The Secret Fear

by Solomon Carter

  “I don’t know for certain, but I think that man came for something from in here. The door was open. Do you know what else is in here, Mr Sen?”

  “Business paperwork and a hoard of other meaningless junk my father used to keep. I don’t know what half of it was. I never really had reason to look. He ran the business so tightly, like he guarded it. I suppose he didn’t trust us to run it very well in case we ran it into the ground. I loved him. He was my father. But he was a quiet and careful man, as well as a workaholic.”

  “Do you mind if I take a look?”

  The big man shrugged. “If it helps find the scum, of course,” he said. “Here, let me help.”

  Orcun Sen opened the cupboard and pulled out handfuls of contents. Palmer stood back, considering Sen and the phone in her hand. She needed to call in and yet she also wanted to see if there was anything else before she did so. One more minute wouldn’t hurt, would it? Palmer winced, realising she was acting as waywardly as DI Hogarth ever had. She had learned from the best. Orcun Sen pulled out files, A4 desk diaries, creased notebooks, papers, and all kinds of detritus. He also removed a concertina file.

  “That’s it. My father’s treasure trove. The business. His life. It’s all yours.”

  “Thank you, Mr Sen,” said Palmer.

  “Orcun,” reminded the big man. He walked away as Palmer started to pick through the files and papers. She needed to call the others, so speed was of the essence. A minute later, Orcun reappeared. There was a small batch of lined sheets in Palmer’s hand, stapled in one corner, and they bore a spidery blue hand. The text on them seemed to show a list of transactions and money along with sums and columns, but she didn’t know what they meant. Surely Baba Sen could have run his family business in such a haphazard way.

  Orcun clunked two glasses down on the worktop, then offered Palmer a tumbler of what smelt a little like Pernod but looked like milk and water.

  “Here. This is for you. The woman who fights killers in the dark.”

  She saw he wasn’t intending to withdraw the offer of a drink and her mouth twitched as she considered it.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “Raki. Lion’s milk. What else could we drink? After what has happened, we must drink to soothe the nerves.”

  Palmer looked at the glass. She remembered drinking raki from those days long past. With a polite smile, she took the glass and Orcun Sen clinked his against it, clinking against the bottom of the glass rather than the top. The tumbler was cold in her hand. Palmer sipped the drink and felt the fiery strength within the icy water. She sipped again. It was better than she remembered. Orcun Sen smiled at her enjoyment of the liquid.

  “Tonight, you are an honorary Turk,” he said.

  “Hmmmm,” said Palmer, her eyes already back on the stapled sheets. “What is all this?”

  Orcun looked at the sheets, squinting at the columns of numbers. “Looks like accounting, but it’s definitely not for the business. That was all done elsewhere. Spreadsheets with the accountant. This must have been another of my father’s old habits.”

  “But these are recent entries... as recent as... last week.”

  “What?” said Sen, as he sipped his raki. “Where?”

  “There’s a date here. Right here, see. It says two hundred pounds, just like the last entry, and the one before that. And looking at this sheet, it goes back at least a year. No. Two years. That’s two hundred pounds a month for just over two years. That’s four thousand eight hundred pounds.” She flicked the pages right back to the start and found a barely legible squiggle as a heading above the payments. The payments were headed ‘FADA’, the letters written in capitals. It had to be a Turkish word. “Have you any idea of what this might mean. The payments and the name?”

  Orcun Sen shook his head and crumpled his chin. “I don’t know anyone called Fada. To be honest, I don’t know what any of that means. Sorry. Like I said, my father was careful, secretive even.” His eyes sparkled at her as he spoke. Palmer had to be sure the man was telling the truth. She stared back, reading his expression. Sen shook his head and sipped again.

  “I honestly have no idea,” he said, but Palmer continued to look at him. He broke into a smile and shook his head. “I mean it. My father was not exactly an open book, DS Palmer. He was a quiet man. He smiled for his customers, but he was often serious and shook his head at the rest of us. What am I to do? Pretend I know something of this to keep you happy?”

  “Do you think any of this appears in the company accounts?”

  “No way. Not if my father was stashing his notes in here. Why would he keep this if it went into the accounts,” said Orcun.

  “And you’re a cash business. Takeaways normally are.”

