On the Bone Page 3

  ‘And so he has no agenda,’ she said. ‘If that is what you fear, sir.’

  ‘My son did not eat human flesh. Why would he?’

  Belgin Kavaş left the room.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hürrem said. ‘It’s very possible he didn’t know that was what he was eating. We know it was cooked.’

  ‘And so what type of meat would it have been mistaken for?’

  Hürrem cringed. She knew that the general was a secularist, but she also knew he was trying to behave as if he’d changed his life.

  ‘Biologists reckon it’s closest to pork,’ she said.

  He nodded his ash-grey head. ‘And so the slander continues.’

  ‘No. No,’ she said. ‘General, everyone involved in this investigation, scientists and police officers, is sworn to secrecy. Istanbul is as volatile – if not more so – as it was back in the bad old days of the leftist and rightist conflicts of the 1970s. I have no idea where it’s all going to end. Nobody does. But what I do know is that this story, if it gets out into the public domain, will not help. People of all sorts could use it to their advantage, and believe me, the last thing I want is more trouble in this city. What I need from you—’

  ‘You’ll get nothing from me,’ he said. ‘They killed my son and now they make up lies about him!’

  ‘Who? Who does this, General?’ She’d known he’d be distressed and angry, but now he was doing what she feared others would do too if the story was made public. He was making a political point.

  ‘Ümit died of natural causes,’ she said. ‘He had a heart attack. Sadly for him, he suffered from heart disease. Just like you.’

  He looked down his long broken nose at her with disgust.

  ‘Our pathologist confirmed that before he received the results of the tests on Ümit’s stomach contents. What he ate and his death are unrelated,’ she said. ‘But look, you’re a soldier, and so I will be blunt. The task at hand is not to see who killed Ümit, but to find out who he ate for his last meal.’

  She saw him flinch.

  ‘I need your help. I need you to tell one of my senior investigators everything you know about Ümit, his work, his friends, his relationships …’

  ‘No,’ he said. And then he turned away from her and looked at the empty chair where his wife had been sitting.

  There was no kapıcı at the building where Ümit Kavaş had lived on Hoca Tahsin Sokak. But there was a landlord. Ponytail-wearing, Gauloise-smoking and at most twenty-five, Samat Rahmi owned two small buildings on the street. One of them incorporated a café called Kappucino, which was where Sergeants Ömer Mungun and Kerim Gürsel met the young entrepreneur. When they told him about Ümit Kavaş’s death, Rahmi was shocked.

  ‘He was a really nice guy,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

  Ömer told him about the heart attack. ‘We don’t know what brought it on, but there were a few complaints about alcohol-fuelled behaviour in the area on Saturday night,’ he said.

  ‘He died here?’

  ‘No, on İstiklal Caddesi. But if he got involved in anything down here before he went out, that might be good to know,’ Kerim said.

  Samat Rahmi’s face darkened. ‘What, so a few anti-alcohol nuts can get us all closed down? There’s always “behaviour” here, as you put it. Karaköy’s buzzing these days. Bars, cafés, galleries, boutique hotels, restaurants. And there are four churches. It’s a noisy area.’

  ‘Did you see Mr Kavaş go out on Saturday night?’ Kerim said.

  ‘No. I liked him, but we weren’t friends. Ümit came and went as he pleased. I rent out six apartments in these two buildings. He had the one directly above the café. Last time I saw him was probably last Thursday. Surely if he died of natural causes you don’t need to be here. Don’t I have to give his stuff to his family?’

  ‘You do. But as I’m sure you know, Mr Kavaş’s father is a controversial man.’

  ‘Oh.’ Samat Rahmi looked down into his coffee cup.

  ‘We’d like to keep things discreet for the general’s sake,’ Ömer said. ‘But we do need to look at Ümit’s apartment. We also need you, Mr Rahmi, to keep this to yourself.’

  Both Ömer and Kerim knew that Samat Rahmi was bursting to say all sorts of things about police oppression, about corruption and intimidation, and Kerim in particular could sympathise with that. But Rahmi kept his counsel.

  ‘I’ll get the key,’ he said.

