‘Thank you for these,’ Fatma said as she took another leech out of the jar and laid it against one of the swollen veins on her leg. ‘These have been agony lately.’
‘The leeches should get them down.’
‘İnşallah. Not that she approved,’ she said as she tipped her head in the direction of the front door.
‘Zelfa?’ Estelle sat down opposite her friend and leaned back in her chair. It had been, as usual for this time of year, a hot and tiring day. ‘She’s a doctor, probably finds it a bit old-fashioned.’
‘And foreign,’ Fatma added darkly. ‘I don’t think that Dr Halman has ever adapted to living here, not properly. But now that she’s married Mehmet she’s made her choice.’
‘Yes.’
Estelle knew that Fatma had never really approved of Mehmet Suleyman’s marriage to Zelfa Halman. She was older than he, a foreigner at least in part and, more importantly, she wasn’t a Muslim. Fatma, as Estelle also knew, disapproved of marriages that crossed religious boundaries. Although they’d never discussed it, Estelle knew that her friend was even more opposed to the liaison between her Berekiah and young Hulya than Estelle’s husband, Balthazar.
‘Well, at least little Yusuf is being raised in your faith,’ Estelle said airily.
‘Yes, but only because Zelfa doesn’t practise hers,’ Fatma responded sharply. ‘If that child had been born in her country with all those relatives she has in the Church, things would be different.’
Estelle shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
Religion had never been a large part of Estelle Cohen’s life. Her parents, Yuda and Hanna Şaul, had been more interested in politics than religion – except, of course, when it came to their daughter’s marriage. On one level the middle-class Şauls hadn’t been particularly pleased when it became apparent that the scruffy policeman son of the alcoholic Haim Cohen was interested in Estelle. But on the other hand Balthazar was a Jew and so the match, for better or worse, was approved. And in truth, it hadn’t been all bad. They’d never had much money, but the children, Yusuf and Berekiah, had been a consolation. It wasn’t Balthazar’s fault that Yusuf’s mind had broken during the course of his military service. Estelle could, however, have done without her husband’s incessant infidelity. Had he been at home instead of at the apartment of one of his many mistresses when the earthquake hit İstanbul in 1999 he wouldn’t be crippled and useless now. She looked towards the door of their bedroom where her husband now lay asleep, and sighed. There had been another boy once, long ago, a Turkish lad called Ersin. At times like this she wondered what he might be doing now and whether he was happy. She hoped so. Happiness was important – it was something that she wished for her son Berekiah more than anything else in the world. She looked across at her friend and wondered how she was coping with her daughter at this time.
‘Fatma?’
‘Yes?’ Still engrossed in the application of leeches, she didn’t look up.
‘Fatma, about Berekiah and Hulya.’ She said it in a rush, lest she lose her nerve.
The other woman stopped what she was doing and looked up.
‘We do need to talk,’ Estelle continued, ‘at some time.’
‘Not now,’ Fatma’s eyes had suddenly taken on a hardness that Estelle didn’t particularly like.
‘But—’
‘I have spoken to my husband, told him what I think,’ Fatma continued stiffly. ‘It’s for him to discuss whatever needs to be discussed, which is nothing in my opinion, with your husband.’
‘They are serious.’
‘And foolish!’ Fatma looked back down at her leech-covered leg again and grimaced. ‘It’s up to us to guide them correctly.’
‘Yes—’
‘Estelle, we are friends,’ Fatma said as she looked up again. ‘I don’t want that to change. And anyway,’ she shook her head slightly in agitation, ‘I can’t think about anything beyond my immediate troubles right now. My dear brother is the whole of my life at this time.’ And her eyes filled with tears.
Estelle, in spite of her own feelings, reached across to take Fatma’s hand in hers. Poor woman. Her brother was dying, a situation she was having to deal with largely on her own – obviously she didn’t need any more problems at this time. However, when Talaat had gone, the issue of the youngsters would have to be addressed. They were, she knew, ‘intimate’, if not actually engaging in sex, as yet. She’d come home from her mother’s early one day and seen them through the half-open door to Berekiah’s bedroom. Although clothed and only kissing, it was obvious they were both aroused – and in love. She recognised the scene well, from long ago, when she and Ersin had kissed like that in the old stable at the back of her parents’ house.
