A Chemical Prison Page 4

  ‘Did you find any drugs on the body?’ Suleyman asked as he bent down to look closely at the numerous crystal figures on top of the chest of drawers.

  ‘No, nor in the house either, I think.’ İkmen turned and called out down the stairs, ‘Demir?’

  ‘Yes?’ replied a disembodied voice from somewhere down below.

  ‘Any narcotics on the premises?’

  ‘Not as yet.’

  ‘Well, let me know if you find any.’

  ‘I will.’

  İkmen, turning back into the room again, added, ‘If forensic fail to find anything I think I might ask for the floorboards to be lifted. You know what users are like.’

  Suleyman grunted his agreement.

  Then the intrusive beeping sound that had brought İkmen to this place the night before made itself heard again. Suleyman responded quickly and with practised efficiency, pulling his mobile telephone out of his pocket and looking carefully at its unresponding face. ‘No, not me,’ he said, ‘must be you, sir.’

  ‘I hate these things,’ İkmen mumbled as he pulled the screaming instrument from his jacket pocket. ‘Now what do I …’ Holding it helplessly for a moment, he could only scowl with relief when Suleyman leaned over and pressed the ‘receive’ button for him. ‘Oh, yes, right.’

  ‘İkmen?’ he said into the impossibly small mouthpiece. ‘Yes?’

  As İkmen spoke into his telephone, Suleyman moved back once again to the display of fine crystal. Some of the pieces, like the little model of the Sultan Ahmet or Blue Mosque, were very fine indeed. His mother was a devotee of such items, and he reasoned that these were, like hers, probably of either Polish or Czech manufacture. Principally of Turkish subject matter, they had for some time been produced in the former eastern bloc countries for the burgeoning İstanbul tourist market. Not that other, more local people (like his mother) didn’t collect them too, but he found it a trifle odd to find such things in a house where just one man was reputed to live alone. Perhaps he was being rather small-minded about it. That men could and did appreciate beauty was a fact that went very much against the stereotype of the powerful, strutting Turkish male, yet it was a trait he recognised within himself. But since he was not like most other men that he knew, perhaps this pointed to a person of rather unusual tastes?

  ‘Oh, well, at least we now know who owns this place,’ said İkmen as he turned the telephone off and replaced it in his pocket.

  Suleyman looked up. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Just up on Divan Yolu, an import-export carpet place.’

  ‘Oh.’ Suleyman made no attempt to hide the gravity in his tone.

  İkmen laughed. ‘I take it that you are not altogether enamoured of carpet men, Suleyman.’

  ‘No I am not,’ the younger man replied somewhat stiffly. ‘I find their working practices extremely distasteful and not just because they cheat the tourists. When they go into villages offering to swap really beautiful antique carpets for that awful mass-produced rubbish that they hawk, it makes me mad. It’s just blatant exploitation of the peasants who do not and cannot know any better.’

  ‘It is also,’ İkmen said with more than just a small smile in his voice, ‘quite legitimate business. As one whose whole apartment is covered with mass-produced rubbish I can, I’m afraid, sympathise with the desire to have something new and clean which will stand up to the tread of many heavy-footed children. Poverty, Suleyman, makes whores of us all. You are just fortunate that you have never had to, figuratively speaking of course, trade your arse for another week’s rent. I’ve done it so often, I don’t even notice any more.’

  There really was no answer to any of this and Suleyman knew it.

  ‘Anyway,’ İkmen continued, ‘I’m going to get over there now and see if I can find out a little bit more about the mysterious occupant of this house. If he’s a carpet man himself, I’ll let you interrogate him. Your lack of empathy with his kind may prove useful.’

  ‘Do you want me to drive you there?’ Suleyman asked.

  ‘Well of course I do, but you really are better employed here for the moment. No, I will walk,’ İkmen said with a rather regretful sigh. ‘The unaccustomed exercise together with the moderately fresh air may even serve to wake me up – that or kill me. I’ll meet you back here when I’ve finished.’

