Deep Waters, page 28
part #4 of Inspector Ikmen Series
‘She’s under guard and sedation at the Cerrahpaşa, sir,’ İkmen replied. ‘The psychiatrist – not, I should add, Dr Halman – says that we can speak to her tomorrow morning.’
‘Not before?’
‘No. She’s incoherent.’
‘And the woman’s father?’
‘A forensic examination is taking place as we speak,’ İkmen said. ‘Dr Sarkissian has now removed the body to the mortuary. It was obvious from what was said at the Aya Sofya that Miss Evren, if not her brother, was aware of his demise.’
Ardiç leaned back in his chair and fixed his eyes, once again, on the colourless face of Mehmet Suleyman. ‘I see. Think she did it, İkmen?’
‘I don’t know, sir. But I’ll find out. From the little I know about the family, it appears that delusion and madness informed much of their actions. Things that don’t, sir, conform to what may normally be classified as logical.’
‘Psychological stuff,’ Ardiç said with undisguised disdain.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘May Allah have pity!’ He looked down at his desk. ‘Well, you’d better go and write your reports. Take some leave, Suleyman.’
The younger man winced. ‘Sir—’
‘It’s better this way, Suleyman,’ Ardiç said gruffly. ‘When this gets out, the British press will be looking for someone and I don’t want them to find you. Bastards! When the dust has settled you can come back, hopefully with rather more respect for procedure and restraint.’ He then pointedly turned his attention back to a file he had been perusing when they entered and İkmen and Suleyman were dismissed.
Out in the corridor, they both lit up immediately.
‘Well, that’s the end of my career,’ Suleyman said bleakly.
İkmen placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on his colleague’s shoulder. ‘No, I don’t think so. Ardiç wants you back, he said so. He also said that you’re a good man, which I know he doesn’t ever say lightly. No, I think that once we’ve established that the Evren boy was insane—’
‘What difference does that make? I shot him, Çetin.’
‘You had no choice! I caught your eye, I knew what you were going to do! I’ll put that in my report.’
Suleyman managed a smile as he thanked İkmen.
‘Zelfa’s notes should bear out the insanity hypothesis,’ İkmen said as they walked along the corridor towards their offices. ‘Had we been able to consult her about Ali Evren before this incident, I think things would have been very different. But we were not in a position to do that.’
‘No.’
‘Professional confidentiality,’ he smiled, ‘is not always helpful.’ He raised his hands in a gesture of supplication. ‘Kismet!’
‘Indeed.’
And then with a brief embrace the two men parted and Suleyman went into his office to write his account of the day’s events.
İkmen meanwhile sauntered slowly back to his base. He was confident that, even given Zelfa’s connection to Suleyman, her evidence would be taken into account. The boy had clearly been unbalanced although for how long or to what extent he didn’t know. Zelfa had tried to explain the boy’s fixation with vampires to him on their way up to the museum gallery, but there had been so little time, he hadn’t really understood. Something about the sister being a vampire, reflections in mirrors – other Balkan nonsense. As if he hadn’t already had enough of that. Not that now was the time to ponder yet again on his mother. Now he must try and help Mehmet Suleyman and also disentangle this abortion of a case. If Ali Evren had indeed killed Rifat Berisha, possibly with the help of his father, İkmen wanted to know why. Just to drink the Albanian’s blood didn’t seem sufficient reason – although as he now knew from his experiences with the Berishas, the Vloras and even his own family, paltry or stupid reasons did not stop people from committing murder. Quite the contrary. And then there was Felicity’s relationship with Ali to take into account. From the little that he had seen up in the gallery of the Aya Sofya, plus what Tepe had told him about the chauffeur Hassan’s perceptions of the pair, İkmen felt the siblings’ private life warranted a closer look. His mind baulked at the prospect.
The task of telling the Berisha family that murder charges against Mehti Vlora had been dropped fell to Orhan Tepe. And indeed by the time he set off for the family home, Mehti had formally withdrawn his confession. Whether he had done this in response to what must have seemed to him the treachery of his own family in the shape of his brother Aryan, or whether Çöktin had frightened him into it, Tepe didn’t know. But he was glad about it, especially in light of what the drama in Aya Sofya had revealed. Some sort of substantiation was still required but it seemed that one or maybe both of the Evren children had murdered Rifat Berisha.
