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  But she wouldn’t be better, couldn’t, shouldn’t, until she heard his voice.

  The floor looped and buckled as she struggled to the phone.

  This time Jeannie got Sinan’s mother. For the longest time, she could hear only her breathing. ‘Why are you calling?’ Sibel asked finally.

  ‘I need to speak to Sinan.’

  Another long silence. An echo. Then a click.

  ‘You may not be surprised to hear this,’ Jeannie’s mother told her when she made it downstairs for supper. ‘But your father has still not graced us with a call. Judging by his track record, we could be in for a long wait. But if he does call, you are not to speak to him. You are to hand the Postcard Man straight to me. Understood?’

  As if.

  ‘Sit down, lambie. I’ve made us macaroni cheese.’

  Over supper, they fell back into their old pattern. Her mother told her about everything that had happened to her over the past year – her job at the library, her foray into night school, the woman’s group she joined and abandoned, the boyfriend who hadn’t worked out, and the new one she wasn’t sure about. Jeannie asked her why and she explained. She told Jeannie how it felt to fall in love when she was still smarting with hurt from the man who’d come before, and how it felt to sit in a room with a group of women who were even angrier with men than she was. How walking into her first night class had been like stepping off a cliff. She told Jeannie how bored, how suffocated she felt every morning when she went into work, how the dread of being stuck there forever was what had kept her going to that night class and then she confessed that when Jeannie had left last June she was ‘quite simply, bereft’. ‘Nothing prepared me for it. I’d actually been looking forward to a little time alone. Because you know, lambie, you’d been so difficult. So critical. So unappreciative. All you wanted to talk about was leaving.

  So I thought, well. Why put off the inevitable? I knew I was going to miss you. But that first morning when I came down here? I felt dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jeannie said meekly.

  Triumphantly, her mother took her hand. ‘You mustn’t say that, lambie. The important thing is that you’re back. Now you’re back, I can breathe again.’ And Jeannie nodded, smiled, commiserated. She kept her talking, hoping she wouldn’t remember that a mother ought to stop talking about herself now and again, and do some listening.

  When Jeannie stood up, her mother handed her a jar with a pierced lid. ‘Really, Mom. You’d think I was eight.’

  ‘Well, just this once,’ she said. ‘Just for old time’s sake. It used to make you so happy.’

  ‘I cried when they died.’

  ‘They don’t live long anyway. You know that!’

  So Jeannie took the jar outside.

  And there they were – the fireflies. Hundreds and thousands of them circling through the night. As she stood on the lawn with her jar, she could hear the teenagers horsing around the pool next door.

  She would never laugh like that again.

  26

  It was Chloe’s father, Hector Cabot, who broke the news. Since divorcing Chloe’s mother, he had been living in Woodstock, Connecticut, and it was to Woodstock that Chloe had been dispatched within days of Jeannie’s departure. Hector had called to exchange notes with Jeannie’s mother, and to suggest that the two girls be brought together so that they could do the same. He had been somewhat taken aback to find that Nancy Wakefield wanted to ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’ But he knew how to talk to her. In early July he was granted permission to drive over to Northampton to speak to Jeannie face to face.

  ‘Though you don’t know me from Adam, you know at least that I understand the country. I can guess what you loved in it. For I once loved it, too. And Jeannie – I know the pain of heartbreak. The onus of a new beginning. What’s more, I know your father – as a man, and as a friend.’

  It was in this sanctimonious mode that he began his weary monologue. This is not my harsh judgment, but his. When we met in Istanbul in November 2005, Hector Cabot talked of hating the ‘tinny echo of manufactured goodwill.’ But in July 1970, he had less than two years of sobriety behind him, ‘which means I was very sober. Suffocatingly sober. It was the best I could do.’

  He had never met Jeannie before so could not tell me how she’d changed. He recalled an emaciated girl with a great mass of blonde hair, a mouth that twisted to one side and hands that never stopped tapping. She sat hunched in her chair, eyes fixed on the ground between them – though from time to time she would fix him with a cold blue glare.

  ‘You were stepping out with Sinan, I take it.’As soon had he said this, he knew it was the ‘wrong way in’. Was it the past tense that made her wince as if she’d just been stung? Had his antiquated turn of phrase added insult to injury? He proceeded with caution. ‘How well did you know Dutch Harding?’

  Another wince. ‘What’s he got to do with it?’

  Sensing now that there was no right way into this ‘tangled web – or right way out, for that matter’, he answered her directly. ‘Jeannie, he’s been murdered.’

  ‘What?’

  He’d heard people say some pretty nasty things about Jeannie over the years – rumours, based on speculation, or on outright lies – but none of these people had been in that room that day, and he had been. He’d seen the terror in her eyes, so he could assure the ‘sirens of the gossip mill’ that (a) she was hearing this ‘macabre tale’ for the first time and (b) she had no idea what to make of it.

