Dark Water Page 14

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Well, I tried to call him, and when I got no reply, I decided to walk over here and take a look.’

  ‘There was no guarantee that Mr Sulayman would be here.’

  ‘No,’ said Makana. ‘It was the only thing I could think of.’

  ‘You were perhaps concerned for Mr Sulayman’s safety?’

  ‘Why would I be concerned about his safety?’

  Serkan shrugged. ‘I was asking the question.’

  ‘No, I just thought he might be working late.’ Makana met Serkan’s gaze steadily, until the detective looked back down at his notes.

  ‘Was there anyone at the restaurant who could confirm your story?’

  ‘The waiter would remember me, I suppose.’ As he spoke Makana thought back to the encounter with the Dutchman. Had his purpose been to try and delay him in some way, to keep him at the restaurant? He held up his hands. ‘Do I really need to keep these on?’

  ‘I don’t think that is necessary.’ Serkan waved to an officer to remove the handcuffs. ‘My apologies, but we have to, how you say, tie up all the loose ends?’ He consulted his notes, flipping pages back and forth. Makana waited.

  ‘So, you arrive here and find Mr Sulayman lying on the floor. You discover he is dead. Did you touch his phone?’

  ‘At that moment, I wasn’t actually too concerned about his phone.’

  ‘Perhaps you want to call for the police?’

  ‘I had my own phone.’

  ‘Of course, but you didn’t use it.’ Serkan raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I didn’t have time.’

  ‘Yes, of course. This person who is hitting you.’

  ‘I’m not making this up.’

  ‘My apologies.’ Serkan gave a slightly theatrical bow. ‘It was not my intention. My English, you understand.’ Makana was convinced there was nothing wrong with the detective’s English.

  ‘I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Please, Mr Amin. Nobody is accusing you, but you see my situation.’ The detective circled a finger in the air. ‘Nobody else saw this mysterious person.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean she doesn’t exist.’

  ‘She?’ Serkan’s finger stopped moving. ‘You think the killer was a woman?’

  Makana had spoken impulsively. He hadn’t looked into the thought before this moment, but he realised that was what he believed. It had only been a fleeting glimpse, and yet something in the way the person moved had belonged to a woman.

  ‘I saw something. Someone.’

  ‘You were at the scene of the crime. That makes you …’

  ‘A witness. Not a suspect.’

  ‘Let us say, a person of interest.’ Serkan looked as if he had something else on his mind, but whatever he might have been about to say was cut short by the return of the sergeant, whose look suggested that Makana was still more of a suspect than a witness, at least in his eyes. The two officers fell into conversation, ignoring Makana, before Inspector Serkan addressed him again.

  ‘You are Egyptian?’

  ‘I’m originally from Sudan.’

  ‘But you live in Egypt, in Cairo?’ Makana nodded. ‘And you are here on business, you say. What kind of business?’

  ‘Agricultural machinery.’

  ‘That’s why you came to visit Mr Sulayman this evening, to discuss tractors?’

  ‘We were to have dinner together, as I told you.’

  ‘Of course you did. Forgive me.’ Serkan translated for the benefit of the other detective, who gave a tut of impatience as though he didn’t believe a word of it. With an eye trained on Makana he grumbled a series of his own questions, which Serkan translated into English.

  ‘Sergeant Berat asks, was the body cold? Did you touch anything?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Makana waited while his answer was relayed. Now he had the attention of both of them. The bulky sergeant began mumbling again, but Serkan silenced him with a raised hand.

  ‘Sergeant Berat raises the same question I put to you earlier. Most people when encountering a man in this condition would be, shall we say, alarmed. They might try to revive him. You did nothing of the kind. On the contrary, you touched nothing.’

  ‘I could see he was dead. I realised there was nothing to be done.’

  ‘It is almost as if you have experience of these matters.’ Inspector Serkan smiled again, in his enigmatic fashion.