However, as he was quick to point out to a deeply suspicious Rahman Berisha, charges relating to the death of his son Egrem were still pending against Mehmet Vlora.
‘Aryan Vlora has agreed to testify against his brother,’ he said as he stood over the crumpled little Albanian sitting at his kitchen table, ‘so it does look good, Mr Berisha.’
‘Well, if he wants my thanks, he can want for ever,’ Rahman replied bitterly as he rolled what was left of his cigarette between his fingers. ‘Anyone could have told you that my youngest son was murdered by Mehmet. As far as I am concerned we are still in blood with the Vloras.’
‘Well, that is your affair and your choice,’ Tepe answered stiffly. ‘However, I should warn you that any action taken against the Vloras by yourself will be viewed most harshly. Like it or not, you are now involved in a legal process, Mr Berisha. This involves proof, something which Aryan Vlora is helping us with.’
Perhaps beyond speech for the moment, Rahman Berisha just shrugged.
‘What would be useful, though,’ Tepe said, ‘would be if you could give us an item of Egrem’s clothing – if of course you still possess—’
‘Why?’ The eyes that looked up at Tepe were shot with blood and dark shadows hung under them.
‘Because some old blood samples were recovered from the Vloras’ apartment, around the area Aryan says Mehmet killed your son. They don’t belong to anyone else in the apartment or even, I should add, to your other boy Rifat.’
‘So?’
A little tired of what seemed to be almost wilful lack of comprehension, Tepe sighed. ‘Well, Mr Berisha,’ he said, trying to be patient, ‘if samples of DNA in the blood match those found in perhaps hair samples on Egrem’s clothes, that together with Aryan’s testimony will prove Mehmet Vlora’s guilt beyond most reasonable doubt. We’re talking legal processes here again.’
Rahman coughed and then said, ‘Well . . .’
It is possible that he may have said more but, as Tepe later felt quite strongly, it was probably more likely that he would have lapsed into silence again. After all, for this man the only justice that was in any way real was that meted out by the fis. But it was not Rahman who spoke next. His daughter had appeared at the kitchen door, the hand she held protectively across her damaged mouth failing completely to disguise the bruises around her eyes.
Shocked by her appearance, Tepe simply stared.
‘We still have the shirt Egrem was wearing when he died,’ she said with some difficulty as she tried to control what sounded like a swollen tongue. ‘Will that do, Sergeant?’
‘What are you doing out of your room?’ Her father, enraged, rose to his feet, his hand moving as if to strike her. It was not a giant leap for Tepe to connect the girl’s current appearance with the hand now raised in her direction. And unhampered as he was this time by his boss, he caught hold of Rahman’s arm and twisted it up behind the Albanian’s back.
Engelushjia’s eyes widened in alarm.
Tepe, blessed with the kind of strength in his hands that only military service can develop, smiled at the girl and said, ‘Yes, that will be perfect, Miss Berisha. Perhaps you’d like to get it for me.’
‘Oh, er, yes. Right.’ She moved painfully out of the room.
Tepe waited until he thought she couldn’t hear before turning his attention to her father.
‘Looks like you just stopped short of putting her in hospital,’ he said, pulling Rahman’s arm further up his back.
‘Arrrgh!’ Rahman yelled. ‘She’s my—’
‘She isn’t yours to kill!’ Tepe said and eased the pressure slightly.
‘Would you have a daughter of yours give herself to her brother’s killer!’ Rahman yelled. ‘Putting ideas into her head about the innocence of Mehti Vlora.’
‘Not ideas, Mr Berisha. The truth!’ Tepe put in forcefully.
Rahman was too enraged to listen. He didn’t even notice when Engelushjia re-entered the kitchen carrying a bloodied shirt in her hands.
‘She let him fuck her, I know!’ Rahman waved a hand dramatically. ‘So now she’s ruined and—’
‘How many times do I have to tell you, Aryan and I did nothing bad!’ the girl said, tears running down her swollen cheeks. ‘We both just want to stop this stupid—’
‘Liar!’ Rahman wrenched his arm free of Tepe’s loosened grip and launched himself at her. It gave Orhan Tepe the excuse he needed. His blow lifted the Albanian up off his feet and deposited him on the floor in front of the sink. And there he stayed, pathetic and humiliated looking up at Tepe’s powerful form.
