Dance with Death

by Barbara Nadel

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Trading his arse around the Saray Hamam and other disreputable places,’ Ardıç continued. ‘Parasite!’

  ‘Maybe. But sir, he was murdered. His throat was slit . . .’

  ‘Indeed. But by who, eh, Süleyman?’

  ‘Sir?’

  The older, larger and very hungry man turned a piece of paper over in his hands. ‘Dr Sarkissian’s assistant, Dr Mardin, tells me that Tapan’s body is clean. There are no signs of sexual activity and beyond asserting that the killer wielded the murder weapon with his left hand she can tell us very little. Preliminary forensics have yielded nothing also. Whoever killed Tapan was very careful.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Süleyman saw the commissioner raise an eyebrow which caused him to turn slightly to one side. The older man was, he felt, searching his face for signs of recognition or suspicion. Either that or Süleyman himself was becoming ever more paranoid.

  ‘So, Süleyman,’ the commissioner continued, ‘do you have any thoughts?’

  Süleyman cleared his throat. ‘Well, sir, Tapan’s death is obviously unconnected with what we now know were terrorist attacks on the Neve Şalom and Beth Israel synagogues. Tapan was not Jewish and I believe that his death in the Karaköy area was in all probability purely coincidental.’

  The older man moved his head just slightly in order to signal his assent.

  ‘In addition,’ Süleyman continued, ‘an immediate connection between Tapan’s death and the current peeper investigation should not necessarily be taken as a given. Tapan was, like some of the peeper’s victims, a practising homosexual. In common with several boys the peeper has abused, he frequented the Saray Hamam. However, all of the other victims were attacked and subjected to sexual activity in their own homes.’

  ‘Yes. This may not be attributable to the peeper.’

  ‘But we have to keep an open mind, don’t we, sir? You say that the killer was left-handed?’

  Ardıç frowned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, that could be something, sir,’ he said. ‘Left-handers are a minority group, after all.’

  ‘I am left-handed, Süleyman.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ He leaned forwards on to Ardıç’s desk. ‘Sir, the handedness of the peeper has never been subject to discussion before. It could be important. I think I might re-interview some of the previous victims with that in mind. Of course, if I could speak to Abdullah Aydın who was actually stabbed and survived and who saw . . .’

  ‘That boy is still far too sick,’ Ardıç cut in, reaching as he did so for one of his unlit cigars. ‘He’s still on life support. I told you I’d let you know when you can have access to him, and I will.’

  ‘Oh, sir, I wouldn’t dream of . . .’

  ‘You’ve already turned up there once,’ Ardıç said with a scowl. ‘Dr Arkın called me.’

  ‘But sir . . .’

  ‘However, in view of this business at the synagogue which was admirable on your part, I mention it now only to warn you for the future. Do not attempt to contact Abdullah Aydın until you get the say-so from me.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Now, how is Cohen’s son? Is there anything we can do?’

  And for the rest of their time together, the two men spoke only of Berekiah Cohen and about how good it was that he was now out of danger. That he may possibly never work in the jewellery trade again was not discussed. It was far too early, so Süleyman felt, to be indulging in speculation about something as uncertain as the recovery of a damaged limb. When he did finally leave the commissioner’s office, Süleyman tried to call İkmen on his mobile in order to talk to him about what had happened in Karaköy. Fatma İkmen, he knew, had been in contact, but he had not spoken to Çetin himself and he suddenly felt the need to do so. However, the older man wasn’t answering for some reason and so Süleyman went back to his office where he sat and thought for a while about Nizan Tapan and Abdullah Aydın, who, last time he’d seen him, had most certainly not been on life support. By the time he had come to any sort of conclusion as to how he might proceed, İzzet Melik had gone off on his mid-morning break.

  Midday came and went with no word at all from İkmen. News of his apparent disappearance had travelled fast and Menşure Tokatlı’s restaurant was now full of those concerned or just curious about the İstanbullu’s current location. Altay Salman who, it appeared, had been the last person in the village to see İkmen the previous evening, took a group of his recruits out to the collection of half-ruined chimneys towards which the inspector had been headed. But beyond a few empty rakı bottles scattered on the dirty tufa floors there was nothing to be seen in any of those structures. On his way back to the hotel, Captain Salman called in at the gendarmerie to canvass support for a possible search party. The young jandarma were keen to help and so several of them accompanied the horsemen back to Menşure Tokatlı’s place.

