Belshazzar's Daughter (29 page)

embarrassed halt when he saw the expression on his superior’s face.

Rather more diplomatically than usual, ikmen made no reference to what had occurred and continued smoothly along his train of thought. ‘My dear father informed me in the early hours of this morning that he remembers Smits and, furthermore, recalls him as a known Nazi sympathiser.’

Suleyman sat down. ‘Interesting.’

‘Yes, I thought so too, although confronting Smits with information received from my elderly father is hardly professional, even though I happen to believe every word of it.’

‘So what are you going to do?’ Suleyman asked.

ikmen took a small notebook out of his trouser pocket and thumbed through its pages until he reached the relevant place. ‘I’m going to see a Professor Mazmoulian, modern history expert up at the university. He has, so Timiir tells me, encyclopaedic knowledge of the social history of this city. It is something of a passion with him.’

‘So when are you doing this then, sir?’

‘The good professor said that he’d see me at midday. If my luck really has deserted me, he may even treat me to lunch in the canteen which, if memory serves me right, is to good food what impotence is to good sex.’

Suleyman smiled. ‘I see.’

‘But then if the professor has any information on old Smits it will all have been worth it - I suppose.’

‘Yes.’ Suleyman, for want of anything else to do, briefly fiddled with the few neat items on his desk. ‘So am I coming with you, or …’

‘No. No, I’d like you to do something else today, Suleyman.’

ikmen looked up and smiled before speaking again. It was, he had always thought, important to accompany unpleasant news with a cheerful countenance. ‘I’d like you to do a bit of surveillance today.’

‘Oh.’ Suleyman felt his face fall, even though he didn’t really want to show his feelings in this way. Surveillance was notoriously stressful, time-consuming and dull.

But ikmen chose to ignore his feelings anyway. ‘Yes, Robert Cornelius, the Englishman. I’d like you, at a discreet distance of course, to see where he goes, what he does, who he talks to.’

‘AH right, but …’

‘But what?’

‘But I didn’t think we had a lot on him and—’

‘We don’t,’ ikmen said, ‘not really. But that he seems to figure in just about all of the possible scenarios we’ve identified so far I can’t help thinking is of significance.’

‘He does?’

ikmen looked at him quizzically and then, identifying his mistake, he apologised. ‘Oh yes, of course, I haven’t let you in on my recent musings, have I? Right, well, look, Suleyman, I think I’m going to be pretty tied up today, as are you. What do you think about having a case conference at my apartment tomorrow? I mean, I know it’s our day off and—’

‘That would not be a problem, sir.’

‘Oh, good. We should also, hopefully, be able to review Dr Sarkissian’s latest findings by then.’

Suleyman stood up, took his car keys off his desk and put them in his pocket. ‘I thought Dr Sarkissian had completed his work on this case.’

‘He had, but then he found something else that… Look, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Get over to the Londra Language School now and see what you can see. Chart his whole day and don’t let him see you. Be aware too that if he decides to go off to a club or something, you’ll be on until the small hours …’

‘That’s perfectly all right with me, sir.’

Strangely for Suleyman, or so ikmen thought, he appeared to be almost relishing the prospect of being out all night. But then if that was what he wanted to do …

‘All right then, Suleyman, I’ll see you tomorrow then unless, of course, something dramatic happens.’

‘See you tomorrow, sir.’

After Suleyman had gone, ikmen closed his eyes for a few moments and tried to imagine what Mr Smits might be thinking at that moment in time. The images this conjured up were rather strange.

A tall, thin individual sauntered into the reception area and smiled very expansively at the man who was his visitor.

‘Hello, Arto, how are you?’

‘Faud!’ Arto got up and took the man’s hand warmly. ‘I hope I wasn’t—’

‘No! I was just having a break, as it happens.’ Faud ismail smiled. His was a handsome face in a casual, vaguely dissolute sort of way. He patted Arto’s broad back warmly.

‘What can I do for you?’

Arto picked up his briefcase. ‘I want you to have a look at some photographs for me, Faud. I want your professional opinion. It’s Cetin ikmen’s Balat murder victim.’

ismail looked confused and put his hand up to his head. ‘I wasn’t aware there was ballistic involvement in that case?’

