Deep Waters (38 page)

‘Earthquake?’ he ventured, knowing how she nervously hedged around this subject.

‘Yes, since that, this country and the Greeks have spoken together more than ever before.’

‘Yes, it’s good. The Greeks were there for us – their rescue teams didn’t stop.’

‘And we for them when they had their – their troubles too,’ Fatma said, alluding to the smaller if no less devastating earthquake that had hit Athens just after the İstanbul conflagration.

‘Yes.’

It had been a hard eighteen months for them but earthquakes and financial insecurity were ills that were common to everyone. The awful truth about İkmen’s mother was another matter. That was personally wounding and, like the image of Ali Evren’s head exploding in a cascade of blood, the pain of it would take a very long time to go, İkmen knew. And so, rather than sit and brood, he got his coat and made his way towards the police station. Felicity Evren would be there now.

Latife Aksu had been consulting and lecturing at the Cerrahpaşa Faculty of Medicine for most of her working life. And although she was aware that she didn’t know everything there was to know about gynaecology, she was not accustomed to having her diagnoses questioned – particularly not when it concerned such a straightforward condition.

‘Well, of course I’m sure, Zelfa!’ she said as she looked across at what was now a very frightened-looking psychiatrist sitting opposite her.

‘But I didn’t know you were testing for—’

‘I did it originally to rule it out!’ Latife responded tartly. She was a blunt, middle-aged woman and Zelfa was trying her patience.

‘But are you absolutely one hundred per cent sure?’

‘Zelfa, you’re pregnant,’ she said baldly. ‘You’re also, and this is common as I know you know, mildly anaemic so I want you to take iron supplements.’

‘But what am I going to do, Latife?’ Zelfa said as she riffled in her handbag for her cigarettes.

‘Well, you’ll have to stop smoking for a start.’

Zelfa, chastised, put her bag down and twisted her hands nervously in her lap.

‘As to what you’ll do in general,’ the gynaecologist continued, ‘that’s up to you. Abortion is of course an option, but if you do decide to go ahead I will have to book you in for a scan and you will have to have an amniocentesis. At your age there is a higher risk of Down’s syndrome.’

‘Oh, Christ!’ Zelfa exclaimed in far more comfortable English.

Dr Aksu picked up her pen and pulled Zelfa’s file closer. ‘Any idea when you might have conceived?’

Zelfa didn’t. But when she thought about it, the signs had been there for a while – the weight gain, the sickness sometimes accompanied by dizziness. More to the point, she hadn’t had a period for two months. She told Latife this and the gynaecologist muttered as she wrote it down.

‘But what about my practice?’ Zelfa wailed as wave after wave of fears and difficulties broke across her mind. ‘And my wedding! Oh, God!’

Latife Aksu put down her pen and looked at Zelfa sternly. ‘You’re pregnant, Zelfa, it’s what women do! You’re not ill! As far as I can judge, you’ll be perfectly capable of listening to the psychotic ramblings of your patients for many months to come. As for your wedding,’ she shrugged, ‘I would say it’s fortuitous that you already have it in prospect, wouldn’t you?’

‘But what will Mehmet think? I mean . . .’

‘Mehmet, like so many of our menfolk, will have to accept the results of his lustful actions.’

Latife Aksu was known as a vociferous opponent of men and all their works. When she was a young woman she had always said that she would never marry a Turkish man because of their need, as she saw it, to dominate their women. But as the years had passed and Latife had seen more and more women of all nationalities pass through her surgery, not to mention the women’s refuge in Harbiye where, once a week, she gave her time for free, she had extended this view to all men. Even the extremely handsome young lover of her now weeping patient left her cold.

But she managed a smile as she passed a box of tissues across to Zelfa. ‘I would recommend that you tell him as soon as possible,’ she said, not without kindness. ‘Whatever you think his reaction may be.’

‘Oh, I think he’ll be pleased,’ Zelfa said as she wiped mascara from her eyes. ‘I mean, I think I’m more shocked than actually upset, to be honest. I didn’t think I’d ever have a child. Not now.’

‘You’ll need some time to adjust, yes.’

‘Yes.’

