It’s so terrible. And what happened here with the man’s son was bad as well.” Miray looked back over her shoulder. “It should have been resolved in a kinder way. The families don’t like each other, this is true, but there is no excuse for carrying on so badly when a man has been killed.”
“Which suggests the hatred between these two families runs deep,” said Palmer.
Miray’s face took on a careful aspect. “Yes. I think so,” she said.
“Your name, Miray,” said Palmer. “Your surname is Atacan? Is that right?”
The woman paused, her hand frozen around her necklace. She studied Palmer for a moment. Her dark eyes were nervy. Soon, breathily, the name came like a release of air.
“Yes. My married name was Atacan.”
“Married?”
“My family name was Ozman. I was married to a man called Atacan for years. But they were bad times. Bad times in London. Look, all of this is on the record, and I have put it behind me. And yes, my husband was involved in a criminal business. I do not have to hide this. But my husband was killed.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Atacan.”
“Please, I always prefer to use Miray. I would never use that other name again if I could choose. They were unhappy times.”
Palmer hesitated, then spoke her mind. “Then why do you keep the name? I’m sure it must have some unfortunate connotations for you... some bad memories...”
Palmer knew her questioning was clumsy. The Turkish woman’s dark eyes hardened.
“Then you know something of the Atacans,” said Miray. “I am not surprised. The name was infamous. I suppose I couldn’t hope to escape it by moving just forty miles away. But I couldn’t go any further. I only know this part of England as my home, and I have a job here – a place here with the Yuksels.”
Palmer frowned. She tried to make her next question seem like another friendly aside.
“And you’re happy here?” said Palmer.
�
�Much happier than I was,” she replied. But her answer implied other problems. From what she had seen of the Yuksels, Palmer guessed a few of them.
“But surely you don’t have to be committed to this place just because of a job? You could always get a job somewhere else.”
“Why? You don’t know my life. What better job is there? This name follows me. It’s known all over.”
“Then why not change your name.”
“Turkish people are not always so progressive, DS Palmer. Some of us are modern and some of us less so. But being modern doesn’t save a Turkish woman from problems as old as time.”
“I don’t understand,” said Palmer.
“I don’t expect you do. But don’t misunderstand me, please. I am not a weak person, DS Palmer. A lot of Turkish people are modernised and looked to the west. But Turkey is still a way behind in the things you take for granted. And from what people at home say it is getting worse. My homeland is going backwards, DS Palmer... just like some of the families here.”
“Going backwards?” said Palmer.
“Less freedoms. Less equality.”
“But you’ve been in England a long time. The Turkish community must have become modernised by England.”
“But we are still very Turkish. Men are men, women are women. And in some families, it is even more pronounced.”
Palmer gave a nod. “If you are unhappy you should do something about it. Forgive me for saying so, but I still don’t see why you should feel obliged to follow rules you don’t like.”
The woman looked around nervously, and Palmer glanced around too. The old man passed in the shadows at the back of the shop. He hadn’t seen them, but Palmer sensed it wouldn’t be long.
“Apart from this job I don’t see how else these people can control you,” said Palmer. “And unlike the others, you didn’t get involved when Orcun Sen charged in. You’re really not like them, are you?”
“They are not always like that, DS Palmer. Don’t judge them all too harshly. I see a kinder side.”
Palmer wasn’t having it. “Miray, whatever trap you were in before, it’s finished, you said so yourself. You don’t have to obey a dead husband.”
Miray didn’t flinch at the hard words.
“As I said, I didn’t expect you to understand.”
“This family, this business – is it very patriarchal?”
Miray gave a nod.
“And Yusuf Yuksel is the chief disciplinarian, I take it?”
“DS Palmer. I thought you were asking me about my past. I thought this was something to do with Joe. Please don’t put me in a difficult position, I can’t talk about Yusuf and Izmir. They are my hosts, my new family.”
