Once they’ve boarded, Detective Muhtar points to the stairs leading to the upper deck and explains they can buy coffee or tea for the journey up there.
“I will wait here in the car,” he says, putting a cigarette between his lips and settling back in the driver’s seat.
Julia and Leo leave him to it and reach the upper deck just as the ferry pulls away from the dock. Despite the chill, the deck is busy with locals drinking tea, smoking, and reading newspapers. Julia and Leo look around for somewhere to sit and settle on an uncomfortable plank seat near the bow.
Julia stares at the low-lying sea mist as the ferry cuts its way across the channel and thinks of the buckled penny. It was jarring to see it there in the evidence bag. More jarring than seeing the backpack even. The necklace was such an intimate object and had lain right next to Toni’s skin. Julia can’t remember a time when Toni had been without it.
Julia knows that when personal items like these are found, it’s not a good sign. She knows that killers take personal items and call them mementos.
Then Leo says, “Julia, maybe you should prepare yourself for the worst.”
She turns away, eyes tracking a plastic bag billowing in the water.
“Toni’s not dead, Leo. I would know if she was. And maybe you should keep your thoughts to yourself.”
It’s a spiteful thing to say, she knows that, and immediately feels disappointed in herself.
“Sorry,” she says.
He offers her an understanding smile. “It’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t. You didn’t deserve that and I’m sorry.”
He gives her a nudge. “Apology accepted.”
*
Forty minutes later they disembark the ferry at Yalova and spend the next three hours driving barren highways punctuated by windowless factories and beaten-up trucks loaded with crates of tomatoes. They head inland and the terrain changes, forcing Detective Muhtar to navigate the Fiat through a set of winding, bush-clad mountains. Eventually the road flattens out, and the hills become studded with enormous olive and chestnut trees.
Julia looks out the window and feels like she’s been dropped right into the middle of a pretty Turkish rural scene. On the roadside, there’s an old woman carrying two buckets on a shoulder pole leading a tethered sheep with a rope. In the distance, a farmer burns off the fields for winter crops, while children play games under the shade of the trees. Julia wonders wistfully what it would be like to live such a peaceful life, away from the madness of a frenetic city and high-pressure job. Maybe that’s what she needs, to slow down, simplify things, spend more time in nature, build closer relationships. She makes a vow that when all this is over, she will reexamine her priorities, herself, too. Satisfying as it may be, there is more to life than work. She just needs to make the space.
It’s not long before they enter a village and Detective Muhtar follows a sputtering tractor up a dirt road. The village is mostly inhabited with rundown, single-story squat houses with terracotta roof tiles and badly cracked render. There are a few shops here and there. A barber. A bicycle repair shop. A café where men are sitting outside playing cards and drinking tea.
They carry on through the township until they reach a lane lined with green-skinned orange trees and turn left. Detective Muhtar pulls to a stop outside a set of gates. Behind the gates there’s a smart-looking house set back from the lane. He turns to Leo and Julia in the back seat.
“Remember,” he says, “I do the talking.”
43
Julia stands looking at the house. Set on a large block of farmland with several outbuildings, the modest single-level dwelling has seen better days. The whitewashed exterior is plain but clean, and accented by a large green creeper curling its way up the drainpipes to a sloping roof ribbed with aging terracotta tiles. Six small windows, enclosed in decorative black wrought iron, lend a mildly creepy atmosphere to the place.
Julia, Leo, and Detective Muhtar approach the house on foot, their shoes rasping against the loose stone chips on the driveway. Out the front of the house there’s a well-tended garden that includes a blaze of orange marigolds, rosemary shrubs, and what could be mint plants. By the looks of it, the rest of the land has been left to grow wild, and is covered in tall grass and ancient trees whose fallen, bird-pecked fruit lies scattered about the gnarled roots.
They reach the front door and knock. It’s not long before the door is opened by a plump woman in her late twenties dressed in a nurse’s uniform and traditional headscarf. An older, fine-boned man appears at her shoulder. There’s no doubting this is Demir Cevik, the suspect’s brother. He has the same hooked nose and sloping forehead.
The man and the woman listen patiently as Detective Muhtar explains the reason for the visit in Turkish.
“Certainly. Come in,” says Demir Cevik in very good English.
Julia, Leo, and Detective Muhtar follow Demir through the tiled entranceway into a neat and homey living area. Huge floor-to-ceiling bookcases overflow with books and magazines. A wooden, four-stringed guitar is propped up in the corner, the strange bulbous shape similar to the guitars Julia had seen in the shop windows in Istiklal Caddesi. The only picture in the room is a photograph on a side table of a woman who looks a lot like the young woman who answered the door. Placed next to the photograph is a simple candle and an open black, leather-bound Koran.
“Please,” says Demir, gesturing for them to sit on the couch.
