The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 7 Page 29

  And maybe I hadn’t. I couldn’t remember.

  THE HOUSE THAT GOT SHOT

  Barbara Nadel

  INSPECTOR ÇETIN KMEN cast his gaze slowly around the bloodied, shredded room before him and then, turning to his equally shocked female sergeant said, “What a mess.”

  “The whole house is the same, sir,” Sergeant Aye Farsakolu replied. “Bullet holes everywhere.”

  “Do we know who she was?” kmen said as he tipped his head in the direction of a blood-soaked body lying face downwards in front of him, its arms outstretched to each side clutching what looked like small lengths of rope.

  “Not yet,” Aye said. “Apart from this house the rest of the street has been empty for some months. This part of Haskoy is in the process of being redeveloped.”

  kmen, looked down at the young woman with a cynical eye. As well as working as a police officer in Istanbul for over thirty years, he had lived in the city all his life. He’d seen a lot of metropolitan districts “redevelop” – not always for the better. Haskoy, a somewhat distant and rickety suburb on the northern shore of the Golden Horn was just the latest in a long line of “newly discovered” districts. Once home to a sizeable Jewish as well as a gypsy population, the little wooden houses of Haskoy had a certain shabby romance to them. Just not this particular one – not anymore.

  “Well, whoever the victim was, she was only part of the assailants’ target,” kmen said as he put his hand in his pocket and drew out a packet of cigarettes.

  “What do you mean by that, sir?” Aye replied with a frown.

  “Well, it’s obvious,” kmen said. “Whoever did this was shooting the house as much as the occupant.” Then after lighting up a cigarette he moved past the officer on guard at the front door of the property and went outside.

  Over the course of the next few hours, many Istanbul police officials came and went from the house on the corner of Harab Cesme Sokak. Photographers, forensics and ballistics experts, ordinary officers and of course the police pathologist Dr Arto Sarkissian. The latter, who was a contemporary and old friend of Çetin kmen, didn’t take long to pronounce life extinct.

  “What a thing to do to an old woman, eh?” he said when he came out to join kmen in the street. “I’ve counted twelve bullet wounds so far and I’m sure I’ll find more when I get her over to the lab. Insanity!”

  “The whole house is shot to pieces,” kmen said as he looked across at the great wall that surrounded the once busy old synagogue opposite. “She’s old, our victim. I wonder if she used to be a congregant over there.”

  “At the synagogue? Maybe,” Arto shrugged. “The few Jews that remain around here do tend to be old. But whatever she may have been, one thing is for sure, this murder will not do the redevelopment around here much good. Especially if you add in our victim’s slithery comrades and the possibility that they in turn may have more family somewhere nearby.”

  kmen turned his dry thin face towards the rather more robust visage of his plump Armenian friend and said, “Slithery comrades?”

  “The old woman was not the only living creature to die in that orgy of bullets.” Arto paused to swallow rather nervously before he said, “She kept, indeed it would appear she was on friendly terms with, snakes.”

  “Snakes!”

  “Two – so far,” the doctor replied. “One in each hand. From the way that she fell it would seem that she was holding them up and out to both sides of her body when she was shot. I know that you hate them, but . . .”

  “Snakes! What kind of snakes?” kmen asked as sweat began to visibly appear on his face.

  “I don’t know. I’m not a zoologist,” the doctor replied. “Small, indeterminate serpents, now deceased.”

  “Happily.”

  “Depends upon your point of view,” Arto continued. “Our victim, it would seem, was quite at ease handling them.”

  “That or she was preparing to throw them at her assailant,” kmen said.

  “Either way she had the snakes for some reason and had to be comfortable with that,” Arto replied. “I’ve told all of our people to be careful in case other slithery friends make unexpected appearances.”

  kmen looked down instinctively at his own feet and then, anxiously, scanned the street to his left and right. Harab Cesme Sokak was a steep road that, as well as incorporating an elderly synagogue, also boasted a long row of wooden Ottoman houses amongst its treasures. What had been the last inhabited example of this type of property was kmen’s murder scene. It was also, he now knew, a possible source of snakes. Just the thought of snakes made him shudder. It was a phobia he had developed a long time ago. It was not one he had any interest in addressing now. He and snakes just did not meet – ever.