Family seemed an extreme way of putting it. Palmer put the wording down to the great cultural divide. It certainly wasn’t a family Palmer would have wanted to join
“You and Joe,” said Miray, hesitating. “Are you and he friends... as well as colleagues?”
Palmer pursed her lips. “I’d say we’re colleagues first and foremost...”
“But you’re looking out for him? That’s why you came to see me, isn’t it?” The woman looked at Palmer with her big dark eyes. There was a hint of suspicion in her words. Palmer felt herself blushing and shook her head to dispel it.
“It’s not like that. DI Hogarth doesn’t need looking after. I came because of the case.”
“Oh, men like Joe always need looking after. It’s good to see he has friends who will do that for him. He’s a very good man, DS Palmer.”
The conversation was straying onto uncomfortable ground. Miray had dragged her across a line she needed to retreat from fast. Palmer swallowed and changed tack.
“I’m here about the case,” said Palmer. “I’m afraid I have to ask some more questions about your past. I’m sorry.”
The woman looked upset. “Please. You will make things very difficult for me. Yusuf doesn’t like me to talk of my past. It was a bad time and he knows it. I have to respect that. The Yuksels have given me a second chance here. A clean slate.”
Palmer held back a frown. “Why? Did Mr Yuksel know you before?”
“Please. This has nothing to do with what happened to Baba Sen.”
“Even so, your past may prove relevant to this case.”
“You mean my past with Ferkan? My dead husband?” Miray spoke with a hard edge. “I really don’t see how it could.”
Palmer thought of mentioning Hogarth’s concerns about the Atacans and the letter ‘A’ he’d seen on Baba Sen’s head, but the information wasn’t hers to give. Besides, the woman might be terrified by the news. Palmer didn’t fancy digging herself into a deeper hole.
“It’s a possibility, that’s all,” said Palmer. “We have to explore it.”
“If you must,” said Miray, her voice no louder than a whisper.
“You were married to Ferkan Atacan, a man I’ve heard described as notorious. But how close were you to the other members of the Atacan family? Were you there during the worst times?
“By worst times, do you mean when they ruled London? Please. I have been through all of this many times when my husband was killed. If you needed to know these things, then why not ask Joe? He could answer half your questions and save the trouble.”
“I just have to double check, that’s all...” Another little lie came so easily.
“Then no. I wasn’t around during their heyday. They ruled London in the eighties and the nineties. I am not so old,” said Miray with a joyless smile. “I met Ferkan in two thousand and seven when people would say the Atacan family was in decline. But that didn’t matter to me. None of it mattered. It wasn’t as if any of it was through my choice. I met Ferkan at a wedding, and within a year we were wed ourselves. I didn’t meet Joe Hogarth until much later, by which time I knew Ferkan’s business more clearly. But even when I met Joe, it was not in his position as a policeman. It was a chance thing. If it had ended differently, we would have called it fate.”
Palmer winced as she saw a brief spark of joy in the woman’s eyes. It soon disappeared. She shook her head. “Let’s just say that my marriage to Ferkan wasn’t happy, yes? Like I said, not all Turkish men are progressive. Ferkan was a modern man, but not one of the good ones. He was a monster, but I was married to him. I hate to say it, but Joe would know. I’m glad that Ferkan is dead. His death was a blessing – and not only for me.”
“Miray, I’m sorry, I have to ask this. But rest assured, we’ll be asking the same of everyone. Where were you between four am and six am this morning?”
She saw hints of tears in the woman’s eyes.
“Here. Always here. I live in the flat above this shop. I live here for work.”
“And have you got anyone who can vouch for you about that?”
“Like a boyfriend, you mean? No. Mr Yuksel is old fashioned. I did take a phone call early this morning... but it won’t help. I didn’t even get up until seven.”
“You had a phone call?” said Palmer.
Miray blinked and looked back in the direction of the counter.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s outside the times you’re asking about. Sorry, DS Palmer, I can’t prove what I’m telling you. But I didn’t kill Baba Sen. I’ve seen too much suffering in my life to wish anyone harm.”