  ‘Do you think there’s any possibility that Çetin just kept on walking once he’d reached those chimneys at the edge of the village?’ Altay Salman asked Arto Sarkissian once he had shaken the snow from his clothes. It was still coming down hard.

  The Armenian laughed. ‘Çetin? No, Captain, not Çetin. He doesn’t “do” country walks; he doesn’t really like the country.’ As he sighed, his face fell. ‘No, if he’s still out there in the snow, I fear that he must have either had an accident or become unwell. He only suffers, to my knowledge, from stomach ulcers, but he was, as you’ve told us, poorly dressed, and then there is the matter of this body he wanted me to take samples from.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning,’ Arto said, ‘that knowing Çetin as I do, I don’t suppose his offer of DNA testing was entirely to everyone’s taste. Some people object to it on religious grounds, while others . . .’ He lowered his voice so that only Captain Salman could hear him. ‘From what you and Çetin have told me I gather that the death of this “mummy” you have in Nevşehir is contentious. I understand that many and various people could have been involved.’

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘So maybe Çetin’s disappearance is . . .’

  ‘Captain Salman, will you stop chattering on to Arto Sarkissian and organise a search?’

  Both men looked around to where Menşure Tokatlı was standing with her hands on her hips in the middle of her restaurant. She looked impatient, angry, and she had Kismet the cat with her to emphasise her point.

  ‘That scruffy creature from Nevşehir, that Erten, has just telephoned to ask why my cousin and Dr Sarkissian are not at the mortuary,’ she said. ‘I told him Çetin has gone missing and he’s driving over now. But we’ll need to tell him what we’re doing when he gets here. He hasn’t got the wit to do anything himself.’

  ‘All right,’ Captain Salman said with a sigh. ‘I understand your anxiety, Menşure Hanım. Look, why don’t the jandarma get out on to the Nevşehir Road while my boys start riding into the valleys at that end of town.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ a voice in English cut in suddenly.

  They all turned to look at a young, slim man wearing a very heavily padded parka.

  ‘My name’s Tom Chambers,’ the young man said. ‘I’ve got to know the Inspector quite well over the past few days. I’d like to help, if I can.’

  Altay Salman, who had seen Tom with İkmen several times, frowned. ‘That is very good, Mr Chambers. But I am worried about civilians getting involved. The weather is very bad . . .’

  ‘I could take him with me,’ another voice, this time in Turkish, interrupted. ‘I know these valleys better than anyone.’

  ‘Ah, Mr Senar.’

  Although he had been in the room for some time, this was the first anyone had heard from Turgut Senar. But as the local, expert guide to the area he did have a point.

  ‘My jeep is gassed up and ready,’ Senar continued. ‘I could take the Englishman and anyone else who wants to help.’

  ‘That’s me.’ Rachelle Jones raised a fur-clad arm into the air. ‘I like Inspector İkmen. I w
ant to help him if I can.’

  ‘Well, as the local guide . . .’

  ‘I could go with him,’ Arto Sarkissian said to the captain. ‘After all, if this goes on for some time, Çetin could very well need a doctor.’

  The horseman nodded slowly. ‘I agree. Although, given that my boys, simply by virtue of being on horseback and therefore having more comprehensive access to the valleys, stand more of a chance of finding Çetin than anyone else, I was hoping that you, Doctor, could come with us.’

  ‘What? On horseback?’ The Armenian’s face instantly drained of all colour.

  ‘Well, we’re not going out for a gallop, Doctor. I do have several quiet, older horses.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m a big man, Captain!’

  ‘Yes, I can see that, Doctor, but . . .’

  ‘Well, you can all argue about who is doing what until the end of the world, if you like,’ Menşure Tokatlı’s imperious voice boomed above everyone else, ‘but I’m going to see what I can find.’ And with that she picked up Kismet the cat and made her way towards the stairs.

  ‘Menşure Hanım!’ Captain Salman shouted after her.