  “Sir!”

  A young man in a well-ironed blue uniform snapped to attention in front of kmen.

  “Constable Yıldız?”

  “Sir, I’ve just been talking to the owner of the grocer’s shop at the top of the hill.”

  Just as probably buying sweets as cigarettes, kmen thought. Although not in reality that young, Hikmet Yıldız, with his baby face and his perfect shirts so obviously ironed by his sweet little headscarfed mother, was one of those boys who was taking a very long time to grow up.

  “Yes? And?”

  “Kemal Bey, the grocer, he says that all of this block of houses here has been bought by a foreigner,” the young man said.

  “Does he.”

  “Yes. Apparently, sir, all the occupants except the dead lady moved out when this new owner took possession about six months ago. I told him nothing, but of course like the whole district he has been watching us come and go here for hours. Kemal Bey of his own volition told me the dead lady’s name. It was Ofis Hanım. Unusual name, isn’t it?” he said as he looked at the Armenian for some possible explanation.

  But Arto Sarkissian just shrugged. “It means nothing to me, constable,” he said. “Did Kemal Bey tell you anything else about the lady?”

  “Only that she almost never went out. Kemal Bey’s son was in the habit of delivering groceries to Ofis Hanım’s home once a week. But they never conversed. All Kemal Bey said was that a third party, another woman of the district, told him that Ofis Hanım did not, unlike her neighbours, have any intention of moving.”

  “I don’t suppose that Kemal Bey said anything about snakes, did he?” kmen asked.

  The young officer frowned. “Snakes? No. Why?”

  kmen looked across first at Arto Sarkissian before he said, “Because constable, it would seem that Ofis Hanım had a particular liking for snakes. I do hope that your boots are securely laced.”

  Constable Yıldız, wide-eyed with horror looked down at his mercifully snake-free feet and said, “Allah!”

  The following day brought further information about Ofis Hanım, although not as yet any actual suspect for her murder. In view of the fact that so many bullets had been found both in the old woman and in the fabric of the house, kmen was surprised to learn that the weapon involved had been nothing more lethal or sophisticated than an ordinary shotgun.

  “I would have thought that if whoever did this did so with the intention of wrecking the place, he would have saved himself a lot of effort and used a sub-machine gun,” kmen said to Aye Farsakolu as he looked down at the ballistics report on his desk.

  “Depends what he was firing at, sir,” the young woman replied.

  “In spite of the fact that most of the residents of Haskoy are now obsessed by visions of murderous serpents, we have still only recovered the bodies of two snakes – neither of which was in the least bit dangerous.”

  “Non-venomous Whip Snakes,” Aye said.

  “Our assailant killed them and Ofis Hanım. Shot up the house maybe imagining more snakes . . .”

  “It’s possible. I mean we, or rather I, had never heard of non-venomous Cypriot Whip Snakes until Forensics got back to us. Perhaps the killer thought that they were poisonous.”

  “Mmm.” kmen offered Ay
e a cigarette before lighting up himself and then said, “But to go to that house armed with a shotgun . . . Ofis Hanım was a small, frail old lady. If somebody wanted to kill her all he needed to do was push her over.”

  “Assuming our assailant was a man,” Aye said as she puffed delicately on the rough Maltepe cigarette her superior had just given her.

  “Indeed.”

  “Yes.”

  “But male or female, the fact remains that someone killed Ofis Hanım and her snakes and wrecked her house,” kmen said. “Why?”

  “Maybe Mr Lukash, the owner of that side of Harab Cesme Sokak will be able to tell us,” Aye replied. “He and his wife are coming in at three.”

  “Maybe he will,” kmen replied. “And in the absence of any other motive, Mr Lukash’s property empire or rather Ofis Hanım’s effect upon it does put our Ukrainian friend in the frame. All of the other old residents moved away very quickly when he came into possession of that street.”

