A Chemical Prison, page 21
‘Suleyman?’ İkmen asked. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you want me to come over?’
‘No. No, that’s all right, I’m … Look, how … I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I mean, how …’
‘Did he do it?’ İkmen asked. ‘Do you really want to know?’
Once again the silence came; this time, Suleyman was attempting to deal with his own fears. He was, or so he felt, in part responsible for the man’s death.
‘Yes,’ he answered quietly, ‘yes, I do.’
He heard İkmen sigh deeply at the other end of the line. Then İkmen said, ‘He cut his wrists.’
‘But there was nothing …’ Suleyman stammered. ‘There can’t have been anything in his cell to …’
‘He used his teeth,’ İkmen said, a discernible tremor in his voice.
‘Oh … Oh …’ The picture that this painted in Suleyman’s head was so disturbing and so abhorrent that for a moment he thought that he might be physically sick.
‘You do have to remember that he was extremely ill,’ İkmen added. ‘I mean, no normal person could possibly do such a thing.’
‘No.’
‘Look, if you want to talk, Suleyman …’
‘No.’ That was just what he didn’t want to do. It was talking, this talking, that was building pictures in his mind that he did not want to see. And besides, what would discussing it all change? The man was dead and that was fact and nothing could change it.
‘No, I think I’d like to be alone for now,’ he said, ‘I’ll see you in the morning, sir.’
‘As you wish,’ İkmen replied.
Suleyman switched off the telephone and then sat quite unmoving for a while. It was going to be a long night now for the three of them: just him, the horrifying pictures in his head, and his guilt.
‘Mad people usually end up killing themselves.’ It was said as a statement of fact rather than an opinion and it was one, furthermore, that Commissioner Ardiç believed to be irrefutably true.
‘There will still have to be an investigation,’ İkmen said. ‘I mean, just the simple fact that he had been dead for so long before he was found merits some sort of inquiry.’
‘The custody officers are at fault,’ Ardiç replied. ‘I’m having the lot of them into my office at midday. I’m not happy about this, you know,’ he added, ‘but I also acknowledge that it was probably inevitable.’
‘Nobody does something that terrible without being absolutely desperate,’ Suleyman muttered from behind his unusually messy desk.
Ardiç, who hadn’t really taken any notice of the younger man until now, turned to look at him. The bloodshot eyes and pale face spoke volumes about the kind of night Suleyman had had.
‘I don’t know why you’re taking this so hard, Sergeant,’ the Commissioner said. ‘After all, you only restrained the man, quite rightly, after he had performed a violent act. And, as I have said, he was howling mad.’
‘Which is why he shouldn’t even have been here in the first place! Why Sergeant Farsakoǧlu was even interviewing him …’
‘It was her decision and so perhaps she is the person you ought to ask.’ Although his words were quite logical and were said in a manner that was not directly confrontational, anyone looking at the sharp light that now danced in Ardiç’s eyes would know that he was not best pleased. ‘Anyway, I think that for the moment you have rather more pressing concerns than a dead madman. The İshak Paşa victim still lies unclaimed in the mortuary and you are not, as far as I can see’ – here he turned to face İkmen – ‘any closer to a solution to this crime. Am I right?’
İkmen sighed. ‘Where there are no protagonists obviously in evidence and also in the absence of any sort of identification on the victim, investigations tend to take on a rather shifting quality.’
Ardiç eyed his far more erudite inferior with a suspicious eye. ‘Meaning?’
‘Well, sir, what it means,’ İkmen continued, ‘is that as evidence comes in to us we have to take time to review what it means in the light of what our thoughts and opinions have been in the past. We have nothing upon which to “hang” any of this stuff and so we are confined to speculation based upon the few facts that we do have.’
‘Mmm.’ Ardiç cleared his throat and then sat down on a chair in the corner of the room, pulling his coat protectively about his shoulders. ‘So what are you actually doing?’
