could get tricky. ‘We’d briefly met in London. Mr Morello is, was,’ he corrected himself, ‘a journalist.’
‘A crime correspondent,’ Ertas said with a penetrating look.
Ertas didn’t get that off the passport, Tallis thought. ‘I believe so.’
‘So your friendship with him had no professional basis.’
‘None.’
‘Affedersiniz.’ Excuse me. It was the uniformed officer who’d made the jibe about Tallis being a lying dog. He was stick thin with the same sweating, sallow features Tallis had observed on smackheads. He was instantly reminded of a conversation he’d had with Asim, his current contact in MI5 and the guy he directly reported to. It was suspected that many Turkish drug gangs were protected by officialdom. Same old: heroin and money. Tons of it.
‘Evet?’ Yes? Ertas said impatiently.
‘The café owner.’
‘What about him?’
‘He says he saw everything.’
‘Ve?’ And?
‘He says the bullet was meant for the Englishman,’ the police officer said. Eyes narrowed to slits, he looked straight at Tallis.
2
WHY the hell would he say that? Tallis wanted to demand. Fortunately, Ertas asked the same question.
‘The dead man often frequented the café,’ the uniformed officer replied. ‘He was well known, respected.’
‘Even respected men are killed,’ Ertas said, with irritation. ‘Besides, if Morello routinely visited the café, he was an easy target.’
‘He says,’ the officer said, jerking his head in the direction of the café owner, ‘that Miller’s reaction was so swift, he must have known the bullet was meant for him.’
Balls, Tallis thought contemptuously as he was hustled into a waiting police car. He simply possessed excellent reflexes and training. But he could hardly mention that to the police.
The Grand Bazaar nearby had its own mosque, bank and police station, but Tallis was taken to Istanbul Police Headquarters. Tallis hoped it wasn’t the next target for a suicide bomber. Not that long ago, police stations had become a terrorist’s dream location.
If there was air-conditioning, it wasn’t switched on. The overwhelming noise came from a flurry of flies buzzing around, either copulating or beating the shit out of each other. It was so hot inside, Tallis thought the concrete walls might crack and explode. At first he was forced to wade his way through several impenetrable layers of administration, lots of hanging around, lots of giving the same information, lots of meeting the tired gaze of disinterested clerks who smoked like troopers. He noticed that his fellow witnesses were detained elsewhere. Lucky them, he thought.
In bureaucratic limbo, he had ample time to consider his position. As traumatic as the sudden turn of events was, it didn’t need to jeopardise his cover. To come clean would only confuse and complicate the issue. Besides, he really didn’t want Asim alerted to the mess he was in. Wouldn’t look very suave on a first outing with his new handler, especially as it might be construed as treading on the Secret Intelligence Service.
As for the café owner’s remark, he reckoned the man had it all wrong. Tallis had witnessed the hit for himself, seen it coming. At no time had he been afraid for his own personal safety. It had been more a diffuse fear of being caught in someone else’s crossfire. Which brought him back to Morello. Who would want him killed? Sure, as a crime correspondent Garry mixed in muddy circles, but he was British, for God’s sake, and British journalists didn’t usually get themselves slotted—unlike their Russian and Turkish counterparts. So, whomever he’d pissed off, or whatever it was he’d stumbled across that meant his life was worth extinguishing, it had to be big.
Ertas turned up an hour and a half after Tallis’s arrival. ‘So sorry to keep you. Much to do,’ he said, rolling his eyes.
‘Have you contacted Mr Morello’s wife?’ Tallis said, his stomach lurching. It was a second marriage for Gayle. She’d lost her first husband in a car accident. What a lousy hand of cards she’d been dealt, Tallis thought grimly.
‘Next of kin have been informed,’ Ertas said in businesslike fashion. ‘Everything to your satisfaction?’ he added, eyeing the clean shirt Tallis was wearing. It wasn’t. The shirt was a half collar size too small.
‘Fine.’
Ertas suggested coffee, an invitation which Tallis gratefully accepted. After giving the order to a junior officer, Ertas took Tallis down the corridor and into an area the size of a doctor’s consulting room. It was cooler in here. The fan actually seemed to work, rather than simply rearranging warm air. There were two chairs either side of a large desk upon which rested a telephone and a number of buff manila folders. In the corner were several filing cabinets.
Closing the door behind them, Ertas indicated for Tallis to sit down. Tallis noticed that Ertas was wearing a ring, a thick gold band inlaid with tiny precious stones. Although jewellery, particularly gold, was sold in abundance at the Grand Bazaar, with only a tiny charge for craftsmanship, it seemed like a strange affectation for such a seemingly precise and ordered man.
‘Before we begin,’ Tallis said, ‘I’d like some legal representation.’ He might know the form in Britain but here he was boxing in the dark.
‘Not necessary, I assure you.’
‘Then I’d like to contact my embassy.’
‘We can arrange this for you.’ Ertas smiled politely. He picked up a phone and, with a flourish, asked to be put through to the British Consulate. Tallis listened in as Ertas explained the situation. As far as he could deduce from Ertas’s side of the conversation, someone was on their way.
The coffee arrived in traditional Turkish coffee cups. Both men took their time stirring in sugar. Tasted good, Tallis thought, taking a sip. Black and strong, it was a hell of an improvement on West Midlands cop coffee. Ertas spent several seconds surveying Tallis and Tallis spent several seconds looking at him. ‘For a man who has suffered a terrible experience, you seem very relaxed, Mr Miller.’
‘Probably shock. I haven’t had time to process it.’ Which was true. He’d witnessed men die in battle, seen the grotesque dance of bodies hit by machine-gun fire. He’d coldly observed the messy aftermath of suicide by shotgun, and the remains of turf wars played out on busy Birmingham streets, yet Garry’s death fell into none of those categories. Unexpected, cruel and apparently without motive, it felt strangely and horribly similar to Belle’s. The only difference: Garry had been a friend, Belle a lover. Tallis gave an involuntary shudder. He should be falling apart, he guessed, but he was too empty to feel anything right now.
‘And do you normally play Rambo?’ Ertas enquired.
Cheeky bastard, Tallis thought. About time Ertas got up to speed on current American heroes. At least he could have chosen someone nearer his age. Sly must be almost double it. He gave a lazy shrug. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever been put in that position before.’
Ertas leaned back in his seat. ‘We are trying to establish Mr
