The Secret Fear

by Solomon Carter

  “What do you mean?” said Hogarth.

  “The crime scene was a total mess. It seems to show slapdash thinking – the total lack of any logic as far as I can see. It’s the contradictions that fascinate me.”

  “Enlighten me,” said Hogarth, blinking with anticipation.

  “The attack happened when Mr Sen was getting ready to leave...” said Dickens.

  “So we’ve got a crime which could have been planned by a man who knew Sen’s routine.”

  “Or an opportunist,” said Dickens.

  “You reckon?” said Hogarth. “An opportunist who waits until four or five in the morning down a narrow back alley in case someone opens their back door?” said Hogarth. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “It’s still possible,” said Dickens with a shrug. “But the investigation is your show, of course.”

  “The way I see it, if they came in the back door at that time of the morning, someone must have had been watching him and waiting. They might have known he always worked late.”

  “Either way,” said Dickens, “the victim was taken by surprise. The lack of light in the shop didn’t help. I suppose you’ve got a point about the opportunist idea. But it’s the sheer brutality of the attack which adds credibility to the idea of a planned attack – or at least says that the attacker knew his victim. If he did know him, he must have hated him. Even so I think switching off the lights was a self-inflicted wound by the attacker. I’d say he turned off the lights to enable an easy attack but ended up making things more difficult for himself. That might explain the mess. That’s why his footprints are by the light switches. It’s possible then the victim might have known the attacker. But opportunist or planner, it goes awry from there.”

  “Go on,” said Hogarth.

  “The moment when Sen and his attacker come together – the footprints show a lot of movement, blurring and sliding across the floor. They get very indistinct and messy where the struggle takes place, near the chicken oven. That’s where the attempt to kill happened.”

  “Attempt to kill, John?” said Hogarth, raising an eyebrow. “Why attempt?”

  “I’m a fusspot, that’s why. You know what I’m like,” said Dickens. “Until the verdict is in, we don’t know for sure. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s just something Ed Quentin said, that’s all. He made it seem that the cause of death was in doubt. I don’t suppose you happen to know why that might be, do you?”

  “We’re still processing the crime scene and Marris has taken the forensics... but no. No. I don’t know what Quentin’s alluding to. So, I take it you’ve been hassling the good doctor as well?”

  “I need ammunition, John, something I can scare the suspects with. I can question them ‘til I’m blue in the face, but with nothing to go on, it’s all just hot air, and the killer will know it.”

  “Sorry. You’ll have to wait for word from Quentin on that one. Let me know when you hear, won’t you?”

  “I’ll keep you in the loop,” said Hogarth. “But from your perspective, Baba Sen was definitely beaten to a pulp.”

  “Clearly. You saw the head, face, and neck as well I as I did. Those marks weren’t love bites. The man went down hard on those tiles. There was blood all over the floor which came from the contusions to the head and from the man’s broken nose. If the attack didn’t kill him, I don’t know what did.”

  “Have you got a sequence of events?”

  “The change in the footprints helps there. The first set were pressed into mopped floors. The second set contain the victim’s blood. That gives us a sequence.”

  “What about the cut to the scalp, John, the ‘A’ mark. I need something on that. The way it happened...”

  “That’s for Quentin to say,” said Dickens.

  “Not entirely. How about the order of events around the cut?”

  “Let’s see. Baba Sen was beaten and strangled, and he went down to the floor – maybe through a loss of consciousness or possibly because he was already dead. Over to Quentin there. But this is the interesting part. The knife used to mark the man’s head was bent out of shape. There’s a gentle double-groove to the blade – a kink caused when the attacker wedged the knife into the cash register to lever the drawer open for the robbery. The marks on the till correspond to the knife.”

  “Thanks, but we already got that part,” said Hogarth.

  “But, did you know the knife was bent before the cut was made? It had to have been.”

  Hogarth frowned and picked up his coffee, the handset pinched between his ear and his shoulder. “Eh?”

