Land of the Blind Page 9

  He heard Hakkı say into the phone, ‘OK, I’ll call back later.’

  Then, when he’d put the phone down, Yiannis said, ‘But if we get İkmen to visit, does it mean he’ll have to come inside the house?’

  ‘It would be rude not to invite him in,’ the old man said. ‘But we can manage a short visit, can’t we?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Yiannis bit his lip.

  ‘Well, we have to.’

  The small notebook that had been in Ariadne Savva’s desk drawer was now with a translator but İkmen had Kerim Gürsel on the phone and he had news. He was also awfully lively by the sound of his voice. İkmen had to make a big effort not to bring him down.

  ‘Dr Akyıldız is also working on that skeleton found at the Galatasaray Lise.’

  ‘Inspector Süleyman’s—’

  ‘Yes, no news there. But for us, sir, it’s good. Dr Akyıldız knew Ariadne Savva and she’s actually working on a skeleton that she dug up in Edirnekapı. It’s Byzantine and Dr Akyıldız thinks it might have been a defender of the city, you know back in 1453 . . .’

  He was gabbling, which was annoying, but İkmen just put up with it. Then he said something that did make him listen.

  ‘Dr Savva however believed that the body was the last Byzantine emperor.’

  ‘Constantine Palaiologos?’

  ‘If that was his name, yes.’

  Legend had it that at one point the victorious Turks had paraded the head of someone they believed was the emperor but it had turned out not to be him.

  ‘Why did Dr Savva think that this body was the last emperor?’

  ‘Dr Akyıldız says it’s because of a sword that was found with the body. It bears the crest of the Byzantines, you know, the eagle thing . . .’

  İkmen rolled his eyes. ‘The eagle thing, yes the two-headed eagle.’

  ‘That’s it, but it also had jewels in the hilt. Lots of them. They’re all gone now, stolen years ago.’

  ‘So Dr Savva thought that the body was that of Constantine Palaiologos because of a jewelled sword.’

  ‘Kings have jewelled swords, don’t they?’

  ‘Kerim, the Byzantines were a very opulent civilisation,’ İkmen said. ‘I don’t think only the emperor would have had a jewelled sword. I’d be interested to know what her colleagues at the museum felt about this.’

  ‘Not a lot,’ Kerim said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Dr Savva was keeping the skeleton very much to herself and Dr Akyıldız. It’s at the forensic laboratory. Dr Savva’s colleagues at the Archaeological Museum don’t know about it.’

  ‘At all?’

  ‘Not according to Dr Akyıldız,’ Kerim said. ‘She says she was never comfortable with the situation but she’s also fascinated by this skeleton herself.’

  ‘Does she think it’s the body of Palaiologos?’ İkmen asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I think she’s undecided. The only way to really find out would be to compare DNA from the skeleton to that of any living descendants of the Byzantine royal family. And this is where it gets interesting because Dr Savva asked Dr Akyıldız if she would do this.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Two weeks ago.’

  ‘Using whom?’ İkmen asked. ‘As far as I know, which isn’t very far, all the Palaiologi are dead.’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Kerim said. ‘It never happened, of course, and Dr Akyıldız has no idea whose tissue Dr Savva was going to bring to her. There are still old Greek families in the city, though, aren’t there?’

  ‘Yes, but they’re not royalty,’ İkmen said. ‘Some of the Byzantine nobles and priests escaped the worst excesses of the conquest, but the royal family all died.’

  ‘I don’t know then,’ Kerim said. ‘I’ve got my next appointment in half an hour and the traffic’s insane, so I have to go.’

  ‘OK. This is the priest at the Aya Triada, yes?’

  ‘Yes. Although how close I’ll be able to get in the car I don’t know.’

  İkmen put the phone down. The Greek church of Aya Triada was on Meşelik Sokak just off İstiklal Caddesi at the top end, nearest Taksim Square and Gezi Park. From what he’d been told by other officers, that whole area was chaos. In the early hours of the morning hundreds of police had moved in on the protesters with tear gas and water cannon. Now, so he’d heard, rather than disperse the protesters, the police action had brought more people on to the streets in support of them. Kemal had still been in bed when he’d left for work that morning. İkmen hoped his son was still there and not getting a face full of tear gas. Why the police had been ordered to break up the protest so violently, he didn’t know and couldn’t condone. What was happening had been coming for a long time. Why such a knee-jerk reaction?

