Deadline (28 page)

‘Oh, Allah,
help me!’

The voice, which was female, came from above. Süleyman looked up and saw Ceyda Ümit’s terrified face leaning over the balcony one floor above. He took the pistol he’d picked up from one of the Special Forces officers and ran up the stairs to the fifth floor. He heard the girl scream again, which was followed by the sound of running and grunting. When he reached the fifth floor, he came upon Ceyda Ümit struggling in the arms of Burak Fisekçi who had a knife.

At first he didn’t see Süleyman at all.

‘Ceyda, you love me!’ he said. ‘You know you do!’

‘As a friend, yes! As my uncle. Not like . . .’

He pulled her forward and tried to kiss her. Ceyda turned her head away sharply and said, ‘No!’

‘Leave her alone, Burak Bey.’

The sound of another man’s voice took a few seconds to penetrate Burak Fisekçi’s consciousness. But when it did, he turned and looked at Süleyman while holding even more firmly on to Ceyda.

‘This has got nothing to do with you,’ he said to the policeman. ‘Ceyda and myself have made the decision to go away together.’

‘No!’

‘Burak, I don’t think that Ceyda has made that decision, I think that’s only you,’ Süleyman said.

‘Oh? And what business is it of yours?’ Overweight and red-faced, Burak Fisekçi looked comically arrogant – though his intentions were far from funny. In addition, to suggest that abduction was no business of an officer of the law indicated that he had possibly lost some contact with reality – this on top of the patent absurdity of his belief that a girl like Ceyda could be in love with him.

Süleyman moved
forward and Burak put the knife up to the girl’s throat. ‘I’ll kill her!’ he said.

There was a strong chance that he would. Clearly obsessed, he could reason that he’d rather no one have Ceyda if he couldn’t. Burak Fisekçi had always been, in Süleyman’s experience, one of those overlooked people, one of those almost sexless characters who can be easy to ignore. Was it years and years of being ignored that had made him do this now? Süleyman tried to imagine the resentment Burak had harboured; judging by the expression on his face as he held the knife up to Ceyda’s neck, it was a lot.

‘Burak,’ he said, ‘if you try and escape from this building, you are not going to make it. I don’t know whether you were in any way in league with the people who took over this hotel but I can assure you that they no longer have control. We do.’

Burak Fisekçi had to know this but he still said, ‘You’re lying.’

‘I’m not,’ Süleyman said. ‘Now let Ceyda go. If you really care about her you won’t want to hurt her, will you?’

Burak Bey’s face
went red again. ‘I don’t want to hurt Ceyda! I never wanted to hurt her! I did this so that no one else would hurt her, ever!’

‘You did what, Burak?’ Süleyman kept his pistol in plain sight but down, held beside his left leg.

‘I killed the boy,’ he said. He enunciated the words without any emotion whatsoever. ‘If I killed the boy then I’d get enough money to give Ceyda whatever she wanted for ever. And anyway the boy was an animal! A pig!’

Süleyman imagined he knew which boy Burak was talking about but he checked it out anyway. ‘You mean Söner Erkan?’

‘Yes.’

‘You killed Söner Erkan?’

‘Yes.’

Ceyda Ümit just mouthed the word ‘Allah’ as tears began to fall from her eyes.

‘Someone paid you to kill Söner Erkan?’

‘He will,’ he said. ‘Muhammed Beyefendi.’

Ersoy.

‘And why did Muhammed Ersoy want you to kill Söner Erkan? Did he know him?’

‘No.’

Ceyda Ümit said, ‘Poor Söner! Poor stupid, selfish Söner!’

‘The boy’s death was
all just part of the game,’ Burak said, ‘the puzzle that Muhammed Beyefendi set you and
İ
kmen, the Sarkissians and that silly old Armenian. He’s a genius, you know, Muhammed Beyefendi.’

Süleyman, whose elder brother had been to school with – and been bullied by – Muhammed Ersoy, couldn’t argue with that. Ersoy was one of the cleverest as well as probably the most malevolent person he had ever met. But none of this helped him to disarm Fisekçi.

‘Burak, I have a gun . . .’

‘I know. Do you think I care about that, Inspector?’

Süleyman heard a creak on the stairs behind him and hoped that whoever was at his back was also on his side. Not all of the gunmen had as yet been positively identified. But he held his ground. ‘I will shoot you,’ he said, ‘if you harm Ceyda.’

‘We could die together, Ceyda and myself,’ Burak said brightly. How, in all the years that he’d known him, had Süleyman never noticed until now just how insane Burak Fisekçi was? His ex-wife the psychiatrist would have laughed herself sick at his incompetence.