  “The attacker mutilated Sen’s body after he’d broken into the till,” said Dickens. “Which is a bit strange don’t you think? If it happened the other way around Sen’s blood would have been on the till – put there by the knife. And the streaking of blood across the blade would have been very different to what it is now.”

  “Which means...?” said Hogarth.

  “Which means it shows an odd way to go about the attack. It’s all arse about face. The killer beats the man – he’s wearing gloves as there are no prints on the knife. So far so good. Sen dies. But then the attacker then raids the till...”

  “But all that works so far. Some might say the attack happened because the killer wanted money. Stealing it after Sen is dead makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “You don’t believe that, do you?” said Dickens.

  “But it is a view, all the same.” It was Melford’s view, part for convenience, part because his brain was trapped somewhere else in the universe.

  “That order of events stops being reasonable after the knife gets wedged into the till,” said Dickens. “Because at that the point the man throws those coins all over the floor...”

  “Throws the coins over the floor...? How do you know that?”

  “Because firstly, the victim’s blood was found underneath the coins. Blood probably from the facial injuries rather than the later mutilation to the scalp”

  “Because there wasn’t any circulation to generate blood loss from the scalp wound.”

  “No. It’s likely he was dead or dying,” said Dickens. “There was still enough blood ooze around the wound to suggest some kind of pulse. And from the fact that blood and tissue matter were found on the point of the knife, the scalp cut was made after the till was robbed. You see? The process is almost schizophrenic.”

  “Schizophrenic?”

  “Why didn’t he make the cut when he was hurting the man before? Instead, he goes for the till then makes the cut. The sequence is haphazard, almost random.”

  “You think he was flying by the seat of his pants?”

  “I’m just outlining the sequence. That’s up to you. And there’s another thing – the way the coins land in the blood,” said Dickens. “The pattern of the coin fall. That wasn’t a random accidental scattering. The blood spatter and the angle show it was almost certainly deliberate – probably done for show.”

  “Now that’s an insight,” said Hogarth. They were getting somewhere. Dickens was adding flesh to the bones of the case to take him towards the killer – and ammunition he could use in the interview room.

  “The cut to the scalp,” said Dickens. “I can’t talk about the detail.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve seen it. The killer cut the letter ‘A’ into his head, end of story.”

  “Any ideas why?” said Dickens.

  “It’s a signature. I’ve seen it before, heard about it too, but that was back in my Met days. I never thought I’d see it down here.”

  “Serious then, is it?”

  Hogarth sighed. “I don’t want to be right about this. I can hardly bear to think about it.”

  “I never had you down as superstitious, Hogarth. A bit of a fatalist maybe, but never afraid of walking under ladders.”

  “The only time I walk under a ladder is when I’m going to push the bugger off,” said Hogarth. “. It could be a Turkish gang thing, but I’m really hoping it’s not.”
>
  “Then the opportunist thief theory goes up in a puff of smoke right there.”

  “John, that went up in smoke as soon as you said the killer tossed the coins in the air and cut Sen as a goodbye gesture. Good job too. I don’t mind shaking down a few rogues, but I’d rather not waste my time on all the wrong people.”

  “You said it,” said Dickens. “Those coins had to be thrown. It was a trick probably intended to demonstrate a struggle for money.”

  “They wanted it to seem like the murder was all about the cash,” said Hogarth. “But who in their right mind kills a takeaway owner for a few quid? Too much of a risk, from CCTV cameras to witnesses, and everything else between. It never did fit.” Hogarth’s eyes narrowed. He imagined the unknown attacker moving in the darkness of early morning and tried out several known faces in his head. Orcun, Izmir... and a faceless Atacan.

  “Then after all that, the man cut the ‘A’ in Sen’s head.”

  “Yes. With the bent knife. Which might explain what looked like a very untidy cut. You saw it. It wasn’t a good job, was it?”

  “Not the best,” said Hogarth. “And you think it’s because the knife was damaged?”

  “It’s possible,” said Dickens.”

  Hogarth considered it. The bent knife was a good explanation of the ragged incision.