‘Just before you came in, sir,’ İkmen said, ‘I was considering a new piece of evidence that came in from one of my constables yesterday afternoon. Having tracked down the building company who converted the top floor of The Sacking House, this constable, Cohen, discovered from one of the employees who remembered the job that the tenant had a boy in the house back with him then, in 1982.’
‘So?’
‘The tenant, the one we know as Mr Zekiyan, said that the boy, who was about four at the time, was his son.’
Ardiç frowned. ‘Which links in with our victim how?’
‘Well, the builder noticed that the child, who was unwell at the time and who lay for the whole period unmoving on a couch, had a crescent-shaped cut under his chin. Not only does this correspond to a faint mark that Dr Sarkissian found in exactly that position upon the corpse but it could also mean, given the age of the child then and the age of the victim now, that the child and the victim are one and the same. Scars and birthmarks do often fade over time, you see.’
‘So what you’re saying,’ Ardiç said, ‘is that you believe that this Zekiyan character has murdered his own son?’
‘Not necessarily, but—’
‘His own son who, presumably, would have been known by many people during the intervening fifteen years?’
‘It had always been a possibility that this man imprisoned the boy for some reason. Given the facts that the locked apartment was created soon after Mr Zekiyan moved to the property and that the boy’s limbs were atrophied this is, fantastic as it seems, a possibility. I mean, why put him in what must, given the amount of pethidine in his body, have been a chemical straitjacket unless you wanted to keep him quiet and unmoving?’
‘But for fifteen years? Why?’
İkmen shrugged. ‘That we don’t know. Dr Sarkissian, however, has a theory that the man may have hidden the boy away because of some embarrassing defect that he had. It does happen. However, we can’t even now be certain that the boy was Zekiyan’s son and I am inclined to think that I must also investigate unsolved missing persons files from 1981 and ’82. Just in case.’
‘You think that the child might have been kidnapped?’ Then, seeing that İkmen was taking a cigarette out of his packet, Ardiç added, ‘Don’t even think about doing that in my presence, İkmen.’
With a scowl, İkmen replaced the cigarette and, a little tetchily, continued. ‘There is no evidence of sexual interference on the corpse but then people can be spirited away for reasons other than—’
‘You still cannot, I take it, trace any person with this tenant’s name?’ Ardiç asked.
‘No. But it might well be a pseudonym.’
‘I see.’ Having seen smoking materials so near at hand had made Ardiç suddenly even more irascible than normal. This translated physically into his biting his nails for the remainder of their conversation. ‘So what of this drug you seem to think some doctor might have been supplying? Where, if anywhere, are we with that?’
‘As yet there is no evidence to suggest that pethidine is circulating on the streets. However’ – here İkmen looked across at Suleyman who was miserably considering the pile of papers on his desk – ‘Suleyman was yesterday in contact with a young rent boy who claims to have been helped to administer heroin to himself by a customer who told him he was a doctor. This man, like Mr Zekiyan, was tall and middle-aged and, as one would expect an Armenian to be, uncircumcised.’
Ardiç sniffed as if he had a rather unpleasant smell under his nose. ‘Did this man sell this prostitute any drugs?’
‘No. Although he did say that he might come back later with “something”.’
‘The boy is Russian, sir,’ Suleyman added, ‘and didn’t really understand whether the man meant that he was going to return to help him inject himself or in order to give him something.’
‘So you’re saying,’ Ardiç reasoned, ‘that this Mr Zekiyan, as well as being the boy’s father, may also be a doctor.’
‘It’s possible,’ İkmen replied. ‘We have always assumed that Mr Zekiyan and the supplier of the drug were two different people, but if the boy had been imprisoned in that house for such an enormous length of time then it is safe to assume that Mr Zekiyan at least knew about the drug use if not ordered and even administered it himself. And both his wealth and apparent breeding could well be consistent with the status of a doctor.’
Ardiç sighed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose you’d better ask Sarkissian about queer Armenian doctors then, hadn’t you?’