‘There’s not, at least not as regards the murder itself.’ Arto clicked his tongue impatiently. It wasn’t easy to explain.

‘Look, Faud, can we go through to your office?’

‘Of course.’

ismail turned and led the way out into a long, cigarettebutt-strewn corridor.

At the end of the corridor he pushed open the door

directly ahead of them and went into his office. It was a strange place, to Arto’s way of thinking. Large colour posters of handguns lined the walls, some complete, others in section, showing their inner chambers and mechanisms.

Gun manuals the size of computer instruction books littered the desk, sitting on portions of probably unread newspaper.

Faud didn’t have time for current affairs, what with his job and, so it was rumoured, a very demanding elderly mother.

As he sat down, Arto noticed that a rifle was propped up against the wall behind him. He hadn’t been to Ballistics for a while. He’d forgotten what an unnerving experience it could be.

ismail saw his eyes skim the surface of the weapon

and laughed. ‘Don’t worry, my Kalashnikov isn’t loaded today!’ He sat down. ‘Come on then, get your gruesome photographs out!’

Arto reached into his briefcase and removed two large colour pictures. They showed the right arm and hand of Leonid Meyer in close-up. He spread them out on the desk, ismail bent low and examined them closely. He whistled sharply. ‘Nasty!’

‘The Pathology Lab says that they are probably gunpowder burns. They’re old too, sixty or seventy years. Very severe, must have been extremely painful at the time.’ He pointed to one of the shots. ‘As you can see, as they healed, they puckered considerably. This seems to suggest that no treatment was given after the injury, probably just bandaged, wrapped in rags, something like that.’

‘Mmm.’ ismail put on his spectacles and held one of the photographs up to the light.

‘Now, Faud, we know what did this. However, what I

need to know now is how. How would somebody sustain gunpowder burns like this, under what circumstances?’

‘Well …’ ismail put the photographs down and then sat back in his chair and laced his fingers together under his chin. He didn’t take his eyes from the pictures in front of him. For a few moments he thought in silence. ‘Any reason to believe that this man worked in the ballistics industry?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Mmm.’ He went back to his thoughts and sucked hard on his top lip. ‘Soldier?’

‘Yes. He was Russian. We think he may have fought on the Red side in the 1917 Revolution - well, Cetin does.

He’s trying to piece together some details about his past.

His military history could, apparently, be pertinent.’

‘Right.’ ismail took a pencil from his drawer and pointed it towards the livid image of Leonid Meyer’s right hand. ‘Now this …’ He paused for thought again. ‘1917, you say?

Russia?’

‘Well, 1918, actually, the wound.’

‘OK.’ He took in a deep breath. ‘This here, on the hand, this could be the result of a faulty weapon. People like the, oh, you know, the Russian Revolutionaries—’

‘Bolsheviks.’

‘Yes. People like that weren’t always professional soldiers.

Any old firearm would do, however decrepit. You can get nasty burns from old, unmaintained pieces. You can’t just pick up a gun and fire - well, not if you want to be safe.’

‘So an old, possibly faulty gun, you think?’

‘Maybe, maybe.’ He rubbed his chin with his hands and sucked in his already slim cheeks. ‘Then again he could have had an accident - oh, fireworks? Some industrial process?

1918 to 1992, it’s a long time. A lot of things can happen in, what, seventy years?’

‘Yes, right. What about the arm?’

‘Ooh.’ He looked at the photograph and sighed. ‘Again, I can only speculate. Ruling out fireworks and industrial causes, which I assume you want me to do …’

‘Yes - at least I think so.’

He stared at the ceiling for a moment, marshalling his thoughts. His hands moved very slightly as he worked the spacing out in his head. ‘Possibly being in the vicinity of an old cannon. Unlikely, but… well.’ He shrugged. ‘Someone standing very close beside him letting off a great number of rounds very fast. It would have to have been in a confined space of some sort. He must have been unable to move away. If you could, you’d shift long before you got this badly burnt.’

‘Caused by somebody else’s firearm?’

