Black Day at the Bosphorus Café

  PRAISE FOR M.H. BAYLIS

  ‘A streetwise murder tale for crime connoisseurs…M.H. Baylis is onto a winning combination with his Rex Tracey mysteries’ Independent on The Tottenham Outrage

  ‘M.H. Baylis introduces the London borough of Tottenham to crime fiction, and it performs extremely well…fast-moving and very entertaining’ The Times on A Death at the Palace

  ‘An excellent crime novel as well as a sharply observed slice of contemporary London life’ Guardian on A Death at the Palace

  ‘A sparky, unexpected thriller…His delicate sense of place gives Baylis a special authenticity’ Daily Mail on A Death at the Palace

  ‘The Tottenham Outrage is jam-packed both with characters and with character: funny, vivacious and enthralling. It’s written with skill, observation, understanding and a relish for contemporary life in a teeming part of London that will, I hope, provide many more stories…Read and enjoy.’ Eurocrime

  Black Day at The

  Bosphorus Cafe

  M.H. Baylis

  To Mr and Mrs Brenard – Mazeltov!

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  Months later, when it was all over, Rex would recall neither the smell, nor the scream, nor the open mouths of the onlookers. Only the colours. The colours of a girl on fire. Flames like a dozen, separate little wings, dirty orange to ocean blue, seemed to speed the dark girl’s flight as she tumbled screeching from the summit of the escalator, rolling twice before landing on the ground floor of Shopping City in a thrashing heap.

  People threw coats over her quickly: partly to kill the flames, partly to hide the horror of her blistering, twitching body, and as they did so, Rex saw that one of her dirty, neon-pink-laced trainers was still alight. He came forward to stamp it out, then froze, shocked, as he realised he’d already forgotten that this was the foot of a person. The flames died away before he could decide what to do.

  Noises then: alarms, screams, men shouting orders. In the confusion, he glanced up to the floor she’d fallen from. Just to the right of the escalator, peering over the safety rail, he thought he saw a face. Someone jostled him, and when he looked back, there was nothing to see. He wasn’t sure there ever had been.

  Someone went at the girl with a fire extinguisher and the flames disappeared, leaving just the appalling, summertime barbecue smell in the air. The girl stopped shaking and grunting, charred denim limbs coming to rest in a spray of indecent angles. A thin, young, suited black man – a doctor it seemed – approached and knelt at her side. His pose looked priestly, Rex thought, as he forced himself to look. She was a tall girl. He saw her long, straight black hair. A little jeans jacket with an unzipped, hooded top underneath. Small breasts under a political t-shirt: a fist, a star, a slogan. The doctor had two fingers pressed at the girl’s throat. He shook his head, pulled one of the coats up to cover her face. It was a little girl’s raincoat, covered in multi-coloured parrots.

  Minutes before, Rex had been watching the mother of the child who owned that coat in conversation with Eve Reilly, newly selected Labour candidate for Harringay and Tottenham. A bye-election was on the way and Reilly had chosen today for her first lunchtime meet-and-greet. Whilst trooping round the ground floor of Wood Green’s Shopping City, she had invited the tall African lady with the cropped mauve curls to tell her ‘what issues really matter’.

  The lady had obliged, and a few minutes in, the newly selected Labour candidate had begun to look as though she was regretting her question. Rex Tracey, who had arrived late after being sent to cover the walkabout for the local paper, was gleefully recording every stammered excuse in his notebook. He’d just caught a wink from Terry, the photographer, and had begun to enjoy what had promised to be merely the start of three months’ worth of dull electioneering exercises, when a scream like a vixen’s cut the air. Everyone had stopped what they were doing and looked up to the mezzanine above, to see the awful, humanoid bale of flame as it tumbled screeching to the ground in its halo of heat and vapour.

