İkmen had seen his colleague like this before. When he was tired or under pressure he became angry and sometimes unreasonable. Occasionally he could explode into violence.
İkmen asked Kerim to go and get them all coffee. As he handed over money, he said, ‘I need to go home and get some sleep, but I need to do some work first. Coffee, very strong, is the only way forward.’
When the sergeant had gone, he said, ‘What are you supposed to be doing today, Mehmet Bey?’
Süleyman lit a cigarette. ‘Oh, you’ll love this!’ he said. ‘Encouraging silent Ali Erbil to speak.’
‘Why? Elif Büyük has identified the Teufel Ev as the place where they stayed.’
‘She’s mad,’ he said.
‘So? She’s not stupid, she knows where she’s been. She didn’t see any of the Rudolfoğlus. I can accept that. The cellar is partially blocked.’
‘She claims she didn’t see them. She could have killed them, or Ali Erbil could, or both of them together.’
‘Forensics are not in on Ali and Elif yet, are they?’ İkmen said.
‘No.’
‘So we must reserve judgement. Just as we have to reserve judgement about Mr Apion.’
‘Yes, but . . .’ Süleyman ground his teeth in frustration. ‘Do we?’
‘Yes we do,’ İkmen said. ‘If only so that you keep that temper of yours in check.’
‘You know I won’t—’
‘No, I don’t,’ İkmen said. ‘Remember, I’ve seen you beat up a suspect.’
‘Years ago!’
‘Indeed. You were young and going through some sort of romantic torment at the time, as I recall. But Mehmet, look . . .’
He walked around his desk and sat down next to his friend. ‘I am completely aware of the fact that you and I are very different men. Without the stability provided by my wife and family, I couldn’t cope—’
‘I love Gonca,’ Süleyman cut in.
‘I’m sure you do,’ İkmen said. ‘But I do sense a . . . shall we say a dissatisfaction . . . a need for your wilder side to express itself . . .’
‘If I were unfaithful to her, her family would kill me. It’s taken them years to accept that I even exist!’
‘I know. I know,’ İkmen said. ‘And don’t worry, I’m not going to drive you to fury going on about how you knew all along that a gypsy family would not be easy to negotiate. But you must, must leave your frustrations at home. God forgive me, Mehmet, but if that means having the occasional adventure far away from the Şekeroğlu family and their associates . . .’
‘Oh, so I just pick up a girl and fuck her?’
İkmen, mildly irritated, lit a cigarette. ‘No,’ he said. ‘And yes.’
‘Oh for God’s—’
‘Far be it from me to advise you in matters of sex,’ İkmen said. ‘I know how close you are about these matters. But if you’re not getting what you need, then either you put up with it or you go elsewhere from time to time. Gonca is my friend and I would hate you to do anything that might cause her pain. But you cannot be like this when you are at work. You cannot be angry and insensitive and boorish. I know there are some officers who prize such attributes, but not me and not Teker. I’m sorry to have to speak to you like this, Mehmet.’
‘No, no.’ He put a hand up to his head and rubbed his temples. ‘It is I who should apologise. There is nothing wrong with Gonca, it’s me. I don’t know why, but every so often I have to . . .’
‘You’ve always turned to extracurricular sex when you’re unhappy,’ İkmen said. ‘You know that’s your pattern. What . . .’
‘Zelfa is making things difficult for me,’ he said.
Zelfa Halman, his ex-wife and mother of his son Yusuf, had moved back to her native Ireland some years ago. She’d taken Yusuf with her.
‘In consultation with her, I booked leave so that I could go to Dublin and spend a couple of weeks with my son. It was all arranged, but now it seems my wife has changed her mind. Apparently it is more important for my son to visit some relatives in Cork at that time. The weeks she has suggested as alternatives are not suitable for me.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m on a training course and it is also Gonca’s birthday. You know what a song and dance gypsies make of birthdays.’
İkmen smiled.
‘Gonca would understand if I had to go to Ireland, but she’d hold it against me.’
‘So let her,’ İkmen said. ‘And to hell with the training course. I know I shouldn’t say that, but if the mother of your child says “jump”, then to my mind, the only logical response is “how high?”.’
