On the Bone Page 18

  ‘If you go to their website …’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ İkmen said. ‘But as you are aware, Kerim, I find that almost as painful as having a tooth removed.’

  ‘You have your own web profile, sir.’

  ‘Yes, and it brings me no joy. That photograph makes me look as if I’ve just died.’

  Kerim laughed.

  ‘Just get me Ata’s number if you can, and then you can get yourself over to Etiler,’ İkmen said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Based on information given to him by the prostitute known as Raquel, Kerim Gürsel had an address in Etiler for the missing Volkan Doğan. No telephone number was listed for that address, but he had managed to get in touch with the landlord of the building, who was going to meet him at the property.

  İkmen, meanwhile, was concerned about the call he’d just had from Süleyman. The Syrian child who had claimed that people in the Art House squat had killed his friends seemed to be on his way back to Syria with the father of those friends. Still searching for his lost sons, Imam Ayan was putting himself and the boy in the kind of danger İkmen felt he wouldn’t fully understand. The boy had escaped from Syria once, and so he had to know what ISIS and the other groups controlling parts of the country were like. But from what İkmen could gather, he was fixated on getting his friends back from wherever he believed they were.

  Kerim gave İkmen Inspector Ata’s direct line number and then left to go out to Etiler.

  When İkmen called Ali Ata, it was as if twenty-plus years hadn’t happened. They laughed and they gossiped and they asked after each other’s families. Then İkmen said, ‘The reason I have called you, Ali abi, is because I want you to intercept a man and a boy travelling from Istanbul to, we think, Syria. One is an Imam Ayan, in his sixties, medium height, slim, grey beard. The other is a child called Radwan, a Syrian. We think he’s about twelve. The boy only speaks Arabic, so this man will communicate with him in that language. The imam, we think, has a son or sons in Syria, possibly fighting for Islamic State.’

  He heard Ali Ata sigh. Like him, he was an officer of a certain vintage who was finding it hard to adjust to the reality of a new and unknowable threat from the east.

  ‘What gets into these kids?’

  ‘Adventure, romance, religious fervour. Pick one,’ İkmen said. ‘We have to make sure this man and the boy don’t become casualties. I’ve no reason to believe that either of them wants to join Islamic State or take part in any sort of terrorist activity. They just want to find the imam’s sons.’

  ‘Understood. Do you have an ETA?’

  ‘They should pull in at midday.’

  ‘The direct bus. OK. I’ll call you when I’ve got them.’

  ‘Thank you, Ali abi.’

  He put the phone down. It was doubtful whether the imam or the boy would own up to wanting to cross into Syria. However, given that the imam’s sons were officially missing persons, believed to be in Syria, Ali Ata could legitimately detain them. The boy was a refugee, but if the imam was with him, they could both be sent back to Istanbul for their own protection.

  İkmen, now alone, locked his door, opened his window and lit a cigarette.

  The meat that Halide Can had taken from the kitchen of the Imperial Oriental Hotel had been wild boar – just like the meat he’d found. Celal Vural, the missing waiter, it seemed, had probably run off to escape his dire job and dismal home life. İkmen had to think carefully about whether he needed to keep Constable Can in the hotel. Was it just as an act of spite towards Boris Myskow, his top-of-the-range friends and their spooky protectors? There was no proof that Myskow had any connection to cannibalism, and as a person under special protection, he was dangerous to be around. If Can got caught, there would be hell to pay.

  How had human flesh got into the stomach of a nice, liberal man like Ümit Kavaş? So far Zenne Gül had only found what he described as ‘theoretical fantasists’ in the local online cannibal community. He didn’t think they acted on their fantasies. But what if they did? And what if Ümit Kavaş’s outward niceness had just been a cover for this and possibly for other awful perversions? Now that the investigation had divided between the Imperial Oriental and possible sexual deviance online, it was sometimes difficult to keep one’s thoughts focused.