  In the aftermath Eve Reilly sprang into action, moving some people back from the charred bundle, berating others for filming the proceedings on their phones. She began to shout at Terry, who was, perhaps, the only person with an excuse to be taking pictures, but then turned and caught sight of the girl on the floor, whose gaudy face covering had slipped a few inches, revealing colours more disturbing. The young politician fell suddenly silent, then collapsed in racking sobs.

  The photographer put an arm round her and ushered Reilly towards a set of fixed benches on the other side of the escalator. Music still played from somewhere, metallic and faint.

  Rex stayed where he was. He recognised the words on the girl’s t-shirt. Kurdish, the northern dialect called Kurmanji, which was written in Roman script. And today, a blustery Spring Friday, was the 21st of March, otherwise known as Newroz. Spring New Year across a swathe of the planet, from Eastern Turkey to Tajikistan – and in this region of north London, a giant hooley for the Kurdish community. Shopping City and the streets around it were full of Kurds, stocking up for a weekend of parties and, perhaps, if the weather brightened, picnics. That was why Eve Reilly had picked the day for her precinct tour. Was it why this tall, slim girl had picked today, too?

  He spotted something on the floor by her left hand. He wondered if she had been holding it. He went as close as he dared to her body, trying to ignore the warmth it gave off. It was a little brooch, of coloured enamels, in the shape of a peacock. The sight reminded him, ridiculously, that he had an appointment with a man called Pocock, a Council Planning Officer, that afternoon. As the first wave of hi-vis-vested authority began to stream into the building with commands and crackling handsets, he remembered all the other things required of him. There was some Greek doctor who wanted to talk to him about the Cypriot community. His editor had an urgent, top-secret issue that she would only broach with him in a fifteen-minute window in a coffee bar in the early evening. In between: articles to finish, web pages to update, a shoe to be re-heeled. Pills to be swallowed. He suddenly felt anger towards the girl on the floor, for screwing up his day with her extreme protest. Then he looked back at her pretty peacock brooch on the floor and felt sorry.

  He had an idea he’d seen something like it before. On whom? A girl? A colleague? His wife? He found it hard to think about Sybille. Soon, he knew, he would need to. He pushed the thought aside and looked around.

  Shopping City was a two-headed retail leviathan, laying a turd – as one architectural historian had once put it – that became the A105. The section of the mall they stood in was quieter and emptier: there were probably no more than fifteen people standing around. They nonetheless conformed to the rules of all disaster crowds: there were those who hurried away at the first intimation of something horrid, and those who rushed towards it – often, nowadays, with their phone-cameras on record. A third, larger group consisted of people who felt it was their duty to hang around at a safe distance. Most of these had collected in th
e corridor behind the escalator, staring at the blinking, beckoning poker machines in the bookmaker’s, uncomfortable, yet unable to leave. They needed to be told to go. Soon, the police would either start doing this, or else keep everyone inside to take statements. Rex wasn’t sure which. In the years he’d spent tracking the vital signs of the borough, he’d witnessed hostage-takings, balcony-jumps, many ugly endings. He’d never seen anything like this.

  He moved towards Eve Reilly, who had been surrounded by her own protective cordon. It consisted of Gil Agnew, the departing Member, moist, wheezing, a drinker approaching the true Last Orders, along with the broad, benevolent-looking local party chairman, and a chilly, priestly-looking figure from Millbank. Rex had shaken all of their hands (damp, rough, claw-like, respectively) at the start of the tour. Now they edged away from him, closer to their prize girl, as if he sought to do her harm.

  ‘Eve won’t be commenting on this,’ said the Millbank man, adjusting his cuffs.

  ‘I don’t want her to,’ Rex replied. He looked directly at her. She was still sitting with Terry on the bench, sucking a mint, staring into space. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘What?’ she asked, aggressively, as if the question had been an insult, and then added, less sharply, ‘Sorry. Yes. I mean – I guess you have to expect the unexpected round here, don’t you?’