‘Not very dignified.’
‘Dignity is something your Ottoman ancestors did, Mehmet,’ İkmen said. ‘You don’t have that luxury. Welcome to my world.’
Süleyman grunted. Then he said, ‘Apion’s sister was murdered by the Rudolfoğlus. If someone killed my brother, I would want him dead.’
‘Of course,’ İkmen said. ‘I’m sure that Yiannis Apion did want the Rudolfoğlus dead. But wanting and doing are two different things. And Mr Apion is not you. He is not an Ottoman; he is a member of a dwindling minority. He is vulnerable and very aware of the fact that his behaviour might reflect negatively on his fellow Greeks. I’m not saying that I believe he didn’t kill that family. But I am happy for him to be released pending forensic results. He has not confessed. All he has done is tell us an old story about our victims. Now I would suggest that you allow me to interview Ali Erbil while you go home and rest, or whatever it is that will make you feel better.’
‘Ali Erbil is not your prisoner.’
‘No, but the time the couple spent in the Teufel Ev concerns me,’ İkmen said. ‘Have you any further insight into why they killed those people on the street?’
‘Why Elif killed them, you mean. Yes. On the face of it, they appear to be random acts of homicide. A spree for kicks. She certainly found the whole process exciting. But then I think that the loss of the stability she found at the Teufel Ev is significant. I think that for a short time she imagined she might have found peace. Just her and Ali shooting up in safety. She’s been on the streets all her life. She’s been used by men all her life. When she lost that stability, her anger exploded. Incarcerated in a hospital, provided she is treated kindly, I doubt she will ever harm anyone again. She will have achieved the stability she craves. I don’t believe that she killed the Rudolfoğlus. I’m of the opinion that when she says she didn’t know they were there, she was telling the truth. It was Ali Erbil who apparently saw someone in the cellar, not her.’
‘Mmm.’
Kerim returned with coffee.
İkmen drank down half his cup in two long gulps.‘What do you make of Ali?’ he asked Süleyman.
‘Weak, in love, a junkie. Not actually bad.’
‘But you think he’s trying to play mad to be with Elif.’
‘He’s besotted,’ he said.
‘Mmm.’
İkmen opened his office window and lit a cigarette. Then he said to Kerim, ‘Can you print off that mug shot of Yiannis Apion for me? Or shove it on an iPad or whatever it is you do with photographs these days.’
He was cold. It was over thirty degrees and Yiannis Apion felt as if he was in a snowstorm. As soon as the police had let him go, he’d got on a ferry and given thanks to St Katherine at the ayazma. Soon, hairy-knuckled officers would arrive to dig up the floor in order to verify his story. Would they find his sister? And if they did, what would they do with her? She had to be there. His father had, in his own words, thrashed the shit out of Kemal Rudolfoğlu in order to prevent him from desecrating her grave.
Now, sitting alone in the corner of the Koço’s garden, he drank coffee and smoked. Ceyda had gone to work as usual, but he’d been able to tell that she was shaken. When the police had taken him away, she’d not accompanied him. He hadn’t wanted her to. So she was still largely in the dark. He’d have to tell her the whole sorry tale – sometime. One day he’d have to tell
her how much he loved her. Because he did.
He looked around at the usual mid-morning habitués of the Koço. Mainly old men reading newspapers, and discreet homosexuals conversing in low tones about politics. They’d all been coming to the Koço for years – just as he had; just as Father Anatoli used to. Of course the priest had frequently come here after performing his devotions in the ayazma. But he also knew all the regulars and sometimes even had a glass or two of rakı after his prayers.
The clergy were good at keeping secrets. They were supposed to be. When Yiannis had told Father Anatoli what Konstantinos had told him, he’d freely admitted that he’d known about Sofia for years. Like Father Kostas before him, he’d seen it as his duty to protect her remains.
So why had he killed himself? As far as Yiannis knew, he hadn’t been ill or in trouble. Maybe his suicide had nothing to do with Sofia.
‘I’ve been told that the main problem with methadone as a substitute for heroin is that you don’t get the initial rush,’ Çetin İkmen said as he smoked in front of a completely unresponsive Ali Erbil. ‘That’s got to be disappointing. But I don’t think it can make you go mad. Not according to my sources.’
