A Passion for Killing (10 page)

‘I can’t think why anyone would want to kill poor Yaşar, can you, darling?’ Matilda wittered over the top of her knitting. She was a plump woman who looked exactly what she was which, Peter had felt for years, was very boring. Knitting, fiddling about in the kitchen making gooey cakes, going to dull little Anglo-Turkish dos with equally dull local women – that was Matilda. He tried to convince himself that he owed her little, and anyway, the house back in the UK was only in his name. He’d bought it just before they got married. He could in theory do whatever he wanted with it. Except that to do that would upset Matilda and, strange as it was, he was really averse to doing that.

‘No,’ he said in short reply to her wittering. They should have had children. There was so much silence and just sheer, albeit comfortable, boredom between them. If they had had children, maybe, Peter felt, he wouldn’t have become quite so obsessed by oriental carpets. He idly scanned around the vast, white sitting room – a space almost identical to that of the Klaassens’ – with the exception of more than a few carpets. There were village rugs, kilims, early Anatolian rugs in bold primitive designs, a rare Kumkapı silk Hereke of dazzling beauty as well as Bandirma and Giordes columned prayer carpets. A wonderful collection by anyone’s standards. But Peter Melly would have given them all up for just a hint as to the whereabouts of the Lawrence Kerman carpet.

‘I knew that Yaşar lived up in Nişantaşı these days, but I imagined he had some sort of room,’ Raşit Ulusan said in answer to İkmen’s question about his ex-employee’s apartment. ‘When he was in Sultanahmet when he first came to the city, he shared a small apartment with four other men. It was all that he could afford. I thought he’d just moved up to Nişantaşı to be posh. You know, live in something not much more than a cupboard just for the sake of the address. Status meant a lot to Yaşar.’

‘Clearly,’ İkmen agreed. ‘But what he had, Raşit Bey, was a three-bedroom apartment on Atiye Sokak, Nişantaşı, with garaging for that very expensive Jeep. I might also add that the apartment was very well and tastefully furnished. Whatever you were paying him . . .’

‘Was obviously not enough for a lifestyle like that,’ the old man said. ‘Oh, Allah, poor Yaşar, what had he got himself involved with?’

‘You don’t know?’

The old carpet dealer leaned forward to take the glass of tea his grandson had set down in front of him earlier. ‘Know what?’

İkmen, who had already gulped his tea down, lit a cigarette. ‘Well, Raşit Bey,’ he said, ‘there are two possible ways in which Yaşar could have made all this money. One we know about, the other is mere speculation. Do you know whether Yaşar had any connections with any of the local mafias?’

‘The mob?’ Raşit Bey shrugged. ‘Which one? The Russians, the Bulgarians, Azerbaijanis, our own . . .’

‘All. Any. Whatever.’

He shrugged again. ‘You know as well as I, Çetin Bey, that the mob, from whichever direction it comes, is and always has been interested in the carpet trade. To a greater or lesser degree every dealer I know has had at the very least a visit from these people. I myself have been “visited” although many years ago now.’ He smiled. ‘Fortunately, my clientele and some of my friends are powerful enough to have removed that threat from Ulusan Carpets. I shall say no more. Why do you ask about Yaşar and the mob?’

İkmen, smiling too, now, had suspected that Raşit Bey’s business had some very powerful friends. But maybe that had not extended to Yaşar Uzun. ‘The manner of his death was, or could be, typical of a mob-style hit,’ he replied. ‘We’ve as yet found no other connections, however. What we do know is that around about the time he acquired the Nişantaşı apartment, he was given a hundred and twenty thousand pounds sterling by one of your customers.’

The carpet dealer’s eyes widened. ‘A hundred and twenty thousand
pounds
!’

‘Yes, from a Mr Peter Melly at the British Consulate.’ İkmen then went on to report what the Englishman, backed by the Dutch couple, had told him about the Lawrence carpet. He showed Raşit Bey the photocopied picture of Lawrence, Roberts and the Kerman carpet that Melly had given him.

Shaking his head, the carpet dealer said, ‘I’ve never seen this photograph or the carpet in it in my life. A Lawrence carpet? Allah!’

‘You’ve heard of such things?’

‘Who has not?’ the carpet dealer said. ‘Carpets that once belonged to the famous are big business. Lawrence was a collector. The British and the Americans love anything to do with him. How did Yaşar come into possession of such a thing?’

‘We’re not sure,’ İkmen replied. ‘We don’t even know where it is.’

