Barbara Nadel [Cetin Ikmen 16 Body Count (epub)

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.He objected to how it was being changed, which was against the will of the majority of its people.Those who wanted to redevelop the area – construction companies approved by the government – had tried to put a positive spin on the demolition of an established nineteenth-century central İstanbul neighbourhood.But they’d failed.The locals – mainly Kurds, foreign immigrants, Roma, transsexuals and prostitutes – were not easily convinced.They knew that the brand-new flats they were being offered as compensation were in tower blocks thirty kilometres outside the city, because that was exactly what the deal had been when the Roma had been evicted from Sulukule.And that was why so many of them had subsequently moved out of those new flats and into the urban stew that was Tarlabaşı.In spite of the presence of the very obvious wrecking balls and earth-movers, Süleyman didn’t blame them.He’d heard stories about those tower blocks; about how people cried when they moved into them because they missed their communities.And what was it all for anyway?He pulled off Tarlabaşı Bulvari on to some nameless street he knew would take him where he needed to be and briefly looked over his shoulder towards the back of İstiklal Caddesi, the very heart of the vibrant part of İstanbul known as the ‘New City’.Land there was worth a fortune.Land there was what Tarlabaşı, once it was remodelled for the new urban middle classes, was going to become.His car bumped down what quickly turned into an unmade track, past a shop selling nothing but plugs, which was next to a derelict house that had clearly been decorated by Tarlabaşı’s only recent new tribe of residents, street artists.What once had been a kitchen was now spray-painted with images of government ministers dressed as Nazis.Süleyman shook his head.Not so many years ago the only people ever portrayed as Nazis were the military.Now contained and curtailed by the Islamically inspired government of the AK Party, the army were not the bogeymen any more.In fact, an ongoing investigation into Ergenekon, a plot that had allegedly been devised by the generals to undermine the AK government, had made those who had once ruled into those who were now hunted.The military coups that had happened in the past in defence of Atatürk’s secular state were now no longer possible.But what had taken their place was, it seemed to Süleyman, gradually turning sour also.That was certainly the view from somewhere like Tarlabaşı, as well as, he imagined, from the prison cells of the generals who had already been locked up pending trial for treason.He got out of his car and walked over to where a group of people – police officers and civilians – stood and squatted in the snow.‘This man found the body.’Ömer Mungan was new to the department as well as to the city, and he was eager to please.He had a tendency to pull Süleyman towards whatever it was he wanted him to see, whoever he needed him to meet.It didn’t help to endear him to his new boss.‘Yes, thank you, Sergeant,’ Süleyman said as he extricated himself from Ömer’s nervous grasp.He walked alone towards the very tall, grizzled man, whom he knew, if not well, then well enough.Şukru Şekeroğlu had always had something of the look of his sister Gonca.Coming upon him and that look suddenly made Süleyman’s heart squeeze.Gonca the gypsy artist had once – and in reality, still – possessed his soul.‘Hello, Mr Şekeroğlu,’ he said.But he didn’t extend his hand in greeting.Şukru looked up at him from underneath tangled eyebrows.‘Inspector Süleyman,’ he said.‘You found the body.’‘Half an hour ago.’‘Where were you going?’‘You know how cold it’s been.’ As if to illustrate this point, he stamped his feet on the snow to warm them.‘This place is a building site now; I was out collecting anything I could burn to keep my kids and my father warm.Then I saw this …’ He waved a hand towards what was now a small white tent.‘Him.’Süleyman rubbed his gloved hands together and looked up into the lightening grey morning sky.‘My sergeant says you knew the dead man,’ he said.‘I knew of him,’ Şukru corrected.‘Everyone round here did.’‘So he was a local …’‘He was a nutter.’Süleyman lowered his gaze and looked into Şukru Şekeroğlu’s eyes.They were just as hostile as he remembered.Back when Süleyman had loved Şukru’s artist sister, Gonca, Şukru had used those eyes as a weapon in his armoury to try and terrify the policeman away.He’d never succeeded.When their affair had finished it had been because Gonca, finally bowing to family pressure, had ended it.Even in the bone-freezing cold of a January morning, with a dead body awaiting his attention, Süleyman knew that in spite of everything, he’d still smile if he saw his old gypsy lover turn the corner.He looked back at her brother.‘Mad.’Şukru shrugged.‘He made films.Not with a video camera, with an old film camera.’Süleyman took out his notebook.‘Films of what?’‘Of Tarlabaşı.The streets, the people, I don’t know.’‘Do you know his name?’ Süleyman asked.‘Levent Devrim.Did you know him?’Süleyman frowned.‘No.Why should I?’Şukru shrugged again.‘He was like you.’In view of the fact that Şukru had recently described the dead man as ‘a nutter’, this was hardly complimentary.‘Posh,’ Şukru said.‘In what way?’ Out of the corner of his eye, Süleyman saw a car draw up and then a large, very familiar figure haul itself out of the driver’s seat.‘Spoke nice.I dunno,’ Şukru said [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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