The guards had managed to get Erbil to sit at a table so that İkmen could talk to him. But that was all he was doing.
‘Addicts are often conflated with people who are mentally ill,’ İkmen continued. ‘And sometimes, of course, people with problems may self-medicate using street drugs. I know this. I imagine you do too. Very complicated thing, the mind. Can’t say that I can even begin to understand it. I’m not an expert. I don’t know, for instance, how a psychiatrist can tell whether or not someone is faking. By that I mean pretending to be insane so they get a reduced sentence. Or so they think. In reality that doesn’t happen, of course, because if a person is judged to have committed a crime while he was insane, then his detention within hospital may be permanent. Not that I think that’s your reason.’
Ali Erbil didn’t so much as blink.
‘You want to be with Elif, which I can understand,’ İkmen said. ‘When you love someone, you want to be with them. But if you do indeed love that person, then you must think about what is best for them. To a large extent this means putting your own needs to one side. Elif needs treatment over and above her addiction. This is inevitable and will be prescribed by psychiatrists. That may include contact with other patients, but it may not.
‘Now I know that you come from a wealthy family, and so I imagine you think that money will give you some leverage with staff in a psychiatric hospital. It may or it may not. But what I can absolutely guarantee is that you’ll have to endure a lot of being taken up the arse first. You won’t offer yourself for this pleasure, but it will happen as surely as you will almost inevitably have to go down on whoever shares your cell in prison. Good-looking man like you. Admittedly, you may get a fix or two in return, but that’s the up side. What I’m saying is that whether you go to hospital or prison is irrelevant. You won’t get to see Elif. Not to put too fine a point on it, I will actually recommend that you don’t see her.’
Ali looked up.
‘Got your attention? Good.’ He smiled. ‘Because while all that sinks in, I’d like to show you a photograph. It’s got nothing to do with any of the murders committed by Elif Büyük. I’d just like to know whether you’ve ever seen this man, and if so, where. Specifically, I’d like to know whether this photograph I am going to show you is of the man you saw in the Teufel Ev in Moda. And yes, I know you denied ever having been inside the Teufel Ev, but we know you’ve been there.’ There was a pause as İkmen looked into Ali’s eyes. ‘If you want to know how we know this, then you will have to ask me. I’m not just going to tell you.’
He put the photograph Kerim Gürsel had printed out on the table between them.
Ali Erbil looked at it. Then he looked away. For a long moment İkmen thought he’d say nothing. He’d not appeared to be visibly shocked by any of the institutional horror stories İkmen had told him. If that were the case, why would he even look? But he had.
He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve seen him.’
‘At the Teufel Ev? The house in Moda?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I saw him at that café Inspector Süleyman took me to when we went to Moda. He was with a priest.’
Father Anatoli.
‘What were they doing?’ İkmen asked.
‘Talking.’
‘How? Intensely? Happily?’
‘Normally. Only for a few seconds.’ He paused. ‘How do you know we were in that house?’
‘Because Elif said so and now you have confirmed it,’ İkmen said. He smiled again. ‘So not this man in the house. That’s excellent.’ He stood. ‘Anything—’
‘I’m done talking,’ Ali Erbil said.
‘As you wish.’
İkmen told the guard to unlock Erbil’s cell. Just before he left, he said, ‘Think about what I said, about the benefits and drawbacks of being insane. If I were you I’d give some serious thought to what you can do to help the police. After all, you have killed nobody.’
They’d travelled to work separately. Barçın had got a taxi while Ömer had taken the tram. Now, in the office İkmen had given her, Barçın was finding it difficult to concentrate on the many spidery-scripted Ottoman letters that she still had to transliterate.
She didn’t think that Serkan Bey, the kapıcı of her building, had seen Ömer leave. He’d run out of the door a good half an hour before she passed the old man on the stairs. Had he seen that she’d been flushed? Probably, but that didn’t mean he could prove anything. Not unless he went sniffing around her apartment. Which he could . . . Barçın tried not to think about that.
She looked at the dusty pile of Ottoman letters. Her eyes moved sideways to the much smaller number of modern Turkish notes. Of course anyone could read those, but because they were on her desk, İkmen probaby intended her to at least look at them.