  There was no sign outside to let potential customers know what was inside. Looking through the front window, it was easy to see meat. But none of it was labelled. The unwary could easily just walk in and find themselves somewhere that, in some cases, could make them feel queasy. But not Cetin İkmen.

  ‘Mr Zarides?’

  An overweight, heavily mustachioed man of about fifty looked over from his place behind the counter. ‘Yes?’

  İkmen held up his police ID.

  Tayyar Zarides put his hands on his hips and sighed. ‘If this is about Anatolia Gold, I’ve never supplied them in my life. I sell licensed pork products to a few businesses, which I can prove. My books are immaculate. They have to be. And then there’s passing trade. A chop or a few rashers of bacon.’

  İkmen began to walk towards the counter.

  Zarides narrowed his eyes. ‘Oh, it’s you. Cetin Bey. Sorry, my sight is so bad these days. I’ve seen you on the TV. You’re Krikor Sarkissian’s friend.’

  İkmen bowed his head slightly. ‘His brother, Arto, is our pathologist.’

  Zarides came round the side of his counter and washed his hands in the sink on the wall. ‘I’d forgotten you were coming,’ he said. ‘Ever since this Anatolia Gold story broke, I’ve had all sorts in here shouting abuse, asking when I’m going to close down, telling me I deserve to hang.’

  ‘You must report it,’ İkmen said.

  ‘Which would achieve what?’ He shrugged, dried his hands on a paper towel and then offered one of them to İkmen.

  İkmen shook Zarides’s hand and then said, ‘Tayyar Bey …’

  ‘Oh call me Cyrus,’ the butcher said. ‘All my friends do. I know you, Cetin Bey. I know you have a good heart.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you to say, Cyrus Bey.’

  ‘You want tea?’ Zarides asked. ‘What can I get you? Krikor said something about you wanting to talk about where my product goes. Like I say, I have all my records. Is this about Anatolia Gold? Because if it’s you, I don’t mind—’

  ‘Cyrus Bey, it isn’t about Anatolia Gold,’ İkmen said. It wasn’t easy to get a word in. The butcher was clearly nervous, but then why wouldn’t he be? He’d received death threats. ‘It isn’t even about you. I simply need a list of organisations that place regular orders with you. I’m not interested in individuals who buy the odd slice of ham.’

  ‘Mmm.’ He frowned. ‘I’ll get my son to watch the shop and I’ll take you through to my office.’ He called out, ‘Alexis!’ Then he turned back to İkmen. ‘You see, Cetin Bey, I spend my life worrying about not if but when I will be closed down. Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t know any Muslim personally who objects to what I do. My daughter is married to a Muslim. But these fanatics …’

  ‘Lots of us feel oppressed by those,’ İkmen said. ‘I have a new neighbour in my building who, when he first moved in, felt the need to tell my daughters to cover their heads whenever they visited. I had to have words. He doesn’t do that any more. I can have words with whoever is threatening you, Cyrus Bey.’

  A young man with heavily lidded eyes came out of a door behind the counter.

  ‘This is my son, Alexis,’ Zarides said.

  İkmen and the young man nodded at each other.

  ‘Alexis, this is Inspector İkmen from the police. We have some business. If you can watch the shop …’

  ‘Sure.’

  But before his father and İkmen left, Alexis Zarides said, ‘You’re not going to close us down, are you?’

  ‘No,’ İkmen said. ‘I just need to look at your father’s boo
ks, and I will also have to take some samples of your product, Cyrus Bey.’

  He smiled. ‘Take the pork chop of your choice, Cetin Bey. Take ham, chorizo, leg or belly. My product is disease-free and as clean as a virgin. Whatever else may be wrong, it isn’t my pork.’

  ‘This is harassment,’ the old man said.

  ‘General, this is an investigation into an illegal act,’ Süleyman replied. ‘No one is saying, as yet, that your son knew what he was eating. We have no proof either way. However, at the moment, your son is the only connection we have to this offence. We have to start with him because we don’t have anywhere else to begin. Can you understand that?’

  General Kavaş said nothing. Süleyman had come to the Kavaşes’ apartment fully aware of the fact that the old man had told Commissioner Teker he wasn’t going to co-operate with her investigation. But he also knew that he’d have to.