  He didn’t imagine Eve Reilly, in her dark trouser-suit and her sharp hairdo, knew much about the borough. Until a couple of months back, he knew, she’d commuted in from High Wycombe, a typical modern, train-track politician, he thought, clattering along a set route from PPE at Oxford to the job in the think-tank to the safe seat. There were jokes about the gated mews flat she’d just rented, alone, at the very southernmost tip of Crouch End. Eve Reilly might have moved to her constituency, the wags said, but her kitchen was in Islington.

  ‘I wouldn’t blame the area. The last time a Kurdish girl set light to herself it was in Knightsbridge,’ Rex said.

  Terry frowned. ‘Eh?’

  ‘She was wearing a PKK shirt,’ Rex said. ‘And it’s Newroz. Kurdish New Year.’

  ‘I know that,’ his Geordie colleague grunted. ‘Doesn’t mean she’s set light to herself, does it?’

  Terry was like this all the time now. He’d won a Press Award, a year back, for undercover reportage at a mosque that had been taken over by extremists. Now he challenged Rex at every turn, as if he thought he could do the job better. They were still friends. Friends who fell out all the time.

  ‘I know there’s a history of girls from the Kurdish community, here and in Germany, sympathetic to the PKK, setting themselves alight as a public protest. I also know the ceasefire in Turkey’s been bollocksed by a PKK bomb in a college. I do catch the news every now and then,’ he added, defensively.

  ‘If you’re referring to Trabzon, it was two months back, it was a barracks, and the PKK haven’t claimed responsibility,’ Eve Reilly said, staring blankly off towards the escalator. ‘Given the number of Kurdish conscripts there were in that barracks, I’d call it a spectacular own goal if it was theirs. And the PKK haven’t ended the ceasefire, just threatened to end it.’

  ‘You’re very well briefed on it,’ Rex said. She didn’t reply, just wiped a tear from her eye with a shaking hand. She still had a child’s face, chubby and freckled.

  ‘So if she was PKK,’ Terry said, ‘what was she protesting about?’

  ‘I don’t know. The threat to end the ceasefire? Or she could –’

  ‘No, could you, actually, just shut up?’ Eve’s voice, tinny and harsh, cut through his own, silencing him. ‘This gentleman’s right. We don’t know anything. And it’s pretty disrespectful, actually, to be standing here arguing when there’s a girl…’ She stopped before she could say the word. She swallowed, a red flush climbing up her neck, then carried on more quietly. ‘Look. It’s my first day in my constituency and I’ve watched a… a girl burning to death.’

  Rex thought about saying that it wasn’t her constituency yet, that it might never be if the bye-election didn’t go her way. He kept his mouth shut – the politician looked genuinely upset. As everyone was. The police arrived. They started herding people out – they were good at it.

  ‘We’ll rearrange,’ the Millbank man said, catching Rex’s eyes and making a phone gesture, as if this had been no more than a transport snarl-up.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Rex. He felt trembly and sick. He wanted his painkillers. As they trooped past the escalator and the awful, lingering smell, he asked Terry to take some pictures of the upstairs level, which he did, discreetly as ever, pretending to check something on his camera as he snapped away.

  Outside, as a brief shower hit the High Street, a low, black ambulance parked at the kerb, and Rex looked through the pictures on the little viewfinder screen.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Terry asked, wiping raindrops from the screen with a denim sleeve.

  ‘I thought I saw someone else up there.’

  ‘Up top? Who’d be up there?’

  A fair point. Since the Primark on the other side of the road had expanded, all the other bargain clothes shops had struggled. The floor the girl had fallen from was full of empty units. Not that the ground floor was much better: a massive CashConverters and a bookies took up most of the functioning retail space. Eve Reilly had picked the sparsest part of the whole complex to conclude her walkabout. But maybe that had been deliberate.

  ‘I can see like this shape of her,’ Terry said. ‘Every time I close my eyes. Like when you look at a flash.’ He shuddered. ‘That’s probably what you saw.’

  ‘Probably.’

