Belshazzar's Daughter (33 page)

‘I’m going to confront him with the fact that documentary evidence exists which proves, beyond doubt, that he was a Nazi and that he was responsible for dismissing Jewish workers.’

ikmen surveyed the small pile of post on his desk, took the top envelope, looked at it and then threw it straight into the bin. ‘You’ll have to be careful though,’ he said. ‘If you really go for him, he could have a coronary.’

‘I will,’ said Suleyman, in absolute seriousness, ‘be my usual, controlled and polite self.’

‘Good.’ ikmen opened the second envelope before depositing its contents into the bin. However, the third letter was quite a different story. ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘let it never be said that the Turkish postal service is not an efficient, well-organised machine.’

Suleyman looked up. ‘Sir?’

‘I think I’ve just received my little note from Robert Cornelius.’

‘Oh!’ Ignoring the usual niceties pertaining to others’

personal mail, Suleyman stood up and scuttled quickly round to the rear of ikmen’s desk. ‘Well, open it then!’

Ikmen shot him a look.

‘Please, er, sir.’

Ikmen slid his finger under the gummed flap and pulled out a piece of paper which they both read simultaneously.

When they had finished reading, they turned to look at one another, their faces bearing the same quizzical expression.

‘I get the feeling, Suleyman,’ said Ikmen once he had fully absorbed everything that was in the letter, ‘that our Mr Cornelius has somewhat lost the plot.’

‘Yes.’

Just at that moment, the door swung open and a very red faced Commissioner Ardic entered. As usual, he launched into his subject without any preliminary niceties. ‘Well, Ikmen,’ he boomed, ‘how is it going with this Meyer thing?’

Now both standing in response to their superior’s appearance, Ikmen and Suleyman looked at each other and then

at the letter in Ikmen’s hand.

‘Ah …’

Ardic, following their gaze, stabbed his fat Havana cigar in the direction of the letter. ‘What have you got there?’

‘Ah …’

Infuriated by their joint lack of response, Ardic strode up to the two men and ripped the letter out of Ikmen’s fingers. ‘What’s this?’

‘It is a letter from someone,’ Ikmen replied, ‘who is obviously not thinking as clearly as he might, sir.’

Ardic ignored entirely what had just been said and

slowly, his lips moving throughout, read the letter for himself. As he came to the end of the missive, Ikmen whispered to Suleyman, ‘I have a very bad feeling about this.’

Ardic looked up when he had finished, his face uncharacteristically smiling. ‘Well, there’s some most fascinating

information here about our man Smits! He and Meyer

arguing over a woman and then Smits getting rid of Meyer from his job and—’

‘With respect, sir …’ Ikmen started.

‘Yes?’ Ardic waved the letter at him like a weapon. ‘What is it, Ikmen? What’s the problem now?’

‘With respect, sir, we know who wrote this letter and it was not an associate of Smits.’

‘No?’ He looked briefly at the letter again and shrugged.

‘So?’

‘The author is an Englishman, sir - the Englishman who was at the scene of the murder at—’

‘Interesting! Go on, Ikmen, I like this!’

‘Well, sir, as far as we know, this man has no connection with Smits, although I accept that he must have found out or been told some things about him. I mean we now know that it is true that he did dismiss Jewish workers—’

‘Yes.’ Ardig’s face darkened once again. ‘And I told you to act on that some time ago!’

Ikmen looked down at the floor. ‘Yes. Well. However, we are going to have to treat anything in here with extreme caution. This stuff about Meyer and Smits having a dispute over a woman is possible, but it’s new and …’

‘Yes?’

‘Look, sir,’ Ikmen continued, ‘we’ve been looking for more concrete connections other than employer/employee between Smits and Meyer for some time now and for this to come along at this time and rather neatly …’

Ardic, not uncharacteristically, grumbled dangerously under his breath. ‘If I were you, Ikmen, I’d just be grateful that this has turned up when it has and to hell with who might be doing what for whatever reason.’

‘Yes, but …’

Suddenly and explosively Ardic’s patience snapped. ‘I don’t give a fuck about any of this! I want Smits in here and I want him in here today - do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir. Suleyman was just actually going—’

‘In here, Ikmen, today! Do I make myself clear!’

‘Yes, sir, perfectly.’