Exactly what she was going to say to Mehmet, Zelfa didn’t know. She couldn’t imagine his reaction either. She just hoped that the sneaking suspicion she had always had about him, that he actually wanted a child, was correct. After all, he adored his little niece. But then, her thoughts as ever racing ahead, her mind threw up the image of Mehmet’s parents or, more precisely, the image she had gained of them from short glimpses and from Mehmet himself. On the way over to the Cerrahpaşa he had told her he’d informed his father about their impending marriage – news that the elderly man had apparently taken well. That ‘Prince’ Muhammed’s volatile wife was probably at this very moment planning how she might bribe her prospective daughter-in-law to disappear was something that made Zelfa smile and yet feel bleak at the same time.

As she calmed down and returned to a rather more ‘professional’ version of herself, her mind took refuge in more immediate concerns. She was due to meet İkmen to discuss Felicity Evren. At this meeting he would, in light of his interview with the woman, ask her many questions. And even for a practitioner with over twenty years’ experience, she suspected that some of his questions were not going to be easy to answer. So this was not a time to be distracted by other issues, such as worrying about Mehmet and his feelings. And when she expressed these thoughts to Latife, the gynaecologist agreed.

‘Get your consultation over and then tell him afterwards,’ she said as she saw Zelfa to the door.

‘Right.’

‘But don’t delay after that time,’ Latife added sternly. ‘You’ve made a plan, so stick to it.’

Zelfa smiled before exchanging kisses with Latife and leaving her office.

Out in the waiting area, Mehmet Suleyman stood up and smiled as she approached.

‘So?’ he asked.

‘It’s nothing,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘It’s not what I thought and I’m fine.’

‘Good.’

She slipped her arm through his and they made their way towards the exit.

The police decided to conduct Felicity’s interview in English. That way, it was felt, the possibility of misunderstandings would be greatly reduced. This meant İkmen had to recruit Çöktin to join him in the interview, as opposed to Tepe whose English was poor.

Although obviously medicated, Felicity Evren looked remarkably well given her recent horrific ordeal and when İkmen ushered her lawyer, Adnan Öz, into her presence, she even managed a smile.

The formalities complete, İkmen began.

‘I’d like you to tell me, Miss Evren,’ he said, ‘about the night of Rifat Berisha’s death.’

‘I—’

‘You do not have to answer anything you do not want to,’ Adnan Öz reminded his client with a smile.

Felicity smiled back. ‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’m OK with it.’

Öz shrugged.

‘Well, Miss Evren?’ İkmen asked.

‘Rifat came to ask my father for some money. Someone had told him that the operation he’d had in London was illegal under British law. In fact, because no money changed hands, that wasn’t so, but . . . Anyway, Rifat and Father argued. David, my brother, and I were upstairs when we heard Father shouting.’

‘So you went to see what was happening?’

‘Yes. And as soon as I entered the room Rifat, smiling at me like he always did, handed me this little parcel. He said he’d come to bring a present for me and even though I knew that the present couldn’t possibly be what he and Father were arguing about, I opened it.’

‘And what did it contain?’ Çöktin asked, though he thought he knew the answer.

Felicity sighed. ‘One of those cheap coloured glass perfume bottles. They’re made in Egypt. To be honest, if Father hadn’t started raving on about why Rifat was really there I wouldn’t have been bothered about the present. After all, I knew Rifat was very hard up.’

‘Then what happened?’ asked İkmen.

‘I asked Rifat whether Father was telling the truth. I could tell by his face that he was. Then with Father going on and on about how Rifat was a gold-digger and how he only wanted me for my money, I lost my temper. It was so insulting. And I couldn’t understand why Rifat was doing it – he should have been grateful to have someone like me. But I could see in his eyes that he wasn’t. Father was right.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I smashed the bottle into his face and then I started crying. Rifat went wild, started swearing, saying all sorts of things, calling me disgusting, awful names.’

‘What was your father’s reaction to this?’

‘He screamed at Rifat, who just laughed at him. Rifat pulled out a knife, which was very scary. Then after he’d told us how he really felt about us all, which seemed to go on for ever, he left. I cried, I wanted him to come back . . . Father and David followed him to the car. I didn’t actually see what happened. My father came back into the living room about ten minutes later.’

‘Why did he do that, Miss Evren?’ Çöktin asked.

‘To get something to mop up Rifat’s blood.’ It was said in a voice that was only a little above a whisper.

‘So Rifat had been killed.’

‘My father said that Rifat had tried to stab him,’ she looked up, weary now, into İkmen’s eyes, ‘but David somehow got the knife from Rifat and then he cut his throat. Father said there was no struggle – it was too quick – one deep cut, then David sawing at his neck . . . Father was scared then . . .’ She wet her dry lips with her tongue. ‘I gave my father the curtains I’d bought earlier in the day – for the blood – and then I followed him out to Rifat’s car. My brother had his . . . his mouth up to Rifat’s throat.’