‘Let’s make sex magic.’
Eren Akdeniz lay down naked at her husband’s feet and stretched her arms sensuously out above her head.
Melih, who was sitting on a chair in the middle of his studio, put the piece of camel skin he was stitching down beside him and took a long swig from his medicine bottle. When he’d finished, he wiped one hand across his mouth before resuming his work once again.
‘I haven’t got the time or the energy,’ he muttered without so much as looking at his wife’s performance at his feet.
‘You had enough time for that gypsy slut this morning,’ Eren returned acidly.
‘Gonca?’ Melih frowned. ‘I was creating,’ he said, ‘you know that. Sometimes I need it then. Anyway, you were on the phone.’
‘You fucked her.’
‘I’ve been fucking her for years,’ he said lightly. ‘I needed sexual input then, it was essential. She understands me.’
Eren sat up, her small breasts sagging to her ribs as she did so. She put one hand on his knee, felt him flinch under her touch.
‘I know you better than she does, Melih,’ she said. ‘I’m so lonely without the children.’
‘The children will return.’
Eren pushed herself up using Melih’s knees to support herself. ‘Melih, please, it won’t take long.’
Melih exhaled impatiently and shoved the medicine bottle towards her. ‘Drink this, Eren.’
‘No!’ She pushed the bottle away. ‘I don’t want that!’
‘I don’t feel strong enough!’ Furious now with her pleading, Melih Akdeniz threw his work down on to the floor and leaned forward, staring into her face. With one shaking hand he pushed her back down on to the floor.
‘Your stupid brother has taken fright at a couple of policemen and you want me to stop my work to service you?’ He picked the piece of camel skin back up off the floor and started sewing again. ‘I haven’t got time.’ His face became grave. ‘I feel it very close now. I feel like I’m liquefying inside.’
Eren, momentarily subdued by his words, sat up again and remained quiet for several seconds. As she placed one tentative hand on his knee, she cupped the other around one of her breasts.
‘Why don’t you watch,’ she said softly, ‘me, with myself?’
At first Melih didn’t respond. But, after several moments’ thought, he looked up and nodded his assent.
Eren closed her eyes and skimmed her hands lightly across her body.
Someone knocked at the studio door.
‘Tell them to go away!’ Eren breathed.
‘Who is it?’ her husband yelled.
A short but heavy cough preceded the word, ‘İkmen.’
Eren’s eyes widened with fear.
‘Come in,’ Melih said with amusement, if the smile on his face was anything to go by.
‘Melih!’
There was nothing for Eren to cover herself up with. But even if there had been, it would have been impossible for her to do so now that Melih, suddenly springing lightly from his chair, had dragged her to her feet.
İkmen entered the studio just in time to see Eren Akdeniz’s naked figure stretched before him. The artist had pinned her arms behind her back. The woman’s eyes screamed with humiliation and fear.
‘The femal
e form in performance,’ Melih said joyfully. ‘What do you think, Inspector?’
İkmen wasn’t often lost for words but this was one of the few occasions when he was.
Melih, revelling in both İkmen’s discomfort and his wife’s shame, laughed.
‘Ah, but she’s a little worn now, isn’t she?’ he said as he carelessly let his wife drop back down towards the floor and resumed his seat. ‘Wrinkled tits.’
Eren, who had now crawled into a heap of paper underneath one of her husband’s easels, began to cry.
İkmen cleared his throat.
The artist, who had resumed sewing something that looked much like a house to İkmen, muttered, ‘What do you want? Do you have my children?’
‘No, Mr Akdeniz, I don’t,’ İkmen said as he attempted to avert his eyes from the pathetic sight of the humiliated woman on the floor. ‘I do, however, or at least I will have in a few hours’ time when he is transferred over here from Bursa, Mr Reşad Kuran, your brother-in-law.’
‘Reşad?’
İkmen was immediately aware of a cessation of weeping.
‘What are you doing with him?’