Engelushjia did not rush dutifully to her father’s side; she simply placed the shirt in Tepe’s hands and walked out into the hall.
‘I’ll contact you again when the tests are complete,’ Tepe said to the man on the floor. ‘You will be obliged to give evidence at Mehmet Vlora’s trial.’
Rahman Berisha did not answer and Tepe walked out of the room to join a silent Engelushjia in the hall.
‘Do you want me to do anything for you?’ he asked her.
‘No,’ said her mother, Aliya, who was standing in the doorway to one of the bedrooms. ‘Just go.’
‘I was speaking to your daughter, not you,’ the officer responded roughly and turned back to the girl. ‘Engelushjia?’
She turned her tear-stained face up towards his and said, very distinctly, ‘I want to leave this place.’
‘What? Now?’
‘Yes,’ and then looking her mother straight in the eyes she said, ‘Perhaps you could take me to Tahtakale Caddesi.’
‘To your lover, Aryan!’ her mother spat.
‘That’ll be enough of that!’ Tepe warned Aliya with a rudely upraised finger. ‘Are you sure, Engelushjia?’
‘I want to go there, Sergeant,’ she said, her eyes bright with conviction. ‘I want to be safe.’
‘You’ll never be safe with the Vloras!’ her mother sneered. ‘They’ll kill you. They have to, it’s blood.’
‘You’d better get a coat,’ Tepe said, ignoring the older woman. ‘It’s still snowing.’
And despite the pain of her bruised face, Engelushjia Berisha smiled.
For once, İkmen had actually managed to telephone Fatma in order to let her know when he was going to be home. This, at the time, had seemed to please her. But when he did finally arrive at his apartment he found that not only Fatma but all of his children were absent. He experienced a moment of panic. Could it be that she had finally lost all patience with his erratic lifestyle and left for good? Or had she, in a rush of overwhelming earthquake panic, decamped to Konya and a more spiritual existence? The first indication that she hadn’t in fact deserted him was a large plate of hot dolma with fresh bread set at his place on the kitchen table. The second came from his Uncle Ahmet as İkmen was about to cut into the leathery vine leaves that surrounded Fatma’s very own ‘secret’ dolma mixture.
‘Your wife has taken the children over to her sister’s for a few hours,’ Ahmet said as he smoked his way into the kitchen and sat down.
İkmen put his knife and fork back down on the table and crossed his arms over his chest.
‘In the snow?’ he said incredulously. ‘Has she gone mad? Or have you just driven her out with your bloody stories about death and revenge?’
‘She has indeed gone out because of me, yes,’ the old man said with a smile. Then he tipped his head towards İkmen’s plate. ‘But eat now, Çetin. When you have finished your food, all will be made clear to you.’
Unbeknown to Ahmet, İkmen was, after the day that he had had, a little tired of having to wait for answers to anything, particularly things which, like this, seemed to promise only further aggravation. After all, if Uncle Ahmet could be believed, the man was a self-confessed murderer. Not really, İkmen felt, the sort of person he wanted to talk to when he got home from a frightening and emotional day at work.
‘More revelations about my mother, is it then, Uncle?’ he asked bitterly, ‘you and her and acts of genocide back in the old country, perhaps?’
‘Çetin, I can see why you’re bitter—’
‘I’m a policeman, Uncle Ahmet, and you’re a murderer!’ İkmen pushed his wife’s lovingly prepared food to one side and lit up a cigarette. ‘What do you want me to say? Well done? As for my mother—’ He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening as he stared towards the kitchen door.
The old man turned to follow his nephew’s gaze.
‘Oh, Emina,’ Ahmet said with a smile and beckoned the elderly, overweight woman forward. ‘Please, do come in. This is my nephew, Çetin.’
‘Ayşe’s younger boy, right?’ the woman asked in a voice that was both deep and heavily accented.
‘Yes.’
The old man pulled a chair out so that she could join them at the table.