‘Yes. Could be. Possible scenario is a left-handed person standing on his right, slightly behind … If Cetin’s victim were close enough, and especially if he used both hands to hold his weapon, the trajectory of a large number of bullets passing could have caused this. It’s—’

ismail’s telephone rang. ‘Excuse me, Arto.’ He picked it up and spoke into the receiver, ‘ismail.’

Arto looked at the photographs again. The kind of

scenario ismail seemed to be suggesting struck him as being not unlike a firing squad. Two or more people firing at something, side by side, letting off a large number of rounds. And yet there were differences. In a firing squad where there were two ranks the front rank usually knelt down or squatted, while those behind stood and fired over their heads. And of course this type of execution was nearly always performed in a courtyard, outside - in some sort of open space at least. It had to be, confined spaces presumably increased the risk of ricochet. Of course it wasn’t strictly Arto’s problem, but ever since he’d first noticed the burns on Meyer’s arm and hand he had been gripped by an unmistakable feeling that they were important. Why, he didn’t know, but Cetin had been very interested when he’d told him and Cetin was not accustomed to getting worked up about nothing.

If Faud ismail was right then it was quite possible that the murdered man had been a murderer himself. And if that were so it moved Meyer from his current position as oppressed Jewish victim into quite a new and more sinister role.

It felt so good to be out in the open. Natalia ran her fingers through her hair and delighted in the feel of the gentle early evening breeze as it played between the strands and massaged her scalp. In an hour the park would be closing, she would have to be quick. Lucky and quick.

But then luck didn’t come into it unless you were fussy.

Natalia wasn’t. As she started the long climb up the hill towards the Palace, she felt her body tense. Her eyes darted from side to side as she ascended. What she sought had to be there. It always had been before; beside a tree, to the edge of the path, standing on one of the bridges that spanned the ornamental pond …

All day she had waited. Cooped up in that tiny box of a shop with only doddery old Avedissian for company.

Endless puerile chatter, all it did was provide a background to her anxious thoughts. What she needed was release, a few moments to be her, unencumbered and undiluted Natalia.

There was only one way that she had ever, could ever do this. And it was going to happen - it had to! She’d broken a date for this, her need had been so desperate, a date with a Kurdish silversmith.

A young couple, arm in arm and laughing at some recently shared joke, passed her as they made their way back to the gates. Whatever they had come to do in Yildiz Park they had obviously done it. The young man was very handsome and Natalia, just for a moment, felt jealous. The young man would have suited her very nicely. Well, partially suited her anyway. There was one thing, one important thing missing.

She pushed onwards and upwards. So far, nothing, but Natalia did not lose hope. Looking deep in amongst the trees she undid two more of her blouse buttons and smiled as her rich cleavage came into view. She was breathless, both the climb and the anticipation were beginning to get to her. All she hoped was that he was young, that he’d do exactly as she said. But then he would because she’d do anything in return, anything. At least, that’s what she’d tell him.

Natalia fanned her hot face with her hand. She could see people moving about, laughing and running around amongst the trees, but they were all couples. A twinge of anxiety started to pull at the pit of her stomach, but she squashed it down. This was Yildiz Park on a Saturday evening! Yildiz Park, old abode of the Sultan’s, playground for istanbul’s lovers and adulterers. She paused for a moment to catch her breath and skimmed her eyes across the horizon.

He was leaning against a tree, his long legs crossed casually, his arms folded across his chest. His dark green uniform was a little tight which was good because it meant that she could see the outline of his muscles. She liked muscles. Also, he had - something. Yes, he’d do. He’d be fine.

Natalia swept her hair back from her face and walked towards him. As she approached he turned his head away, as if trying to avoid her eyes, but she knew that he’d seen her. He was young. Nineteen? Twenty? He had to want what she wanted, but his youthfulness probably made him shy. It wasn’t the first time she’d encountered this phenomenon.

It only meant that a slightly slower, maybe less crude approach was required. Initially.

As she drew level with him, she smiled, even though he still wasn’t looking at her. ‘Your Commander let you out for the day?’

He turned his head. His soft young face was pink;

long dark lashes hid his slanted Anatolian eyes. ‘Hello … miss.’

Natalia laughed and the boy’s thick lashes parted and flicked upwards revealing a pair of frightened soft brown eyes. He looked like a young bear, lost and scared in an unfamiliar forest.