  ‘Kismet and I will go into the little valley behind Ferdinand Mueller’s place,’ Menşure said as she and her cat began to descend. ‘We’ll go no further than that, I give you my word. And besides, the German should know what is happening. Maybe he can take one of his balloons up . . .’

  ‘I think that the weather conditions might preclude balloon flights, Menşure Hanım.’

  ‘Well, why don’t I ask him, anyway?’ she said as her head disappeared from view.

  Altay Salman looked at Arto Sarkissian and shrugged. ‘She takes the cat . . .’

  ‘Kismet.’ The Armenian nodded. ‘The latest, I believe, in a line of similarly named psychotic cats. One of its forebears bit Çetin’s brother. Kismet and Menşure have a relationship . . .’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ Atom Boghosian said to his cousin in English. ‘I know I don’t speak Turkish . . .’

  ‘Atom . . .’

  ‘We have to get organised, Doctor,’ Altay Salman said to Arto Sarkissian. He then rapped on the table in front of him with his fist in order to get everyone’s attention. ‘My recruits and I are going to wait here until Inspector Erten arrives from Nevşehir, so that we organise our search along with him,’ he said. ‘If the jandarma can get out on the Nevşehir road and perhaps up in to Çavuşin, then that is a start. Menşure Hanım has taken it upon herself to cover the eastern side of the village.’ He looked across at Turgut Senar. ‘If you could take the Englishman, Mr Senar . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And me.’ Rachelle Jones yet again raised a fur-clad arm.

  ‘Miss Jones, I . . .’

  ‘If you’re going to give me any nonsense about being a woman . . .’

  ‘No, no,’ Captain Salman said wearily. ‘No, I . . . Look, Mr Senar, how many people can you take in your jeep?’

  ‘I’ll take the Englishman, Miss Jones and the doctor.’

  ‘OK. But I think that the doctor is coming with me. His cousin wants to help; you can take him.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I’m quite happy to go with Mr Senar,’ Arto Sarkissian said. But Captain Salman fixed him with a hard eye that reduced the Armenian to silence.

  ‘So, then, let us get about our business,’ the captain said as he turned back to the assembled company once again. ‘Apart from Menşure Hanım, we have three search parties. Take mobile phones and radios and let us all keep in contact. No one wanders off alone or moves out of contact, and everyone dresses for the weather. With the help of Allah we will find Inspector İkmen.’

  Those of a more religious bent mumbled their assent.

  Chapter 16

  * * *

  Only one of the boys who had either seen or been attacked by the peeper so far could recall which hand the offender appeared to favour. But then he changed his mind three times before he, either by accident or design, finally settled on the left. Süleyman then listened to what Ayşe Farsakoğlu had discovered about and from those convicted of violent offences against homosexuals and whether their records showed them to be left-handed or not.

  ‘There are three,’ she said as she looked up from her computer screen at Süleyman and Melik. ‘We’ve had one, Battal Oz, in already – with the group we interviewed the other day. He was at work, he’s the night manager at a pansiyon in Laleli, when Abdullah Aydın was attacked. He has the same alibi for the dates and times of the other offences. I think he’s clean, sir.’

  ‘And the others?’ Süleyman asked through an ever-thickening pall of cigarette smoke.

  ‘Karagöz Tarih,’ Ayşe said with a sigh.

  ‘Allah!’ Süleyman murmured in reply.

  ‘I don’t see him crawling around on rooftops with only one leg,’ Ayşe elucidated.

  ‘And the other?’ her superior asked.

  ‘One Aslan Yılmaz.’

  ‘Aslan Yılmaz, small time enforcer for the Edip family?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she replied. ‘He roughed up a transsexual known as Hazelnut Hanım February before last. Hazelnut, otherwise known as Onur Bavur, claimed that the Edip family godfather, Yaban, had made advances to him which he had rebuffed. His punishment, so Hazelnut claimed, was to be roughed up by Yılmaz.’ Then still looking at the screen, she frowned. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘What’s that, sergeant?’

  ‘Well, it says here,’ Ayşe said as she peered intently at the computer, ‘that Yılmaz, so Hazelnut asserted at the time, masturbated over him after he had beaten him up.’ She looked up. ‘Excited by his pain, maybe?’

  Süleyman frowned. ‘Asserting his dominance over a lesser creature.’

