Belshazzar's Daughter (24 page)

ikmen did not rise to the bait but he did use the Germanic reference in order to ask one final question. ‘Oh, talking of which, you don’t happen to know a man called Reinhold Smits do you, Mr Cornelius?’

The Englishman’s face was now completely blank and

without expression. ‘No, why?’

ikmen smiled. ‘Oh, no reason. Thank you.’

Cornelius was just about to open the door when a thought seemed to strike him and he stopped. Without turning he spoke in a low, suddenly very calm voice. ‘One question for you, Inspector ikmen.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘When you catch this murderer, what will happen to

him?’

ikmen shrugged and lit a cigarette. ‘There will be a trial and if found guilty he - will be sentenced.’

‘To what? Sentenced to what?’

ikmen watched Cornelius very closely, and as his words flowed he saw the lines deepen around the Englishman’s mouth. It was like watching fabric rumple and fold. ‘Often a prison term. Twenty, thirty years. However the Republic does retain the death penalty for certain offences, Mr Cornelius. Murder, like this one, with malice aforethought, would come into that category.’

‘I see.’ Cornelius played a little with the handle of the open door before continuing and then said, ‘Is that the case for everyone? The death penalty, I mean?’

‘Everyone?’

‘Yes. I mean all categories and types of people?’ Because this elicited absolutely no response from ikmen that he could see, Cornelius elucidated a little further. ‘Like, are there any exceptions dependent upon a person’s status or …’

‘Possibly. For those already terminally ill, for instance, or some females, the mentally incapacitated …’

‘Oh.’ He brightened just enough for a keen eye to notice.

‘Oh right. Thank you.’

ikmen bowed his head slightly and smiled. ‘You are very welcome, sir.’

Just before Cornelius left, however, the policeman’s eyes connected with his and for just a moment both men

remained quite frozen in each other’s gaze. Then with a short cough Cornelius turned away and stepped out into the corridor beyond.

As he closed the door behind him and ikmen and

Suleyman listened to the sound of his retreating footsteps, ikmen turned to his young deputy and smiled. ‘Did you catch most of that, Suleyman?’

‘Most of it, sir. I’m sorry I messed my questioning up, I—’

‘It’s all right.’ He walked over to the window and looked out into the street. For a few seconds he watched to see whether or not Cornelius passed by. But he didn’t and ikmen gave up and turned back into the room again. ‘What are your thoughts, Suleyman?’

‘About Cornelius? He was very afraid, wasn’t he, sir?’ He thought for a moment. ‘But then even the most innocent behave irrationally when they come in here.’

ikmen scratched his head. ‘Yes, true. Although I don’t think that he was really terrified until the end of the interview.’

‘Sir?’

ikmen smiled grimly. ‘I find close interest in the technicalities of the death penalty rather unhealthy, don’t you?’

‘Oh,’ Suleyman replied.

‘Oh indeed,’ said ikmen, relishing every short syllable.

Ahmet Demir flung himself down in Cohen’s chair and hooked his long feet under the bottom of the desk.

Cohen, laboriously working his way through the top

drawer of a filing cabinet, mumbled through a cigarette, ‘Get out of my chair, Demir.’

His words fell upon deaf ears. Demir pushed himself deeper into the chair and got comfortable. ‘What are you doing after work tonight, Cohen?’

‘Is it your business?’

‘If it involves attractive Swedish women, yes.’

Cohen turned away from the filing cabinet and gave Demir one of his world-weary and bloodshot stares. Sometimes he hated his own reputation. Every sex-starved little constable in the place came to him for advice or wanted to

go out on the pick-up with him. Demir, with his long, lanky body and face like a goat, was a particular irritation.

For some bizarre reason the man thought he was

attractive, at least he tried to behave as if he did. But then working for forensics perhaps sharpened a person’s talent for self-deception. After all, every day of the week the boys down there had to pretend that the dreadful smells that accompanied their work didn’t exist. It was vital for survival.

But forensics aside they were all an ugly bunch, all of Cohen’s ‘fans’. He wouldn’t have minded so much if at least one of them were still young, for at forty he was beginning to have difficulty attracting women himself and relying on charm and exquisite sexual technique only worked if he operated alone or in concert with a younger and more attractive man. But Demir, at any age, had never stood a prayer.

