The Istanbul Puzzle Read Online Free PDF Page B

waiting for us, clutching a clipboard, when the doors to the basement slid open. He mumbled something in Turkish. We followed him. Our shoes squeaked on the floor. He led us to a low room encased in white tiles. The smell of powerful disinfectant filled the air. He pulled a shiny metal morgue tray from a wall. Every noise was amplified. All eyes were on me. Things were moving too fast.
    There was a covered body on a tray in front of me. I’d expected a long wait, documents to be signed.
    ‘Mr Ryan, are you ready?’ The inspector sounded uninterested, as if he’d done this many times before.
    I desperately wanted to leave. There was something pressing into my chest.
    I nodded.
    He said something to the attendant in Turkish, who motioned for me to adjust the white cotton face mask he’d given me, hold it tight to my mouth, as he was doing.
    I’d been talking to Alek only a few days ago. How could the white-swathed figure on this tray be him? No, it was impossible. This shape didn’t even look like him.
    The attendant pulled back the stiff white sheet just far enough to expose the face. Bile rose inside me.
    The face I was looking at was pale, plastic, like a mannequin’s, a waxy effigy of Alek. A bloody bruise disfigured his forehead. His lips were dry, closed tight, as if they’d been glued together.
    I stared, unblinking. I was watching what was happening, but from far away.
    I’d learned in the past few years to disdain pity, to look ahead, to act strong, to not think too much. I needed every one of those lessons now.
    Alek’s skin had a blue tinge. There were wisps of vapour emanating from under the sheet.
    And his body seemed strangely disconnected from his head, as if his neck had been elongated. A shudder ran through me. He looked different, so still. He’d always been so full of life.
    I took a step forward, put my hand out. I wanted to touch him, to say goodbye.
    The attendant waved me back briskly.
    ‘Mr Ryan, can you confirm that this is your colleague, Mr Alek Zegliwski?’ said the inspector.
    ‘Yes.’ I looked away. This was not how I wanted to remember him.
    ‘As your colleague was Greek, Mr Ryan, our investigation of his death must follow certain procedures.’ He paused.
    ‘He was Polish,’ I said, cutting in fast.
    ‘His mother was Greek, Mr Ryan. He had emphasised that fact himself to a number of people here in Istanbul.’ He spat out the word Greek.
    I took a deep breath. All Alek had ever told me about his mother was that she was dead. Had she been Greek?
    The attendant pulled the sheet over Alek’s head. Then, with a resounding clunk, he slid the tray back into its drawer. Neighbouring trays rattled. Something caught my eye high up; a tiny security camera staring down at us.
    ‘Come, we will talk,’ said the inspector.
    He led me to a smaller room up the hall. The type of room where grieving relatives could be comforted. I sat on a hard plastic chair. There was a line of five of them down the wall opposite the door. Everything was white. The inspector stood facing me. He was hunched over, as if he was thinking hard, and his arms were folded. Tiredness pulled at me. My body had finally decided to react to everything I’d been through.
    ‘Aren’t Turkey and Greece friends these days?’ I said.
    ‘Of course we are, but you must understand there are a lot of crazy Greeks who claim Hagia Sophia, and this whole city, for themselves. They say it all belongs to them.’ He sounded affronted at the idea.
    ‘What does any of that have to do with what happened to Alek?’ I said.
    In answer I got silence. All I could hear were the rumblings from the air conditioning. I waited, imagining Alek lying cold in that drawer. The inspector stared at me, as if he was expecting me to answer my own question.
    ‘I came here to find out what happened to my friend. And I still don’t know,’ I said, as calmly as I could. ‘And I’ve no idea why you think being Greek would have any impact on