  Rex took deep breaths of Wood Green air: bus exhaust, rain and fag smoke, mostly, but still better than inside. He felt his heart slowing down. Terry was probably right. When he thought about it, all that remained was a thin flash of white. He could add details if he concentrated – it became a face, male, angular, skinny– but that’s what he was doing, adding his own details to a flash of white. There’d been nobody there.

  ‘Pretty shit, wasn’t it?’

  Rex looked at his colleague, bony and buzz-cut in his stonewash jacket-and-jeans combo, like an ageing hooligan. They’d seen a lot together, him and Terry, and they didn’t discuss it much, but there was a comfort in knowing what they shared. ‘Yeah, pretty shit.’

  ‘Pint before we go back?’

  There was a chain pub called The Seagull fifty yards up. At night, it ran a talent competition called Stars In Their Minds. In the daytime, the big screen showed live sporting action from Bucharest. The place had never looked so appealing. Rex was about to agree when his phone rang.

  It was Mr Pocock, and he was waiting outside his house. Rex didn’t much feel like meeting a Building Control Officer from Harringay and Tottenham Council. On the other hand, doing something so mundane might be good for him, take his mind off what he’d seen. And smelt. In any case, it had taken him weeks to fix this appointment, and he wanted to get his new windows put in before the summer.

  But the fact was the girl was a scoop – that was an ugly reality of his job. He sent Terry back with the pictures, and ducked into the Boots to ring his editor, sitting on the row of seats by the pharmacy counter and dictating a few paragraphs for her to polish and post. That completed, he walked home, as he always did, fast, because it was less painful than walking slowly. Rex was a stocky man in his early forties, with a limp from an accident he’d had over a decade ago. People often looked at him twice – maybe because of his gait, or because he always wore a suit, or because his face reminded them of someone, or something. He was often deep in thought, as now.

  He snapped out of it as he turned onto the lane where he lived, and saw the man from the council waiting for him. Ashley Pocock was a curly-haired, heavily freckled young man in a suit that looked too big for him. He was leaning against a car that didn’t quite fit either: a brand new BMW, sleek and fuck-you crimson with a personalised number plate. AP 1985.

  ‘I didn’t know
the council paid so well,’ Rex said, nodding at the vehicle.

  It was a meagre smile that came back. ‘Something going on up at Shopping City? The road’s jammed.’

  ‘I think it’s a fire,’ Rex said shortly. ‘Shall we?’

  For the last decade, Rex Tracey had lived alone in an odd little detached house just east of the shopping centre. It had once been a garage, the bedrooms were right in the roof, and there were no windows at the back. The last two summers had been record-breakers, with nights so hot he’d ended up dozing uneasily in a plastic chair in the garden. Rex couldn’t face another summer of that, hence his application to put in windows and skylights. A process which, he’d been assured by colleagues in the office, would be a piece of cake. He had a shock coming.

  ‘The issue is, according to our records, there’s no completion certificate for the conversion?’ Pocock said, or rather queried, in the modern way, having let Rex take him over the house and show him where the intended adaptations would go.

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Meaning,’ the young man said, in his surprisingly deep voice, ‘that it’s not a legal dwelling until it gets one? You need an inspection.’

  Rex nodded. They were standing on the tiny landing and he started to feel uneasy – the anxious knot that had been in his throat since Shopping City now spreading to his jaw.

  ‘So can you do the inspection?’

  ‘I could. The problem is, like, I have to tell you now, there’s no way I could pass the place?’ Pocock’s accent was a manifesto for globalisation: local patois vowels with the ‘Neighbours’ question mark on the end.

  ‘Why couldn’t you pass it?’

  ‘Because it’s got no windows at the back?’

  Rex laughed. Pocock, however, did not. He still had acne on his chin, and he fingered a couple of spots with his nail, looking uneasy.

  ‘So I can’t apply to change it without a completion certificate. And I can’t get a completion certificate…’