‘At his apartment?’

‘No, we’ve looked.’ İkmen first sighed and then said, ‘I’m sorry, Raşit Bey, but I am going to have to search these premises.’

Sometimes he hated his job. Raşit Bey was a decent man and the hurt expression that clouded his face did not make İkmen feel in any way good about what he had to do.

‘Inspector?’

Süleyman looked up from the papers on his desk and said, ‘Yes?’

İzzet Melik was cradling his telephone receiver underneath his ear. One of his hands covered the mouthpiece. ‘I’ve a man who won’t give his name. But he’s from Hakkari. He says someone here spoke to a Captain Ceylan from Hakkari about someone called Deniz Koç . . .’

‘Yes, that was me,’ Süleyman said. ‘What does he want?’

‘Says he has some information. Is this something to do with Cabbar Soylu?’

‘Yes.’ Süleyman put his hand out for the telephone. So it had been a captain he had spoken to from Hakkari. Melik gave him the receiver and watched intently as his superior took the call. ‘Inspector Süleyman. I took a call from Captain Ceylan . . .’

‘Ceylan knows nothing.’ The voice was even harsher and less distinguishable than the Hakkari jandarma’s had been.

‘Who is this?’ Süleyman said.

‘Someone who knows Hakkari jandarma station,’ came the rather ominous reply. ‘Listen, Inspector, Ceylan told you that Deniz Koç killed himself. It isn’t true. He was murdered.’

‘Murdered?’

‘Smothered. I can’t tell you who did it. I don’t know. But what I can say is that he was at the Perihan Hanım Institute in Van when he died. And it was his stepfather who ordered it done.’

‘Cabbar Soylu?’

‘Yes.’

‘But why? Deniz was out of the way . . .’

‘Cabbar wanted to go to Europe. Emine was nervous about being so far away from Deniz. Then the boy “died”. You work it out.’

‘Yes, but this is just conjecture, you—’

‘Look, someone I know works at the Perihan Hanım. Deniz Koç had a pillow placed over his face. He was, as usual, drugged out of his mind, so he didn’t struggle. If Cabbar Soylu is dead, then I am glad. He murdered an innocent.’

‘Who—’

But the line went dead at that point, leaving Süleyman staring helplessly at the mouthpiece. When he did finally come back to himself he said, ‘İzzet, see whether that call can be traced.’

‘Yes, Inspector.’

He took his mobile phone out of his jacket pocket and said, ‘I need to go outside for some air.’

İzzet Melik, aware that ‘getting some air’ was not really one of his superior’s habits, said, ‘Yes.’

Süleyman left and, as soon as he had managed to find a comparatively quiet corner of the station car park, he called Mürsel.

İkmen knew the Kapalı Çarşı and its shops well enough to know that checking every item of stock in Raşit Ulusan’s carpet dealership was not going to take five minutes. He had three uniformed officers to help him, as well as his sergeant, Ayşe Farsakoğlu. But darkness was falling and they still hadn’t got beyond the main showroom and the one small office behind it. In this, one of the oldest parts of the bazaar, successful shops like Ulusan Carpets had many, many other store rooms and sometimes workshops too. Quite often these rooms were spread out on different levels. In the case of Raşit Bey’s business as well as the ground-floor rooms, there was a vast basement and three other floors that were accessed by a rickety metal staircase to the left-hand side of the main entrance. On top of that, the fact that it had been a slow day for business across the Kapalı Çarşı had meant that one of his officers, young Hikmet Yıldız, had spent most of his time shooing away other curious carpet, gold and antique dealers. Upon reflection, İkmen thought that what he should have done was call upon the services of the Zabıta, the dedicated market police, to help him keep order outside the shop. But, as usual, when he had his teeth into a case, he had been in a tearing hurry. It was well known that the more time that passed after a murder had been committed the less likely the police were to make an arrest.

‘Nothing in the office, sir,’ Ayşe Farsakoğlu said as she made to follow a uniformed constable to the back of the showroom. ‘I’m going to start in the basement.’

‘All right,’ İkmen replied. ‘Where’s Roditi?’

Ayşe Farsakoğlu waved her copy of the photograph of the Kerman in the air. ‘Oh, Allah!’ she said. ‘In those rooms upstairs. I don’t know how many there are or where they lead . . .’