  ‘I can come and get you, sir, if—’

  ‘No, the journey back is downhill which even I can manage.’ He left and, as silence entered in his wake, Suleyman began, for the first time, to feel some of the horror of that room. Although tastefully decorated, there was no way of ignoring the awful stained counterpane on the bed which was still rumpled in the shape of a human body. There was a smell too, only faint now, but perceptible: the oddly sweetish reek of death and human waste. With all the windows nailed shut there was no way for the smells to escape. The only consolation was that it was now autumn; this room in the height of summer would have been unbearable.

  As he wandered thoughtfully from one part of the small apartment to another, Suleyman tried to build a picture in his mind of how and why the young victim might have come to this place. There were not, as yet, any signs that the apartment was frequently used for taking drugs, or dealing. The place seemed to be clean, both in the hygienic and in the drug-related sense, and so it was doubtful that the boy, who İkmen had told him was a seasoned intravenous drug user, actually lived here. For some reason therefore, he must either have come of his own volition or been brought here for some purpose. Various scenarios came to mind. It seemed unlikely, but there was a chance he had come to the house to buy drugs or, possibly, to sell them. Just because people lived in nice houses didn’t mean that they didn’t do drugs, and buying them from other users was not unknown. Then again he could have come here for some reason completely unrelated to drugs. To attribute everything in a case like this to drugs was an error that was frequently made. Although enslaved by their habit, users had sides to their lives that were unrelated to their addiction. However, until the boy was identified or, indeed, until Dr Sarkissian had completed his examination of the corpse, most of these musings were pure speculation. At present all they had was a body that had died by strangulation and a very empty and featureless house.

  In order to get a full picture, Suleyman decided that he really ought to have a look at the rest of the house. Eerily, as he moved towards the entrance door of the apartment, he became aware of noise once more: the doleful arabesque singing from a woman outside, her words telling of an old love that had been lost many years before, the harsh, guttural call of a young simitci. As he walked forward, he tried to tell himself that all this was just a coincidence, but his blood, which now ran icy cold in his veins, failed to agree. And, as if to underscore the emotions in his blood, when he stood inside the doorway and looked at the lintel above his head and the posts at his sides, all the noises stopped once again. What he saw on those posts was not what he, or anyone else, would have expected to see; as he leaned his head towards them through the stillness of the renewed silence his blood, ever responsive, froze to a standstill.

  The Galleri Turque was a slightly more upmarket carpet business than İkmen was accustomed to seeing. Ensconced within a large, if vaguely dilapidated, Ottoman house, the Galleri reflected both its owner’s sense of himself and of his aspirations. Almost the first thing that Mr Mohammed Azin, the owner, had said to İkmen as the latter wheezed into his shop, was that both himself and his staff were fluent in French. This had absolutely no bearing on anything that was of interest to İkmen, but it did not surprise the policeman. The Galleri Turque was, by its very name, obviously designed to appeal to Europeans and to the more snobbish (and moneyed) Turk.

  Once the routine exchange of pleasantries had been got over and tea had been served, İkmen, who was enthroned on the most ornate chaise longue he had ever seen in his life, got down to business. During the course of his conversation with Mr Azin, he became aware of the depth of gratitude he owed to his old French teacher.

  ‘So how long have you owned the house on İshak Paşa Caddesi, sir?’

  ‘I inherited it from mon père, who died in 1975, so since then.’ As he spoke, Mr Azin gently fondled several carpets, which were laid out, rather hopefully İkmen thought, at his feet.

  ‘And you have rented it out since?’

  ‘No, I did live in the house myself until I moved to Sarıyer in 1982. I assume that in the light of this recent tragedy you have been into the house yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mr Azin smiled. ‘Then you will know that the decoration and furniture, which was chosen by myself, is of the Louis Quatorze style. Mr Zekiyan has not, I understand, decided to change that, which is a tribute, I believe, to his taste.’

  There was no false modesty here, but then carpet men were not renowned for that virtue.

  ‘Mr Zekiyan is, I take it,’ İkmen asked, ‘the current tenant of the property?’

  ‘Yes, and as his name suggests, Mr Zekiyan is an Armenian gentilhomme.’

