Chapter 6

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  When Engelushjia Berisha woke up that morning, it wasn’t only the coldness of the cheap linoleum beneath her feet that made her smart with pain as she jumped down from her bed. The memory of what they had done to Rifat hurt too. Where they’d cut his throat, it had looked like the necks of the still living sheep sacrificed in honour of the Prophet Abraham at Kurban Bayram, raw and outraged. Except that Rifat had not been a sheep, he had been a person and, like her other brother Egrem, he was dead – killed by a fis whose only purpose was to pursue all of her people until they no longer existed. And that point was not far away. Now there only remained her parents, possibly cousin Mimoza, although she was not related to the Berishas by blood, and of course herself.

  As she started to pull on the first of the many jumpers she would wear on top of her thin cotton dress, Engelushjia began to cry. Her beloved brother Rifat’s death made her something she could never have imagined being, an only child. Her parents were both fearful and vengeful, and with her mother now pregnant again Engelushjia was the only member of the family who could safely go out into the street. She alone was a true woman, her milk uncontaminated by the blood of a man’s growing seed inside her. It made her wonder if, should a man ever love her, she might just kill herself after she had experienced her one taste of bliss. After all, there would be no one left to avenge her by that time. At least if she killed herself she would deprive the Vloras of the satisfaction. As soon as Rifat’s shirt was in the window, her father’s days would be numbered. There were any number of Vloras he could kill – and he would – but only one male Berisha – Rahman, her father. As soon as Mehmet, Aryan or Mehti Vlora had fallen victim to her father’s knife, Engelushjia knew that he would be nothing more than a walking dead man.

  Why it had all started up again so suddenly, she didn’t know. Perhaps Rifat had done something that none of them knew about. Since Egrem’s death he had spent a lot of time away from home, often teasing that poor fool Mehti Vlora. And then there had, of course, been his trip abroad with that woman. Engelushjia still had the number Rifat had given her – she would have to let the woman know of his death; after what Rifat had done for her, she would want to know. It had been the woman who had given Rifat his car – not that their parents knew about that. They assumed he must have stolen it. But the car was not of immediate concern now for, with Rifat’s death, it had seemingly disappeared. Engelushjia knew better than to suggest that her parents report it missing to the police. Thinking it was stolen, they wouldn’t dare, and for her to tell them the hurtful truth about all that now was pointless. The fact was the Vloras, maybe even that moron Mehti, had killed Rifat and proved themselves dishonourable scum by all but cutting his head off. And in time they would kill her father too.

  Attempting to swim against a rising tide of misery and panic, Engelushjia dried her eyes roughly on the sleeve of her jumper. In the kitchen there would only be tea to drink and nothing to eat, a fact that would normally depress Engelushjia. But not today. Today her stomach was sore and as tight as a current, wanting nothing except to have the whole thing over and done with once and for ever.

  As she entered the kitchen she was reminded by her parents’ measured actions of the tortuous pace at which their tragedies would be played out. Rahman was patiently rolling a stack of cigarettes to get him through the day while Aliya, her belly big in contrast to her sunken, sleepless face, made tea like one in a dream. It had taken her father months to avenge Egrem’s death – the Vloras had still not found the body. They must have seen Egrem’s shirt disappear from the Berishas’ window, but they still did not know. And while they did not know, it had been thought dangerous but acceptable for Rahman and Rifat to go outside – except at night when all sorts could occur under the cover of darkness. But night-time was when Rifat had liked to go out most, and night-time was when he had died.

  ‘I don’t want any tea,’ Engelushjia said as her mother made to pour a glass for her.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m going out,’ the young girl said, throwing a scarf round her head and tying it tightly under her chin.

  Looking up briefly from his cigarette making, his eyes red with sleeplessness, Rahman asked, ‘Where are you going? To do what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Engelushjia said without, her father noted, the usual tone of respect in her voice. ‘I feel restless, I—’

  ‘All the more reason to stay inside then,’ Aliya commented. ‘You’ve had a shock and with the streets so unsafe . . .’

