Belshazzar's Daughter (12 page)

for that.

Ikmen had not had an easy time either. Probably, Suleyman thought as he looked at the late hour indicated on the face of his watch, he still wasn’t. His interview with Leah Delmonte had indeed gone ahead although Suleyman was, as yet, ignorant of the outcome. This was because ikmen and Suleyman’s boss, the somewhat explosive Commissioner Ardic, had summoned the Inspector as soon as he had returned from the hospital. That had been, according to Suleyman’s calculations, nearly four hours ago. This did not, either by the length of time involved or by prior experience of Ardic, bode well. And although Suleyman should really have left for home over an hour before, he didn’t feel able to go until he knew what was going on.

At the very least, ikmen would need someone to rave and shout at after his ordeal. And at the very worst?

Suleyman didn’t even dare think about that. Ardig, as even the humblest constable knew, could be contrary to the point of lunacy.

The office door opened slowly and ikmen staggered

through it, back bent, arms hanging limply at his sides.

His weary face wore an expression of patience stretched to the limit and beyond. ‘That man’s lack of vision is so profound it’s almost clinical.’ His words were spoken automatically, almost as if he were too tired or bored to inject them with any emotion.

‘Bad time with the Commissioner, sir?’

ikmen squeezed around to the back of his desk and sat down. ‘You know that bastard actually wanted to take us off this case!’ He lit a cigarette.

‘Why would he want to do that?’

‘Because it has political overtones. The Israeli Consul is, apparently, very keen to keep an eye on developments.

Ardig, the Consul and the Mayor seem to have formed the opinion that we are dealing with a full-scale Nazi pogrom.

The fact that it could just as easily be one lunatic working alone seems to elude them.’

Suleyman felt crushed. ‘So, are we off the case then, sir?’

ikmen dismissed the question with a casual flick of the wrist. ‘Oh, no. It took a while, as you probably noticed, Suleyman, but I eventually managed to persuade the stupid bastard.’ He sat forward in his chair and peered through the leaning towers of paper. ‘He was only going to put Yalcjn on it!’

Suleyman looked surprised. “I would have thought that Inspector Yalcin was a bit old—’

‘Old!’ Ikmen was coming very loudly back to life again.

‘Yes, he is, but it’s not his age I object to. The man’s a cretin: finding the lavatory taxes his small brain! Ardic said it was because of his “considerable experience in the political field”, he didn’t have the guts to say that it was really about my well-known penchant for fine brandy!’

‘Everybody knows that you like a drink, sir.’

‘Precisely. Everybody also knows that I don’t get drunk!

What did the stupid man think I was going to do? Go up to the Israeli Consul and vomit all over him?’

‘So how did you manage to persuade him to let you stay on then, sir?’

Ikmen stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and lit another. “I told him the truth. Yalcin is an unintelligent idiot who doesn’t get results. If he is given the Meyer case I will resign and so will you.’

‘Sir!’

Ikmen laughed at his deputy’s white-faced indignation.

‘Yes, I’m sorry about that, Suleyman. I wasn’t going to bring you into it, but it just sort of happened in the heat of the moment. Anyway, who cares? It worked. He saw sense in the end. He knew all along I was the only man for this job.’

He smiled unpleasantly. “I think the Mayor must have put pressure on him. A great admirer of proper behaviour, our Mayor! The sort of person the boys over in Vice frequently catch with underage hookers of indeterminate sex. Anyway’ - he banged his fist on his desk - ‘down to business. What and what has not been happening here?’

‘No luck with the derelicts, but I’m going to put Cohen on to that.’

ikmen smiled. ‘Didn’t speak Turkish too well, eh?’

‘No.’

‘What about §eker Textiles?’

‘I’ve fixed up for us to see Reinhold Smits at his house in Bebek tomorrow at ten.’

‘Good lad!’ He paused, and then eyed Suleyman shrewdly.

‘I suppose you want to go now?’

‘Well, sir, if there’s nothing else

ikmen felt mean. The boy was a hard worker and it was already seven-fifteen, but there was something else, and it was important. Like Suleyman, ikmen felt dissatisfied with their lack of progress. He desperately wanted to achieve something, to prove to himself that the day had not been an utter waste of time.

‘How do you fancy paying the woman in Beyoglu a visit?