  By pointing out this evident fact was Mr Azin in some way distancing himself from events at his house? İkmen suspected that he was, but then this, especially in light of his altercation with the İshak Paşa neighbours the night before, was no more nor less than he had expected.

  ‘How long has Mr Zekiyan lived in your house?’ he asked.

  ‘Since 1982. He’s a very good tenant. He always pays his rent on the first of every third month and keeps the place neat and tidy. I have no complaints.’

  ‘So you do check on the property from time to time?’

  ‘Yes. About twice a year.’

  ‘And Mr Zekiyan has paid his rent for the current period?’

  ‘Yes. In fact that was the last time that I saw him, the first of October. He paid, as al
ways, three months in advance, in cash.’ Mr Azin smiled. ‘It’s very convenient, cash. And in these days of credit cards …’

  ‘So you don’t know why he might now be absent from the property?’

  ‘No. He does have a job, quite an important one, I think. I don’t know what or where.’ The carpet dealer shrugged. ‘But then, as a good tenant, he can come and go as he pleases. I do not require him to let me know what his plans might be. He pays the rent and is always polite and businesslike when he comes in here.’

  ‘I see.’ İkmen paused briefly to take out a cigarette which Mr Azin, ever the perfect host, lit for him. ‘Thank you. Now, as you know, Mr Azin, we are anxious to speak to Mr Zekiyan, hopefully so that we can eliminate him from our inquiries. It would, however, help us if you could give us a brief description of the gentleman, just in case he is elsewhere and unaware of recent events.’

  Mr Azin, although still smiling, suddenly displayed what could only be called a little disquiet beneath his otherwise smooth exterior. ‘Well …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, er, he is … well, he is Armenian, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes? And? What type of Armenian is he, sir? Is he fat, thin, short or tall – what?’

  Mr Azin laughed nervously before retreating once again into his beloved French. ‘Pardonnez-moi, Inspector, but what can I say? He has those features like they have, the rather large nose and deep-set eyes, but … I suppose he must, you would say, be middle-aged by now, reasonably tall and …’

  ‘But they all look rather the same to you, sir, is that the case?’

  ‘Well. Well, yes, I …’

  İkmen closed his eyes and sighed deeply. This was not the first time he had come up against this: the invisibility of minorities, or rather his compatriots’ tendency to ignore difference. There was also, he had to admit, a certain disquiet around Armenians, which pertained to events long since past and which he did not even dare to think about here and now.

  ‘So what you’re saying then, Mr Azin,’ he said wearily, ‘is that this Mr Zekiyan is just a typical Armenian.’

  This seemed to please the carpet man who now smiled broadly. ‘Yes!’

  ‘Oh, good, that certainly does narrow the field. Now, about this separate apartment at the top of your house.’

  ‘Separate apartment?’

  ‘Yes. The one where we found the body. On the top floor.’

  Mr Azin’s face creased into an expensively sun-tanned frown. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Inspector. There is no apartment at the top of my house.’

  ‘But on the second floor—’

  ‘Oh, you mean the attic store!’ Mr Azin’s face broke into a smile of recognition. ‘No, that’s not an apartment, Inspector. That’s just a storage area.’

  This time it was İkmen’s turn to look confused. ‘So you have no knowledge of a bedroom, bathroom and small kitchen area in that space?’

  ‘No. Although not having been up there for—’

  ‘The attic store, as you call it, is not checked when you periodically go to look over the place?’

  ‘Oh, no. There is, or as far as I was concerned, was nothing of interest there. Mr Zekiyan said that he had no use for the space and so …’

  ‘And so,’ said İkmen with a sigh, ‘he could do anything he liked with it without your knowledge.’

  ‘Well, er, yes, I …’ The carpet dealer leaned forward inquiringly. ‘What has he done with it, Inspector?’

  ‘Well, it’s decorated in exactly the same style as the rest of the house, Mr Azin, and it boasts a rather nice bathroom and kitchen.’

  ‘How extraordinary!’ Mr Azin took out his own packet of cigarettes and lit one. ‘How strange to do all that with one’s own money in a rented property! I suppose I should thank Mr Zekiyan when I see him, it must have enhanced the value of the house considerably, don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ İkmen replied, stubbing his own cigarette out in one of the nearby ashtrays, ‘but if you do see Mr Zekiyan before we do, I must urge you to get in contact right away.’