  The story he told her was a sanitised version of the account I myself had read in that lurid news article: a group of students belonging to a Maoist cell called Enlightenment had discovered that the man they trusted above all others was an agent provocateur… She stopped him here. ‘Are we talking about the same people?’ She’d gone on to claim that she knew no Maoists. ‘They only said so to annoy their mothers. They never opened the Little Red Book except to laugh at it.’ But Hector had persevered. He could give her the names. Suna, Lüset, Haluk, and (‘there is no easy way of saying this, my dear, so brace yourself’) Sinan. Had it not been for the prompt and selfless intervention of Jeannie’s father, the list might well have included Chloe’s name, and her own.

  ‘Prompt, perhaps. But not selfless! Not selfless!’

  Tears, followed by tissues. ‘May I continue now? There’s more, I’m afraid. ‘Much more.’

  A peremptory nod from Jeannie. A deep breath, and then he went for it. Keeping to the basics: upon hearing that one of their number was an agent provocateur, the group’s suspicions had passed from one possible culprit to the next, until a chance remark exposed Dutch Harding as the enemy amongst them. After putting him on trial (‘though I hope you understand that I am using this word metaphorically’) and pronouncing him guilty, they had condemned him to death. (‘Which must be seen as a measure of their betrayal. I have never been to a country where they honour their teachers more deeply than they do in Turkey.’)

  She took this news calmly. Too calmly. Falsely encouraged – though he ought to have asked himself why she was clutching her head in her hands, and why she had dropped her head so low it almost grazed her knees – he had described the gory aftermath: the chopping up of the body, the cramming of body parts into the trunk, the ill-conceived getaway plan, the trail of blood that prompted a member of the public to report the girls and their trunk to the police. The arrest. The so-called interrogation, and Suna’s leap from the window.

  Here she’d interrupted his ghastly flow. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think I heard that right.’ So he’d told her again, but filling in some detail. Turkey being Turkey, they would never know for sure what had gone on in that interrogation room. But officially Suna had jumped. A flower vendor in the street below had seen her dangling her feet on the fourth floor window. Which did suggest…

  This was when she had gone for his throat.

  Painful and startling though this had been, he had only himself to blame. He was better at passing on sad tidings now. ‘
I was awfully clumsy in those days,’ he told me. ‘Sobriety had robbed me of my social graces. Having made such a mess of it, I decided to concentrate on Chloe, who was in the same sort of mess. I sorely regret sending her off to Radcliffe that September. I ought to have realised she just wasn’t ready yet. She’d barely spoken all summer. My every effort to discuss this terrible murder ran right into the proverbial brick wall. Why I thought that meant she’d moved on… Though I must say, I kept pretty close tabs on her all autumn. She and Jeannie were very close that first semester, did you know that? Though it was not, I would now say, the healthiest of bonds. They’d joined together against a world that didn’t understand them. They goaded each other on. I am not trying to say that Jeannie was responsible in any way for Chloe’s breakdown. Far from it. No, if Jeannie hadn’t called me that December, to express her concerns – by which I mean, to tell me Chloe was in the infirmary, having cut herself – well, who’s to say? We might easily have lost her. So of course – and whatever injury or distress Jeannie later caused us – we are eternally grateful to her.’

  27

  October 17th 1971

  ‘Today I followed Doctor’s Orders. I made full use of my extreme good fortune. I began the day with a balanced breakfast, and as I sat there with my worthy classmates, perusing the Crimson and the New York Times, sharing thoughts about all the news that’s fit to print, I was mindful of the fact that ten or more girls my age – excuse me, ten or more young women – would have given their eye-teeth to be in the chair I was occupying. For I am under a solemn oath to make the most of my exclusive education.

  And what a feast of a morning it was. As Suna might have said. She would have loved the first lecture, and the second, too. She would have talked back to that professor though. I could almost hear her. But when I looked across the hall at the arrogant innocents surrounding me…

  Chloe should have been there, too, but she overslept. She was waiting for me outside when I came out. Looking bleary. When I told her, she said good, that was the look she was after. ‘Bleary and belligerently off-hand.’ Off we went through the wind and the falling leaves to Radcliffe Yard, to attend a very nice lunch with the very nice, very old-fashioned ladies who were responsible for our being here, and who wanted to see what we looked like, presumably to find out if they had been right about us or wrong.

  We behaved perfectly, I must say. As did the ladies, who asked us sweeping earnest questions and then listened with pained sincerity as we explained why the US was so unpopular in Turkey, and what this entailed. We catalogued the riots, the bombings, the kidnappings, and assassinations. The military coup, the mass arrests, and the allegations of torture. They shook their nice heads and clucked their nice tongues. “I do hope no one close to you was directly affected.”

  And I was sorely tempted. I almost said, “Quite a few of them were, actually. You see, my father is a spook. He kept files on everyone I knew. They became suspects simply by virtue of being friends. He set an agent provocateur amongst us – can you believe it? So I fingered him. Then I left – on the next plane, no less. Leaving my friends to do the dirty work. Which they did. Which makes them murderers. What does it make me?”’

  November 2nd 1971

  ‘Today Chloe and I decided what-the-hell, why not throw caution to the wind. We’ve run our Coop cards to the limit but I need a clock radio and she needs new flares so we have no choice but to get ourselves more cards.

