Doctor?’ Çöktin asked. ‘Different in what way?’
‘This one, I believe, has been subjected to a far more sophisticated version of the embalmer’s art.’ He moved the head again. ‘It has movement, suppleness and it is as far as I can see only just now starting to degrade.’ He looked up sharply. ‘What I mean is that he is almost totally preserved, even down to the remnants of the tumour that killed him. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
They all stood in silence for a few moments until the doctor, suddenly mindful of the unknown man’s dignity, covered his head and shoulders with the sheet once again.
‘But he died naturally?’ Çöktin said as soon as the three of them started to move away from the corpse.
‘Yes,’ Sarkissian replied, ‘cancer. Nothing I can see of a suspicious nature – except, of course, the fact that I can’t even guess at when he died.’
‘Why not?’
Sarkissian stopped and then leaned against one of his long steel benches.
‘Because I think this body might have been what morticians call maintained,’ he said and then, in response to the policemen’s confused expressions he added, ‘This man’s body is, if you like, in a state similar to that of Lenin in his mausoleum in Moscow. Maintained – I think – to keep it looking fresh. I’ve found some evidence of the skin having been treated with an emollient, but I’ve got to take advice on this, and so I’ve left a message for Yiannis Livadanios, who is an undertaker.’
‘And so this Mr Livadanios—’
‘Will be able to tell me whether my assumption is correct and also who might be performing this task.’ Sarkissian made his way out of the laboratory and back into his office. ‘Yiannis employs embalmers himself. And so if one of them is keeping the young man fresh, he will presumably know who our mystery man is, which will allow you, Sergeant, to bring this bizarre affair to an end.’
The doctor sat down behind his desk, offering seats to the two policemen as he did so.
‘Mrs Keyder’s body can now be removed,’ he said, ‘provided there is someone to do that.’
‘There is a sister-in-law we now know lives out at Sarıyer,’ Çöktin replied. ‘I sent Constable Roditi out there first thing this morning but apparently, so her neighbours say, Miss Keyder is away at the moment and isn’t due back home until tomorrow. They don’t know where she is.’
‘I see.’
‘I’ve also been in contact with the Argentine Consulate, although what that might yield I don’t know,’ Çöktin sighed.
‘Why?’
‘Rosita Keyder changed her nationality back in the fifties. The Consulate didn’t know of her. I’m hoping that her sister-in-law will be able to tell us what her maiden name was so that we can at least give the Argentines some sort of lead. It will, unfortunately, Doctor, take some time.’
Sarkissian shrugged. ‘Oh, well,’ he said, sinking comfortably back into the grim humour so common to those in his profession, ‘she at least won’t need embalming while she’s in my refrigerator.’
‘No . . .’
Constable Yıldız, who had, up until this time, been really very quiet, spoke.
‘But, Doctor,’ he said, ‘what I don’t understand is why this old woman had that man’s body in her apartment.’
‘Neither do I,’ Sarkissian replied. ‘I haven’t a clue.’
After that the three of them sat in silence for a few moments as some of the implications of what they had been discussing began to sink in.
It wasn’t the extent so much as the blatancy of their wealth that so sickened him. The men, Russians, Chechens, Azerbaijanis, all dressed in the ‘mobster’ uniform – leather jackets, whatever the weather, and far, far too much gold. Their bottle-blonde women, in their ill-fitting designer dresses and, again, mountains of gold, complemented them perfectly. When, Mehmet Suleyman wondered as he strolled between the closely packed booths that made up the central area of the
‘This one, I believe, has been subjected to a far more sophisticated version of the embalmer’s art.’ He moved the head again. ‘It has movement, suppleness and it is as far as I can see only just now starting to degrade.’ He looked up sharply. ‘What I mean is that he is almost totally preserved, even down to the remnants of the tumour that killed him. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
They all stood in silence for a few moments until the doctor, suddenly mindful of the unknown man’s dignity, covered his head and shoulders with the sheet once again.
‘But he died naturally?’ Çöktin said as soon as the three of them started to move away from the corpse.
‘Yes,’ Sarkissian replied, ‘cancer. Nothing I can see of a suspicious nature – except, of course, the fact that I can’t even guess at when he died.’
‘Why not?’
Sarkissian stopped and then leaned against one of his long steel benches.
‘Because I think this body might have been what morticians call maintained,’ he said and then, in response to the policemen’s confused expressions he added, ‘This man’s body is, if you like, in a state similar to that of Lenin in his mausoleum in Moscow. Maintained – I think – to keep it looking fresh. I’ve found some evidence of the skin having been treated with an emollient, but I’ve got to take advice on this, and so I’ve left a message for Yiannis Livadanios, who is an undertaker.’
‘And so this Mr Livadanios—’
‘Will be able to tell me whether my assumption is correct and also who might be performing this task.’ Sarkissian made his way out of the laboratory and back into his office. ‘Yiannis employs embalmers himself. And so if one of them is keeping the young man fresh, he will presumably know who our mystery man is, which will allow you, Sergeant, to bring this bizarre affair to an end.’
The doctor sat down behind his desk, offering seats to the two policemen as he did so.
‘Mrs Keyder’s body can now be removed,’ he said, ‘provided there is someone to do that.’
‘There is a sister-in-law we now know lives out at Sarıyer,’ Çöktin replied. ‘I sent Constable Roditi out there first thing this morning but apparently, so her neighbours say, Miss Keyder is away at the moment and isn’t due back home until tomorrow. They don’t know where she is.’
‘I see.’
‘I’ve also been in contact with the Argentine Consulate, although what that might yield I don’t know,’ Çöktin sighed.
‘Why?’
‘Rosita Keyder changed her nationality back in the fifties. The Consulate didn’t know of her. I’m hoping that her sister-in-law will be able to tell us what her maiden name was so that we can at least give the Argentines some sort of lead. It will, unfortunately, Doctor, take some time.’
Sarkissian shrugged. ‘Oh, well,’ he said, sinking comfortably back into the grim humour so common to those in his profession, ‘she at least won’t need embalming while she’s in my refrigerator.’
‘No . . .’
Constable Yıldız, who had, up until this time, been really very quiet, spoke.
‘But, Doctor,’ he said, ‘what I don’t understand is why this old woman had that man’s body in her apartment.’
‘Neither do I,’ Sarkissian replied. ‘I haven’t a clue.’
After that the three of them sat in silence for a few moments as some of the implications of what they had been discussing began to sink in.
It wasn’t the extent so much as the blatancy of their wealth that so sickened him. The men, Russians, Chechens, Azerbaijanis, all dressed in the ‘mobster’ uniform – leather jackets, whatever the weather, and far, far too much gold. Their bottle-blonde women, in their ill-fitting designer dresses and, again, mountains of gold, complemented them perfectly. When, Mehmet Suleyman wondered as he strolled between the closely packed booths that made up the central area of the
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