  “And after that? Have you got anything else?”

  “Just the size nine footprints in the blood spatter, making for the back door. It looks like our man entered the kitchen from the customer counter. We know the only reason he would have done that is because of the light switches were there and he’d have been screened a little by the door curtain. There’re also the initial prints from the entrance and the man making his way down the corridor before he turned out the lights. Those prints were left in water and bleach residue from mopping. Then there’s the bloody prints laid over them when the man made his exit, and from the struggle in the centre of the floor. And there maybe something on the curtains at the back door left when the attacker made his exit.”

  “Those lovely plastic strip curtains. Simmons has a bee in his bonnet about them.”

  “Then he’ll be pleased to know there’s a trace of Sen’s blood on them, probably from the man’s gloves.”

  “Then those curtains might help us after all.”

  “Only as a small part of the picture. The real evidence of what happened is all over that floor.”

  “And the peculiar method,” said Hogarth. “What do you make of it, John? Is there any way this could have been carried out by a man with experience of murder?”

  “It’s a mess, inspector. The truth? No. I can’t see this man as a pro. Not at all. This crime was chaotic. If the robbery effort had been planned at all well, the killer wouldn’t have used any old knife to do the job. He would have brought a tool of his own.”

  “Good point,” said Hogarth.

  “And if the scalp cut was part of a plan, then surely he would have used a better knife? A knife brought for the purpose. The only thing we know for certain is that this man badly wanted Sen dead. He wanted to see the light go from his eyes. I’d say that’s why the attacker gripped him by the neck and beat him whilst choking the life out of him. When you add in the violence to the face, and the cut after death, the hatred towards the man is obvious. This is much more than a robbery.”

  “The community loved him, John. All of them, the dossers, the drinkers, the local families. Baba Sen was the Mr Kebab of Hamlet Court Road. And so far, I’ve only got one set of suspects who could hate the man that much. Even so, I’m not altogether convinced.”

  “Why not?” said Dickens.

  “Because this killing is a lot of things. It’s brutal. It’s a robbery. You’ve got the letter ‘A’ carved in the man’s head. It’s like one of those weather forecasts where the weatherman says it’s going to be rain, sun, and snow. We don’t know what this crime really is. The killer has covered his tracks.”

  “Not altogether convincingly,” said Dickens.

  “The robbery? No? But motive has been cast in all directions – to any bugger else who fits the bill. Gangs. Rivals. Even the local dossers. I’m beginning to think the killer knew where to point his finger. Thanks, John. It was worth the call,” said Hogarth with a sigh.

  “That almost sounded like a thank you,” said Dickens.

  “It did, didn’t it? See you soon, John.”

  Hogarth dropped the phone into the cradle and his eyes glazed in thought. The ragged ‘A’ on Sen’s bald bead. The messy crime scene. Surely the Atacans would have never been so unprofessional. Hogarth began to see the crime with fresh eyes. His initial feelings about the crime scene had been spot on – the robbery was a spurious diversion. The heart of the case was the violent beating. But he still needed a ‘why’. Seeing Miray and worrying about her had briefly knocked him off course. But Dickens, the stoic old sourpuss, had put his compass back in order. What if the Atacans’ involvement had been faked along with the robbery? Hogarth chewed his lip. It was a comforting thought, but it also gave him a kick in the backside. It was high time he went out to survey his main suspects. He knew Melford would want to know the street dossers had been grilled. If not, the newly twitchy DCI would probably go off like Krakatoa all over again. And that had been nothing short of embarrassing. But the truth was that the dossers weren’t in the frame. It was a well-known fact that most killers knew their prey better than anyone else... For instance, Orcun Sen appeared to be grieving, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t have killed his father. Perhaps there was insurance money at stake. Then there was the quiet younger man with the ponytail. Azef or whatever his name was. He was a walking question mark with a dodgy air about him. Yes, he needed to take a much closer look at the Sens, but old Yusuf Yuksel was still the ogre he wanted most. There was a menace about the man which Hogarth couldn’t put his finger on. Yuksel was where he intended to start, rattling the old man’s cage as much as Yuksel had shaken his. Hogarth picked up his coffee and glanced at the clock. It was late in the day. Palmer should have been back by now, surely. Hogarth had just taken his mobile from his pocket to call her when the office door opened. He lowered his phone but it was only Simmons. The young man stopped in the doorway seeing the expression on Hogarth’s frazzled face.