Maria Gulcu.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes.’ He stood up. ‘I’ve this nagging fear that she might be a relative. If she is it could look as if we’re dragging our heels. Come on, let’s do some proper work before we go home and fossilise in front of the television. Show Ardic that we’re keen.’

Suleyman sighed. ‘All right, sir.’ He put his car keys in his pocket and rose wearily to his feet. ‘Oh, by the way, what happened at the hospital this morning?’

‘Ah, yes. Leah Delmonte.’ ikmen chuckled softly, but his eyes were sad. ‘She danced for me.’

Suleyman looked confused.

“I think it was supposed to be flamenco. Lots of arm waving and suggestive looks. It was poorly executed and quite terrible. Her doctor was appalled.’

‘But what did she say, sir? About Mr Meyer?’

ikmen looked down at his badly scuffed shoes and shrugged.

‘Nothing. She said nothing. Hers is a pointless line of inquiry.’ He looked up sharply and changed the subject.

‘Come on, Suleyman, let’s go and see what Maria Gulcu can tell us.’

Robert found the food mostly pleasant, but strange. In attempting to accommodate his English palate the Gulcus had succeeded in creating a culinary confusion.

In common with most formal Turkish meals, the vegetables were served separately and prior to the meat. They

started with fried courgette and roast potatoes. Leg of lamb with rice, again roasted and served with a beetroot and garlic salad followed. Dessert, the most curious course of all, consisted of fresh figs and thin, watery custard. His hosts, Robert observed, disliked the sickly yellow liquid, but they all ate it - for his sake, he supposed. It was very thoughtful of them, but he had difficulty getting it down.

It was foul.

As he popped the last dark, fleshy fig into his mouth, Robert stole a glance around the table. Natalia, her mother and two uncles. They were all nice, they all smiled easily (with the exception of her mother), but they were undeniably weird.

Uncle Nicholas was a Colonel Blimp character. Bombastic and blustery, he seemed to be, as far as Robert could tell, the head of the household. He, Natalia’s mother Anya and the other uncle, Sergei, were siblings. The subject of Natalia’s absent father had not, as yet, been raised. Her mother, compared to Nicholas, had either aged badly or was considerably older. A small, mousy woman, she spoke little and in very halting English. Most of the time she just sipped her wine in silence, nibbling delicately on her food like a nervous rabbit.

Sergei and Natalia were, however, the most problematic and disturbing members of the family. Unaccustomed to disabled people, Robert was very conscious of a desire not to stare at Sergei. Or at least not to get caught staring.

Thin and wizened, Nicholas’s and Anya’s brother suffered from what seemed to be a condition that twisted and distorted the limbs. His arms were grossly swollen around the elbows and wrists; the flesh was puffed, bruised and painful-looking. Raising his cutlery to his mouth was slow and difficult. But his arms were nothing compared to his useless, wheelchair-bound legs. They had been the first thing Robert had seen as Nicholas ushered him into the dining room. Sergei had introduced himself, smiling; his English was better, if anything, than his brother’s. But all Robert could see was the man’s legs, his knees swollen and twisted like corkscrews, his feet pointing inwards and back, limp and without purpose. His ever-present smile and cheery demeanour struck Robert as almost arrogant.

Such self-possession in one so disadvantaged didn’t seem right somehow. His own small memory of crippled people involved those he had seen in hospital. Silent stones, hopeless and without personality.

But Natalia was the oddest of them all. She was coy, shy even, in this, surely her natural context. Like her mother, she was quiet, perhaps even a little apprehensive. Her eyes hadn’t once met his since he had arrived and she silently conceded to all of her elders’ requests with a grave bow of her head. It was strange for Robert to be with her and yet not dominated by her. It was almost as if she had temporarily diminished herself. Perhaps she was silently wondering what he thought of her family? What they thought of him? As she collected the dessert bowls and disappeared into the kitchen along with her mother, Robert noticed for the first time how small she was. The simple white frock she had chosen for the evening did nothing for her. Natalia needed colours, red, gold, black, to enhance her exotic beauty. White rendered her almost invisible and somehow impotent.

Nicholas produced two thick cigars from his jacket pocket and handed one to Robert. ‘Smoke?’

‘Oh, yes. Thank you.’

An elaborate cutter, shaped like the head of a dragon, followed. Robert sliced off the end with surprising dexterity.

Beginner’s luck.