  ‘How difficult can it be?’ Both men were staring at him in a curious way. Makana wondered if he was overselling himself or not giving them enough. ‘He had clearly choked to death. His eyes were wide open and he was not breathing. You didn’t need a medical degree to see that he was dead.’

  Sergeant Berat sniffed and rubbed the tip of his nose with his thumb. He seemed to bear some kind of a grudge against the world, as if he felt he was constantly being slighted. In that sense, although physically he resembled Genghis Khan, Sergeant Berat put Makana in mind of his old partner, Mek Nimr.

  The sergeant had one more question.

  ‘Tell us about the person you claim knocked you out.’

  ‘As I said earlier, I only caught a glimpse of them.’ Makana looked Sergeant Berat in the eye as he spoke.

  ‘Sergeant Berat wonders if you have something to hide.’

  Makana almost laughed. ‘Please, Inspector, this has been a long evening and I am very tired. My head hurts and this whole experience has been quite a shock.’

  ‘Of course. You should be examined by the paramedics before you go. I understand you are eager to return to your hotel, and we shall return you there as soon as possible.’

  ‘If there’s nothing more you need from me, then yes, I would like that.’

  ‘A car will be arranged. We will need to take a full statement from you, for our report. A formality, nothing more.’ Inspector Serkan gave the order. Sergeant Berat muttered something before moving off, and Serkan apologised. ‘He’s a good man, especially in a dangerous situation. Brave, if a little old-fashioned. He likes things to stay as they are. You understand?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘For him the problem here is that he finds it hard to believe that a woman could be capable of such a murder.’

  ‘I’m surprised,’ said Makana. ‘I would have thought that experience would have taught him that anyone, man or woman, is capable of taking a life, under the right circumstances.’

  A slow smile appeared on the inspector’s face. ‘The way you answer, one might almost believe you were the detective and I the suspect.’

  ‘I assure you …’

  ‘Please.’ Serkan held up a hand. ‘It’s quite all right.’

  ‘I may have been mistaken.’

  ‘Your answer was instinctive. It came from here.’ The inspector touched a finger to his heart. ‘You must repeat exactly what you have told me in your statement.’ He waved a hand in the air and two uniformed men came forward to escort Makana to the ambulance parked by the building entrance. In the bright glare of the interior a paramedic examined Makana’s head and cleaned some blood from the bruise on the back of his head. He was just finishing up when Serkan reappeared.

  ‘I shall take you to the station myself.’

  Waving back the uniformed men, the detective led the way down the road to where a battered white Fiat was parked on the pavement. As he struggled to unlock the door he explained. ‘My father used to sell carpets in the bazaar. I used to sit in the back and watch him make deals with all kinds of shady characters. I convinced myself they were all criminals. That’s when I decided to become a detective.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘He died penniless. He was not good with money. He liked to spend more than he had. When he bought this car he was so proud. One day this will be yours, he said. I thought he was joking, but here I am twenty years later, still driving the same car.’

  At police headquarters on Tarlabaşi Boulevard they sat in a drab room, ringing with furious telephones that went unanswered as Makana repeate
d his story. The No-Smoking signs on the wall were masked by a cloud of grey smoke. Overflowing ashtrays adorned every desk. Before he could even reach for his own cigarettes, the inspector had offered him one of his – a Turkish brand he hadn’t seen before. Makana nodded gratefully. Across the room he saw the woman in the raincoat who had opened the door for him on his first visit to Nadir Sulayman’s office. She was waiting to be interviewed. Above her a small portable television rested on a shelf. On the screen were images of the ongoing war in Iraq. A reporter wearing a flak jacket and a helmet spoke into a microphone, behind her the blackened skeleton of a car bomb. The world and its problems went on.

  Makana’s own statement was transcribed by a woman in her fifties with dyed black hair pinned tightly back. She wore cotton gloves and tinted glasses. Between them sat an interpreter, an unshaven man who kept yawning and calling for cups of coffee between sentences. The transcriber said nothing. She didn’t look once at Makana. The screen was covered with words he could not read, and the finished statement might have said anything – a fairy tale, a full confession, he simply had no way of knowing. Inspector Serkan had disappeared for a while, but when he returned he perched on the edge of the desk.