  “Mostly,” said Orcun. “The customers still use cash most of the time. That’s changing, of course.”

  “This looks like a record of cash payments then. But to who...?”

  Orcun Sen looked into Palmer’s eyes as she drifted off in thought. A second later she was dialling on her mobile.

  “Wait, who are you calling?” said Sen.

  “Hogarth and the others. I should have called in before, I really must do it now.”

  She found Orcun Sen watching her with a look of amusement and something else. The strange look had Palmer pulling the phone away from her ear.

  “What is it, Mr Sen?” said Palmer.

  Orcun Sen smiled. “You’re a warrior of a woman. I’ve not met many like you, DS Palmer.”

  Palmer looked and suddenly understood the dynamic behind the glint in his eye. She raised an eyebrow and blushed. Sen saw Palmer had cottoned on.

  “Drink with me. Just one.”

  Palmer looked at her phone and Orcun Sen smiled. Palmer couldn’t help but smile back at such an audacious invitation. She hadn’t received an offer in so long it had felt as if no one saw her as a woman. But it seemed Orcun Sen certainly did.

  The man watched her enjoying his flattery and reached for her face. Just before his fingers could touch her chin, Palmer pulled back. She didn’t want to hurt the man, but it was a line she could never cross. She offered a guarded smile.

  “Thanks again,” she said, slowly.

  “Call me Orcun.”

  “Thanks, Orcun, but the drink is all I can accept.”

  Orcun Sen shrugged. “And that is a great shame – for both of us,” he said.

  Palmer gave Sen an incredulous smile as she dialled Hogarth. She wasn’t afraid of the big man, but with his romantic intent still lingering in the air, it was best not to wait any longer. She hit the green button and waited for Hogarth to pick up. Looking away from Sen’s eyes, still feeling flattered, Palmer allowed herself to indulge in a momentary ‘what if?’. Perhaps Orcun Sen had given her an ember of hope.

  Thirteen

  Hogarth’s phone was switched off. Palmer left a message and called Simmons immediately after. There was no point dragging in another set of uniforms for this. No good in that – just more drama to raise the hackles of the neighbours. Any more of that kind of attention and the likes of Alice Perry and other newshounds would be back in force. Besides, Palmer was already the detective on the premises and it turned out that DC Simmons was no more than a ten-minute walk away – which would give her a chance to think things through, both the attacker and the Baba Sen’s handwritten financials. And maybe it was for the best she was alone with Orcun Sen – though probably not for the reasons the big man was hoping. “Not bad,” said Palmer, sipping the raki. She glanced at Orcun as she sipped, then returned her eyes to the folded sheets of paper bearing Baba Sen’s spidery hand. She hoped they would reveal more over time – or maybe Sen would drop his guard and tell her more than he intended.

  “This is good stuff, no?” said Sen. “I bring a few bottles back whenever I go home – which is not often these days. The takeaway is always too busy. Or should I say, was too busy.” The man looked wistful. He was grieving, she remembered, though maybe not just for his father.
r />   “What do you mean?” said Palmer.

  Orcun gave a maudlin smile. “Baba didn’t just build this business. Baba was the engine behind it. He put in seventy hours a week plus, whether we made money or not. He was always here.”

  “You probably work just as hard, I expect,” said Palmer.

  “Maybe,” said Orcun. “But if you take my father out of the equation, we suffer. He cannot be replaced. Not without great cost. I don’t know how we’ll survive.”

  “You will, I’m sure,” said Palmer.

  Sen sipped his raki.

  “He was a great man, but not like his fans think. My father loved us in his own way, but only ever when we followed his ways. He wanted us to be men of faith like him, men of steel he called it. Zealots and believers. It’s funny. Erdoĝan, the president, was his role model. As bad as Erdoĝan is, Baba loved him.”

  “You think he’s bad?”

  “I wouldn’t argue with Baba about it. Politics and religion are always best avoided, no? But Erdoĝan was prime minister. He created his own job and fixed a referendum. Who else in the world does these things? That’s how they do things in Moscow. Now the man in the Kremlin – is he a good man?”

  “You sound like you have a strong opinion on the matter,” said Palmer.