  So there we were in the Pewter Pot, filling out forms. I looked at Chloe’s and saw she had called herself Mata Hari and given her profession as “world-famous seductress.” So I thought, what-the-hell, and in the slot for profession, I wrote “murderess”.’

  November 15th 1971

  ‘A week ago yesterday, when I was sitting, lying on one of those sofas, actually, at Hilles Library, and thinking about the essay I have to do by tomorrow on ‘an experience that changed me’ for expository writing, it suddenly struck me that I had no choice. So I wrote about the freshman mixer, about what it was like to go to a zoo like that pretending you were interested in meeting boys when you had seen enough of the world, and the way the world worked, to have precipitated a murder. The words just came, and they kept on coming, so I also wrote about the rest of the week, about how it felt to be sitting in that meeting with everyone else who was comping for the Crimson, all these eighteen-year-olds talking big about their high school yearbook and some trip they’d taken that was such an eye-opener, and thinking, you think you’re so tough, do you? Let’s see how tough you are after an hour in a Turkish police station.

  Today, after class, this beardless youth who teaches us expository writing took me aside. He tapped my essay about the mixer. “What’s this all about?” were his precise words. I told him the story. He nodded and frowned in all the right places, although it was a bit of a letdown at the end, when all he could think to say was “What a bummer.” He told me that one day I was probably going to write something “very important and very true” about all this, but that right now I was probably “too close”. “All that comes through is the anger,” he said. He then recommended therapy. And oh yes, I forgot to mention. He gave me a “C”, which didn’t feel very much like therapy.

  I stopped by Chloe’s room on the way back to my room, thinking she was the only one in this whole place who could possibly appreciate the ironies, but she was smoking dope with those new friends of hers so she just took my essay and threw it on her bed and said she’d read it later.

  Sometimes I wonder if she even likes me any more. Sometimes I think our misery is all that binds us together, and our contempt for anyone who doesn’t understand it, but then at the same time there seems to be this unspoken agreement not to put anything of importance into words.’

  December 1st 1971

  ‘Today, when I went to see Chloe in the infirmary, she told me that she’d given her doctor permission to speak to me. “For background,” she said, waving her arm. “You know. All that stuff.” Her arm, her wrist I mean, is still heavily bandaged.

  His name was Dr White. We met in his office, which was white white white! We began by discussing what he called Chloe’s “home situation”. It emerged that he had recommended her taking time off and going home, and that she had expressed reluctance. Apparently her precise words were that she had “no desire to waste away in the wilds” with her father and that she could not return to her mother, as she was a persona non grata in Turkey.

  Dr White wanted to know about the divorce, which he knew to have been recent and suspected to have been messy. As if divorce was the be all and end all. So I told him. If Chloe was feeling unstable, it was probably not because her parents were living apart, but because some people she knew had murdered someone else she knew and chopped him up into little pieces which they’d stuffed into a trunk.

  He asked me to elucidate, so I did.

  I explained how hard it was, when the victim of a crime was someone evil, someone your own father had hired to lead your friends astray. But I’d never wanted him dead! When I’d said all that, Dr. White cleared his throat and tapped his pen against the pad in front of him. “You’re sure of all this?”

  Yes, you imbecile. I was there.’

  December 2nd 1971

  ‘I don’t see what good therapy is going to do. You’d think, from the way they all talk about it, that it could fix all injuries, erase the marks of torture, raise the dead.’

  December 5th

  1971 ‘This was the third time in three days I had to tell the story, and every time I tell it, I have a harder time getting people to believe it.’

  December 7th 1971

  ‘All she wants to do is talk about my father.

  All I want to do is talk about what he destroyed.

  I can’t understand why I can’t get anyone to care.’

  December 8th 1971

  ‘Today I got a letter from him. Apparently he’s spent the last two months in a clinic. But never fear! I no longer have an alcoholic for a
father. Now he’s a recovering alcoholic, and, oh yes, a recovering spook, because his days abroad are over, it seems. From here on in, he’s going to do his recovering stateside. He’s slowly coming to terms with “what happened last June,” he claims, and he’d like to see me, to help me recover. Oh, the joy I felt upon seeing those words in a thousand shreds on the floor.

  She’s just as bad. She keeps talking about working through my anger, putting “this tragedy” behind me, moving on. And now, to top it all off, he wants to help me “recover.” That’s right – first bury the dead, then bury the truth.

  I am not going let you get away with it, Dad.

  I will hold you to account.’

  28

  Jeannie Wakefield’s first attempt to hold her father to account came out on the anniversary of the murder, the 4th of June 1972. It appeared in the slim, doomed ‘International’ section of one of Boston’s underground papers, under the headline ‘Who Killed Dutch Harding?’

  It was, she later conceded, more about herself than anyone else, and it was studded with the innocent indiscretions that all young journalists must make until they’ve lost a few friends. She was on the Crimson by then, though only in the lowliest capacity. Before taking the story to the underground paper she had been foolish enough to try it out on the great gods then in charge of the place. They had rejected it out of hand.