  “Redevelopment,” Aye said sadly, “is not without its casualties.”

  “No.” kmen sighed. “And some of it is very good, but . . . If only gangsters were not involved . . .”

  “We don’t know that Mr Lukash is a gangster, sir. I know a lot of people here equate people like him from the former Soviet Union with gang activity, but the two don’t always go together. Besides his wife is Turkish, from here in the city.”

  “Mmm,” kmen looked down at his desk gloomily. “I expect she’s covered with gold chains and plastic surgery scars. They like their women like that.”

  “Who do?”

  He looked up into a face that was taut with anger.

  “Who likes their women ‘like that’?” Aye reiterated. “Gangsters? Eastern Europeans? Or are gangsters always Eastern Europeans or . . .”

  “Aye, don’t be angry . . .”

  “What, at you behaving just like the lowest, most prejudiced moron in the coffee house? Sir, you are better than that!’ she said passionately. “You, of all people, know that you cannot judge anyone just on face value! You taught me that! You drummed that into my head from my very first day!”

  kmen rubbed a tired hand over his thin, middle-aged features. Aye was right of course. He was fifty-seven years old, he’d been in the police force for over thirty of those and he was both a father nine times over and a grandfather too. He’d seen a lot – enough to know that there was no “type” more able to commit murder than any other. Just because a man wore big chunky rings and a leather coat didn’t make him a villain. Not necessarily.

  “I apologise,” he said, shaking his head miserably as he did so. “It’s just that I’ve seen so much ‘redevelopment’ in my lifetime – so much of it to the detriment of this city and its people – in my opinion. You know what I mean, Aye. Great roads pushed relentlessly into once comfortable and tight-knit old communities, great big apartment buildings constructed on the foundations of once elegant Ottoman houses . . .”

  “Not all of those developments have been done by Eastern Europeans,” Aye said. “In fact I think that very few properties have actually passed into foreign hands. And besides, sir, not everything that has been redeveloped has been bad. I mean some of the neighbourhoods that have undergone extensive redevelopment are actually better now than they were before. People who live there have a far superior quality of life.”

  “I know,” kmen nodded. “But the fact that everyone except Ofis Hanım moved out as soon as Mr Lukash bought those houses doesn’t sit well with me. That area was poor. Where did all those poor people go?”

  “We can find out,” Aye said.

  “Then that is what we must do,” kmen replied. “Find them. Talk to them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He looked up and smiled. “You know one place that has improved a lot in recent years?” he said. “Gulhane Park.”

  Aye knew the green and very pleasant park to the western side of the Topkapı Palace well. It was a nice relaxed place where she and her friends would sometimes go to walk about and eat ice-cream on sunny weekend afternoons.

  “When I was young it was called Lunar Park,” kmen continued.

  “There was a sort of a fair there with cheap attractions; freak shows, grisly things. It was all swept away a long time ago.”

  “For the better by the sound of it,” Aye said.

  “Certainly for the better,” kmen replied firmly. “Most certainly.”

  Mrs Lukash had, it turned out, not disappointed. Or rather her appearance had not. She had been just as kmen imagined she would – all bleached blonde hair and false breasts. Her almost totally silent Ukrainian husband had however been quite another matter. Old and world weary-looking, the most significant thing he’d said in his very halting Turkish was that he did not and had never owned Ofis Hanım’s house. Unlike the other houses that Lukash had bought from the previous owner, a local man called Ali Koray, Ofis Hanım had owned her house and had not wanted to sell. kmen took good note of this fact and, once the Lukashs had gone, instructed Aye to look into the Ukrainian’s affairs. Ofis Hanım’s house, he felt, had to have been a considerable thorn in the side of a man who was in the process, he said, of developing an elegant and valuable row of refitted houses.

  Now, however, he was in the cramped and messy Haskoy office of Mr Ali Koray. On the basis that the landlord might have known Ofis Hanım and wishing to find out rather more about his dealings with Mr Lukash, kmen now sat before a very battered desk behind which sat a short, thin man of about fifty.