  What did concern Gül was the trade in human meat, which he said he’d come across on western European sites too. He wanted permission to contact one outlet that described itself as local. Quite how these hackers knew which advertisement or site might lead somewhere significant, İkmen couldn’t imagine. Were there particular tells that gave it away? He’d have to instruct Gül to go ahead, because what choice did he have? They were getting nowhere using traditional methods. They didn’t even know where Ümit had been going the night he died, or where he’d been. But would a man like Ümit Kavaş buy human meat? Really? What were they missing about the character of this man?

  He called Commissioner Teker, who said she’d meet him in his office. When she arrived, she looked pale. He didn’t comment on it. She explained of her own volition.

  ‘Not sleeping,’ she said as she took one of his cigarettes and lit up.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He told her about Gül.

  She said, ‘I agree. But have him make contact from here so we can supervise. Maybe Kavaş had a secret kink that was at odds with the rest of his character. These people are never who you think they are. And the whole family have been through the most terrible trauma. How do we know how having a father in prison affects a person?’

  ‘I’m not making a connection between that and human flesh-eating myself,’ İkmen said.

  ‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘But we don’t know everything. What I do know is that General Kavaş’s wife has left town to go and stay with a relative. The old man is alone.’

  ‘The general is a brick wall,’ İkmen said. ‘The trouble is that nobody really knew Ümit Kavaş. Not his childhood friend Cengiz Tanır nor the people he mixed with at the squat. He mainly worked from home and socialised when he wanted to, which wasn’t very much. I know it is said that people who indulge strange fantasies tend to be reclusive …’

  ‘Ümit, as I recall, was sometimes spoiled,’ Teker said. ‘Babies born late in their parents’ lives can be. But he was always a gentle, thoughtful child.’

  ‘No dog torturing?’

  ‘No,’ she smiled. ‘The only thing I think I’d say was a little left field about Ümit was his patriotism.’

  İkmen frowned.

  ‘Like his father, and my father to some extent, he was a Turkish nationalist, albeit an extremely liberal one,’ she said. ‘The Kavaş family have always had an almost fanatical devotion to the secular republic. My father and General Kavaş argued about it. It’s why they didn’t remain friends.’

  ‘Where did your father stand?’

  ‘He was a pragmatist,’ she said. ‘He believed, as I do, that those who wish to live a religious life have to be accommodated and included within the system. That’s what I think Ümit believed too. If we can’t do that, then how can we call ourselves a democracy?’

  İkmen sighed. ‘I am so tired of these arguments,’ he said. ‘Why do we have to take sides? Why can’t people just be left alone to believe what they like and pursue their lifestyles as they wish – within reason?’

  She laughed. ‘Within reason? What does that mean, Cetin Bey? For some, the fact that others eat pork is beyond reason; for others, the sight of people praying is anathema. Where do you draw the line?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But someone is still missing out there. Someone, and maybe a second person, is dead. Sergeant Gürsel is following up a lead on Volkan Doğan …’

  ‘Major General Baydar’s brother-in-law.’

  ‘Yes. But we can’t find any Jewish connection. Or rather, we haven’t yet.’

  ‘Have you been inside Le Meridien, Sergeant?’

  Kerim Gürsel resisted the urge to say, Do I look like someone who visi
ts high-end hotels? But he restrained himself. Barbaros Bey, the landlord of the Etiler Diamond, the city’s ‘foremost residential destination’, was a pleasant enough young man. By his own admission, Barbaros’s father was an ‘Anatolian Tiger’, one of the new group of conservative businessmen to come out of cities like Konya and Kayseri. Encouraged by the ruling party, the Tigers had thrown themselves into businesses like real estate and construction with incredible energy. And while some had tarnished reputations due to poor safety standards, the Laleli Corporation, which Barbaros chaired, was not one of them.

  ‘I never personally met Volkan Bey,’ Barbaros continued. ‘My agent, Erdel Bey, showed him around apartment number 12. Of course we would rather that people bought our apartments, but number 12 was advertised to buy or to rent, and Volkan Bey did pay three months up front.’

  ‘How much per month do you charge?’ Kerim said.