‘I have plans,’ İkmen said, smiling at his superior’s directness, ‘along those lines, yes, but without the doctor’s help.’ He shrugged. ‘It may all be absolutely nothing, but together with the case of that boy up in Yerebatan Caddesi—’
‘Yes! What did happen about that child? He was on drugs, wasn’t he?’
‘The lab phoned this morning to say that the drug was heroin. There is, as you know, information to suggest that an unscrupulous doctor may be involved in that case too. But I have to rely on vice to pursue that particular medic, if indeed he is different from the Beşiktaş case. In a sense I hope that they are one and the same – it’ll save me time.’
‘But then neither he nor the doctor who injected Suleyman’s boy may be involved at all.’
İkmen inclined his head to signify his agreement. ‘True. But the notion of Zekiyan as a doctor does make some sense, we know the Beşiktaş client was uncircumcised, and the Yerebatan pimp said his doctor was a Christian.’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so.’ Ardiç sighed. ‘Just try and up the pace a bit is all I ask, İkmen. Whether we know who he is or not, I want this boy buried as soon as we can now. Sarkissian’s done all that he can.’
‘Not knowing whether or not the boy is Muslim does present some problems,’ İkmen said.
‘And with that Lenin person also,’ put in Suleyman.
Ardiç stared at him with little compassion. ‘Well, you can leave the latter case to me,’ he said. ‘You just concentrate on the boy. Unsolved homicides translate into very unfavourable crime statistics and also undermine public confidence, which is, as you know, never high.’
All three men became quiet at this point. There were and had always been stories about the Turkish police, what they did and did not do. What happened when people ended up in their cells could, İkmen knew, be rather unpleasant. That his prisoners, irrespective of their alleged crimes, did not, on his orders, ever suffer such fates, did not make the general impression of the force any better. And that the madman Lenin had died whilst nominally under his aegis was something that he knew was not just going to go away.
Ardiç stood up and, to İkmen’s relief, made ready to take his leave. ‘All I ask, is that you don’t get too psychological about all this, İkmen. You know what I mean?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘All right.’
As he opened the door to leave, İkmen took a cigarette out of his packet and prepared to light up. ‘I’ll get back to you as soon as I have more information.’
‘You do that.’ Ardiç closed the door behind him just as İkmen flicked his lighter into action.
‘I thought he would never go!’ he said to Suleyman as he breathed in his first lungful of smoke. ‘I was absolutely drooling for a smoke.’
Suleyman, who always ignored all of İkmen’s speeches on the beauty of smoking, sighed, ‘So where do we go from here then, sir?’
İkmen, who had now pushed himself back in his chair and placed his feet up on his desk, smiled. ‘I have the names of two gold merchants who regularly fashion jewellery and religious artefacts for the Christian clergy. I was going to ask you to make some inquiries over there about Mr Zekiyan’s unusual ring but I think I’ll do that myself.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I’ve not been to the bazaar for some months which is most remiss of me considering that it is always such a good source of gossip.’
‘Yes,’ Suleyman agreed, ‘it is. So what do you want me to do?’
‘I’d like you to arrange an appointment to see Dr Avram Avedykian.’ İkmen opened one of the drawers in his desk and took out a sheet of paper covered with what appeared to be names and telephone numbers which he threw across to Suleyman.
‘What’s this?’ Suleyman asked.
‘It’s a contact list for all those on Dr Krikor’s committee. You’ll find Dr Avedykian’s direct-line number on there.’
Suleyman took a few seconds to locate this information after which he looked back across at his superior again. ‘You can’t surely think that Avram Avedykian has anything to do with the death of our boy.’
İkmen smiled. ‘As an Armenian doctor who is known, amongst certain circles, to be homosexual, he cannot be discounted. Think of him as a start if you like. Besides, I get the feeling that Dr Sarkissian may be worried about his friend’s reputation should all this doctor thing explode around us. I have no reason to suspect Avedykian.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Dr Sarkissian has given it as his opinion that doctors with secrets can be vulnerable – he wants to check pharmacy drug stocks, which is a mite previous, I feel, and a little excessive, but then he is obsessed. However, about secrets he may have a point. You and I know about Avedykian’s relationship with Ersoy, as do all of his posh, sophisticated friends, but I don’t suppose that his employers are aware of it. And men like that, with something to hide, often know of others who live under the same predicament.’
