‘Evren has been back to the UK a few times since he came to live here,’ the consul cut into İkmen’s thoughts. ‘He also, as you suspected, made a visa application for an Albanian national.’

  ‘Rifat Berisha?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which you allowed.’

  ‘Yes.’ İkmen heard the consul smile. ‘We do occasionally, Inspector,’ he said, ‘especially if that person can be vouched for by a UK national and we have a firm departure date.’

  ‘This was given to you?’ İkmen asked.

  ‘Yes indeed, as was an address in London which is I believe the family’s UK base.’ İkmen heard him smile again. ‘It’s in Holland Park,’ he said and then expanded, ‘It’s the sort of place where a million pounds will just about buy you a garage – the apartment will cost you considerably more.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  The consul couldn’t give him anything more. In Britain, Evren was, it seemed, clean in the eyes of the law with regard to his art dealing. With most artefacts in the former eastern bloc as well as the jewels of the old Turkish aristocracy apparently legally up for grabs, Evren was free to do business with whoever he liked. And if this included leather-jacketed men with Russian names, that was his affair.

  What was of interest to İkmen was the apparent scale of Evren’s wealth. In UK sterling terms he was a millionaire, which meant that he was a very rich man indeed. He could have given Rifat several hundred million lire and not even noticed. So why hadn’t he? wondered İkmen. Perhaps he didn’t want to set a precedent for future extortion, or maybe money wasn’t the issue at all. Had Rifat wanted to be paid off for something other than donating his kidney to Felicity? Perhaps, İkmen thought with a shudder, he had given the strangely deformed woman something no man had yet been able to face?

  ‘So,’ Suleyman said as he looked down at Mehti Vlora’s statement, ‘you say here that you arrived at the house of Rifat’s girlfriend at about ten p.m.’

  ‘I thought we’d done this,’ Mehti said as his eyes, unbidden, flashed across to the grinning face of İsak Çöktin. ‘We’ve done this now, I’ve put it there!’

  ‘Yes,’ Suleyman said and then frowned. ‘Unfortunately there appear to be some inconsistencies.’

  ‘Oh, not the Fiat.’

  ‘Not only the Fiat is actually more to the point, Mr Vlora.’

  ‘Only?’

  ‘Perhaps if we run through the sequence of events again things will become clearer to me,’ Suleyman said.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘You say that you stole the green Fiat from outside a jeweller’s on Babıali Caddesi at around about four p.m.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you do with this vehicle before you followed Rifat Berisha to Bebek later that evening?’

  Mehti shrugged. ‘I drove. I picked up a girl . . .’

  ‘Was she European, this girl?’ Çöktin, who had until this point been silent, asked.

  Mehti briefly looked at the person who had become for him the principal object of his fears and muttered, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you fuck her?’

  Mehti just sat there with his mouth open.

  ‘Is that question really necessary, Sergeant?’ Suleyman inquired, frowning.

  ‘It would mean that we might be able to track down someone else apart from Mr Vlora who actually saw this Fiat, sir.’

  ‘But then I took it home,’ Mehti said. ‘My brothers—’

  ‘Oh, so your brothers saw it, did they?’ Suleyman asked. ‘That’s new.’

  ‘Yeah, I showed it to Mehmet and—’

  ‘But not to Aryan?’

  ‘He was out. He didn’t come back until it was time to eat.’

  ‘Strange that Mehmet hasn’t mentioned seeing this vehicle, don’t you think, Mehti?’ Suleyman said.

  ‘Well, I often go and get cars. I can’t afford one of my own. And anyway, Mehmet’s trying to protect me.’

  ‘Or you’re protecting him,’ Çöktin said with a sneer.

  ‘That’s not true! I’ve confessed to it, me! What more do you want?’

  Suleyman leaned forward across the interview table. ‘We want to make sure,’ he said, ‘that we have the right man. Because the person who killed Rifat Berisha will spend the rest of his life in jail. That will mean no women, unpleasant food, no chance of escape and, even though they try their hardest, no guarantee that the prison authorities will be able to protect you from some of their more brutal inmates.’

  ‘But I did it!’