  “No need to look so disappointed,” said Simmons.

  “I’m never disappointed when I see you, Simmons. You’re an endless source of amusement, an oasis in the desert of an otherwise dour working day.”

  “Was that even a compliment?”

  “Don’t ask me questions like that, Simmons. I might have to answer them. Have you seen DS Palmer?”

  “She went out, guv. Something to do with the case. I was busy with tracking that WhatsApp number so I didn’t pay much mind.”

  Hogarth could have cracked another joke at Simmons’ expense, but he took pity on him, instead saying, “And?”

  “It’s not brilliant news, guv. The other number is just that. A number not registered to any name or any other accounts which could give us a clue. I should have guessed. Izmir Yuksel’s WhatsApp shows the assigned contact name for Istanbul S, but the other one is just a number. If there was a contact name of any kind – a social media account attached – it would have had a contact name assigned automatically.”

  “Which means our nameless contact might well be using a disposable phone. Which makes them a little on the shady side. Our chum Izmir isn’t exactly helping himself here, is he? Shame really, because he’s not the Yuksel I want for this. The old man’s got more attitude than I like in my suspects. It’s like the old goat thinks he’s invincible. I’d like to take him down a peg or ten, wouldn’t you?”

  “He can’t be the killer, guv. He’s too old.”

  “He’s not using a Zimmer frame yet. He hated Baba Sen more than anyone else we’ve met, and he looked pretty handy when Orcun Sen was storming towards him.”

  Simmons nodded but didn’t look convinced. Wishful thinking didn’t ha
ve Hogarth convinced either. “I know,” said Hogarth. “Okay. We need to take a look at the Sens, and at Izmir Yuksel. Maybe an old friend might shed some light on Izmir for me. Who knows...?”

  “About Istanbul S,” said Simmons.

  “Yes?” said Hogarth, his mind still on Miray.

  “I’ve found a social media account registered with that name. And there’s another very similar page S and in the name of Salman.”

  “And? You think these could be our unknown number?”

  “No guv. But I think Salman and Istanbul S are probably connected to it. Interestingly both pages have a guy wearing sunglasses on them – It’s possible that it’s the same guy. And both have the Turkish flag on them. Apart from that, there’s not many posts, just a few pictures of their contacts. All Turkish, and none are Yuksels.”

  “Not everybody lives on the internet, Simmons.”

  “But the pages still looked a bit too empty for my liking,” said Simmons. “Like one of those accounts set up for another purpose. Or like they had been abandoned. Or like one of those Russian bot’s accounts on Twitter. The propaganda ones.”

  “You’re racing away from me here. What exactly are you suggesting?” said Hogarth.

  “I’m just surmising.”

  “Surmise then,” said Hogarth.

  “I think Istanbul S is real. And I think Salman could be the same guy. That’s what it looks like to me. What with him and the unknown number on Izmir’s WhatsApp group, it’s all a bit suspect.”

  “Suspect and Izmir. Those two words are beginning to stick, don’t you think? Like salt and vinegar. Izmir’s creeping to the top of my list. Okay. We can ask him about his blank canvas contacts, and then we’ll ask him about who was on that video call. I want to find out what impression others have of him as well. We’ve got to look at the whole picture.”

  “The whole picture?”

  “Yeah. The rest of our suspect list. Orcun Sen and the snowflake with the ponytail, Azez, Azif, Atish-yoo...”

  “Ahsen, sir.”

  “Yes, him. He looks like the weakest link in the Sen family. If him or daddy Orcun have been up to something, I think he’d be the one to crack first.”