A Passion for Killing (2 page)

‘So now, this carpet, Raşit Bey . . .’

‘Is a wonderful Ottoman Court Carpet, as I know you know, Muhammed Efendi.’ He leaned forward, stiffly, and took a corner of the great carpet between his fingers. The pile was thick, luscious and contained, as he knew that it would be, a high proportion of silk in the weave. ‘What, if I may be so bold, is its provenance?’

‘It belonged to one of my aunts,’ Muhammed Efendi said. ‘Do you remember the Princess Gözde? She lost her fiancé in the Great War when she was sixteen and spent the rest of her life in mourning. She was a recluse and so, even though she was my father’s sister, I saw her only infrequently.’

‘Did she live in one of those large wooden palaces up in Nişantaşı?’

‘Yes.’ Muhammed Efendi smiled. ‘By the end of the fifties most people had forgotten her existence. The house was in a state of disrepair, and she could afford neither gas nor electricity. When one night, just prior to her death in 1959, a thief broke in and saw her, he assumed she had to be a ghost and ran screaming from the building. Upon her demise, the house and all her effects were bequeathed to my father, her brother. This carpet graced the floor of the enormous entrance hall to that palace. I believe it was made at the end of the eighteenth century.’

It was beautiful in that rich, ornate fashion that had so appealed to the wealthy Ottoman mind. Probably, Raşit Bey calculated, produced in Usak in the 1790s, it was a mass of thick tulips, roses, hyacinths and carnations. He was certain it was the product of the expert weavers from the Anatolian city of Usak. They had produced carpets for the Ottoman court from the 15th right up to the 20th century.

‘Fortunately,’ Muhammed Efendi continued, ‘my father had the good sense to empty out the Princess Gözde’s house immediately after her death. Like all of those old Nişantaşı mansions, it is no more.’ He sighed. ‘It burned to the ground in the early sixties and was replaced by some hideous block of flats. We used this carpet in my father’s old house for several years afterwards but when we came here, it was, of course, far too big for any of the rooms. Until today it was rolled up against the wall of the dining room.’

‘And now you would like to obtain an opinion on the piece?’ Raşit Bey knew that Muhammed Efendi was desperate to sell. Just simply observing the brand of cigarettes he was now smoking told him that. Muhammed Efendi usually had his cigarettes made for him and so if he was reduced to the dirt-cheap ‘Birinci’ brand, things had to be tight. But Raşit Bey knew better than to talk overtly of money, even though he recognised that the carpet was worth a considerable sum. Money talk to someone like Muhammed Efendi was most vulgar. The carpet dealer would have to proceed with caution.

‘I would like an opinion, yes,’ Muhammed Efendi said as he sipped his tea thoughtfully. ‘But in your own time, Raşit Bey. Things like this cannot be rushed.’

‘No, indeed.’

The sun was shining, the spring flowers were fully in bloom and the few birds that braved the cat-patrolled garden of the Süleymans, were singing. So even the scene that surrounded him said nothing to Raşit Bey about being rushed in any way. But the carpet dealer knew. He knew the fine manners and what they concealed, he knew that Muhammed Efendi was loath to take the assistance his sons very frequently offered to him. He knew the old prince would far rather sell things than either earn money, which at his age was probably out of the question anyway, or take it from others.

‘Give it some thought,’ Muhammed Efendi said as he put his cigarette out and then almost immediately lit up another.

‘Yes, I will.’ Raşit Bey could have told him what the carpet was worth and what he could pay him for it on the spot. But such haste would be seen in a very dim light. He would, he thought, leave the old prince alone for a few days before following up the matter with a polite telephone call.

And so with the formal part of their business effectively concluded, the two men spoke of other things – Muhammed Efendi of his granddaughter who had just started primary school, and the carpet dealer of his shop and its many comings and goings. Generally trade was good and Raşit Bey was very happy about how well his grandson, Adnan, was progressing in his business.

‘If only I could say the same about Yaşar,’ Raşit Bey said, shaking his head sadly as he spoke.

‘Yaşar?’

‘The young man from the coast,’ Raşit Bey replied. ‘Used to work for my brother Cengiz in his carpet shop in Antalya. He’s been with me for just over a year now.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Muhammed Efendi frowned. ‘Didn’t he, at one time, used to have his own factory or something?’