And then she started crying. They let her be, smoking a cigarette each until she had composed herself once again. Then, after a short consultation with her lawyer, Felicity resumed her story.

‘Father wrapped Rifat’s body up in the curtains on his own. He sent me back inside with David – told me to get him cleaned up. Father was furious. He said that David was an animal. He spent days afterwards screaming about all the money he’d spent on psychiatrists for David and it had all been a waste. David became very frightened. He told me he had been compelled to drink Rifat’s blood. But Father didn’t understand.’

‘What about Rifat?’ İkmen asked, his brow furrowing into a frown. ‘Didn’t your father have any feelings about him?’

Felicity smiled now through her tears. ‘My father was a bad man, Inspector İkmen. Killing was not unknown to him. The police back home must have been aware of his activities . . . My mother certainly was. She killed herself.’ She cleared her throat. ‘The only thing that worried my father was how we were going to dispose of Rifat’s body. He reasoned that if he just flung it into a gutter somewhere near where Rifat lived, the police would assume that he had been slaughtered in one of those blood feuds Albanians have. I told him that Rifat lived in Eminönü, though I didn’t know exactly where.’

‘So did your father have some connections with Albanian people, Miss Evren?’ Çöktin asked.

‘My father would deal with anyone provided they were dishonest, Sergeant,’ Felicity replied, ‘and some of his contacts were Albanian, yes. False passports, stolen antiques, bodily organs, a little contract killing – my father was a man of many talents. He wore gloves to dispose of Rifat’s body, I had to put plastic bags on the seats of the car. Then he destroyed all the clothes he was wearing that night. He was a clever, cautious man. Hardly surprising my brother became what he was, is it?’

‘So he disposed of Rifat’s body . . .’

‘He left it some hours, until maybe three in the morning. Father reasoned there’d be little traffic on the roads by then. And anyway, a lot of people, those that remember the curfews, still don’t wander about in the early hours, do they? It was foggy . . . He took Rifat to Eminönü and then dumped the car in Ortaköy. He was going to leave it in Eminönü, but he thought he saw people about and so he just drove on until he found a quiet place.’

‘How did he get back from Ortaköy to Bebek?’

‘I went and picked him up.’

İkmen scowled. ‘I believe you told me you couldn’t drive, Miss Evren.’

‘I lied, Inspector,’ she answered simply.

‘I see. Did you also lie about what you felt for Rifat? I mean, you seem to have done all of this with remarkable ease. Did you just use him as an organ donor?’

‘No!’ Her face contorted with emotion. ‘I loved him! I was distraught, it shouldn’t have happened. David just reacted! He always protected me . . .’

İkmen looked down at the file in front of him and spent a few seconds perusing what was written there. When he spoke again, he was aware that she was watching him with interest.

‘So what about all this business with vampires?’ he asked. ‘Tell me about that.’

‘My brother was obsessed with them, wanted to be one.’ She spoke with her face turned away from him. She obviously didn’t want to talk about this.

All the more reason to make her do so.

‘Why?’ İkmen asked.

‘What?’

‘Why was your brother obsessed by the idea of the vampire?’

Felicity swallowed hard. ‘It was a process,’ she said, ‘and it began with me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When I was a child, the way I look, whatever that may be, didn’t worry me.’ She leaned forward across the table, effectively cutting her lawyer out of the conversation. Mr Öz, in reaction, cleared his throat, but she ignored him. ‘My mother and father were always – kind. Then two things happened. After years of no success, my mother became pregnant. Sadly she lost the baby and as a consequence her depression deepened. I stayed in more in order to care for her – Father was always out on business. And anyway I wanted to stay in by that time. I was eighteen and I’d grown tired of being pointed at, laughed at.’ She took a deep breath. ‘As you can imagine, I’d never liked looking at myself in mirrors, but as time passed that seemed to be getting more difficult anyway. My image was softer somehow, as if I was fading out, diluting. I know it sounds fantastic, but that is the way that it was. By the time David was born eighteen months later, I’d completely disappeared. All I could see when I looked into the glass was whatever was behind me. Not that I was unhappy about it. Had I continued to look every day at the face from hell, I don’t think I would have been able to cope. I certainly wouldn’t have had the gall to approach men like Rifat, to create a perfect face and body in my head . . . It gave me confidence. And my parents, without really understanding, played along.’