Deep Waters (24 page)

‘Why, was his house “tasteless”?’ Tepe asked, spitefully emulating Suleyman’s tight-lipped delivery of the word.

‘Yes,’ İkmen replied mildly, ‘it was. But then Evren is an art dealer with many eastern European contacts. You know the scene, Tepe. Give the starving peasant a loaf of bread for his dead wife’s gold jewellery and then sell it on in London for a quarter of a million dollars. That kind of art dealer.’

‘Oh.’

‘And Tepe,’ said İkmen with a note of warning in his voice, ‘don’t mock your superiors to me. Inspector Suleyman may be an aristocrat but that doesn’t make him a fool.’

Tepe lowered his gaze. ‘No, sir.’

‘Treat him with respect,’ İkmen continued as he made his way along the corridor towards his office. ‘How would you have coped had the Evren woman leered at you?’

‘Did she?’

‘What woman doesn’t?’ İkmen said, making use of his knowledge regarding Tepe’s extramarital affair with Ayşe Farsakoǧlu – a woman still besotted with Suleyman.

In an effort to try to answer his superior’s question without losing his temper, Tepe stammered, ‘Well, I, um . . .’

‘You don’t have to answer that,’ İkmen said as they entered his office. He sat down, and from behind the vast paper mountain that was his desk, he added, ‘Spite breeds spite, you know, Tepe, and you don’t want people to start talking about you, do you?’

Tepe, who had now seated himself at his own, far less chaotic desk, switched on his computer terminal and said miserably, ‘No, sir.’

‘By the way,’ İkmen’s disembodied voice said as he rapidly changed the subject back to business, ‘how did Mehmet Vlora react when you told him that Mehti had confessed to Rifat Berisha’s murder?’

‘He reiterated that both he and Aryan were with Mehti all the time on the night of the killing, but he looked rattled.’

‘Did he?’

‘Yes.’ And then after pausing for a moment in order to collect his thoughts, Tepe said, ‘Sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you think it might be possible that the truth lies somewhere between Mehti’s story and that told by the Evren family?’

‘Oh, Mehti has told us enough to make me believe he was there,’ İkmen said, ‘as were Evren and his children. And unless Rifat was attacked on his journey home by someone as yet unknown, one of them probably murdered him.’

‘Yes, but if Evren did kill Rifat, why was he so co-operative when Inspector Suleyman went to visit him?’

‘Perhaps Evren himself didn’t kill the boy,’ İkmen said. ‘Maybe he really does know nothing about Rifat’s death. His children might, though.’

‘What, that weird, twisted little woman!’ Tepe frowned with disbelief. ‘No! Dr Sarkissian said the murderer, if not necessarily strong, would have to be determined and have a strong stomach.’

‘Evren also has a young son and a very fit-looking chauffeur,’ İkmen replied.

‘But why . . .’

‘Well, that we don’t know,’ İkmen said as he lit a cigarette. ‘Beyond attempting to extort money from Evren, Rifat seems to have been the model friend to poor Felicity. But then we don’t possess the full picture yet, do we?’

‘No.’

‘Somewhere in the triangle that exists between outraged Albanian blood, a woman’s fantasies and the growing wants of a greedy young man lies the answer,’ İkmen said and then picked up his telephone and dialled a number.

‘What are you doing, sir?’ Tepe asked.

‘I’m going to ask Commissioner Ardiç to allow me enough manpower to assist us in the formal interrogation of the Evrens and their chauffeur. And, when that is done, we will reinterrogate the Vloras, including Aryan, and also Rahman Berisha. By that time forensic should—’ His call was answered and İkmen turned away. ‘Hello, sir,’ he said. ‘Yes, it is . . . Yes . . .’

Tepe didn’t really hear anything more of İkmen’s conversation with Ardiç, his mind was stuck on both the stern reprimand his boss had given him earlier and the truly enormous amount of work that was mounting up for all of them. And in view of the fact that they already had a confession, albeit a suspect one, he found his enthusiasm flagging.

‘You started it!’ Engelushjia Berisha spat out across the cup of coffee he had just bought her.

‘No, I didn’t!’ Aryan Vlora countered hotly. ‘The ignorant peasants who were our ancestors started it!’ Bending forward across the table, he continued in a low voice, ‘I have never even been to Albania, do you know that? Much less the town we spend all of our time fighting about!’