‘No, not exactly.’ Raşit Bey finished the hated Birinci cigarette and then sipped his tea. ‘He just organised the sale of carpets the women in his village produced. Cengiz did business with him for several years before he offered him a job in his own shop. He did well for my brother, and he’s ambitious, so he eventually came on to me here in the city. He’s a bright man.’

‘So what is the problem, Raşit Bey?’

He sighed. ‘Well, if I could find Yaşar, then maybe I would be able to answer that question, Muhammed Efendi.’

‘He’s missing?’

Raşit Bey shrugged. ‘If you include today, he hasn’t been to work for three days now – without a word of explanation.’

‘Have you visited his home?’ Muhammed Efendi asked.

‘Yes. But he isn’t there. The kapıcı of his building hasn’t seen him.’

‘What about his family? In Antalya, did you say?’

‘A village just outside. I have no contact details,’ Raşit Bey replied. He sighed. ‘To be completely candid with you, Muhammed Efendi, both myself and my brother know almost nothing about Yaşar Uzun beyond his English language and carpet-selling skills. He talks very little about his past and I, to be truthful, have little interest in it. All I know is that he is a charming and personable young man who makes me a considerable profit on what he sells. I’ll have to contact my brother.’

Muhammed Efendi frowned. ‘Have you informed the police?’

‘No!’ Raşit Bey waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’m sure there’s a good explanation and I don’t want Yaşar to get into any trouble.’ Then, without thinking, he added, ‘We all know how the police can be, don’t we?’

As soon as he’d said it, Raşit Bey realised he’d made a mistake.

‘I know how my youngest son Mehmet is, Raşit Bey,’ Muhammed Efendi said slowly and gravely. ‘He is a very good police officer.’

‘Oh, yes, but of course!’ Red to the ears, Raşit Bey said, ‘Muhammed Efendi, I apologise unreservedly. I had quite forgotten that Mehmet Bey works for the police department . . .’

‘He is an inspector,’ Muhammed Efendi said with obvious pride. ‘His mother doesn’t approve, of course, she thinks the job is beneath him, but . . . My Mehmet has solved murder cases, Raşit Bey. The boy has a brilliant mind and is most discreet too.’

‘I am sure.’

‘A missing person is nothing to him,’ Muhammed Efendi said. ‘If you want me to, I can ask my son to look for this Yaşar for you. He will find him.’

‘You think so?’

‘I am certain of it,’ Muhammed Efendi replied. ‘Leave it with me, Raşit Bey. I will speak to Mehmet and all will be well.’

Raşit Bey leaned forward and took one of Muhammed Efendi’s hands in his. He then kissed it and raised it to his forehead as a sign of his humbleness and respect. Carpet dealers, even old ones, are rarely of this ilk. Muhammed Süleyman the prince knew that the man both needed and deserved him to deliver on his promise to speak as soon as he could to his son.

The victim was known to him. Not perverted in any way, this man had a wife to whom he was faithful, and a child. Morally one couldn’t fault him – at least not where sex was concerned. No, this man was a fine example of proper Turkish manhood – serious, masculine, respectable. In his business dealings, however, and in one serious personal regard, there was something that did not entirely conform to the image of the perfect Turkish male. This man broke the fingers of his competitors, he routinely threatened the lives of his enemies’ women, and he killed people. More significantly, he had killed an entirely defenceless innocent. There was no excuse for such a thing in civilised society. This man was a gangster and so he had to go – at least that was the mindset the killer chose to adopt for this assignment. Unlike previous victims, this one was to be despatched during the hours of daylight. It was just easier and more convenient that way. One does, after all, have to consider the logistics of the thing every time a fresh kill comes into focus. No kill is, or can ever be, the same. The received wisdom on this was perfectly correct.

The killer made his way to the İstanbul Hilton in the district of Harbiye and lost himself completely in the great crowds of package tourists, harried staff members and busy conference delegates who choked the entrance lobby and reception area. He made his way up to the ninth floor where the gangster was waiting to meet a person who was, the killer understood, a provider of drugs from Afghanistan. But whether that person did indeed turn up for their meeting or not can never now be known. Drug dealers do not tend, after all, to tell people about their cancelled or abortive meetings. No, the body of the gangster was eventually discovered by a member of the hotel staff the following morning when the rather fat guest who had only booked in for one night was found dead on his hotel room floor. And so as Muhammed Süleyman Efendi and his friend Raşit Bey talked of this and that in the pretty garden in Arnavutköy, the İstanbul police put the stabbed body of the gangster into a mortuary van destined for the Forensic Institute and further investigations.

