Land of the Blind by Nadel Barbara

Author:Nadel, Barbara [Nadel, Barbara]
Language: eng
Format: azw, epub
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2014-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

‘Mehmet Bey?’

Süleyman looked up.

‘I apologise if I’m disturbing your work,’ İkmen said.

‘You’re not.’ Ömer Mungun had gone to Dr Sarkissian’s laboratory to get the Armenian’s preliminary findings on the body of Ayşel Ocal. He pointed to Ömer’s chair. ‘Please have a seat, Çetin Bey.’

İkmen entered what had once been an office almost as familiar to him as his own. They had spoken since the previous autumn, after Ayşe Farsakoğlu’s death, but only when it had been strictly necessary and usually by telephone. This visit was unusual. Mehmet Süleyman tried not to feel joy or hope. But he smiled.

‘How can I help you?’ he asked.

İkmen took a deep breath. ‘I know that you’re working on the Moda death,’ he said.

‘Ayşel Ocal, yes.’

İkmen took another deep breath. Either he was nervous, or didn’t really want to be there – or both. ‘I’ve heard that last night you interviewed the property developer, Ahmet Öden,’ he said.

Süleyman sat back in his chair. ‘What if I did?’

‘I have an interest in him,’ İkmen said. ‘In relation to the Hippodrome body. He had a dispute with my victim.’

‘What about?’

‘Mehmet, did you interview Öden last night or not?’

Was he being evasive with İkmen just for the sport or had he been told to keep Öden close to his chest? Teker hadn’t wanted Öden brought in – yet – but if she knew that İkmen had an interest too, surely they could discuss the property developer, however ‘sensitive’ his position was.

Süleyman got up, closed and locked his door, opened his window and offered İkmen a cigarette. He saw İkmen almost refuse and then capitulate. Süleyman sat down and they both lit up.

‘We think that Ayşel Öden, otherwise known as Gülizar, was Öden’s mistress,’ Süleyman said. ‘She owned that apartment outright, paid for with cash, and I’ve not met many twenty-something strippers who can do that.’

He saw İkmen smile.

‘Can’t prove, yet, that Öden bought it for her, but photographs of him with her, without her and in various compromising positions were all over her computer and her phone,’ Süleyman went on.

‘So much for the saintly among us.’

‘He claims that the photographs are composites, created on computer, but he’s clutching at thin air,’ Süleyman said. ‘However, they don’t prove that he killed her. Ömer has just gone to the lab to get Dr Sarkissian’s preliminary report on the body.’

‘Found in the bath?’

‘Yes, wrists slit, but Dr Sarkissian thinks that she was almost dead when that was done. He’s looking for blows, toxins. What about your own involvement with Öden?’

İkmen drew on his cigarette. ‘Twofold. One to do with this dispute he had with Dr Ariadne Savva, who set herself up as protector of the rubbish pickers he evicted in Gizlitepe, and another one centred round the old Negroponte House.’

‘Is that what some people called the Greek House on Kabasakal Caddesi?’

‘Yes. Owned by Madam Anastasia Negroponte, proper old Byzantine, and her son Yiannis.’

Süleyman frowned. ‘Wasn’t he the one who came back from Germany after forty years or something?’

‘That’s him,’ İkmen said.

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