  ‘Sir, I’m sure you don’t want your wife—’

  ‘My wife has already been through more than most women could endure.’

  ‘Then talk to me,’ Süleyman said. ‘I know your son was educated in London. I know he worked as a translator for publishing houses and I am aware of his involvement in the Gezi protest movement. What I don’t know is anything about his social life.’

  ‘You think I do? He was a thirty-five-year-old man who lived alone. He was an adult. We had our differences.’

  ‘What differences?’

  ‘Ümit was a liberal,’ he said. ‘He believed that if women want to cover themselves, they should be allowed to do so. I’ve always thought that was dangerous. Not in itself, of course, but I fear what it represents. This nation threw the Ottoman system away because it used things like religion to impede progress. Ümit talked about freedom without any knowledge of the fact that it comes at a price.’

  ‘You think the price is too high?’

  ‘I do. My views are well known.’

  ‘As is your retraction of those views.’

  ‘Ha!’ The old man stared fiercely into his eyes. ‘You’ve been inside prisons, I imagine, Inspector. What wouldn’t a man do to get out of those places? But now that my only child is dead, what do I care? As long as you leave my wife in peace, you can take me back any time you like. I am tired of playing games. I am what I am, and if I could shift this notion I have that this is just another attempt to slander me, I would help you.’

  There was a pause. Then Süleyman said, ‘Who were his friends?’

  General Kavaş sighed. ‘You’re not leaving until I tell you something, are you?’

  ‘No, sir. And as I’m sure Commissioner Teker has already told you, this is not political. I give you my word of honour on that.’

  ‘As an Ottoman?’

  ‘As a Turk,’ Süleyman said. ‘My background is well known, General. But it is irrelevant. What is relevant is that someone has died and been eaten by at least one other human being. My job is to discover the identity of that person, find out who, if anyone, killed them and whether that person also cooked that body. And why. In addition, my colleagues and I have to do this discreetly. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how hard policing this city has become in recent years. Panic about something as sensitive as this is the last thing we need.’

  General Kavaş sighed again. He had one of those hard, spare faces that characterised a lot of professional soldiers. It wasn’t easy to read. But he could hold Süleyman’s gaze, which was not something many people could do. Still fewer could get the Ottoman to look away.

  Eventually the old man spoke. ‘If I tell you what I know, can you assure me that none of those I name will end up in one of your prisons?’

  ‘Only if they are guilty of a crime,’ Süleyman said.

  General Kavaş continued to think.

  Chapter 3

  He called it his charity work. Sending soup and bread over to the people who lived in the Art House. They weren’t all poor – in fact most of them came from well-off families – but getting out wasn’t always easy and Samat Rahmi wanted to do his bit. Squatting wasn’t something İstanbullus did. He’d seen squats in Paris and Berlin but never in his home city. The post-Gezi Park protest movement had spawned a lot of new ways of thinking about living in the city. Ever since what had begun as a sit-in against the urbanisation of one of Istanbul’s few parks had started in May 2013, a lot of İstanbullus had become socially active.

  When the two plain-clothes police officers had come to the café to talk to him, Samat had feared it was going to be about the Art House. The law had been hovering around the old building for a couple of weeks. But instead, they’d come about Ümit Kavaş. Poor Ümit had died and they were trying to tie his death, which by their own admission had been natural, to rowdy behaviour in Karaköy. He’d let them search the dead man’s apartment – as if he had a choice. But they’d left saying nothing.

  What did they expect from the city’s newest hip quarter? The romance of the old maritime buildings coupled with the proximity of Istanbul Modern had been bringing locals and tourists in for some years. Now cafés, bars and clubs had followed. There were even on-trend loft apartments for wealthy professionals attracted to the alternative liberal culture of the district. One of Istanbul’s first squats had obviously been created in Karaköy. Where else would it be? Over in conservative Fatih? Samat scowled. A squat in Fatih would really stick it to those who wandered into Karaköy telling people to stop drinking and avert their eyes from uncovered women. If anyone caused trouble in Karaköy, it was the religious fanatics. But he hadn’t told the policemen that. How was he to know they weren’t fanatics themselves?