  “So you don’t know where your old tenants went to after Mr Lukash bought your property?” kmen asked as he lit up a cigarette.

  “No, not really.” Mr Koray shrugged in what appeared to be a very offhand manner. “I’ve seen one or two about. In local shops and . . . But no. I sold to Lukash, I will be honest with you, because I was sick of the whole landlord business. All the tenants ever did was complain! It was like living in a headache!”

  “Mr Lukash gave you a good price?”

  “Yes. He’s redeveloping the houses. They look nice. I could never have afforded to do such a thing.”

  “Did the tenants know that their houses were going to be re developed for sale?” kmen said.

  Mr Koray shrugged again. It seemed to be some sort of habit. “I told them, yes. But I don’t know whether they left or Lukash made them leave or what. Some were upset. But I needed the money and they, the tenants, they knew they’d have to go sometime.”

  “Yes,” kmen attempted a smile but then gave up. He’d met uncaring landlords before. It didn’t get any easier. “I imagine Mr Lukash can’t have been happy that he couldn’t buy all the houses in the row.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Ofis Hanım . . .”

  “Oh, that shooting? Terrible business! Just awful!” Mr Koray shook his head violently at the thought of it.

  “Did you know her?” kmen asked.

  Once again, Koray gave a shrug. “Not really.”

  “Strange that you owned all of the houses in the row except that belonging to Ofis Hanım. Mr Lukash’s wife told us that her understanding was that you had inherited the row from your father. You have to know the area and its people well.”

  There was a pause, then Ali Koray smiled. “Ah,” he said. “Mmm.” He looked up at kmen with his great wrinkle-wreathed eyes and said, “Look, inspector, the old woman, Ofis, she was, well, she was my father’s mistress. A long time ago. He gave her that house and . . .”

  “I see.”

  “But since he died, back in 1988, my family and I, well we have left Ofis Hanım alone. My mother still lives. It is, was embarrassing.”

  “You or your family didn’t try to buy the property back from Ofis Hanım.”

  “No.” He shrugged. “What would have been the point?”

  “To make more money from Mr Lukash.”

  He smiled. “I made plenty of money from Mr Lukash.” He then looked, with what kmen felt could not possibly be genuine pride, around
his very small and shabby office. “I am content.”

  That evening, instead of going straight home to the kmen family apartment in Sultanahmet, the inspector went to a bar in the nearby district of Cankurtaran. In the lee of one of the walls of the great Topkapı Palace the little bar where he met up with his friend Dr Arto Sarkissian was very basic, very local and almost empty. Just the way both kmen and the doctor liked it.

  Sitting at a rough table outside the bar, kmen drank his beer with pleasure as he watched the sun begin to set behind a group of young children playing in the street. If he ignored the endless stream of traffic passing along Ishakpasa Caddesi, cutting through to the main coastal road, Kennedy Caddesi, he could almost imagine that he was back in the 1970s. The little unnamed bar they were sitting in front of certainly looked as if it came from that era, as did the innocent game of chase that the children were playing. Not a games console or item of designer clothing to be seen. Not that going back to the 1970s, even were that possible, was without its drawbacks.

  “I’d far rather go back to the 1950s myself,” Arto said as he drank his cola straight from the bottle. “There was so much political unrest in the 1970s. The 1950s were a lot, I suppose, simpler.”

  “Yes.” kmen who could also all too vividly recall the battles that had raged between the various left- and right-wing political factions in the 1970s, hadn’t forgotten that either. He’d had to try to control some of it when he was a young constable. “But the trouble with the 1950s Arto, is that they were so primitive.”

  “Primitive?”

  “Yes!” kmen lit up a cigarette. “Some parts of the city were so poor it was almost as if they were monochrome. Everyone wore the same dull clothes, in winter you choked on the fog from everyone’s fires. In the summer the sewers stank.”

  “Oh, yes well . . .”

  “And on top of that we had to endure abominations just up the road here!”