A lot of them were banal notes from utility companies. A letter from her bank asking Miss Fatima Rudolfoğlu whether she might consider having one of their credit cards. And then there were some letters from her lawyer, Erdal Bey at Kenter and Kenter. Unlike the other communications, these were carefully written on thick, good-quality legal paper. The first one she came to, dated 2014, detailed the limits of Miss Fatima’s property, giving the exact location of the border between land belonging to the Teufel Ev (called here the Tulip Kiosk) and that owned by Moda Municipality. She had obviously been anxious about what belonged to her and what didn’t. Very old people did that a lot. Fearing they would die soon, they wanted to get their affairs in order.
The second letter, also from Erdal Bey, contained a summary of Miss Fatima’s will. What they already knew was detailed – that the Teufel Ev plus any monies and investments owned by Miss Rudolfoğlu would revert to her three brothers, Yücel, Kanat and Kemal, after her death. In the event of the brothers’ deaths, everything was to go to the Oriental Club of Moda. But there was also a personal warning from the lawyer to Miss Rudolfoğlu. It was this that made Barçın jump out of her chair.
İkmen read the passage again.
I have to urge you in the strongest terms to reconsider your son. Issues such as this have a way of re-emerging, even if, as you claim, this gentleman has no knowledge of his true origins. I refer you to the enclosed document regarding the current status of DNA technology, which I would encourage you to read with some attention. If this person should make a claim on your property on the death of either yourself or whichever siblings survive you, it may prove injurious to your stated heirs, the Oriental Club, or your own posthumous reputation. A small bequest to your son, on condition that he makes no public statement regarding his parentage, would, I believe, save you and your beneficiaries a lot of potential anxiety and heartache in the future.
The letter was dated 15 June 2014. İkmen looked up. Barçın Demirtaş, who was sitting on the other side of his desk, said, ‘It was there all along. I was so caug
ht up with the correspondence between the siblings . . .’
‘I employed you to transliterate the Ottoman letters,’ İkmen said. ‘I could have read this myself. Don’t beat yourself up. We’ve found it now.’
‘A son,’ she said. ‘Her baby survived.’
‘So it would seem. I will have to call Erdal Bey. I doubt he knows the identity of this man, but maybe he knows about the circumstances surrounding his birth.’
‘There was a girl in my mother’s village who, so people said, was the result of a father-and-daughter coupling,’ Barçın said. ‘She had a strange, lopsided face. I’ve no idea why. The family married her off when she was thirteen. She died in childbirth.’
They both sat in silence. Child marriages were still a big problem in some parts of the country. Everyone had a story. But Fatima Rudolfoğlu had been, it was said, so very young.
‘Go back to the Ottoman letters and leave this to me,’ İkmen said.
‘Sir.’ She rose.
‘Oh, and just to bring you up to speed, Inspector Süleyman and I interviewed the son of the Rudolfoğlus’ gardener, Konstantinos Apion, last night. Yiannis Apion claims that Perihan Rudolfoğlu gave birth to his father’s child in 1931.’
‘We knew she was pregnant . . .’
‘Yes, and she gave birth to a live child,’ İkmen said. ‘Which Fatima Rudolfoğlu and her brothers killed.’
‘They killed a baby?’
‘They stabbed her through the heart,’ İkmen said. ‘Familiar modus operandi, eh?’
Barçın sat down again. ‘God,’ she said, ‘that is monstrous!’
‘Apion claims that he didn’t kill the Rudolfoğlus in spite of the fact that he has known about this since his late father told him four years ago. So far there is no forensic evidence that links him with the Teufel Ev, and so currently his statement is just a story. But his priest, Father Anatoli, knew, and he was seen talking to Apion the day before his suicide.’
‘So Apion could have done it?’
‘It’s possible. But he volunteered the information. And in spite of the fact that priests are supposed to respect the sanctity of confessions made to them, I wonder whether Father Anatoli told someone else about the Rudolfoğlus and their crimes. His wife is of the opinion that his responsibilities had begun to weigh heavily upon him in recent years.’
The House of Four Page 21