  His phone rang.

  ‘İkmen.’

  ‘Çetin Bey, this is Hakkı Bey from the Negroponte House.’ The voice was old and breathless. Hakkı Bey was Madam Anastasia Negroponte’s last surviving retainer. He was one of the few people still living who could remember Çetin İkmen’s mother.

  ‘Hakkı Bey, are you in trouble?’ İkmen said. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘It is Ahmet Öden,’ he said. ‘He has a bulldozer and police outside Madam’s house. It has not been sold to him. This is intimidation, Çetin Bey!’

  İkmen felt his face flush with fury. ‘I’m on my way,’ he said as he put his jacket on. ‘Do nothing, Hakkı Bey, and don’t let them into the property.’

  ‘I would never do that,’ the old man said.

  ‘Good.’ İkmen put the phone down.

  This time a developer had gone too far. Öden didn’t even own the site and he was preparing to knock it down. Why was he so dead set on that one particular house anyway? It was hardly the biggest and best site for a hotel in the area.

  ‘Inspector Süleyman?’

  ‘Yes.’ He held the phone in the crook of his neck as he attempted to type into his computer at the same time as taking the call.

  ‘It’s Aylın Akyıldız. I have the result from the carbon fourteen test performed on your Galatasaray skeleton.’

  ‘Oh, yes. What have you discovered?’

  He watched Ömer Mungun eat two portions of börek at his desk. Earlier he’d been too anxious to eat because he’d been worried about his sister. Now he knew she’d called in sick and so wasn’t anywhere near Taksim he’d regained his usual good spirits and appetite.

  ‘Any carbon dating technique used on material post 1945 does have to be regarded as slightly open to error because of the atomic bombs that fell on Japan in that year,’ she said.

  Süleyman widened his eyes. ‘Really?’

  ‘The whole world suffered in one way or another,’ she said. ‘But anyway, the tests have shown that your dead man was buried some time in the 1950s. Mid-fifties is most likely.’

  ‘Mid-fifties.’ That successfully ruled out the maths teacher from the 1970s, who would have just been a child at the time.

  Ömer looked up from his börek. Süleyman said, ‘Our man at the Lise dates from the mid-1950s.’

  Ömer nodded.

  ‘So not a recent death, but Dr Sarkissian and I both agree that it was a violent one,’ Dr Akyıldız said. ‘I hope you like historical research, Inspector.’

  He said he didn’t – much – and put the phone down.

  ‘So it’s unsolved murders of the 1950s,’ Ömer said as he finished his börek and brushed the crumbs off his shirt.

  ‘In part, yes,’ Süleyman said. ‘But the 1950s were a complex time in Turkey.’

  ‘What they call the Cold War?’

  ‘Oh, we were very anti-communist in those days and Russia was most definitely the enemy,’ Süleyman said. ‘We were also governed by a prime minister the nation later executed called Adnan Menderes. He allowed more Islam in public life than had been seen in the early days of the Republic. But he was executed for violating the constitution and also for allowing a terrible series of anti-Greek riots to take place here in İstanbul. Like the 1970s, the 1950s
were a time of great political turmoil. Our man could be a Russian spy, an American spy, a supporter of Menderes or one of his enemies. Or maybe he’s even a Greek. I don’t know whether all the Greeks killed in the 1955 riots were accounted for or not. I think they were. But look it up, Ömer, and try to find out the names of any missing persons during that time. Concentrate on the well off.’

  Chapter 8

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Çetin İkmen asked the group of uniformed constables slumped against some trees outside the Negroponte house.

  The one with the most agreeable expression on his face stood up a little straighter and said, ‘Supporting this demolition.’

  ‘Who told you to do this?’ İkmen said. ‘Where are you boys from?’

  ‘Ayakapı.’

  ‘You were ordered here from Ayakapı?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The bulldozer was massive and it was surrounded by a group of workmen who looked as if they meant business. Ahmet Öden, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘So where’s Öden?’ İkmen asked the slumping officers.

  ‘Dunno.’