‘I imagine to another dimension, sergeant,’ İkmen said. ‘Like you, I’ve never seen so many rooms, corridors or—’

‘There are five rooms on three levels, two staircases and two corridors,’ Raşit Bey said as he handed İkmen a glass of tea and then wearily sat down in a chair. ‘Çetin Bey, can’t my boys help your officers to sort through these piles of carpets?’

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ İkmen said. ‘We have to do it, and anyway, I think your lads are fully occupied clearing up the mess we’ve made, don’t you?’

Raşit Bey looked at his grandson Adnan and general assistant Hüseyin sweating heavily as they attempted to put the carpets and kilims the police had looked at back in good order.

‘I have called my brother Cengiz in Antalya and he has located Yaşar’s family and informed them of his death,’ Raşit Bey said as he gestured for İkmen to sit down. ‘His mother and a brother are apparently on their way.’

‘They will come to you?’ İkmen sat down although the sight of Constable Yıldız talking to another man in a very animated fashion outside had caught his attention.

‘It is the least I can do,’ Raşit Bey replied. ‘I spoke to my brother a little about the Lawrence Kerman and he said there had been talk of such a thing in Antalya, but many, many years ago. I told Cengiz not to mention it to the Uzuns. I assumed you would want to do that, Inspector?’

‘Yes . . .’

İkmen had been paying attention on one level, but he was also looking very intently now at Yıldız and the tall young man who was with him. The latter was, if he was not mistaken, crying.

‘Excuse me, please, Raşit Bey,’ İkmen said as he got up and made his way towards the shop doorway.

The first thing he heard his officer say as he opened the door was, ‘I can’t do that, Abdullah, he’s—’ and then seeing İkmen’s rather troubled face, Hikmet Yıldız said, ‘Sir?’

‘Just wondering who you were talking to, Yıldız,’ İkmen said.

‘Oh, this is Sergeant Ergin,’ Yıldız replied. ‘He’s with the um, the Tourism Police.’

‘The station up on Yerebatan Caddesi?’

‘Yes.’

As the name implied, the Tourism Police concerned themselves exclusively with helping foreign visitors to the city when they found themselves the victims of pickpockets, prostitution scams, etc. In İstanbul, the officers were stationed at a jolly-looking pastel-shaded Ottoman building in Sultanahmet, and spoke English and German and, usually, one or two other foreign languages. This one, whom İkmen now knew was called Abdullah Ergin, was both out of uniform and crying bitterly.

‘What’s the matter?’ İkmen asked.

‘She’s gone!’ the tall young man blurted out miserably.

‘Abdullah! The inspector is very busy! I told you!’

‘But what if she has been murdered! Only Çetin Bey can be certain to find who has done such a thing! Oh, my Handan! Where are you?’ And then he descended into full-scale weeping once again. A mercifully small group of carpet men looked on dispassionately.

Hikmet Yıldız, obviously embarrassed by what was happening, turned to İkmen and said, ‘I’m sorry, sir. Abdullah is a friend. His wife went out shopping the day before yesterday and hasn’t returned. He’s been left with their baby, which his mother is taking care of. He fears his wife may have been murdered and he feels that you are the best person to look into that, sir, because, of course, you are the greatest solver of crimes in this city. No villain is safe when—’

‘Spare me the over-blown praise, please, constable,’ İkmen said. And then realising that he had violated one of the cornerstone tenets of his own people – to praise effusively where praise was due – he said, ‘Sorry, Yıldız.’ He then looked across at the weeping Tourism cop and said, ‘You’ve contacted all relatives and friends?’

‘Of course!’

‘All right. Now listen to me, go to the station and report your wife as a missing person. Tell whoever takes the details that I have sent you. Officers will start looking for your wife based upon what you tell them, immediately.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Of course you do,’ İkmen said. ‘You are one of us and as such we will do our best. When I get back to the station, whenever that may be, I will check on the progress of the search and I will make contact with you. Give me your mobile number.’

Abdullah Ergin took his mobile out of his pocket, pressed a few buttons and then read a number off from the phone’s LCD screen. İkmen, for whom mobile technology was still a bit of a problem, copied the number down on the back of a packet of Maltepe cigarettes.

‘Çetin Bey, I . . .’ Tears flooded down his slim, pale cheeks with probably even greater force than before.

‘Go to the station, Sergeant Ergin,’ İkmen said, aware that Constable Roditi had now come down the metal staircase from the upper levels of the shop and was holding what looked like an old rug. He obviously wanted to talk and so İkmen waved the miserable figure of Abdullah Ergin away and then turned towards Roditi.