‘Well, Cohen?’

The door to the office swung open and Suleyman entered.

He smiled at them both and Cohen smiled back. Ah, his favourite person, the man to go out on the pull with - if only he would come. Cohen looked down at Demir. The Goat was scowling. He knew it! Cohen laughed inwardly to himself. Jealousy! What a fool Demir made of himself every time Suleyman crossed his path - and the whole station knew it!

‘What can I do for you, Sergeant?’ He walked over to his desk and shoved Demir out of his seat. ‘Let the Sergeant sit down, you!’

Suleyman was a little embarrassed by this display of naked preference and started to protest. ‘Oh, Demir, please, no …’

But Demir got to his feet and tucked his shirt into his trousers. If Mehmet Suleyman was in the room, it was time for him to leave. ‘It’s all right - Sir,’ he said, flinging a very unpleasant glance at Cohen. ‘I was just leaving.’ He stomped heavily towards the open door and left. He did not do his colleagues the courtesy of closing it behind him.

‘Ugly bastard!’ muttered Cohen under his breath.

‘Yes, well …’ said Suleyman, slipping into the recently vacated seat. ‘Cohen, it’s about that information the Inspector wanted you to get on the Gulcu family.’

Cohen pulled up an empty waste-paper bin, inverted it and sat down on it opposite his colleague. His face looked tired, bored and defeated. Suleyman knew the signs. Cohen didn’t hide much. His mobile, almost comic little face was used to expressing exactly what it felt, whenever it felt it.

‘We’re looking at very little progress here, aren’t we, Cohen?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Oh, no!’ Suleyman groaned. ‘The Inspector will go

crazy. You knew it was important! What have you been doing?’

Cohen lit a cigarette and waved it at Suleyman between two very yellow and oily-looking fingers. ‘Oh, I’ve been working on it, Mehmet! I have! It’s just that I can’t find much. Well, nothing. Really.’

‘Nothing?’ Suleyman narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

Cohen pulled a notebook from beneath his telephone and opened it on the desk in front of him. ‘This is what I mean, right. The house, number 12, Karadeniz Sokak, is registered as belonging to Mr Mehmet Gulcu. All the services, with the exception of one I’ll tell you about in a minute, are registered to him also. He, apparently, pays the bills.’ He paused, seemingly for some sort of dramatic effect.

‘Yes? Well?’

‘Unfortunately Mehmet Gulcu, bachelor, died in September 1935. He apparently had no children and left behind him only a strong and irrational desire to continue to pay his bills and taxes from beyond the grave.’

Suleyman rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Mehmet he supposed had to have been the old woman’s sort-of husband.

‘What about Maria, Natalia and Nicholas Gulcu?’

Cohen gave him a tired smile. ‘Well if they do exist they don’t work, don’t live anywhere, don’t have passports and have never paid taxes. I’ve looked for them everywhere!’

He knew Cohen, knew how sloppy he could sometimes

be. ‘Are you sure about this?’

Cohen cast his eyes heavenwards. ‘They’re not registered in Turkey, Mehmet, I’ve told you!’

Suleyman’s face creased into a frown.

‘And then there’s the telephone,’ said Cohen.

‘What about the telephone?’

‘Their number is registered under the name of Mrs

Demidova. And guess what?’

It wasn’t a giant leap. ‘Mrs Demidova doesn’t exist either?’

‘Correct.’ Cohen smiled. ‘I was just having a final triple check, knowing what old ikmen’s like, when you came in.’

Suleyman sighed. ‘So let me get this straight. We’ve a non-existent family headed by a dead man who possess a telephone registered in the name of someone else who also doesn’t exist.’

Cohen clapped his hands.

‘The Inspector isn’t going to like this at all.’ Suleyman bit his lip nervously, ikmen was going to think he was mad when he told him this lot. He didn’t relish the prospect. ‘How can they not exist, Cohen? It’s not possible! Everybody has to have papers, get a passport, visit the doctor, do a job—’

‘You don’t need papers to get a job in this city,’ observed Cohen. ‘In fact, you must know as well as I do that the black economy all but runs the bazaars. I mean, if you arrested everyone in retail who didn’t have any papers we probably wouldn’t be able to buy anything. I do take your point, Mehmet, but jobs do not come into it if you ask me.’