Suleyman made a rather sour grimace. ‘I’m surprised that someone like you, sir, can think that just because the man is homosexual he must know everybody else who is like that.’
İkmen laughed. ‘Dr Sarkissian accused me of something similar only the other day. But no, I don’t think that, Suleyman. What I do know, however, is that people who are vulnerable in any way tend to attract others as friends. And also, it has to be said that Dr Avedykian probably does know more homosexual men than you or I.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose if one moves in those …’
‘Exactly!’
‘However’ – Suleyman looked down at his hands and then rubbed his tired brow – ‘what I’m supposed to ask Dr Avedykian is …’
‘You put it to him that you have received information regarding a doctor who is becoming involved with both drugs and male prostitutes. Tell him that an investigation is pending, which is true, it will have to happen, and that as a friend—’
‘I was never Avram Avedykian’s friend, sir!’ Suleyman exclaimed. ‘He is considerably older than I am and, if you recall, he stood mutely by while Ersoy bullied my brother.’
‘If you would just listen for a moment, Suleyman,’ İkmen said as patiently as he could. ‘As a friend, I, not you, am sending him prior warning that this might become a scandal, and if he knows anything about such a person he should both alert us to what that person has done or who he is and distance himself from him. You should point out that if his name were dragged into anything like this, even if he is innocent, it could harm the good opinion the public currently has of Dr Krikor Sarkissian’s drug project.’
Suleyman’s face resolved into a picture of shock. ‘But that’s …’
‘Completely unethical? Yes,’ İkmen said, ‘it is, isn’t it? But it is also exactly what you old aristocrats do for each other, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I don’t!’ Suleyman answered furiously.
İkmen laughed again, amused by his deputy’s self-righteousness. ‘Yes, I know that you don’t, Suleyman, and neither do I. But in order to get Dr Avedykian either to contact somebody he shouldn’t, like young Ilya, or maybe someone who knows the boy, or do something panicky himself, we need him to think that we have his interests at heart. After you have spoken to him, I will arrange to have him watched – probably from tomorrow – he and Ilya. That should be time enough to discover his intentions.’
‘But what if he really doesn’t know anything about any of this?’
‘Then he will behave completely normally and will have nothing to fear. However, if he does start meeting people with whom he has panicky conversations, we will know. I mean, how else in a country like Turkey are you going to find out where these people are? Folk are guarded about that sort of thing. Look upon Avedykian as I do: a resource we cannot afford to ignore.’ İkmen stubbed his cigarette out and then immediately lit another. ‘Well, come on then, ring him up,’ he said, ‘do like the Commissioner told us and don’t waste time.’
As Suleyman picked up the receiver, somebody knocked at the office door.
‘Come in,’ İkmen called out.
‘Hello, sirs,’ Cohen said as he entered the office, then seeing that Suleyman was on the telephone he lowered his voice and said to İkmen, ‘Something came for you.’ He placed a small and to İkmen familiar box upon the inspector’s desk. ‘This.’
‘Ah,’ İkmen said and then, peering down at the front of the package, he read, ‘Kadıköy.’
‘Kadıköy?’
‘The postmark,’ İkmen explained, ‘the first one of these I’ve been able to read, although the photographic boys reckoned at least one of the others came from Bebek.’
‘Oh,’ said Cohen, suddenly realising what was being spoken about. ‘Is this another of those …’
‘Yes, I think so,’ İkmen said as he roughly pulled the little package apart. ‘Another crystal for my ever-growing collection, I believe.’
‘It’s fucking strange, all this,’ Cohen observed as İkmen removed something shiny from the wrapping paper. ‘It’s like somebody’s having a game with you or something.’
‘That is exactly what is happening, Cohen,’ İkmen said as he placed the article on the surface of his desk. ‘Now what do you think that he’s trying to tell us with this?’