‘I want to ask him why he ran away just after we took his vehicle for forensic analysis.’ İkmen looked around the room at the various pieces of art in progress. A lot of it appeared to be made of that translucent camel hide that was used in traditional shadow plays – except that these pieces were much bigger than usual. ‘I would,’ he continued, ‘also like to ask him what he and your wife were discussing on the telephone this morning. Did you, Mrs Akdeniz, know that your brother left for Bursa last night?’
‘Well,’ Eren, several pieces of paper clutched to her chest, sat up. ‘I . . .’
‘Your brother was,’ İkmen said sternly, ‘as far as we know, the last person to visit this house before Nuray and Yaşar disappeared. This and his recent behaviour makes him a very strong candidate for your children’s abductor.’
‘No!’
‘Yes.’ İkmen held one finger up in order to silence the artist. ‘He had the means, the opportunity and, as my sergeant discovered earlier today, a past record too.’ He turned back towards Eren and smiled. ‘You must remember, surely, Mrs Akdeniz, that your brother was accused of attempted sexual assault twice in the nineteen eighties.’
‘Yes, but he was cleared!’ Eren retorted, her face flushing with anger. ‘Those girls lied!’
‘Did they?’ İkmen put a cigarette in his mouth and lit up. ‘We’ll have to see about that, won’t we? Why don’t you get dressed and come with me to the station to welcome Reşad home.’
‘I don’t like your tone . . .’
‘Oh, but I thought you’d be pleased that we might have a break in this case,’ İkmen said as he picked up Melih’s medicine bottle and read what was written on the label. ‘Mmm, well, well. Now look, if Reşad is hiding them somewhere, we might have them back to you tonight, Mr Akdeniz. Your children. Those people you love more than your own life.’
‘Yes . . .’
İkmen put the bottle down and made his way back towards the studio door.
‘So get some clothes on and come with me.’ Turning just before he exited, he added, ‘And bring your medication, Mr Akdeniz. I can see from what it is that you must need it a lot.’
Melih and Eren Akdeniz looked at each other, their faces damp with cold sweat.
He didn’t need this now. The police had just brought in a body that had been washed up on the shore at one of the villages on the Bosphorus. In cases like this time was always of the essence – if for no other reason than to get rid of the inevitable stench.
Arto put his hand on the excited Spaniard’s shoulder.
‘Señor Orontes . . .’ he began.
‘I have been talking to Dr Keyder, we met and . . .’
‘I am very busy right now, señor . . .’
‘Yes, but Dr Keyder is the late Mrs Rosita’s sister-in-law. It is just possible that she might know the identity of your boy.’
Arto Sarkissian started to walk back in the direction of his office. ‘She has denied all knowledge of him,’ he said.
‘Yes, I know,’ the Spaniard replied nervously, twisting a handkerchief between his fingers as he did so, ‘but she feels that just to be certain . . .’
‘I don’t know! I don’t know!’ Arto said as he opened his office door and began to move inside. ‘I’ll have to speak to Sergeant Çöktin.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Come back later,’ Arto said as he attempted to close the door behind him.
‘When?’
‘I don’t know! Oh, in three hours, maybe,’ the Armenian responded tetchily, pulling a time out of the air. He then shut the door behind him, leaving the Spaniard outside.
A few moments later, the person who had been lurking at the other end of the corridor during the course of his conversation, caught up with him.
‘So what did he say?’ Yeşim Keyder asked coldly.
Señor Orontes lowered his eyes, as if in deference. ‘He said he can’t do anything now, but if we come back in about three hours—’
‘That will do,’ the old woman replied and turned to make her way back down the corridor once again.
Orontes, at her heels, looked like a small, dark ape.
Judging by the state of the ashtrays as well as the overpowering smell of sweat in the place, Interview Room No. 4 had seen a lot of action during the course of the day. And even though it was now dusk outside, the room had not yet even started to cool down. Ayşe Farsakoǧlu caught a rivulet of perspiration as it rolled down her forehead, and wiped it away with a tissue. Her eye make-up had all but melted in the heat but there was no point in making it any worse. Steadily, almost as a form of meditation, she stared at the clammy, bloodless face before her. Reşad Kuran, like her and the constable over by the door, waited for İkmen in perfect silence.