‘Well, I was born in Kukes,’ Engelushjia answered, naming the place where they all originated. ‘My father saw your cousins kill his uncle! So when we came here and found another branch of your accursed
fis
—’

‘Engelushjia . . .’

‘Why should I talk to you when everyone knows that you killed Egrem?’

‘My
fis
, yes, but not me, not personally.’

‘You know who did it though, don’t you?’ Engelushjia persisted. ‘You must.’

Aryan looked briefly around at the other people in the Pudding Shop. Most of them appeared to be tourists; they obviously had money, if their clothes and neat hair were anything to go by. There were Turks as well, who also looked clean and well-fed. Only he and Engelushjia with her mud-stained skirt broke this ordered pattern. Poor slaves to their own insistent, costly blood.

‘If I tell you who killed Egrem,’ Aryan said gravely, ‘will you believe me when I say that Mehti did not kill Rifat?’

Engelushjia looked at him suspiciously. ‘I don’t know. We’ve always believed he was useless. Rifat laughed at him . . .’

Aryan folded his thin, gnarled hands in front of him on the table. ‘I won’t lie to you and tell you that I was with Mehti on the night of Rifat’s death,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t. The truth is that I don’t know where Mehti was that night.’

‘The police say he followed Rifat out to the house of his girlfriend.’

‘Yes, and I wouldn’t argue with that,’ Aryan agreed earnestly. ‘He did sometimes follow your brother – as I know you know. He never spoke or actually did anything. Mehti felt the loss of Dhori more keenly than anyone, he wanted to punish your
fis
for that. But I know that he didn’t kill Rifat.’

‘How?’

Aryan shrugged. ‘Because I know.’

‘That’s no answer,’ Engelushjia retorted angrily. ‘Why should I believe that?’

‘Because when I came home one evening to find Mehmet crouching over your brother Egrem’s body with a bloody knife in his hand, Mehti was hiding in our bedroom with a blanket over his head covering his ears with his hands!’

For just a moment it was almost as if she hadn’t heard him. Her eyes, strangely impassive, even flicked up as one of the old shoeshine men came in for tea and rice pudding. Only when the jolt that his words had given her passed did she begin to cry, softly and silently like one already drained of tears.

‘Mehti screamed at me to stop Mehmet, but it was too late,’ Aryan continued. ‘Your brother was dead and my mother had already started helping Mehmet move Egrem over towards the fire escape.’

‘We all knew that Egrem was dead when he didn’t come back that night,’ Engelushjia said in a voice that was now chillingly calm. ‘We’d even talked about how Mehmet might kill him . . . And then in the morning your neighbour, Ahmet Qerimi came . . .’

‘Your father and mother brought a handcart to carry your brother away from the rubbish tip at the bottom of our fire escape.’ He looked down at his hands again, which were clenched into fists. ‘My mother smiled . . . And then your father killed Dhori, and Angeliki didn’t smile again.’

‘Except that my father didn’t kill Dhori,’ Engelushjia murmured, as if she was afraid to allow her enemy to hear her admission.

Frowning, Aryan said, ‘What? But I thought—’

‘Oh, yes, you thought!’ Engelushjia said bitterly. ‘Just like everyone else, just like me! But Father didn’t kill Dhori – how could he when he was too frightened to leave the house? When could he have done it? Rifat was young and silly and bold and Mother and I could go out any time that we wished, but Father?’ Crying properly now, she struggled to keep her voice down, causing it to tremble with emotion. ‘Father is a coward, he told me, he—’

‘All right! All right!’ Aryan reached across the table and took her cold hands between his fingers. ‘So where is my brother Dhori? He was a simple, friendly man. Who else but your father, Engelushjia, could have killed him?’

‘My father has never killed anyone,’ she sobbed mournfully. ‘Even when your father killed my grandfather, it was left to my Uncle Muhammed to take revenge.’

‘Upon my father,’ Aryan said with a sigh.

‘Yes, and so on and so on down to Egrem and Rifat and . . .’ The catalogue of death seemed to exhaust her and Engelushjia lapsed into silence.

After a moment, Aryan said, ‘Drink your coffee, it’ll get cold.’

The girl silently did as she was asked, her throat occasionally spasming with unshed tears. Aryan watched her with what an outside observer would have deemed a hard intensity. In truth, however, his eyes were not hard so much as searching, seeking out what he hoped might be a growing sympathy within her. And when he felt that the time was right, he resumed their conversation.