  ‘Oh, well, if you did then that’s OK,’ Suleyman said. ‘You deserve everything you’re going to get.’

  Çöktin’s silent laugh was not lost on Mehti Vlora.

  ‘So, moving forward in time,’ Suleyman said, ‘you followed Rifat Berisha to Bebek at about eight thirty.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And once he had gone inside Mr Evren’s house . . .’

  ‘I let myself in the back of his car.’

  ‘How?’

  Mehti Vlora looked blank.

  Suleyman cleared his throat. ‘What I’m trying to get at, Mehti, is that at your original interrogation you said that you jemmied one of the back doors open. However, when it was pointed out to you that none of the back doors had been tampered with, you said that the door must have been unlocked. Which version am I to believe?’

  With a shrug of his shoulders Mehti said, ‘The door was open. I let myself in.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK.’ Suleyman wrote this down on a piece of paper he intended to add to the original statement. ‘You will get an opportunity to read this,’ he explained to Mehti, ‘and sign it if you agree with its contents.’

  The Albanian didn’t answer, seemingly fixated on Çöktin.

  ‘Now,’ Suleyman continued, ‘you say in your statement that you waited for Rifat Berisha in the back of his car. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Suleyman smiled. ‘So perhaps you’d like to tell me why it is that despite an exhaustive search of Rifat’s car our forensic colleagues have been unable to identify even one fingerprint that matches yours?’

  ‘Well, I was wearing gloves,’ Mehti said. ‘It was cold.’

  ‘You didn’t mention gloves in your statement, Mr Vlora. Would you like me to addend gloves to your original version?’

  Mehti shrugged again. ‘Well, yeah.’

  While Suleyman wrote this on the addendum sheet, Çöktin fixed his eyes firmly on Mehti’s face. Then he smiled. The Albanian looked away.

  Suleyman put his pen down on the table. ‘Forensics have gleaned numerous fibres, hairs and fluids from the vehicle that will be subjected to genetic testing which is totally accurate. If you remember, we asked you for a sample for this purpose, from your mouth.’

  Mehti first scratched his head and then rubbed his face with one of his cuffed hands.

  ‘So if that stuff doesn’t match my genetic stuff . . .’

  ‘Then you were never in that car, Mr Vlora,’ Suleyman said. ‘It’s that simple.’

  In view of the snowy conditions, Miss Flick had given him the rest of the day off.

  ‘Ali and I can make our own way back,’ she’d said as she’d got out of the car in Sultan Ahmet Square. ‘Get home now, Hassan, before this snow gets any worse.’

  ‘What about your father?’ he’d asked.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think he’ll be going anywhere today,’ she replied as she shivered on the pavement. ‘He’s far too old for weather like this. Just leave the car in the drive and go home. I’ll take my father out if he needs to go anywhere.’

  But Hassan had been unsure. Knowing from experience that if Mr Evren wanted something and didn’t get it people tended to suffer, he resolved to check with him first. He had to take the car back to the house anyway, so he might as well go in.

  He parked the car out in front of the house and was about to let himself in when a man came running towards him from across the road. It was one of Mr Evren’s Russian friends, Dimitri something or other.

  ‘Hey, you!’ he called as he approached, his leather jacket flapping against the snow. ‘Is your master with you?’

  ‘No, I think Mr Evren is in the house,’ Hassan replied and took his door keys out of his pocket.

  ‘No he isn’t!’ the man snarled. ‘I’ve knocked and knocked and there’s nobody in. I’m supposed to be having a meeting with him at ten thirty.’

  Hassan shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s gone out to get something,’ he said, although not with any conviction. Evren rarely if ever went out without the car, as Hassan well knew.

  ‘I’d better come in and wait then,’ the man said.

  Hassan felt that it probably didn’t matter. This man was, after all, a known associate of his employer. Not that he had a choice anyway because as soon as he unlocked the door the man pushed into the house and made his way to Mr Evren’s living room.

