‘Atom Boghosian. He’s my cousin. From Munich.’ He then translated what he had just said into English, for Atom’s benefit.
Menşure, irritated that Arto Sarkissian had either forgotten or didn’t know that she could speak English, said, in that language, ‘So your journey from Ankara, was it difficult?’
‘Only when we got into Cappadocia,’ Arto responded as he and Atom followed Menşure into her restaurant. ‘It was not snowing in Ankara.’
Menşure motioned the two men towards a table and called to her cook’s daughter to bring them coffee and breakfast. ‘I won’t join you myself . . .’
‘Ramazan,’ Arto smiled.
‘Of course. Please sit,’ she said sternly. ‘I will go to find Çetin. He is generally up at this time.’ She then swept out of the restaurant with what looked like some sort of small fox in tow.
It was only 10 a.m., which, as far as Atom Boghosian was concerned, was still very early. In fact, he was a little bit resentful that his cousin’s friend wasn’t around to greet them. They had, after all, left Ankara very early in order to do this business in Muratpaşa and then Nevşehir.
In response to what he perceived as his cousin’s grave expression, Arto said, ‘Don’t worry about Nevşehir, Atom. You don’t have to come into the mortuary. And I’m not taking a whole corpse back to İstanbul, only samples.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Çetin is excellent company and speaks very good English,’ Arto continued as the cook’s daughter laid plates of bread, cheese, honey and olives in front of both of them. ‘We will not go on in Turkish, I promise. In fact, maybe you and Çetin can speak German together and confuse me. I don’t know how fluent he is, but I know that his father insisted he learn to some level. His father taught European languages.’
Atom didn’t comment. He had enjoyed Arto’s guided tour of Turkey so far and had been amazed when he had first seen the Fairy Chimneys, but he was starting to reach his limit. Whatever his mother said, he was German – he spoke German, thought in German – and he wanted to be home in Munich. None of this exotica had very much meaning, of any sort, for him.
They’d started their breakfasts by the time Menşure Tokatlı and what Atom Boghosian could now see was an enormous cat returned to their table.
‘Çetin isn’t in his room,’ Menşure said with a frown.
‘Maybe he’s gone out for a walk,’ Arto replied.
The woman fixed the Armenian with a very cynical eye.
‘I didn’t mean he was having a walk for pleasure,’ Arto corrected. ‘I mean that maybe he’s out getting cigarettes, or . . .’
‘Have you ever known Çetin to be without cigarettes?’ Menşure interrupted tartly. ‘Arto, please. You know Çetin.’
‘Yes.’ Arto sighed. It was unlikely. But then if İkmen were out and about, knowing that Arto and Atom were due to arrive, it had to be because of some sort of emergency. Maybe he’d received more bad news from İstanbul.
‘I’ve got his mobile number,’ Arto said as he slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket. ‘I’ll give him a call. He’s always got it with him.’
But the phone just rang and rang.
‘Maybe he’s out of range, in an area with bad reception.’
‘Try again in another few minutes,’ Atom suggested.
He did but still to no avail. By this time someone that Arto knew, though vaguely, Captain Salman, had arrived. He had, he said, last seen Çetin at the edge of the village the previous evening in the snow. As usual, he had been poorly clad for the dire weather conditions, but then that was Çetin all over. Arto said that he would try to ring Çetin’s mobile again in another few minutes. In the meantime, however, he asked Altay Salman to join Atom and himself for coffee and some background on just what had been happening in Muratpaşa since Çetin İkmen’s arrival.
He knew that he’d come to at some point during the course of the night, but just when that was, Çetin İkmen couldn’t even begin to know. He’d been in a vehicle of some sort, his face pressed hard up against the tapestry that had covered poor Aysu Alkaya’s body, but he hadn’t been conscious for long. Another, even harder, blow to the head had taken care of that. Who had hit him, he didn’t know. He’d seen and heard nothing of any consequence beyond the gruesome presence of Aysu Alkaya’s mummified corpse – or rather nothing that he could as yet recall.
İkmen sat up, his head thumping with pain. There was sky above him, grey and heavy with yet more of the snow that lay underneath his hands as he pushed himself into a sitting position. Out in the open, somewhere amid what looked like a very densely packed group of chimneys, he was strangely rather warmer than a man wearing only a thin summer suit should be. Not that it took İkmen long to find the source of the heat that seemed to be ensuring his survival. There was a smouldering bonfire in front of him, and for about two metres all around it the snow had melted into the cool rivulets that had eventually woken him. At first he had thought that maybe he had wet himself, but it had, to his relief, been only this melted snow.
That whoever had attacked him was now warming him with this bonfire did seem strange. But İkmen moved towards it, clutching his bruised and in places bloodsticky head as he did so, simply in order to dry out his trousers and jacket. On closer inspection, however, İkmen discovered that the bonfire was a far-from-benign presence. Scooping up what he could of the melted snow around the pile he threw it wildly on to what was still unconsumed. Seeing that one brittle, six-toed foot was sticking out of the smouldering pyre, pointing towards him, İkmen made a grab for it. If he could just salvage something of her! But it came off in his hands leaving him holding just a dry pile of something that made him whimper into the harsh morning air.
Someone had tried to destroy Aysu Alkaya’s corpse. Someone had also tried to destroy him, too, and, given the total alienness and isolation of his surroundings, they were really quite likely to succeed. But then he remembered his mobile phone and his cigarettes. He put his hand into his jacket pocket to retrieve his smokes. They did not appear to be where they should. That did not, İkmen felt, bode well for his telephone.
Mehmet Süleyman had reached what, for him, was a momentous decision. Inclined by nature to be rather impulsive, he had opted, in this case, to take what İkmen called the ‘do nothing’ approach. Commissioner Ardıç was in, and he could have gone straight to his office screaming about compromised crime scenes and the seriousness inherent within the situation. But he didn’t. After he had called the Italian hospital to check on Berekiah Cohen, he just simply reviewed what he had so far on the Saray Hamam murder victim. Even when Melik arrived, neither he nor Süleyman spoke of what had passed between them the previous night. Only when Ardıç eventually called the inspector into his office did the two policemen exchange tense and worried looks.
‘Seems that young Nizan Tapan is not any more use dead than alive,’ the commissioner said as Süleyman entered his office and sat down.
‘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.