‘You have your mother’s eyes,’ she said as she sat down, staring intently at İkmen. ‘I can see witchcraft there.’
‘Oh, he has that, Emina!’ Ahmet laughed. ‘Oh yes! Unlike his brother, may Allah protect him, this one is in touch with forces.’
‘Yes, the police force!’ İkmen snapped, but he managed to smile at the woman with something approaching warmth. ‘I take it you are the Emina Ndrek of whom I have heard?’
She inclined her head, which was wrapped in a headscarf.
‘And so tell me, why are you here?’
‘I’m here to tell you the truth about your mother. To clear away the poison spread about by that whore Angeliki Vlora.’
‘I see.’ İkmen leaned back into his chair and sighed. ‘And which version of the truth am I to be treated to today? The heart attack, the suicide or the—’
‘Your mother was murdered, young man! Ahmet here, in obedience to the laws of gjakmaria, killed my brother İsmail, and in response my other brother, Salih, killed your mother Ayşe.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard all of this!’ İkmen said with a quick and furious glance at Ahmet. ‘What I don’t understand is why your “inviolable” laws suddenly allowed the killing of a woman.’
‘When a woman is pregnant with a male child it is permissible. The male makes her part of the Tree of Blood.’
In the stunned moment that followed this statement, none of the occupants of the kitchen so much as drew breath. When sound and movement did eventually come, they were quick and violent.
‘No!’ İkmen shot up from his chair and started to leave the room.
‘Çetin . . .’
‘No! No, this is too much now,’ he narrowed his eyes to peer venomously at his uncle. ‘I don’t know why you people have decided to torture me, but . . .’
‘We are telling you nothing but the truth, Çetin,’ Emina Ndrek said as she rose to go up to him.
İkmen flinched away from her. ‘Don’t touch me! You’re sick. Don’t speak to me! Get out of my home!’
‘Çetin!’
‘My mother would never have harmed a child, especially not her own! It’s all lies!’
‘My boy, I can, believe me, understand why you cannot accept this,’ Ahmet began, ‘but . . .’
‘Get out of my house!’ İkmen screamed, his eyes now streaming with tears. ‘Get out!’
Ahmet rose to join Emina, ‘Çetin it’s true. On the Holy Koran.’
‘No!’
‘She was carrying a male child,’ Emina said sternly, ‘a being of bone and of blood.’
‘No!’ İkmen said as he moved agitatedly back towards the table again. ‘You’re lying! It’s nonsense. Apart from anything else it was 1957. Doctors couldn’t determine a baby’s sex in those days.’
‘Ah, but your mother was different,’ Ahmet said, ‘she didn’t need doctors, your mother was a witch!’
‘Oh, for . . . Look . . .’ İkmen raked his hand through his hair and then banged his fist down on the table.
‘If you will silence the policeman and allow the Bajraktar in you to listen, you will both know and understand,’ the old woman responded firmly. ‘I have a story to tell you, witch’s child, which is both true and,’ she looked briefly at Ahmet, ‘in the end a thing of goodness for us all.’
Nodding his head in agreement, Ahmet muttered a few religiously inspired words in Albanian.
Emina Ndrek moved back towards the table and sat down. She then crossed her small, crinkled hands in front of her and looked İkmen squarely in the face. ‘Are you going to listen, young man?’
The violence of his outburst at an end, İkmen just shrugged as he lit yet another cigarette. Taking this as acquiesence, Emina said, ‘Well sit down. You too Ahmet. I can’t keep on looking at you both, I don’t have the strength.’
The two men, pointedly looking away from each other, did as she asked.
The old woman smiled. ‘Good,’ she said, and began her story.
‘I won’t go into how or why Ahmet here killed İsmail. Like all instances of gjakmaria, it all goes back far further than any of us can remember. But with İsmail’s shirt hung in our windows, your fis knew that it was only a question of time before the Ndrek retaliated. Now, as I know you are aware, men are usually the targets in our tradition. And that means all males,’ she raised a finger to emphasise her point, ‘including boys. The male members of the Bajraktar in this city at that time were your uncle, your cousin Mustafa, your grandfather, who was by that time confined to his bed, you and your brother.’
‘But my father was Turkish!’