Inspector Çetin İkmen liked to visit his friend and colleague Inspector Mehmet Süleyman when they were both present in the police station, İkmen, in spite of over thirty years on the force, had never managed to settle his mind to paperwork. Just the thought of it made him want to do something else – anything else. And so as soon as his sergeant, Ayşe Farsakoğlu, returned from lunch, İkmen left his chaotic desk and made his way down the long, grey corridor towards the clean and ordered office of his much younger friend. When he got there he found that the door was open and his friend was talking on the telephone. As soon as he saw İkmen, however, Inspector Süleyman ushered him in with a wave of his hand.

‘Yes . . . Yes . . . I’ll do my best . . . Yes . . .’ He sounded weary, something that was clearly underwritten by his heavily drooping eyelids. He motioned for İkmen to sit, which the older man did with a small, arthritic grunt.

‘Yes . . . Yes, I know . . . Yes . . .’ He wrote something down on the back of a cigarette packet.

Mehmet Süleyman, tired and middle-aged, nevertheless had the kind of spectacularly good looks that seem to defy both age and lifestyle. As he continued to murmur platitudes into the receiver he first offered İkmen a very rough Maltepe cigarette, which İkmen took with a smile, and then lit one up for himself.

‘Yes . . .’ He pinched the skin at the top of his nose between his eyes with his free hand and then shook his head in what looked like exasperation. İkmen smiled. Whoever his friend Mehmet was talking to was trying his patience, which was far from limitless at the best of times. Middle-aged he might be, but Mehmet had not yet reached the rather amused acceptance of most things that İkmen’s extra seventeen years had conferred upon him. But then, İkmen mused as he smoked on thoughtfully, being fifty-seven had to have some advantages.

‘Yes, all right . . . Goodbye.’ Mehmet Süleyman replaced the handset on to the receiver and sighed. ‘Well, today is certainly shaping up to be something really quite special,’ he said with a liberal smattering of irony in his voice.

‘Why’s that?’ İkmen asked. He knew there had been a flurry of activity around his friend’s office earlier in the day but he hadn’t really known what it was about. He and Ayşe tended to lock themselves away, much as it irked him, when they were preparing themselves to give evidence in court. That was still five days away but they needed their records of their investigations into what had been a very brutal killing to be in order and to hand, and in İkmen’s messy office that was quite a feat.

‘Do you know about the body found on the ninth floor of the Hilton this morning?’

‘I heard something about a body in a hotel somewhere,’ İkmen replied. ‘But you know how it is, Mehmet?’ He shrugged. ‘Court in five days’ time and we need to put this acid killer away for good. What he did to his wife was, well . . . My evidence needs to be first class and, as usual, my paperwork is in a state of chaos.’

‘You must thank Allah for sending you Ayşe,’ Mehmet Süleyman said as he ground his cigarette out in his ashtray.

‘She is, as you say, a marvel,’ İkmen replied. ‘She’s almost as efficient as you were when you did the job.’

Mehmet Süleyman smiled. It was over ten years now since he had worked as İkmen’s sergeant, but he still remembered those days with enormous affection.

‘But this hotel murder . . .’ İkmen began.

‘Ah, yes. Well, he was discovered by a member of the hotel staff at 8 a.m. Stabbed, the victim is male, middle-aged and apparently he was known to the boys in vice. Unsubstantiated involvement with drugs; heroin and cocaine it is alleged.’

İkmen frowned. ‘Name?’

‘Cabbar Soylu, forty-five, from Edirnekapı . . .’

‘I know Cabbar Soylu,’ İkmen said with some distaste evident in his voice. ‘Nasty fat Mafioso. Clever though. Vice are right, he’s never been caught actually doing anything that could lead him to our cells. But he’s known. He likes threatening the wives of those who are in opposition to him and his “soldiers” are not to be trifled with either. So why are you involved? I thought you were still working on the peeper investigation?’

‘I am,’ his friend replied. ‘Soylu’s killer is almost certainly the peeper.’

İkmen frowned. The as yet unknown criminal known as the ‘peeper’ had been terrorising, and more latterly murdering, young homosexual men in İstanbul since the autumn of the previous year. There was a definite sexual element to these crimes, the assailant was known to masturbate in front of or over his victims, who thus far had all been young and attractive. Cabbar Soylu had been neither. ‘Hardly seems to fit what we know about the peeper so far,’ İkmen said doubtfully.