The girl screamed. But Burak did not increase the pressure on the knife. This seemed to suggest that he actually wanted her to live.

‘Burak, if you let Ceyda go, the three of us can all sit down and talk about this like civilised people.’ Süleyman knew that he was talking nonsense and so did Burak Fisekçi, who just laughed. If he let the girl go, Süleyman would put a gun to his head and then march him downstairs to be cuffed and taken to police headquarters. There would be no little talks, no niceties. He’d be arrested, thrown into a cell and eventually sent to prison for the rest of his life. And Burak Fisekçi, who had worked with drug-dependent offenders for years, knew this.

He moved his head to one
side of Ceyda’s, smiled and then said, ‘So, go on, shoot me.’

His head exploded in a shower of bone, blood and brains. Ceyda Ümit hit the floor while Mehmet Süleyman brought his hands up to shield his own face.

Commissioner Ardıç had insisted upon going to Silivri Prison in person. Escorted by two Special Forces officers, he made his way to Muhammed Ersoy’s cell rather more rapidly than certain elements in the administration of the prison really seemed to want. The prisoner was looking at the screen of his laptop computer as Ardıç entered. He stood up. And he smiled.

‘Commissioner.’

Ardıç ignored the outstretched hand and instead directed the two men with him to note what was on the computer screen, shut it down and then seize it. A mobile phone, on the table beside the laptop, was also grabbed.

‘Ersoy.’ He hadn’t seen him for ten years. Irritatingly, and contrary to all the fears Ersoy had had about ageing when he’d committed his first offences, he was still a very handsome and well-preserved man.

‘I imagine you’ve come about
my entertainment at the Pera Palas,’ Muhammed Ersoy said.

He didn’t even have the decency to try and deny it. But then why should he? He had already been given a whole life sentence. There was nothing much more that anyone could do to him.

Ardıç sat down on Ersoy’s narrow if unusually comfortable prison bed. It sagged just slightly underneath his weight. ‘A game is how it was described by some of whatever you call people who do your bidding.’

‘Slaves.’ He smiled. ‘Yes, it was. Tremendous fun!’ Then his face fell. ‘Until the end of course but then, well, things happen, don’t they, Commissioner?’

‘Things apparently happen around you, Ersoy.’

‘Only because I make them, Commissioner,’ he said. ‘It was just like Hamlet tonight! I know you weren’t there, but believe me, it really was.’

‘Was it indeed.’

Ersoy laughed. Then, as the two Special Forces officers unplugged his laptop, he sat down at his table again and said, ‘Now, would you like to know the names of all the people here in Silivri who helped me organise tonight’s entertainment?’

Süleyman was
just grateful that it hadn’t been him. He’d never actively liked Burak Fisekçi but he hadn’t disliked him either. He would not have found shooting him easy, had he been required to do so. But a Special Forces marksman had taken him out. His had been the footsteps Süleyman had heard on the stairs behind him. Poor Ceyda Ümit was hysterical and so Süleyman picked her up and carried her down the stairs while the marksman and a fellow officer secured the scene of Burak Fisekçi’s demise.

Arriving at the ground floor, Süleyman looked for Ardıç but didn’t find him. Ceyda Ümit just kept on saying, ‘I want Alp! I want Alp!’

But Süleyman didn’t know where her boyfriend was. It was a fair assumption that he was in the ballroom but a quick scan of the area proved negative. Then he heard a voice at his shoulder. ‘Alp
İ
lhan has been taken to hospital.’

He turned and saw Ay
ş
e Farsako
ğ
lu at his shoulder. He gently put Ceyda Ümit’s feet to the ground. ‘Oh, Allah!’ the girl said. ‘The hospital!’

Ay
ş
e took one of her hands. ‘He’s fine,’ she said. ‘If it’s any consolation, he walked out of here with no assistance. But the doctors need to check his lungs. He was coughing badly after the tear gas.’

‘He’s OK? Really?’

Ay
ş
e smiled. ‘He’s OK and he was asking for you,’ she said. ‘We’ll get you to the hospital as soon as we can, Ceyda.’

Ceyda felt a
bit wobbly then and so Ay
ş
e pulled a chair out from underneath one of the tables and sat her down. The girl instantly laid her head in the smashed-up table setting and sobbed. She didn’t want anybody near her or touching her, she just wanted to cry.