  ‘Oh, the streets are safe enough for me, aren’t they, Mother?’ the girl retorted hotly. ‘Even the Vloras won’t touch a virgin girl, though I hate them all and wish them dead. Such is the stupidity of our customs!’

  ‘You should not abuse the laws laid down by Lek Dukagjini,’ her father said angrily. ‘Good Gheg that he was, he set them down for a reason.’

  ‘If a man’s honour is tainted he has no choice but to take his revenge in blood,’ Aliya added. ‘Even though it kills my soul, we must accept what has happened to Rifat and do the best that we can for him, which is to avenge his blood.’

  ‘So Father will kill a Vlora man and then those that remain will get to Father and kill him.’

  ‘If that is what Allah wills,’ Aliya said, lowering her eyes respectfully to the floor.

  It was almost as if, in that moment, Engelushjia Berisha saw her parents with new eyes. What her father was saying was that he, the gentle Rahman Berisha she had always been able to take her troubles to, intended to kill a man for the second time. Her ancient-looking pregnant mother approved. And yet both of her brothers were dead because of this mad code of honour that, with a fierce suddenness she could not explain, now made absolutely no sense. As it was, her father couldn’t work for fear of assassination. Until she became pregnant, Aliya had supported the family with begging and stealing. Now that she was with child and therefore a legitimate target under the rules of the Kunan of Lek Dukagjini, they all relied upon handouts from Mimoza, although how long her Turkish husband would tolerate this was anyone’s guess. It was, Engelushjia thought, both desperate and mad to carry on like this. As tears sprang to her eyes for the second time that morning she said, ‘This has got to stop! I’m going out!’

  ‘But there is nothing you can do!’ her mother cried and moved forward to try to stop her daughter from leaving.

  ‘Leave it be, silly girl! This is men’s work!’ her father added sternly.

  ‘I don’t care!’ Engelushjia cried, freeing herself from her mother’s grasping hands and then breaking into a run. ‘My brothers are dead! Rifat was butchered like an animal! I saw it, Mother – me! I can’t lose any more of my family! I can’t!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No!’ she screamed and flew out of the kitchen and down the stairs. Engelushjia looked back just once to see, through her tears, the blurred vision of her mother panting heavily in the hallway. But the sight didn’t stop her. From the house she ran into the street. It was only when the cold winter air had filtered into her brain for a few minutes that she realised she didn’t have a clue what she should do now.

  ‘So you think that the family of the victim will go after this other clan,’ Ayşe Farsakoǧlu said rather more baldly than İkmen had intended.

  ‘I think it’s a real possibility,’ he answered. ‘Albanian blood feuds are notorious both for their brutality and the inevitability of the process. They all adhere to a set of rules known collectively as the Kunan of Lek Dukagjini. This states that blood on one side must result in the letting of blood on the other. If Rifat Berisha was killed by the Vlora family, we can expect their blood to flow very soon.’

  ‘Does your informant think that Berisha’s death was definitely the work of this other lot, sir?’ Orhan Tepe asked.

  The three uniformed officers turned towards him as he spoke. His question went to the heart of what İkmen was proposing they do. Staking out both the Berisha place and an address on Tahtakale Caddesi was not going to be cheap with regard to man hours and so there had to be at least reasonable suspicion regarding this other family.

  ‘Forensics are not yet in on Rifat’s body,’ İkmen said and lit up a cigarette. ‘And with no witnesses, as yet, there is no way we can even think about arresting anyone.’ He paused briefly in order to cough. ‘However, my informant does know that the feud between the Berishas and the Vloras is longstanding and serious. Whether the Vloras killed Rifat or not, the Berishas will probably think they did. That is enough, in my mind, to warrant us doing what we are doing today.’

  ‘So what do you want us to actually do then, sir?’ a young officer called Hikmet Yıldız asked.

  ‘I want you to watch the properties, observe the comings and goings around them and note and report anything unusual or suspicious. By that I mean things like known faces turning up at either address or movements of people in or out of the buildings.’

  ‘And if things get rough?’ Tepe asked. ‘For instance if we observe a Berisha attacking a Vlora or—’

  ‘You contact me before you do anything,’ İkmen said gravely. ‘It’s important that they remain ignorant of our presence and suspicions.’

