The Istanbul Puzzle

A creak sounded from above my head. The pipes in the building had a habit of doing that. I reckon they were installed when Victoria was a princess.

The house had four floors and was at the end of one of those white stuccoed terraces West London is famous for. We’d grown used to its moods. Living there was our greatest luxury, Irene had said. Working seventy-hour weeks and being one of the founding directors of the Institute of Applied Research in Oxford had to have some advantages, I used to reply.

But I knew I’d been fortunate to end up owning the house. I’d been lucky to get a place on an exchange programme with University College London. And I’d been lucky to meet Irene while I was there. The work I did that year led to an article on patterns in human behaviour, which was published in the New York Times magazine to some acclaim. The success of that article helped us start the Institute.

I’d worked in a software company in Berkshire for three years after we got married. Then a few of us from college decided to set up the Institute. It had taken off way quicker than we’d expected, with serious projects in each of our specialisations.

We’d been lucky in many ways, but I’d give up every dime of our success, if that meant Irene could still be alive. We’d had plans and a house that was just waiting to be filled up with the sound of children’s laughter.

And sometimes in my dreams I could still hear the echoes of what might have been.

I headed upstairs. I always kept a light on on the floor above, so it didn’t feel like the house was brooding. That was the theory, anyway. Though it didn’t seem to have the desired effect.

As I was undressing, the landline rang. It had that insistent tone only a telephone ringing late at night has.

Was it Alek? It had to be.

I found the phone on a foot-high stack of documents by the bed.

‘Mr Ryan?’

The voice wasn’t Alek’s. It sounded like one of those city types who wear their sock suspenders to bed.

‘Yes?’ A needle-sharp sense of foreboding is difficult to ignore.

The sound of a car horn came over the phone line. A tinny noise, a radio station playing what sounded like Middle Eastern hip hop, echoed over the line.

‘The name’s Fitzgerald, sir. Peter Fitzgerald. I’m sorry to disturb you.’ He spoke slowly, emphasizing each syllable, his manner exceedingly polite. ‘I’m with the British Consulate, here in Istanbul.’

A shiver ran through me, as if I’d brushed against a wall of ice.

‘Yes?’ I didn’t want to talk to him.

‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s bad news, I’m afraid.’

My mouth was as dry as sandpaper. Then my stomach did a backflip.

‘It’s about Mr Alek Zegliwski, sir. I’ve been told you’re his manager on a project out here. Am I speaking with the right Sean Ryan?’ The tinny Middle Eastern music played on in the background. What time was it there? 3:00 AM? Had he tried calling earlier, when I was out?

‘Yes.’ My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

Alek was more than a colleague. He’d been one of Irene’s closest college friends. Then a drinking buddy of mine. We free-dived together. He was coming with me to Kauai.

Laughter echoed from the street below, from another world.

‘Please sit down, Mr Ryan.’ The voice seemed distant.

All the kinds of trouble Alek might have gotten himself into flickered through my mind, in a bizarre slide show. I stayed standing.

‘I’m afraid it’s my unfortunate duty to have to tell you that the authorities here have informed us that your colleague Mr Zegliwski is … ’ He hesitated.

‘… dead.’

A void opened beneath me. That was the one word he wasn’t supposed to say.

‘I am very sorry, sir. I’m sure it’s an awful shock.’

I opened my mouth. No sound came out.

‘We do need someone to identify his body fairly quickly. It’s the Turkish authorities you see. They do things differently out here.’

Alek was coming back on Monday. We were meeting up in the evening. He was coming to my house. We were going for a run.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Please, let it be a mistake.

‘I am sorry. They found his wallet, his ID. It’s a bad time to ask, I know, but do you have contact details for Mr Zegliwski’s relatives?’

I slumped onto the edge of the bed. Its scarlet Persian cover, half off already, slipped to the floor.

‘I don’t, I’m sorry. They’re in Poland. I think.’

‘He’s not married?’

‘No.’

‘What about a girlfriend?’

‘Not for a few months. And that was only for a week or two. He rarely talks about his family.’ I wanted to be more helpful, but Alek was about as single and as independent as you could get. The only time he’d been asked about his next-of-kin in my presence, he’d pointed at me. That was his idea of a joke. He never went back to Poland either – not that I knew of anyway.

‘No relatives in the United Kingdom at all? Are you sure?’ He sounded sceptical.

‘Not that I know about, no.’

Alek couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be. More than anyone else I knew, he was able to look after himself. He was six foot tall, full of life, in his twenties for God’s sake.

Something around me seemed to be changing, as if a hidden door had opened somewhere and a breeze had begun blowing.

‘In that case, Mr Ryan, we’ll have to ask you to come to Istanbul to identify Mr Zegliwski’s body. I believe the authorities here have some questions about the project he was working on too.’

I didn’t reply.

‘Are you there, Mr Ryan?’

‘Yes.’

‘When can you come out? The earlier the better, really.’ His tone wasn’t soft any more.

The line between us hummed. I took my mobile out of my pocket, scrolled to Alek’s number, tapped it. I had a phone to each ear now. Maybe, just maybe, this was all some stupid mistake. A joke even.