  ‘Your hotel confirms that there is someone of your name staying there. How long have you held a British passport?’

  ‘Oh, some years now.’

  ‘You used to live there?’

  ‘For a time, yes. My wife was English.’

  ‘You are no longer married?’

  ‘She died.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ Makana said. He was tired. ‘Does it make a difference?’

  ‘No, this is mere curiosity. Background. The British are generous with their blessings, wouldn’t you say? It makes travel easier for you …’

  Again Makana sensed something in the detective’s tone.

  ‘You don’t approve?’

  Inspector Serkan gave a shrug. ‘Who am I to judge? I believe a man should be proud of his origins.’

  ‘Having a British passport doesn’t change who I am. It’s a practical arrangement.’

  ‘Yes, so you said. The British Consulate is closed now, but we shall check with them in the morning to confirm the validity of this document.’

  ‘You’re welcome to. I’m sure they will remember me.’

  ‘You have no objections?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Makana resisted the temptation to ask if he might leave. Serkan seemed to enjoy toying with him, making him wait, so he would wait.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Amin, can you think of anyone who might have a motive to kill Mr Sulayman?’

  ‘I barely met the man. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. I imagine he had enemies.’

  ‘Enemies?’

  ‘He was a businessman,’ said Makana. ‘He must have had rivals.’

  ‘Rivals perhaps, but enemies is another matter, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Could it have been political?’

  ‘Perhaps. Nothing in Turkey is political,’ Serkan shrugged. ‘And everything is political.’

  ‘I get the feeling that what you are really asking,’ said Makana slowly, ‘is whether Nadir Sulayman’s death is in some way related to my business here.’

  Serkan gave a little bow. ‘I could not have put it better myself.’

  ‘Are you worried I might be in danger?’

  ‘It is a concern,’ Serkan said. ‘I am trying to protect you, Amin Bey.’

  ‘Well, I appreciate your concern, but I can’t see that anyone would be that interested in used agricultural machinery.’

  Having finished his work, the interpreter got to his feet and wandered off, still yawning. The typist remained where she was, watching the two men from behind her dark glasses. She sat perfectly still, as if gripped by the unfolding drama.

  ‘You are right.’ The detective looked thoughtful. ‘It seems an unlikely explanation, but naturally we shall pursue this line. It would be irresponsible not to do so. We must go through his papers, find out where he was getting the machinery from. Perhaps there is a link to organised crime.’

  ‘Nadir Sulayman didn’t strike me as the kind of man who would have dealings with the underworld.’

  ‘This is your first visit to Istanbul, Mr Amin. Sometimes things are not as clean as the tourist brochures lead one to believe.’

  Makana wanted to help Serkan. Most of all he wanted to know who had killed Nadir Sulayman. He considered telling him about the Dutchman staying at the Taxim Palace Hotel, but he had no evidence of a connection and so nothing to offer. He also knew that to do that would be to compromise his mission to recover Ayman Nizari.

  ‘The woman you saw …’

  ‘Like I said, I might have been wrong. The light was poor, it was a reflection in a window at night, which is never clear at the best of times.’

  ‘So, now you’re not sure?’ Sergeant Berat was waving from across the room. The inspector clicked his tongue impatiently. ‘If he had his way, you’d spend the night in an interrogation room. Luckily for you we differ in our methods.’

  ‘That’s reassuring to hear.’

  ‘There’s a car to take you to your hotel. I would like to talk to you again, however, if you have no objections?’

  ‘I’m happy to help in any way.’

  ‘Excellent, and Mr Amin Bey, please do not leave Istanbul without informing me.’

  Sergeant Berat was waiting by the door, that sullen look of distrust engraved on his face. They made quite a team, the mild-mannered inspector and the bullish Genghis Khan. Serkan shook Makana’s hand.