  “Not really. But my father did. He admired Erdoĝan’s hard work in fixing the country. But Baba didn’t see the other side of it.”

  “And what is the other side of it?” said Palmer. She flipped the sheets over again but found only the same information. She sipped the raki again. It really wasn’t so bad.

  “Baba didn’t want to hear how the country was broken. Whenever Erdoĝan was on the news here looking like a villain, he said the UK had turned against him. He said it was propaganda. Ha! Love is blind, no? But hey, Turkey is not so different to your country. Both countries are broken, split right down the middle. One side hates the other and they’ll never be healed. When they tried to overthrow Erdoĝan in that wild coup, they made him stronger than ever. Erdoĝan won but Turkey did not win. Now only one side has all the power, and the other side has none – and the weaker side are the ones getting all the blame. It’s crazy over there. Baba followed it all closely but I gave up a long time back.”

  Palmer listened, and she frowned. “And you think this country is like that?”

  “Broken, divided, one side losing but not surrendered, one side in power at the expense of the others? There can be no peace in such a victory. Yes, you are the same.”

  “Politics, culture, and history over a glass of raki,” said Palmer. “You are quite a surprise, Mr Sen.”

  “Did you not know? This is what raki is made for. You know, I think Baba would have liked you, DS Palmer.”

  “And maybe I would have like him.”

  “Maybe you would have liked the public face, but not the personal. He would not have approved of us, for instance.”

  “Us?” said Palmer, with a hint of a laugh.

  “You are not a Muslim, my dear. Baba’s religion only got stronger over the years. It dominated him, like Erdoĝan.”

  “Is that why he didn’t like the Yuksels? They’re not religious?”

  “What? No! Baba hated them because they are genuine scumbags. Villains. Yusuf Yuksel is the worst of them all. He’s the worst Turk I’ve ever known. A criminal.”

  “Then why have I never heard of him? If he was that bad, he would have come up on my radar by now.”

  “Because the man is good at being bad, DS Palmer. The best ones stay invisible.”

  And others are good at laying the blame thought Palmer. But Orcun’s story seemed compelling enough. Despite the histrionics of their first meeting, his company wasn’t so bad. He seemed warm enough, though maybe the raki was helping her perception there. Yuksel was a pariah, eh? Interesting. She found herself gazing absent-mindedly at Sen while his words echoed in her mind. The best ones stay invisible.

  “What are you thinking?” said Sen.

  Palmer snapped out of her trance, her face still aching. She made a wry smile. “That the raki is good. But I was also wondering if Baba kept any more such paperwork upstairs.”

  “Upstairs?” said Sen. She watched him take a breath, his mind whirring, saw the glint in his eye. Palmer felt the sudden tension in the air and reminded herself of a few critically important facts. No matter what Orcun was thinking, she was on the job. Orcun Sen was still a suspect. And Simmons was on his way. Like chocolate, romance was very sweet for a moment but the consequences were paid for ever after. Palmer had to play along but she couldn’t get too close to the flame.

  “Drink up, and you can come and look around,” said Sen.

  Palmer made a show of thinking it over before she put the glass to her lips and downed the rest of the raki in one. She watched Orcun Sen smile and felt her own heartbeat pick up a little as she followed him across the kitchen, through the strip curtains, and towards his upstairs apartment. She hoped she was making the right calls. At least she wasn’t following the killer up to his lair. Or at least, she hoped not. Orcun Sen’s heavy body thudded up the steps into a warm, bright, golden-lit apartment. Palmer checked the time on her mobile as she closed the apartment door behind her. By her reckoning, she had to put up with a few minutes of the man’s attentions while she perused whatever he had – if indeed there was anything to see. Surely the man didn’t believe she would be easy to seduce. But then again, some men seemed to believe whatever they wanted to when it came to sex. At least he knew she would be no pushover. At the top of the stairs, Sen made a sweeping gesture to the large front room. Open plan, with pale furniture, and some ornate touches at the edges, the apartment reminded her of trips to Turkey. It was almost exotic. She blamed the raki. Careful now, she told herself, as her eyes roved the décor and her nostrils took in a range of smells. Garlic, oregano, cumin and ginger. Ginger was interesting – not often associated with Turkish cooking as she recalled.