  İkmen was irritated by their attitude. ‘Dunno, sir, to you, boy.’

  ‘Sir.’

  İkmen walked through the crowd of workmen towards the house. He could see Yiannis Negroponte standing behind the gates of his house, his face white. Beside him, the small, shrunken form of Hakkı.

  ‘Ah, Inspector, you have come!’ the old man said as Yiannis opened the gate and let İkmen in.

  Hakkı bent down to kiss İkmen’s hands and, although he wasn’t keen on this old custom of respect that dated from the Ottoman Empire, he let him do it. Hakkı came from a different time and such traditions provided comfort to him.

  ‘Çetin Bey, this Öden man persecutes us with his demands to have this house,’ Hakkı said. ‘I called you because I know you are a good man. Maybe one of very few now. And because Öden has police.’

  ‘Öden has a few young constables who know as much about the law as I do about rock climbing,’ İkmen said.

  The two men led him into the house. Although İkmen couldn’t recall the Negropontes’ living room in detail he remembered enough about it to know that it hadn’t changed. The Louis Quatorze furniture was still overstuffed, its gilding scuffed and faded, and the carpet was dull and covered in dust. Yiannis offered him a glass of home-made lemonade which he took; it was hot. There was no sign of Madam Anastasia anywhere.

  İkmen asked if he could smoke, was told that he could, and then he sat down. ‘Tell me about Öden,’ he said. ‘How long has he been offering to buy this house?’

  ‘Since the new year,’ Yiannis said. ‘He telephoned in January. I told him I wasn’t interested.’

  ‘Did he offer you a good price?’

  ‘I’ve been offered better. Sometimes I get talking to tourists and when they see where I live they want to buy.’

  ‘Yes, but with respect,’ İkmen said, ‘tourists don’t know the local market. And they tend to be well off. Was Öden’s offer reasonable?’

  Yiannis shrugged. ‘It was OK. But it was irrelevant. I don’t want to sell. My mother is old and a move now could kill her. And this is her home.’

  ‘So you turned him down?’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve been turning him down periodically ever since,’ he said. ‘It’s only in the last week it’s really escalated. We’ve never had bulldozers before. I don’t understand why he wants this house so much. He only wants to knock it down to build a hotel. Why here? There are far better places for a hotel. There’s lots of empty land down towards Cankurturan railway station.’

  ‘But you’re in the midst of all the monuments here,’ İkmen said. ‘Right on your doorstep.’

  ‘So why not choose the Alans’ house on the corner? It’s got a bigger plot and there’s more space for buses and taxis to park.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t understand and it’s worrying me. What if Öden forces us out? Now he’s got police backup and the world seems to have disappeared over to Gezi Park. What if he breaks in here? My mother could die from the shock.’

  İkmen put his hand in his pocket and took out a card. ‘This has my mobile number,’ he said. ‘If anything like that happens, call me, day or night.’

  ‘But aren’t you working—’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ İkmen gave him the card. ‘I’m local, you’re local, we need to look after our neighbours. And Öden can’t do this. He doesn’t own this property and if you don’t want to sell then that is up to you.’

  ‘The gypsies didn’t want to sell in Sulukule,’ Yiannis said. ‘Or the people of Gizlitepe.’

  ‘That was slum clearance. This is an historic building. It’s different.’

  Yiannis stood up. ‘Is it?’ he said. ‘I know that you mean well, Inspector, but you know as well as I do that if these developers want something then they get it one way or another. What do they care about heritage? I’m sorry, I need to give my mother her medication now.’

  He left. Alone with the old man, İkmen said, ‘And what do you think, Hakkı Bey?’

  He sighed. ‘I think that Ahmet Öden comes from a family with an unfortunate history.’

  ‘Unfortunate how?’ İkmen lit another cigarette and offered one to Hakkı, who took it but put it in his pocket.

  ‘I know you were only a child in 1955 but I remember that year well,’ Hakkı said. ‘It was a terrible one for this family. Nikos Bey was murdered and Madam was beaten so badly by those nationalistic animals it damaged her for life. That rumour the Menderes government spread about Greeks attacking Ataturk’s old house in Salonika was a lie. I knew it and so did they. It was just an excuse to loot, rape and kill. And you know who was one of the people at the head of that mob? Taha Öden, Ahmet Öden’s father.’