  ‘Maybe he was just in the mood at the time,’ Melik put in, his voice tinged with that strangled desperation only lack of food and cigarettes can bring.

  ‘There’s nothing else on Yılmaz, in relation to homosexuals, here, sir,’ Ayşe said as she pointedly ignored İzzet Melik. ‘He’s married with four children. Officially he’s a car mechanic but, as we know, he fetches and carries from time to time for Yaban Edip’s crime family up in Edirnekapı.’

  Süleyman leaned back in his chair and blew smoke at the ceiling. The Edips had once been a particularly powerful crime family, although since the coming of gangs from Eastern Europe and central Asia, people like Yaban Edip had kept a somewhat lower profile than before. As far as Süleyman knew, they confined themselves pretty much to dope with regard to drugs now, augmenting their income mainly by people trafficking into the European Union. Aslan Yılmaz was, he recalled, probably in his mid-thirties. The last time Süleyman had seen him, he had been a fine physical specimen. Aslan Yılmaz liked to box; he was good at it. He was, however, less successful in controlling what a judge had once described as his ‘psychopathic temper’. The fact that the transsexual had reported him and he had been questioned for that assault must have made Aslan very angry indeed. ‘İzzet and I will pay Aslan a visit, I think,’ Süleyman said at length. ‘Whatever the outcome, it doesn’t do to overlook scum even of the small-time variety.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Ayşe Farsakoğlu stayed for just a short time after that. It was easy for her to see that, for some reason, Süleyman wanted to be alone with that oaf İzzet Melik. As she left she saw the sergeant sit down in front of Süleyman’s desk and bend his head in close to that of his superior.

  Ever since the panic-stricken and grisly task that Çetin İkmen had set himself had mercifully come to an end he’d been entirely at a loss as to what to do. Shortly after he had come round from whatever beatings he’d been given by whoever had performed them the previous night, he’d seen Aysu Alkaya’s burning body and acted. A person or people unknown had wanted the mummified corpse destroyed and, with the exception of her head, plus a few other ghastly ‘lumps’, they had succeeded. Obviously, someone amongst the living had a problem with the prospect of DNA testing. Serious for them, but n
ot nearly as earth-shattering as İkmen’s own immediate problems.

  The fact that he was in a place that he did not in any way recognise was bad. It was frightening that no towns, villages or, for that matter, lone dwellings could be seen even from the top of the chimney he had been dumped in front of. That someone obviously thought he was already dead or at least wanted him to be so was terrifying. On top of this, whoever had brought him to this place had either stolen or destroyed his mobile phone. All these things were bad, but whether they were as bad or worse than the fact that İkmen’s assailant had taken his cigarettes was open to question.

  ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ he roared as he emerged from the chimney into which he had placed what he’d managed to salvage of Aysu Alkaya.

  Staying where one was in an unknown landscape was, İkmen knew, the only sensible way to proceed. He didn’t know where he was and, if he wandered about too far from this chimney and Aysu Alkaya, he knew there was a possibility he would never find either of them ever again. And that would never do. Whoever had tried to burn her body, whoever had stolen his cigarettes, could well have left some forensic evidence on either himself, the corpse, or both. It was evidence that could, İkmen knew, make the evil bastard pay for his or her crimes. ‘Not least of which involves this nicotine-free torture!’ he shouted, giving vent to his frustrations as well as, hopefully, alerting someone to his predicament. Mad Peruvians dancing for their Sun God, perhaps . . .

  İkmen put both hands up to his endlessly throbbing head and wondered how, amid so much freezing whiteness, he was going to stay both alive and sane. It was beyond just ordinary cold and with only his paper-thin jacket and trousers between himself and the elements, İkmen realised that his chances of emerging unscathed from this particular ‘adventure’ were slim. He walked round the now-dead funeral pyre and surveyed his surroundings. He was outside a white chimney in what looked like the middle of a very long valley of white chimneys. That this and all of the other chimneys in this area had once been inhabited was evident from the fact that they possessed many roughly hewn windows and upper ‘storeys’, one of which he had briefly climbed up into in order to look at still more chimneys: they seemed to go on and on into infinity, like a hellish succession of oddly hewn Emmental cheeses. Allah alone knew for how far the wretched things continued.