‘Look, Engelushjia,’ he said, ‘whether we believe what the other has said or not, if we can start from the idea that your father and my brother Mehti are innocent men, then – hear me out, please!’ he said when she attempted to protest.

For a moment she looked searchingly into his eyes and then she shrugged and was silent.

‘The only thing we know for certain is that Mehmet killed Egrem,’ Aryan said softly lest anyone in the Pudding Shop was Albanian. ‘Mehmet is crazy but now that he is finally in a police cell perhaps there might be a way of keeping him there. And Mother.’

Shocked by this apparent lack of
fis
loyalty, Engelushjia said, ‘But Mehmet is your blood.’

‘Yes, and I have loyally kept silent about his excesses for long enough! I have covered up, lied and cheated for Mehmet for most of my life, but like the rest of my brothers I have done so out of fear. I’m only here with you today because Mother and Mehmet are down in the cells! Mehmet is insane, he frightens me and Mehti – he used to frighten Dhori too.’ He rubbed his eyes wearily with his fingers. ‘Look, I know for certain that Mehmet ordered Mehti to beat up Mustafa Bajraktar – he fancies a war with them, the fool! Luckily, however, Mehti is weak and frightened, and Bajraktar is big and vicious.’

‘So you think Mehti is incapable of murder?’

‘I know it!’ Aryan replied passionately. ‘Like I told you, I’ve seen him hide from Mehmet’s excesses.’

‘So was it Mehmet?’

‘No, he was with me all the time on the night of your brother’s death, and that is the truth.’

‘But if neither of your brothers killed Rifat, who did?’ Engelushjia said mournfully.

‘I don’t know,’ Aryan replied, ‘but maybe if we look into your brother’s life a little harder we can work it out.’

‘We?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing.

Aryan cleared his throat. ‘If you let me try and prove Mehti’s innocence, I will go to the police and tell them how, when and where Mehmet killed Egrem.’

‘
What?
’

‘Mehmet has to be locked away for good! He’s an animal! And anyway, all of this has got to stop, this bloodshed. We have a chance now, Engelushjia! With Mehmet and Mother in custody, we have a chance to finish this thing for good! Don’t you want to live a normal life like all the other people in this restaurant?’ He swept an arm round to illustrate his point. ‘Well?’

Against her better judgement, for she felt that he might feel she was forcing her company on him, Zelfa Halman decided to offer her patient a lift home at the end of his session. His home in Bebek was further north than her own house in Ortaköy, but it was raining and he did look so very tired. Besides, if his family were in, it might give her a chance to assess his situation at first hand.

For one so young, Ali Evren seemed to carry a lot of guilt. Much of it appeared to revolve around his mother and the manner of her death. Mary Evren had suffered from depression for most of her life. She had been sectioned to several British psychiatric hospitals before she took her own life nearly three years ago. Whether Ali’s guilt arose from her suicide or from conversations that had taken place within the family subsequently, Zelfa didn’t know. Although he had what would have been described in the past as a ‘morbid nature’, which was something that he had obviously shared with his horror-aficionado mother, the exacerbating factor in Mary Evren’s illness had not been Ali but rather his sister Felicity. Mary felt guilty about the heavy responsibilities she placed upon her daughter even though, according to Ali, Felicity wanted to take care of Mary. Felicity – a beautiful girl, Zelfa understood – had been a slave to her mother’s illness, a sickness Mary could neither control nor curtail. And so Mary had killed herself – an act of both selflessness and selfishness. An act that would not apparently go away.

Ali’s guilt was not the main cause of Zelfa’s concern, however. It was a common enough byproduct of the death of a loved one. No, what really worried her was Ali’s increasing fear. Not all of it could be attributed to his father; it ran through every aspect of Ali’s life. He feared people because of the disclosure that closeness to others encouraged; he feared sleep because of the lack of control that state requires; and he feared losing the one person who empathised with him – his sister. Felicity, apparently, understood. A conversation with her would be most interesting, Zelfa thought.

‘You know the Aya Sofya?’ the boy said when he finally decided to break the silence between them.

‘Yes,’ Zelfa answered as her brand new Renault glided under the grey bulk of the Boǧaziçi Bridge.

‘You know that it used to be a church?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I went there today, on a school trip, and it made me feel weary and sort of oppressed.’