  ‘Oh, naturellement, Inspector. Yes, of course.’ Mr Azin looked down briefly at his carpets once again and then turned back to smile at İkmen. ‘Is that all, Inspector?’

  ‘That is all for now, sir, yes.’

  Mr Azin picked up a very small, but nevertheless almost luminously beautiful kilim from the top of his substantial rug-pile. ‘Then perhaps you would like to accept this little gift as a token of my esteem with regard to what you people do for our communauté.’

  İkmen, his face very straight, allowed himself only to smile inside. This situation was not foreign to him and his reaction was a practised routine. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir, but I’m afraid that I am not allowed to take gifts.’

  Mr Azin smiled, labouring, İkmen imagined, under the misconception that he was simply playing hard to get. ‘Then what about one of the larger Herekes then,’ he said pulling a much bigger carpet out from somewhere near the bottom of the pile. ‘A floor covering fit for a sultan and so hard-wearing that your wife would—’

  ‘Sir,’ İkmen reiterated with almost painful clarity, ‘I am very flattered, it must be said, that you deem me worthy of such a gift, but I really must impress upon you that I am neither able nor inclined to take gifts from members of the public. It compromises my position.’

  ‘You mean,’ the carpet seller said slowly, as if trying to force this concept inside his own uncomprehending head, ‘that you never take anything at all, for any reason?’

  İkmen stood up, making the point that he was going and going empty-handed. ‘No, I do not, sir. If, as I imagine you do, you would like your name removed from any association with the house in İshak Paşa, then I would suggest that you find another policeman to do that for you.’

  Suddenly, Mr Azin’s face was flooded with the high redness of real fury. ‘That was not my intention at all and I resent the implication most strongly! I was sincerely and without any conditions making a gift—’

  ‘Which was extremely generous of you,’ said İkmen in his best conciliatory tone, ‘but that I cannot take it, sir, you must—’

  ‘Well, you’re the first policeman I’ve ever met who hasn’t, Inspector,’ Mr Azin said hotly, ‘in fact I am quite lost in admiration for your fortitude even if I cannot understand it. You people earn so little!’

  İkmen shrugged. ‘I’m a fool, but I’m a fool that can live with himself.’

  ‘Oh, well …’ Mr Azin replaced his carpets on to their pile and then rose to show his guest out. İkmen bowed slightly as his host passed.

  But as the two men moved towards the carpet-encrusted exit, Mr Azin suddenly had a thought. ‘There is something else about Mr Zekiyan, Inspector …’

  İkmen creased his brows. ‘Yes?’

  ‘He wears a ring. It’s in the shape of a cross.’ He held up his little finger in order to demonstrate. ‘Wears it on this finger here. It’s quite unusual.’

  ‘Oh?’

  The carpet man laughed. ‘Oh, yes. Diamonds and very large emeralds. Not the sort of thing that an honest man like yourself can afford even to dream about.’

  ‘No,’ İkmen replied on a scowl, ‘I don’t suppose that it is.’

  Chapter 4

  As night closed in around the sleek, black Mercedes, Arto Sarkissian seriously questioned just what it was he was doing. Bars, however pleasant, were not his scene and having had just two hours’ sleep (at his desk) in the last twenty-four, it occurred to him that perhaps driving was not such a good idea either. But then this meeting in the Mosaic Bar had not been his idea – like a lot of his other encounters with alcohol it had been initiated by his friend, Çetin İkmen. The latter had phoned him some two hours ago, saying that he needed to talk, which they could quite easily have done at the station or, for that matter, at Çetin’s home. But then the issue of Çetin’s home was a vexed one at the present time. There were reasons why his friend didn’t want to go back there; they were the same reasons, or rather reason, why Arto had not been to the İkmen apartment for such a long time. As the thought hit him, the doctor frowned; his friend’s father, Uncle Timür to him, was not a topic he suspected they would be discussing tonight even though he knew that really would be the best thing for Çetin.