“I wasn’t accusing you, Miray. But do you know of anyone who might have had a reason to hurt Mr Sen?”
“Who are you thinking of, DS Palmer?”
The woman took on a guarded air. Before Palmer could elaborate there was a loud bark of Turkish from the end of the aisle. Miray’s head snapped around as old man Yuksel stormed towards them, his head down in full attack-dog mode. Palmer cleared her throat and got ready for a frank exchange. Palmer didn’t intend to kowtow to the man. After the problems Yuksel had caused DI Hogarth, she wasn’t in the mood to take any of the old man’s nonsense.
“Now you! Why are you here?” said the old man. “Won’t you people let us get on with our work in peace?�
��
Palmer watched him shoot a severe look at Miray. The woman seemed to shrink in response. Palmer bristled but reminded herself to stay composed.
“I don’t like your attitude, Mr Yuksel,” said Palmer. “Do you intend to cooperate with this investigation or not?”
“I have already cooperated with it.”
“To the least possible degree.”
“What more do you want? You took myself and my son and Orcun Sen to the police station. You interviewed my son.”
“You offered to cooperate. You didn’t.”
“What do you want?” said Yuksel. “You want us to apologise for that man’s death even though we have nothing to do with it? Even after the Sen family have taken against us for so many years, and tried to harm us in so many ways? There is no reason for you to hound me, my family, or my staff. Miray, you go back to your job. I’ll deal with this woman.
“Detective Sergeant Palmer,” Palmer corrected him. The old man twisted his neck left and right as if his shirt collar was getting tight. It was a sign of irritation. Palmer was pleased to be having the desired effect.
“Come to my office,” said Yuksel.
Palmer followed the old man towards the counter. As Miray watched Palmer and old man Yuksel marching away to the office, her fingers once again trailed to her necklace. Behind the counter, Izmir looked at the Turkish woman with a hint of sympathy.
YUKSEL’S OFFICE WAS a white-walled box to the rear of the counter. Palmer familiarised herself as the old man settled himself behind his expansive desk. He didn’t offer her a seat and Palmer didn’t mind. Instead, she studied the shelves behind him and the photographs for any insight into the man and his business. There were a couple of images of old man Yuksel on the wall, one was a shot of Yusuf Yuksel standing outdoors with a group of men wearing blue boiler suits, with two gleaming saloon cars positioned either side of them. The group shot featured men of all ages, shapes, and sizes, dressed like Kwik-fit fitters, and they looked foreign one and all. One man held a jet-wash gun in his hands. Two others held big yellow sponges. It looked like the usual cheesy set-up shot The Record newspaper used when running a feature and had been taken at one of the local hand car wash businesses. A glimpse of blue and yellow signage in the corner told Palmer it was the one further down on West Road. It was one Palmer had used a few times herself. These days, cleaning the Corsa hardly seemed worth the effort. Sponges couldn’t wipe the big dents away. Beside the car-wash shot was another picture of the old man wearing a tuxedo. He stood next to an ageing, but glamorous woman. The woman had the same hints of Turkish features Palmer had seen on Miray and PCSO Ecrin Kaplan. Alongside the couple – within the same image – was another group of men in suits. They were side on and looking in another direction as if posing for another nearby camera shot. Palmer guessed the snap had been taken at a wedding or another public event where lots of photographs had been taken at once. One of the nearby group was looking Yuksel’s way, his face fully captured in the shot. It was like a minor photobomb, one Yuksel had chosen to overlook. Palmer stepped close to look at the car-wash picture, then she glanced again at the tuxedo image. She studied the proud face of Yuksel, and then the eyes of the photobomber at their side. The man’s invasion ruined the couple’s moment, but the photo remained. Palmer felt sure everyone in the image looked Turkish, or thereabouts.
The Secret Fear Page 12