  ‘You know this? For sure?’

  ‘I knew Taha’s father, Resat the carpenter. He was a decent man. The Ödens were a good family, except for Taha. A bully, a religious fanatic and corrupt,’ Hakkı said. ‘He pretended to be a carpenter like his father but he was just a cowboy. He took people’s money but whatever he made fell down. When I heard about the attacks on the Greeks on the morning of the sixth of September, I went to İstiklal to Madam and Nikos Bey’s shop. But I was too late. Nikos Bey was dead, Madam was badly injured and the baby, Yiannis, had gone. As I carried Madam out of there, I had to beat off men who wanted me to prove I was a Muslim. I stabbed one in the arm. I admit it and I will never regret it. But I also saw Taha Öden in the crowd. Yelling “Death to the Infidels!” he had a priest on the ground and he was pulling out his beard. If I hadn’t had Madam in my arms I would have attacked him. I knew the priest and he died in those riots. I still feel ashamed I did nothing to help him.’

  ‘You saved Madam Anastasia’s life,’ İkmen said.

  ‘What life?’ he shrugged. ‘Haunted by ghosts from the past, always in pain.’

  ‘She got her son Yiannis back.’

  Hakkı said nothing.

  ‘Didn’t she?’

  ‘I don’t know whether Taha Öden brought his son up to have his opinions,’ the old man said. ‘But Çetin Bey, he is one of those who has stated publicly that he wants the Aya Sofya to be turned back into a mosque. Now I try to be a good Muslim. Most of the time I fail but I try. What I don’t do is pick fights with people of other religions. It’s wrong. Aya Sofya was a church, then a mosque, then Ataturk stopped any more religious argument by making it into a museum. He did that for a good reason. It works as a museum, it’s right.’

  ‘My opinion entirely,’ İkmen said.

  ‘And some of those who want it to be a mosque are of a type I cannot take to,’ Hakkı said. ‘I find them bigoted. I also observe that a lot of those who have made their money in development of housing and office space are amongst their number. I think they dream of a new empire and I also think they use religion as a weapon. Ahmet Öden is one of these, as I am sure you know, Çetin Bey. But I also think that hate is in his blood too. What his father di
d to that priest will remain with me forever, and if he has passed that down to his son then we are dealing with something evil. Ahmet Öden wants this house because it is owned by Greeks. That’s why he wants it so much and that is why he can’t wait to knock it down.’

  By the time İkmen left the Negroponte house, Ahmet Öden had returned. When he saw İkmen he frowned.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘Don’t you have some woman’s death to investigate?’

  ‘And don’t you have some other, real building projects to work on?’ İkmen countered. ‘Mr Öden, you don’t own the Negroponte House and the owners have told you, and me, that they don’t want to sell. You need to take your bulldozer and your workmen away. You have no business here.’

  ‘And what business do you have telling me what to do?’ He moved his face close to İkmen’s. ‘The old woman is a vegetable and the so-called son isn’t even related to her.’

  ‘Madam Anastasia has recognised him as her son, Yiannis,’ İkmen said.

  ‘Oh, and do you think that he’d submit to a DNA test if she suddenly asked him to take one?’

  ‘That is irrelevant,’ İkmen said. ‘In law she has recognised him as her heir and that is all that matters. And he doesn’t want to sell his house to you, Mr Öden. That is his right.’

  ‘I have police—’

  ‘Some idiot has allowed you to co-opt a few half-civilised constables,’ İkmen said. ‘Now get your equipment and your men off the public highway. I’ll give you until six o’clock this evening.’

  ‘Oh? And then what will you do?’

  İkmen began to walk away. ‘Make sure you don’t find out,’ he said. ‘What you’re doing here, Mr Öden, is intimidation and that is against the law.’

  As he turned his head away he heard Ahmet Öden laugh.

  As he’d suspected, Kerim Gürsel hadn’t been able to get his car anywhere near Taksim Square or the Aya Triada Greek Orthodox church. It was mid-afternoon and the whole area was covered with a layer of smoke. The atmosphere was strange. Part menacing, with police officers stalking the streets in riot helmets and carrying shields, and part carnival with singing and people in bright clothes.