‘True enough. But what about all the other things - bank accounts, military service, just going about the daily round of things? It’s very odd, but then … ‘ He sighed. ‘Then again I suppose if her name were once Demidova - like a maiden name - and she came into the country as Demidova, she may very well have had papers way back which could I suppose have got lost over time. If she and her children maybe even registered as Demidova. But that doesn’t exist either, does it? I …’

Cohen sniffed. ‘Seems to me they must’ve lived on old Mehmet’s money.’

‘Yes, they could, but what about paying for services and things. I mean unless they’ve always paid in cash …’

Cohen laughed. ‘Perhaps Mehmet Gulcu does all that

for them too!’

The look Suleyman gave him was not kind. ‘This is

serious, Cohen! This is, this is - weird!’ He put his hands up to his face. He spoke softly, to himself. ‘Who are they?’

Cohen shrugged. ‘Immigrants. You know what they’re

like!’

‘Yes, well, Maria Gulcu was at one time, or is, whatever it is. But the others?’ He pulled Cohen’s notebook towards him. ‘How did Mehmet Gulcu die, do you know?’

‘No. I must be able to find out though.’

‘All right, do so then please, Cohen. I’d better go and tell the Inspector right away.’

‘OK.’ Cohen started to make his way back over to the filing cabinet. Halfway there, however, he stopped and turned to Suleyman again. ‘Oh, Mehmet?’

‘Yes?’

‘If you like we could go out and pick up some women tonight. Have a few beers, laugh, might even score if we’re really lucky - well, you might.’

Suleyman gave him a look of complete exasperation, said, ‘I think not,’ and left the office. Cohen sorted through a stack of papers in the cabinet and pulled those relevant to the top. It was a pity Mehmet wouldn’t go out with him, but then he never went out with anyone. Bit of a mystery man really. He wondered vaguely whether perhaps he preferred boys. It wasn’t a judgemental thought because Cohen really didn’t care. Women, men, items of furniture - it was all the same really. They could still go out on the pick-up, him for the girls and Suleyman for the boys. The young man’s body would still bring them over, but there wouldn’t be any competition. Perfect really. He would have to ask him about it at a later date. Cohen smiled.

It was with great relief that Robert Cornelius climbed down from the bus that evening.

As he started to walk up the hill towards his apartment, he felt the beginning of the cool of the night and he could see the relief at its coming written on the faces of the people that he passed. There was almost a carnival atmosphere during the evenings following these long, jungle-humid summer days. Men and women sat in the streets and on their balconies fanning themselves with just about anything that came to hand, drinking from long, cool glasses, their children playing noisily around the shops and in the gutters.

All waiting to switch on their lights, shower, and retreat to their bedrooms. There, gasping like beached fish, they would lie grateful and naked on top of their bed-covers.

Aching for sleep.

Robert knew how they felt, but he couldn’t wait that long.

There was a whole bottle of gin in his bedside cabinet and he had every intention of drinking as much of it as he could.

He wanted oblivion for a few short hours. Sober it wouldn’t leave him alone. Everything that had happened before his visit to the police station had been as nothing compared to that event. That ikmen was quizzing him both about his past and about Natalia and her family could only mean that the whole lot of them, somewhere along the line, were or could be ‘in the frame’. And on top of that he was now starting to wonder whether the answers he had given the policeman had been indeed the ‘right’ answers. If only he could remember the conversation in detail! If only he could be certain that he hadn’t said anything that revealed his own inner insecurities regarding Natalia.

He drew his hand across his sweating brow and turned into the small street that led to his apartment block. Of course he would have to tell Natalia about his interview with the police. Perhaps in a way it was a good thing; it might alert her to the urgency of the situation and force her to tell him what they both really knew was the truth. Overreaction cut in sharply. Of course they would have to leave the country. He didn’t want to but it was essential now and his job didn’t matter, he was bored with it anyway. Yes, they would go away and he would look after her. It was …

He pulled himself suddenly up short. But why had she done it? Why? She must have had a reason, but what if she refused to tell him? What if there was no reason? What if… ? What?

Surely no reason could be good enough to excuse murder?

Lots of misdemeanours could be brushed aside, but not this.

This was a human life! Taking that away from somebody was wrong! In all cases, without exception, wrong!

And then he saw her. She was standing on the steps