  ‘Seven thousand Turkish lire.’

  They got into a glass lift, which would take them to floor four. It was on the outside of the building, which was also mainly glass.

  ‘That’s a lot of money,’ Kerim said.

  ‘Well, you’ve got Bosphorus views on one side and Le Meridien on the other. This is a prime address, Sergeant.’

  But even so …

  Apartment 12 was on the next floor up. It could only be accessed via a private lift. Barbaros entered the appropriate code and the two men stepped in.

  ‘So does this lift take us directly into the apartment?’

  ‘We’ll get out in a lobby. Then we’ll use a keycard to enter the property itself. Our residents, particularly of our prime apartments, are offered complete security. As I told you on the phone I have tried to obtain a response by ringing Mr Doğan’s doorbell but to no effect.’

  The lift opened in front of a wood-effect security door.

  ‘What about facilities for the residents?’ Kerim asked.

  ‘Well, as you saw, we offer secure underground parking,’ Barbaros said. ‘There’s a fully equipped gym on the second floor and a pool on the roof. We clean all the public areas, and for a small extra cost, residents have the option of cleaning services in their homes. Volkan Bey didn’t take that option.’

  He opened the door. At that point, Kerim detected nothing untoward.

  The girls hadn’t seen each other for a couple of days. Aysel had booked time off a long while ago in order to see her mother in Eskihisar. But now she was back and was having coffee with her friend Halide in trendy Cihangir.

  ‘How are you enjoying the kitchen cleaner’s life?’ Aysel asked.

  Halide put down her iced coffee and lit a cigarette. ‘I will never complain about my job again,’ she said.

  Aysel laughed. ‘It’s tough, eh?’

  ‘I’m almost beyond words.’

  The garden of the White Mill Café was well known as an oasis of calm in an otherwise frenetic city. The women met there often.

  Aysel leaned across the table. ‘So is the job, you know, useful?’

  Halide frowned. ‘Not as yet.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Halide said. ‘But you may be able to help me with something.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘Do you know anything about that chef called Bülent who sometimes does a shift?’

  ‘Bülent Onay? Rides a Harley-Davidson? Yes, I know him a bit,’ she said. ‘Be careful around him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He sucks up to Mr Myskow. Chef Tandoğan hates him.’

  ‘What, for being a fan?’

  ‘No,’ Aysel said, ‘because Mr Myskow likes Bülent and shares his recipes with him. Tandoğan is jealous. If he sees you getting too close to Bülent, he’ll fire you.’

  He knew that smell. As they walked through the vast lounge and into one of the three bathrooms, it was getting stronger. Why had a man on his own rented such a large apartment? Not only did it have three bathrooms, it had four bedrooms. So far it was all very high-spec indeed.

  He said to Barbaros Taytak, ‘I think I should go ahead on my own now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do as I ask, sir.’

  The landlord sat down.

  The bathroom led into a small bedroom, where the smell became stronger. Kerim took a handkerchief out of his pocket. Beyond this bedroom was another bathroom, and then the master bedroom, which Barbaros Bey had said afforded stunning views of the Bosphorus.

  In the second bathroom he found a few flies. Not many, which struck an odd note when coupled with the smell. This bathroom had a Jacuzzi. He opened the door into the master bedroom.

  And there it was. On the bed, as well as liquefying into it, was a body. Even from across the room he could see maggots. It must have been there for weeks, if not months. Kerim put the handkerchief up to his nose and gagged. The reason so few flies remained was that a window was slightly open. He could see the Bosphorus shining in the sunlight; it was stunning. He made himself walk over to the bed.

  The body was man-sized, and – another reason for the lack of flies – it was also drying out. No face remained. He gagged again. Every dead body was grotesque but some were more offensive than others. This one was bad.

  ‘Sergeant Gürsel?’

  Reluctantly he took the handkerchief away from his nose and said, ‘Please don’t come in, sir.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Stay where you are, I’m going to have to make a call.’

  ‘Does that mean he’s dead, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kerim said.