Nicholas reached into his pocket again and produced a small red-gold bangle. He gave it to Robert and then looked around the table furtively. ‘The women are in the kitchen, I can show you.’

The scrollwork on the outside edges, curled and cascading like waves of the sea, was unmistakable. An exquisite product from the Avedissian workshop. It was very like the one Robert had sent to his mother just over a year ago, the bangle that had brought him and Natalia together for the first time. The red pigment in the gold glowed warmly against the palm of his hand.

‘Very beautiful,’ Robert said, turning the object to catch the shifting patterns of light from the silver candelabra on the table.

Nicholas drew closer to him. ‘Natalia got this for her mother, for her birthday. She got it Monday evening, when she finishes work.’

‘She was very tired that day,’ said Sergei, as if to underscore the point. He looked at Robert. ‘The Gold Bazaar

is always so busy in the tourist season. Especially at the beginning of the week. Poor Natalia, she hardly has time to breathe.’ Robert saw the stern twinkles in the eyes of both men and his blood ran cold.

‘Yes.’ His tone was flat. He hoped he had managed to crush the disapproving edge out of his reply, but he knew he hadn’t. Balat reared its litter-encrusted head in his mind once again, and all the old doubts came flooding back. He wasn’t here to meet Natalia’s family! If Monday hadn’t happened he would never have even got near number 12, Karadeniz Sokak. He was deeply offended. What kind of moron did she think he was? Who in their right mind would fall for such a transparent ploy? But he knew the answer to that and his heart sank. He’d come of his own free will, hoping … Hoping for what? The food in his stomach curdled as his muscles tightened with anxiety. Whatever Natalia had been doing in Balat on Monday was more

serious than he had thought. Perhaps he had been too quick to rule her innocent of dark deeds? After all, could he say that he really knew her? Perhaps by his continued silence to the police he was aiding and abetting this stranger?

The uncles watched and waited. He could see their tension.

It poisoned the air around them, like a noxious cloud. Robert felt a little sick and excused himself from the table.

‘Er, the bathroom?’

Nicholas smiled. ‘Back into the hall and to your right, the second door.’

‘Thank you.’ Robert left.

Silence dominated the room until the sound of Robert’s footsteps was replaced by the click of the bathroom door shutting behind him.

Sergei turned to his brother and groaned. ‘Oh, God!’

Nicholas, his face grim, raised his head in agreement.

‘We handled it badly, didn’t we? Clumsy.’

Two short raps on the front door terminated their conversation.

Nicholas looked puzzled and put his cigar down

in his ashtray.

‘Who can that be?’

His brother’s answer was sharp, bitchy even. ‘Why don’t you go and look, Nicky, then you’ll find out. You’re the one with the working legs.’

Nicholas shot the little cripple a murderous glance and strode off briskly into the hall.

When he opened the front door, Nicholas found himself confronted by two men. The shorter and older of the two was smiling.

‘Good evening, sir.’ Producing what looked like a small identity badge from the top pocket of his jacket he politely introduced himself. ‘Inspector Cetin ikmen of the istanbul Police Department.’

‘Police!’ What little colour resided in Nicholas’s face disappeared very quickly.

‘Yes, sir.’ ikmen’s smile broadened. ‘Nothing to worry about, Mr Gulcu, I assure you.’

‘How do you know my name?’

ikmen ignored the question and inclined his head towards his younger colleague. ‘This is Sergeant Suleyman.’

Nicholas looked at the young man without smiling, observing his face sharply. ‘What do you want?’ he said, looking back at ikmen.

‘We understand a lady called Maria Gulcu lives in this house, sir.’

‘My mother, yes. What do you want with her? She’s very old, you know. She doesn’t take kindly to being bothered by people.’

“I won’t take up much of your mother’s time, sir,’

continued ikmen smoothly. ‘As you may have read in

the papers, an old gentleman was murdered in Balat on Monday afternoon. Amongst the deceased’s effects was an address book. It contained your mother’s name and the address of this property.’

‘Oh.’ It was more an exhalation than a word. The breath drained out of Nicholas and his face sank. For a moment he stood silent, blinking, utterly helpless - a condition not lost upon ikmen who swiftly took the advantage.

‘So you see, sir, it’s very important that we speak to your mother. If she knew this man, she may be able to give us some information about him. As you can appreciate, the more we know about the victim’s lifestyle, the greater chance we have of apprehending his murderer.’