Süleyman looked at Ay
ş
e and he began, ‘I heard you were—’

‘I saw a golden samovar being delivered to this hotel,’ she said. ‘It . . . resonated with me.’

‘You had to see whether or not it was the samovar we all remember.’

She paused for just a moment, trying to decide whether or not she should tell him why else she had come back to the Pera Palas Hotel after her night out with her brother and
İ
zzet. Then she said, ‘Yes.’

‘It was very fortunate for us that you did so.’

‘Someone would have reported something, eventually,’ she said.

‘But by that time maybe it would have been too late.’ He put a hand on her shoulder. Unfortunately, just at that moment
İ
zzet Melik came into the ballroom. When he saw them together, he froze.

‘I owe you my life,’ Süleyman said to Ay
ş
e Farsako
ğ
lu. Neither of them saw
İ
zzet and he didn’t wait around for them to spot him. He left as quickly as he had arrived, but with tears in his eyes.

The
doctor wasn’t going to let him out, even with his ribs strapped up. They wanted to take his blood pressure every half hour. Apparently it was unstable, whatever that meant. A nurse came to the side of his bed, put a cuff round his bicep and took it again. When she’d finished, Çetin
İ
kmen looked at her questioningly.

‘Now it’s raised,’ she said in answer to his silent question.

‘Is it high?’

‘Raised,’ she reiterated.

‘So?’

‘So it’s going up and down all the time. We can’t release you until it settles. You’ve broken four ribs and you’ve had a shock.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Can’t you even
try
to relax, Inspector?’

‘I might give it a go if I had a cigarette,’ he said.

The nurse pulled a face. ‘No chance.’

She walked away.
İ
kmen recognised at least two of the actors from the murder mystery performance in nearby beds, as well as the hotel concierge. But Hovsep Pars was nowhere to be seen. It was infuriating for
İ
kmen not to know what was going on. He remembered that Mehmet Süleyman had shown him Muhammed Ersoy’s golden samovar. He seemed to have a recollection that Süleyman had said something about it coming from room 411. But he didn’t remember it being in there when he’d searched Agatha Christie’s old room.

‘Çetin?
’

A plump and comfortably familiar face smiled down at him.

‘Arto.’

The Armenian sat down on his bed. ‘I thought you’d like to know that Hovsep Bey is in surgery now,’ he said.

‘Let us hope . . .’

‘He’s already dying, Çetin,’ Arto said. ‘Cancer.’

İ
kmen looked down at the sheet that covered his body. ‘I know,’ he said.

‘He told you?’

‘Yes. He was very candid about it. Has the leader of the gang been arrested?’

‘He’s actually in surgery too,’ Arto said. ‘I think he may have a ruptured spleen.’

İ
kmen looked alarmed. ‘Because I hit . . .’

‘No, no, no. He struggled when one of the Special Forces officers was trying to cuff him,’ Arto said. ‘The officer punched him in the stomach.’

‘I see.’
İ
kmen changed the subject. ‘How is Krikor? And Mrs Aktar?’

‘Krikor’s fine,’ Arto said. Then he averted his eyes a little. ‘Mrs Aktar has been taken into custody. She colluded with Muhammed Ersoy and whoever he employed to do his bidding. She was in love with him.’

İ
kmen
shook his head. ‘Love!’

‘Given Ersoy’s previous record of romantic conquest, I wouldn’t be surprised if she isn’t the only one to have been dazzled by Mr Ersoy,’ Arto said.

‘Love is wonderful but it’s uncontrollable,’
İ
kmen said.

One of the actors, the one who had played the Italian tutor, groaned.

‘Have you seen Ay
ş
e Farsako
ğ
lu?’

‘Only briefly,’ Arto said. ‘We have much to thank her for. Without her we’d probably all be dead by now. You know, Çetin, some of the gunmen tried to get out of the hotel dressed as hostages.’

İ
kmen shrugged. ‘Quite a smart move.’ Then he changed the subject back to his sergeant again. ‘Have you thought about why Sergeant Farsako
ğ
lu was hanging around the Pera Palas?’

‘Because she’d seen the golden samovar go into the building earlier in the evening,’ Arto said.

‘Then why didn’t she do something about it at the time if it bothered her?’
İ
kmen asked. ‘She was with
İ
zzet Melik, they could have both followed it up at the concierge’s desk.’

‘But Sergeant Melik doesn’t remember Ersoy and that time and—’

‘So what? If Ay
ş
e had expressed her fears to him, he would have backed her up,’
İ
kmen said. ‘He’s a good officer
and he loves her. He would have done whatever she wanted.’