  And then he wondered how that awful old woman Defne Baydar was going to react when he told her not only that her brother was dead, but that he’d found out where he was from a prostitute.

  Chapter 19

  The bus pulled into the station over two hours late. Due to inactivity and the heat, the imam’s feet had swollen to almost double their size. Radwan was exhausted, upset by the man who had tried to grab his privates and still traumatised by what the imam had told him about Mustafa and Burak. But they couldn’t get off.

  ‘The police are checking everyone’s papers,’ the imam said to the boy.

  ‘I don’t have any.’

  Police officers were stationed each side of the exit. The fattest man in the world stood up with some difficulty and the imam slid painfully into his seat.

  ‘If they stop me, I’m never going to be able to run like this,’ the old man said.

  ‘What can we do?’

  The imam thought for a moment. A woman was arguing with the police about having mistakenly picked up her husband’s ID card.

  ‘Although I think you’re making a mistake, you want to go home,’ the imam said.

  ‘Yes. But we want to find Burak first, don’t we? To tell him. They won’t stop you, will they?’

  ‘They might,’ he said. ‘I missed a call from Aylin Hanım last night. Perhaps she has told people where we’ve gone. Now look, Radwan, you must get off the bus before me, and while I pretend to look for your papers, you must slip away. It’s the only way you’ll get back home.’ He shook his head. ‘This was a mad idea. I don’t know why I listened to you!’

  ‘But won’t they shoot me? The police?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Stay with me and we will go back to Istanbul.’

  ‘But I want to go home.’

  The imam put his head in his hands.

  ‘Well it’s male. But I’ll be honest, I’m taking my cue from his clothes at this stage.’

  Kerim Gürsel looked at the doctor expectantly.

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ Arto Sarkissian said. ‘How long has he been dead? Answer, at the moment, is a long time.’

  He walked away from the bed fanning his face. The stench was overwhelming, even for the pathologist.

  ‘Do you have any idea who he might have been, Sergeant Gürsel?’ he asked.

  ‘A man called Volkan Doğan rented this apartment.’ Kerim had found that, oddly, he was coping with the smell now. �
�Sixty-five years old. He was reported missing three months ago.’

  ‘And he was here all the time?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘God!’ The pathologist looked in his attaché case for something that turned out to have a hook on the end.

  ‘He rented this apartment without his family’s knowledge,’ Kerim said.

  The doctor shook his head. ‘These accursed blocks cut people off from neighbourhoods and life in general,’ he said. ‘That a man can come to a place like this and die without anyone noticing appals me. I hate these places. All this building is destroying everything that was good and decent about this city.’

  ‘Will his family have to identify the body?’

  ‘Why?’

  The doctor was very aggressive. He wasn’t usually. Kerim wondered what was wrong.

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Sergeant Gürsel, if I can’t find a face, do you think they’ll be able to?’

  He put the thing with the hook somewhere inside the body, and Kerim looked away.

  ‘No, this will be dental records and, maybe, DNA,’ he said. ‘It’s not going to be a quick fix, and if you’re wondering why I’m not my usual happy and optimistic self, not only is this smell worse than anything I’ve come across lately, but I also have an abscess on a tooth. Quite honestly, the way I feel at the moment, I just wish a passing veterinary surgeon would put me down.’

  ‘Do you have painkillers?’ As soon as he’d said it, Kerim felt stupid.

  ‘Of course I have painkillers. I’m a doctor of a certain age.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘No, I’m sorry, Sergeant Gürsel,’ he said. ‘It is inexcusable of me to behave in such an unprofessional manner.’

  ‘Well, toothache …’

  ‘Oh, the toothache is the least of it!’ he said. ‘The reality of the situation is that I have a domestic problem that this place, tragically, calls to mind. Not your fault, or even the fault of the building.’ He smiled. ‘Let us start again, shall we?’

  ‘If you wish, Doctor.’

  ‘I do.’ He sighed. ‘Good afternoon, Sergeant Gürsel, what do we have here?’