  ‘But what if they actually try to kill each other?’ an older constable called Roditi inquired.

  ‘Well, as officers of the law, you will have to prevent that,’ İkmen said, ‘but I would prefer it if you try not to arrest protagonists at the scene. We don’t officially have anything on the Vloras and the last thing I want to do is compromise my informant. Now, do any of you speak Albanian?’

  The three ‘uniforms’ plus Tepe looked sheepishly at each other. Then they all looked blankly at İkmen.

  ‘I take it that’s a “no” then,’ he said as he moved behind his desk and sat down.

  ‘We do know that the Berishas speak Turkish though, don’t we, sir?’ a frowning Tepe observed.

  ‘Yes. As do the Vloras, but it would be helpful if we could understand what they are saying when they speak to each other. Unfortunately, we don’t have any Albanians on the force or they would be here now instead of you poor souls, so we’ll just have to make the best of what we do have. İnşallah we will gain something useful from our efforts. Any more questions?’

  For a few moments the occupants of İkmen’s office looked at each other questioningly before, finally, Tepe said, ‘No, sir, I think we’re all clear.’

  Various heads nodded in agreement.

  ‘Good. Off you go then,’ İkmen said with a wave of what some considered an imperious hand.

  They started to leave, with the exception of Tepe who approached İkmen’s desk.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is anything going to happen about that surgery Rifat Berisha had?’

  İkmen put his cigarette out, lit another, and then looked up gravely at his junior officer. ‘That fascinates you, doesn’t it, Orhan?’

  ‘Only inasmuch as I find the idea of selling your bodily organs repellent,’ Tepe said as he, too, lit a cigarette.

  İkmen sighed. ‘I am planning to formally interview the Berishas in the near future,’ he said, ‘and I will raise the subject with them. It is always possible, you know, that he might have had his kidney removed legitimately. Even if he didn’t, getting hold of the buggers who organise these deals is notoriously difficult. Not to mention the doctors who perform the operations.’

  ‘They’re usually based abroad, aren’t they, sir?’

  ‘Usually,’ İkmen said, ‘but we never know what life may throw at us, do we? And in this case, my dear Orhan, our surgeon might be home-grown.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, on your way then,’ İkmen said in dismissal. ‘Can’t let the uniforms out on important business unescorted, can we?’

  Catching just the edge of a twinkle in his boss’s eye, Orhan Tepe smiled as he said, ‘No, sir.’

  His friend was, Balthazar Cohen thought as he watched Mehmet Suleyman stride purposefully into the living room, growing even more handsome with age. Tall, dark and grave, Mehmet was turning into one of those middle-aged heroes Balthazar remembered being so popular in films in the 1960s. Not of course that he would tell Mehmet this.

  ‘You were very late last night,’ he said as a visible leer crossed his features. Strange the way Mehmet was always late home when old Dr Babur Halman was out of town.

  ‘I had some work to do,’ the younger man replied.

  ‘Oh, well, I hope you felt relieved afterwards.’

  ‘Cohen!’

  Even though the handsome eyes blazed in line with the sharpness of his voice, Cohen knew it was only a warning. They were old friends, they’d been here before.

  Cohen lit a cigarette and watched with some amusement the rather laborious process Suleyman employed in order to get his tie just right. Finally, tiring of his friend’s fastidiousness, he said, ‘Berekiah’s going in to see the old man today.’

  ‘Yes, I know, I’m taking him. Remember?’

  ‘I hope he manages to persuade him to join up.’

  Suleyman frowned. ‘I don’t think that İkmen’s in the business of making the force appear sweeter than it really is, you know, Cohen.’

  ‘My son needs a job, Mehmet,’ Cohen said as he raised his dark-rimmed eyes to his friend’s face. ‘He can’t work for Lazar for ever. I mean, if he were running the gold shop himself that would be one thing. But to be just an assistant and at his age – that’s a job for a child and he’s a man. He needs a man’s job now.’