  “Is that ginger I can smell?” she asked, staying at the top of the stairs. The meek new guest, awaiting her invitation. And awkwardly too, feeling like a girl at the beginning of a first date. Orcun beckoned her into the room and strode across to the kitchen, flicking on the light. She heard him open and close a fridge, heard bottles clink, heard a tap run, and then the big man emerged with two new brim-full glasses of raki, milky, and full of ice. The alcohol from downstairs was still swilling in her system, making Orcun seem more charming, more exotic, by the minute. It was the drink, she told herself. Sort yourself out, Sue. She took the glass and eyed it, knowing there was a ton more raki in this glass than the one before.

  “Ginger? Yes. One of my father’s other fixations, ginger tea, but not connected to the mosque. He loved ginger tea by the bucketload. He also liked coffee sometimes, Turkish coffee, strong and thick.”

  “Turkish coffee. I had some on holiday once,” said Palmer. “It was chewy as I remember.”

  “Yes. The English don’t like it much, eh?”

  Palmer declined to comment. But he was right. It was atrocious stuff.

  “Baba loved it. But most of the time he drank his ginger tea. Lately, he drank it like a fish.”

  Sen started to sip his raki and waited for Palmer to follow suit. She put the glass to her lips and let the merest hint pass her lips. It was like fire on her tongue, the aniseed very intense. It tasted almost neat. She guessed Orcun had devious intentions. But so did Palmer.

  “Very nice,” she said. Orcun looked pleased. “Now, you said your father kept some other papers somewhere here?”

  “Yes, I did. But come on, detective, sit down. Don’t you ever relax?” said Orcun.

  “Not when I’m on the job.”

  “But what if you are drinking raki?” he said.

  “Orcun, when the job is done, then I’ll relax,” she said, accepting his offer of a seat.

  “Detective,” said Orcun in a deep voice and with a broad smile, “I think I’ll hold you to that.”

  Sen marched acro
ss the living room and began to pound up a set of white-painted wooden slat steps into a dark upper room.

  “Is Ahsen here?” called Palmer. Orcun turned his head. Palmer couldn’t mistake the glint in his eye.

  “No. Ahsen has a life beyond this shop as he always tells me. He was born in England. He has friends and hobbies.”

  “Hobbies?”

  “He is a modern young man. As if he would tell me anything! I am his boring Turkish father. But no... Ahsen’s not here. We are quite alone.”

  Orcun left her with a smile. It had been quite and evening so far, and despite the raki softening her tension, and despite Orcun’s charms, Palmer wanted some peace. She was almost looking forward to seeing DC Simmons.

  The big man returned down the steps, his heavy frame making the stairs creak with every step. He held a red folder in his hand, with a brass clip on the front. The file had bumped corners and the white creases of age down the side. It looked old and well used. It was exactly the kind of thing Palmer had been hoping for. Maybe it would help explain the truth about the feud between the Sens and the Yuksels. Or at least show why someone would want the old man dead. Palmer sat up as Sen passed the folder across to her. She opened it as hastily as a child opening a Christmas present and pulled sheet after sheet and photograph after photograph from the dusty file. Sen dropped his big frame into the sofa close beside Palmer and leaned back. He sipped his drink and watched her.

  When Palmer turned to ask the man a question, she found him almost uncomfortably close. His face, the big un-Turkish blue eyes, were everywhere she looked. They hijacked her thoughts for a minute, but Palmer regained control as he smiled at her.

  “This folder. Have you looked through it?” said Palmer.

  “No. But I have nothing to hide from you. My father had his secret ways, but I am an open book. Life is easier that way, don’t you think.”

  “What about your son? Has he seen it?”

  “How am I to know? Ahsen is as secretive as his grandfather ever was.”

  Right now, Orcun Sen certainly was an open book. His body language was more open than she liked. She returned her eyes to the file, took another minute sip of raki to keep the man at bay, and picked and prodded at the old papers. The photographs showed the Sen family at various stages of life. One showed Baba Sen as a young man, but Palmer wasn’t interested in that. There had to be something about the reason for his death. Some clue leading her to understand the feud, if only... Palmer stopped looking as she saw another set of numbers on a much crisper, white sheet of paper. It was freshly computer-printed with one crease down the centre. In the middle, was a simple sum.