  Samat filled a basket with bread and gave it to his cook to take to the squat with the soup. He couldn’t stand them. The old ones were OK, but some of the young men were angry and volatile. One of them had berated Samat’s sister Pinar for ten minutes outside Istanbul Modern about her clothing. Eventually she’d been rescued by a security guard, who’d told the furious boy to go and join Islamic State. Only Ümit Kavaş had ever given such people the time of day. Nobody knew why. His father had been imprisoned for a supposed plot against a government that wanted to promote religious values. Ümit himself had been heavily involved in Gezi and, more lately, in supporting the squat. Why and how had he even listened to such people?

  There were six buyers of pork from the Zarides shop within a five-kilometre radius of İstiklal Caddesi. All were hotels, except for one restaurant in Nişantaşı. The closest place to where Ümit Kavaş had died was a very smart and discreet guest house just off Taksim Square. It didn’t advertise that it offered bacon as one of its breakfast options, but the owner was happy to talk about it.

  ‘I don’t buy much,’ he’d told İkmen when he’d shown him the fridge where a few bacon rashers were kept. ‘But the Germans particularly like it, so why not? Our cook’s from Romania, so he doesn’t care.’ İkmen asked if he could take a sample of the meat. The owner said, ‘Yeah. Of course.’

  The restaurant bought small quantities too and was happy to provide samples. Also, like the guest house, the owner of the restaurant was content to let İkmen check his CCTV tapes from the previous Saturday evening. Only two of the hotels bought in bulk, and only one of their owners proved difficult. When asked whether İkmen could come and talk to him, Boris Myskow of the Imperial Oriental Hotel stated that he had a very busy service that evening and so he couldn’t possibly talk to anyone until the following morning. He said he knew nothing about CCTV inside or outside the hotel. İkmen responded by telling Mr Myskow he’d meet him in half an hour. Myskow, who was a celebrity chef in his native America, did a lot of screaming down the telephone until he suddenly stopped and said, ‘Come tonight as my guest. Bring a friend. Then I will sit at your table and I will talk food.’

  ‘Oh good,’ İkmen said. ‘It’s food I want to discuss.’

  Then he phoned Süleyman.

  ‘How do you like the idea of a meal at the Imperial Oriental’s restaurant?’ he said.

  ‘That cr
azy American’s place?’

  ‘You’ve seen him?’

  Süleyman laughed. ‘You can get his US TV show on Fox,’ he said.

  İkmen shook his head. ‘I can’t believe you watch that.’

  ‘I don’t. It’s just on sometimes.’

  Süleyman lived for part of his time with his gypsy mistress in her chaotic house in Balat. A successful modern artist, Gonca was addicted to daytime television almost as completely as she was to her younger lover.

  ‘So what is Mr Myskow like?’ İkmen asked. ‘On the phone he sounds deranged.’

  ‘Yes, I think he is,’ Süleyman said. ‘He’s totally besotted with food; one of those chefs who makes dishes no one sane would think of.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean like, well, what we’re looking for. At least I don’t think so. He won’t take criticism. He is maestro and that is the end of it. If you don’t like something he puts on your plate, he will have a tantrum.’

  ‘Oh well. If you don’t want to come …’

  ‘But I do,’ he said. ‘Actually, and in spite of myself, I am thrilled. His dishes are so strange. I mean, a hamburger sorbet …’

  ‘I can feel the indigestion now,’ İkmen said. ‘All I want to do is look at any CCTV he may have, find out how he stores and cooks his pork, take some samples for analysis and then get out of there. It’s Myskow who wants us to eat.’

  Cetin İkmen had always known he had to eat to live. But smoking was more to his taste. And tea.

  ‘It will be an experience,’ Süleyman said. ‘In the same way that meeting Ümit Kavaş’s friends may be.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘According to General Kavaş, one of them lives in a vast yalı I remember visiting as a child, while the rest are apparently Karaköy squatters.’

  ‘No!’

  Belgin Kavaş ripped the phone out of her husband’s hand and threw it on the floor.

  ‘They’re recording everything we say!’ she said. ‘You can’t breathe a word about this. You heard what that policeman said.’