  Hassan headed for the kitchen. If Mr Evren did have an appointment with this man, he’d be back soon. He could then ask him whether or not he needed the car and tell him about Miss Flick’s plans – Mr Evren liked to know about those. In fact the various activities of his children was always the first thing Mr Evren asked about when Hassan returned from taking them somewhere in the car – which made his absence now all the more noticeable and strange. But like other mortals Mr Evren was subject to shifting circumstance. For some reason he’d had to go and that was that.

  In the kitchen, Hassan went straight for the refrigerator. There was a bottle of real Scotch whisky in there which, provided he didn’t take too much, served to supplement his meagre wages. Topped up with Coca-Cola it was pleasant and warming. Hassan started to relax after his stressful drive through the snow and swung his feet up onto the kitchen table.

  Although later he claimed to be unable to recall the sound of Dimitri’s footsteps running towards the kitchen, Hassan had no trouble remembering what the Russian’s hands had looked and smelt like. Thrust under his nose like horrific trophies, they smelt strangely of musty iron and were as red as the deepest arterial blood – which was what they were smothered with.

  Chapter 20

  * * *

  She was, he thought as he watched her gaze across at the great tower of scaffolding that clung, spider-like, to the other side of the nave, disturbingly fit. Unlike his own breathing, hers was steady and although sad around her eyes, she didn’t appear to be very distressed any more. She had been very fond of Rifat but he had never given her real love, only fucking, and he had been a most greedy young man, so she was better off without him. It would have been nice to believe that she had no heart, but he didn’t. Ali scowled. Her calm demeanour made him feel angry, cheated and, most importantly, alone. It was, he felt, somewhere he shouldn’t be, somewhere he had never been before, except that he had because Felicity had lied. Oh, she’d told him the truth after Rifat’s death, but he hadn’t really believed her until now. It was too big and too scary a concept to take in. Death – she could die. And now he alone was this thing . . .

  ‘I actually don’t feel that bad now I’m here,’ she said, turning her twisted face towards him. ‘I thought I might feel guilty.’

  ‘What for?’ He put his arms round her shoulders and smiled. ‘You didn’t do anything, did you?’

  She looked down at the floor, the hard grey marble squares so far below.

  ‘Not to Rifat, no,’ she said quietly, ‘but I do nevertheless feel responsible. I mean “vampire” was just a way for me to express what is really inexpressible, David.’

  ‘Mother was reading Dracula when you were born.’

  ‘That’s irrelevant,’ Felicity said, turning to look into her brother’s eyes. ‘You shouldn’t make so much of it, David. Christ, you still don’t believe me, do you! Mother was ill and I, well, to me it was, as I’ve said, it was a way I could express what I was experiencing to you. You were, after all, very young.’

  ‘But it was still a deliberate lie, wasn’t it?’ He tightened his grip on her shoulders. ‘After all, Flick, it was you who encouraged me to stay up all night with you.’

  ‘I was lonely. You’ve always been so good for such a young boy,’ she said as she looked across the nave once again. ‘I’ve always had problems sleeping, especially when I’ve been in pain. Your precious love, my sweetheart, helped me pass the time.’

  ‘You who said that perhaps in time I would become a vampire too and together we would live for ever. No death, Flick, not for us.’

  One of the men on the scaffolding opposite smiled at her as he began to descend towards the floor. Felicity nervously returned the smile.

  ‘Until . . .’ Her throat was dry, she swallowed hard. ‘Until Rifat . . . I didn’t know that you were . . .’

  ‘Serious? Obsessed with you?’ He laughed. ‘I told you I’d all but given up eating, and why! I was already going to that doctor Dad insists on sending me to! But it was OK because all I could think of was you.’

  ‘David . . .’

  ‘I loved you, but first you betrayed me with that Albanian and now I find that you’re this . . . nothing! A lie! I suppose that next you’re going to tell me that you only realised what I was doing when you saw me lick up Rifat’s blood!’ he said as he moved one of his hands slowly and sensuously up her back and towards her neck. ‘Liar!’ Suddenly he pinched her skin between his fingers, causing her to shriek.

  ‘David!’

  The man Felicity had smiled at on the scaffolding turned to look. Felicity hoped he could see the expression on her face, which was now one of frozen fear. But as she watched, the man simply turned his head and moved on down the scaffolding.