Casually, Ayşe wondered what Melih Akdeniz’s brother-in-law might be thinking. Was he regretting having left the city after his van was taken away for analysis? Was he, as an innocent party, angry at having been dragged back to İstanbul against his will? Were images of his ‘old’ crimes, fiddling with a nine-year-old girl in a cinema and then hassling another youngster to masturbate him in Gülhane Park, coming back to haunt him? It was difficult to tell from a face as expressionless as Reşad’s. And yet, if İkmen were convinced he was a possible contender for the abduction of the Akdeniz children . . .
A knock at the door heralded the arrival of the inspector who, once the usual preamble was over, went straight to the point.
‘Why did you leave İstanbul, Mr Kuran?’ he asked. ‘I distinctly remember telling you not to do so.’
‘I had business in Bursa,’ Kuran replied.
‘Then why didn’t you tell me that when we spoke originally?’
‘Something came up . . .’
‘Rather sudden, wasn’t it?’ İkmen said. ‘Rather odd too, considering that you told me your profession was delivery driver. Working, without your van, can’t have been easy. What did you do, Mr Kuran, carry the goods hamal-style on your back?’
Reşad Kuran looked down at the floor. ‘If you are arresting me—’
‘No.’ İkmen suddenly and, Ayşe always thought, dazzlingly smiled. ‘No, I’m not ready to do that,’ he said, ‘I just want to know why you left the city.’
‘I told you.’
‘Yes. But I do need a few more details, Mr Kuran, before I let your sister and brother-in-law take you home.’
Kuran looked up, frowning. ‘Eren and Melih?’
‘Yes, they’re here, Mr Kuran,’ İkmen said and paused briefly in order to light a cigarette. ‘Once we had established your location, I felt I had to go round to tell them. After all they had indirectly helped us to do that – or rather your sister, via her long telephone conversation to you, had.’
Reşad Kuran had in the time it had taken for the Bursa police to transfer him across to İstanbul, learned rather more than he’d
ever wanted to about the lack of security surrounding the use of mobile telephones.
Ayşe Farsakoǧlu emptied the ashtray to stop the ash from İkmen’s cigarette destabilising the already towering pyramid of butts.
As she sat down again, Kuran began speaking. ‘Look,’ he said, illustrating his speech with heavy, measured hand gestures, ‘I lied, all right? I . . . look, I have this woman friend in Bursa, she lives in Muradiye district . . .’
‘Woman or girl?’ İkmen asked.
‘What?’
‘Two incidents,’ Ayşe Farsakoǧlu interjected, ‘from the nineteen eighties, two young under-age girls.’
Kuran closed his eyes and sighed. ‘That was a long time ago,’ he said wearily. ‘I don’t do that now. It was a mistake then . . .’ He opened his eyes again and said, ‘Look, my friend, this woman, she’s thirty-seven.’
‘Name?’
‘What?’
‘Her name, your friend,’ İkmen said tartly. ‘The Bursa police picked you up in a khavehane. I want to know that this woman, this thirty-seven-year old exists.’
‘She’s married . . .’
‘I don’t care,’ İkmen shrugged. ‘All I’m interested in is whether or not you’re telling me the truth, Mr Kuran.’ He leaned forward across the table. ‘Your van is currently being analysed for traces of material that might have come from your nephew and niece.’
‘But—’
‘You were at the Akdeniz house late on the Friday night . . .’
‘Picking up some art work for one of Melih’s clients.’
‘Yes.’ İkmen leaned back in his seat and smiled once again. ‘Someone whose name appears to have completely slipped Mr Akdeniz’s mind. In view of what has happened to him of late maybe I can understand that. But you?’
‘What?’
‘I asked you before and I’ll ask you again, who did you deliver the art work to, Mr Kuran? Where did you take it?’
Reşad Kuran threw his arms petulantly into the air. ‘I don’t know! I can’t remember!’
‘You must be able to!’ İkmen shouted. ‘You’re not a fucking idiot, are you?’
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