  ‘Well, it’s for Berekiah to decide,’ Suleyman said with a sigh. ‘İnşallah he will make the right decision.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  The telephone, which now that he was housebound sat permanently at Cohen’s side, trilled into life. He picked it up with what Suleyman observed to be a very shaky hand.

  ‘Yes?’ he said into the instrument and then, looking up at his friend, ‘Yes. He’s still here . . . Yes . . . One moment.’ He placed his other shaking hand over the mouthpiece and said to Suleyman, ‘I think it’s your father.’

  ‘My father? But—’

  ‘Just take the call, Mehmet,’ Cohen said and handed the phone to him. ‘Whoever it is, he wants you.’

  With a shrug, Suleyman took the instrument from Cohen and walked towards the window.

  ‘Hello?’ he said cautiously. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Mehmet, it’s me,’ a familiar elderly voice replied. ‘My son, you must listen, we need to talk.’

  ‘I think we did that some time ago, didn’t we?’

  ‘Child, I need to see you before all this stupidity means we never see each other again!’ There was a desperation in his father’s voice that made Mehmet pay attention. ‘I have been speaking to your brother,’ his father continued, ‘and I think that the three of us really do need to meet. I can reserve a table at Rejan’s. Talk to Murad and pick an evening that suits you both. He can let me know.’

  His father’s tone was beginning to worry Mehmet now. He wondered why his father had suddenly chosen to move out from under his wife’s harsh gaze and contact him again. ‘Father, you and Mother are quite well, aren’t you?’ he asked as his heart began to pound inside his chest.

  ‘There is nothing wrong with either your mother or myself,’ his father replied. ‘I just want an end to all of this bitterness in our family.’

  ‘And Mother?’

  ‘Your mother makes her own decisions, as you well know,’ the old man said with a sigh. Mehmet could all too easily picture his thin, world-weary face.

  ‘I know,’ he replied with a smile. ‘I will speak to Murad.’

  ‘You will come?’

  ‘If my brother comes, so will I.’

  A faint sigh from the other end of the line signalled to Mehmet that his father was very relieved at this, albeit qualified, acceptance from his son.

  ‘You know I’ve never felt any resentment towards you personally, don’t you, Father?’ Mehmet began. ‘I—’

  ‘We will discuss all things when we meet, my son,’ his father interrupted. ‘A man should eat with his sons and . . . Call your brother soon, won’t you?’

  ‘You have my word that I will,’ Mehmet said, responding formally to what sounded almost like tears in his father’s voice.

  ‘Thank you, my son. We will speak again soon.’

  ‘Yes, we shall,’ Mehmet said with genuine gentleness for the old man in his voice. ‘Goodbye, Father.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mehmet.’

  Had Berekiah Cohen not walked in resplendent in his older brother’s suit just at that moment it is uncertain how long Mehmet Suleyman would have spent staring out of the window in the wake of that telephone call. But Berekiah wanted a man who had some dress sense to judge his ensemble. And the only man in the apartment who qualified was Mehmet.

  For just a second, the aristocratic Turk frowned. ‘Mmm,’ he said, ‘grey suit with grey shoes is,’ he smiled suddenly and dazzlingly, ‘very smart indeed, Berekiah, if a little too stylish for a police station. Not that I have ever allowed myself to be dictated to by the lowest common denominator.’

  Estelle Cohen, who had been watching her son’s entrance from just inside the kitchen door, moved forward rapidly to take his face between her hands. ‘Didn’t I tell you you looked just beautiful?’ she said and kissed a slightly resistant Berekiah on the cheek. ‘Nobody understands good dressing like Mehmet and if he says you’re smart, well . . .’

  ‘Mum, please, don’t fuss.’

  ‘As long as the Inspector likes him, that’s all that really matters,’ Balthazar said sternly. ‘You be polite, respectful and show real interest, Berekiah. The Inspector is a great man and don’t you forget it.’

  ‘No, Father.’

  Fearing that his friend might now be on the edge of one of his frequent eulogies about İkmen or his own days on the beat, Suleyman brought proceedings smartly to a close.

  ‘Well,’ he said, turning towards Berekiah, ‘we’d better go.’