  ‘What you have to understand, Mehti,’ Suleyman said, ‘is that Mehmet is going to be tried for murder whether you like it or not.’

  ‘But I told you that it was me and not Mehmet who—’

  ‘Oh, I’m not talking about Rifat Berisha now,’ Suleyman cut in. ‘I’m talking about his brother Egrem.’ He leaned forward to emphasise his point. ‘You know, the one Mehmet killed in your apartment. The murder you watched.’

  ‘Ah, but he didn’t though, did he, sir?’ Çöktin interjected with a smile.

  ‘Oh, no, of course not!’ Suleyman said. ‘No, you were huddled on your bed in the next room at the time, weren’t you, Mehti? Screaming.’

  ‘No!’ But his eyes, which were now huge with fear, told another story.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘No, that’s a fucking lie!’

  ‘Your brother Aryan came to see us. It was most illuminating.’

  At the mention of his brother’s name, Mehti Vlora first looked confused and then, once he had fully taken in what Suleyman had said, furious.

  He tried to rise to his feet, but after being pushed back down again by the guard he just fumed, his face dark with rage.

  ‘You’re a fucking liar!’ he spat at Suleyman. ‘Blood would never talk to the police about blood.’

  ‘Oh, no?’ Çöktin sneered as he watched his superior calmly wipe Albanian spittle from his jacket lapel. ‘So how do we know, Mehti?’

  ‘Know what?’ the Albanian shouted. ‘Lies!’

  ‘Oh, it could be, I grant you.’ Suleyman replaced his handkerchief in his pocket. ‘But you will know whether this story is true or not, won’t you? You hardly need us to tell you.’

  ‘Lies!’ His eyes had started to water now, making him look as if he was crying.

  ‘Yes, so you keep saying,’ Suleyman observed, ‘although whether that is for our benefit or whether you are just attempting to convince yourself I really don’t know.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with being disgusted by murder,’ Çöktin said with a smile. ‘Unless, of course, if you’re supposed to enjoy it.’

  ‘Which Aryan thinks that you don’t,’ Suleyman added. ‘But then that always has been your problem, hasn’t it, Mehti? You want to do what your family dictate but the reality is that you just can’t stomach it.’

  ‘I killed Rifat Berisha!’ Snot and spittle sprayed as he attempted to communicate through his anger and his misery. ‘Blood demanded blood and I was there!’

  ‘So tell me everything about it then.’

  ‘Wh . . .’

  ‘Tell me what he looked like, how you felt, what you did!’ Suleyman leaned forward. ‘Come on! Tell me!’

  Through choking sounds that he would have been loath to admit were sobs, Mehti Vlora said, ‘Well, he was in the car . . . he . . . I put my hand on his shoulder . . .’

  ‘And his face? What about his face?’ Suleyman demanded. ‘What was that like? Was he afraid?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘And? What else? What did he do, this frightened man you were about to kill? Did he plead? Did he blubber? Well?’

  ‘Well, no . . . yes, he was . . .’ Mehti shrugged. ‘He was scared . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s in my statement.’

  ‘Was he well-groomed?’ Çöktin put in. ‘Or was he rough and hard-looking? We’ve only seen Rifat’s corpse, Mehti. Tell us.’

  ‘Well, he was like he always was!’ It came out in a rush, without thought or order. ‘Pretty, like a girl. Scared of me, his eyes sort of black with it and . . . But when I cut him that put a stop to that, that made him ugly and I liked that! When blood splashes all over the face . . .’

  ‘So he didn’t have any blood on his face before you cut him?’

  ‘Well, no, of course he didn’t, why should he?’

  ‘Rifat’s dead face,’ Çöktin explained, ‘was covered with lots of small cuts, many of which had bits of glass in them. If you recall, Inspector İkmen did ask you about coloured glass before.’

  ‘Yeah, so?’

  ‘So his face was damaged prior to his death, Mehti. Quite a mess. Odd you didn’t notice. Odd you didn’t respond when you were asked about this. You see, whoever killed Rifat would have known about it.’