  ‘Rest assured, we will find the person who killed Nadir Sulayman. Here in Istanbul we take murder very seriously.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  So did Makana. He had taken murder seriously for a very long time. There was, however, a nagging feeling at the back of his mind that he didn’t want Inspector Serkan to succeed in finding the person responsible for Nadir Sulayman’s murder; at least, not before he himself did.

  When Inspector Serkan had asked if he had recognised the woman he had seen in Sulayman’s office, he had lied, and only partly because he wasn’t sure. There’d been no more than moments between catching a glimpse of a blurred figure in the window pane and being hit on the head. What he had seen, or what he had thought he had seen, was impossible to explain, even to himself. It tied into the rising sense of confusion that had been building in him since his arrival in this city. He couldn’t possibly explain what he thought he had seen without sounding as if he was losing his mind. And here lay his dilemma.

  The figure he had glimpsed in Nadir’s apartment was the same woman he had seen in the bazaar, the one he had mistaken for Muna. It was possible his mind was playing tricks on him. For a man who’d spent most of his career confronting death, it was perhaps odd that he had never been able to come to terms with the loss of his wife and daughter. Maybe it was the way they had been taken from him, torn from his sight so abruptly, without warning. There was nothing strange in grieving for your dearest loved ones, but this grief had entailed a fatal charge, a sense of being condemned by destiny to relive their final moments over and over again.

  Makana didn’t believe in many things, and he certainly didn’t believe in the spirits of the dead walking the earth as large as life. So what did that leave? Coincidence? Here too his imagination did not stretch far. Something had sparked in his memory, something he had never been able to shake off. The only other explanation was the one he had the most trouble allowing himself to even contemplate.

  When rumours had first surfaced that his daughter might have survived the accident, Makana had refused to believe them. He suspected this was part of a campaign to wound him by old enemies. At the same time, naturally, he began to make inquiries. Nothing conclusive ever came up, but the stories refused to go away. According to some, Nasra had been paralysed in the fall and was in full-time care in hospital. Others said she had been adopted by a high-ranki
ng official in the government. Friends warned him that it was all a trap: his enemies were trying to lure him home.

  For fifteen years Muna and Nasra had lived inside him. The two most precious things in his life, his wife and daughter, had been taken from him. They were always with him. Not ghosts, but presences. Stored safely within, like love, like the inevitability of death. Until that vision in the market, when he’d caught sight of something that he knew he could not possibly explain. An instinct, a feeling. A conviction.

  Since that moment he had been busy trying to convince himself that he had imagined it, that first time, that his mind was playing tricks. Except that he had seen her again, as he crouched over Nadir Sulayman’s body. And that led him to another question he could barely bring himself to address. One that went above and beyond the matter of who she was. Could she have killed Sulayman? It felt as though he was unravelling from within.

  At the hotel he found that the lift was occupied by a woman not quite as young as she wished to appear. She was wearing a tight black dress upon which golden dragons writhed with her every move. She watched him in the little mirror on the rear wall as she fixed her lipstick.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Are you the one?’

  She had an unusual accent. She was Turkish, and yet her English had the uneven tone of one who has spent time in the company of foreigners.

  ‘I’m not the lift operator.’

  ‘But I have been waiting,’ she pouted. It was an expression she had clearly been practising.

  ‘Let me try.’ Makana imagined Jehan shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Which floor?’

  ‘Four,’ she said, somewhat breathlessly, and a little too close to his ear for comfort. Makana forced himself to ignore the cloying scent of her perfume and focused instead on the mechanics of the situation. He swung the handle round, and quite miraculously the delicate iron cage began to move. He slumped back against the wall, too exhausted to contemplate what it would have been like to have to walk up. When they reached the fourth floor he swung the handle to the stationary position and pulled open the gate.

  ‘I can always be easily found,’ she purred. ‘Just ask on reception for Aysun.’