Ardic flung the note down on to Ikmen’s desk. ‘And this Englishman too!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And’ - once again he stabbed his cigar in the air, this time right in Ikmen’s face - ‘and next time do not attempt to hide evidence from me! You can work on any silly little theories you no doubt have about all this in your own time. But when you are here, you are mine, do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good.’

He then turned, very quickly for such a large man, on his heel and stomped off back down the corridor. When the floor had finally finished shaking, Ikmen turned to Suleyman. ‘The only reason I can think of for Cornelius writing that letter is to protect himself.’

Suleyman looked puzzled for a moment: Ikmen appeared to be ignoring the fact that Ardic had ever been in the room. ‘Eh?’

‘Although where he got hold of these details, if they are true, and who indeed would have furnished him with them …’

‘Unless it was the girl, Natalia Gulcu. After all, her family do know Smits.’

‘True. And it is certainly a fact that Maria Gulcu was very keen for us to get on to Smits’s case. And yet to do it via Cornelius in this strange and mawkish manner …

I mean, why an associate of Smits would basically “give”

him to us like this I cannot imagine. All I can think is that Cornelius must have been out of his mind on drugs or something when he wrote this.’ He sighed a little, slightly defeated sigh. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose you’d better go and bring old Smits in.’

‘Yes.’ Suleyman moved back round to his own desk once again. ‘What about Cornelius?’

Ikmen lit a cigarette and then slowly slumped his chin into his hands. ‘I’m going to have him watched - for now.

Ardic can fuck off if he thinks I’m going to pull him in before I’ve really got him in a state. Let him wonder what’s been happening with his letter for a little while and, in the state of mind he’s in, he could just tell us what we need to know anyway.’

‘You think so?’

‘He must be biting his fingernails down to the bone by this time. I know I would be. Now’ - he stood up and rifled in his pocket for his car keys - ‘you go off and invite Smits out for a few hours while I go to the university library.’

‘Oh, you are still going then?

Ikmen visibly slumped under this, to him, obvious lack of understanding on Suleyman’s part. ‘I only ever do fifty per cent of what Ardic wants, Suleyman. You know that!

I can arrange for a man to watch Cornelius from this desk and then I’m out of here - which is what you’d better be if you don’t want to get in trouble too.’

Robert walked into the staff room just in time to catch the start of the celebrations. At first he was utterly confused.

Bottles of wine and glasses instead of coffee cups, red and gold streamers hanging from the ceiling, laughter, actual real, honest-to-goodness laughter. What the hell was going on? And why? Whatever was happening, no one had bothered to tell him about it.

Rosemary teetered over to him carrying a bottle of cheap white plonk and a glass. She was wearing a pale floral-print dress with a full skirt. It was very pretty, but even through the fog of his depression Robert realised that it was at least twenty years too young for her.

‘Wet the baby’s head, Bob?’

‘What?’

She looked confused. ‘Dieter and Hande. They’ve got a little boy, Burgiiz.’

‘Eh?’

‘Born at the German Hospital, eight o’clock last night.’

She looked deep into his eyes and inclined her head to one side. ‘You’re not with us, are you, Bob?’

He pointed in the general direction of the corridor. ‘I’ve been taking a conversation class, I …’

‘Do you want a glass of plonk, or don’t you?’ His

vagueness was irritating her. The world with its babies, its celebrations and its sorrows was going forward, but he wasn’t. Somewhere he’d got caught like a fish in a keep net, neither free nor really caged.

Rosemary suddenly lost all patience with that blank face of his and moved on to the next new arrival. Yusuf, tall, dark, twenty-five and Turkish. When they came together, Robert heard Rosemary giggle girlishly. Yusuf was just her type.

Robert crept away into the corner of the room by the television and lit a cigarette. The rank smoke made his mouth taste dry and foul. He knew his breath stank. He needed to eat something, anything. If only his stomach didn’t feel like an old walnut! Natalia had been pleased when he’d told her what he’d done. With that anxiety out of the way, surely this tightness, this sick feeling should lift!

But he knew that it wouldn’t. There were others involved besides Natalia. He tried very hard to remember whether or not he had touched the paper with his fingers at any point, but he couldn’t. He reached into his pocket for the security of that handkerchief. He’d left it at home. Not surprising really. Saturday’s sleepless night had been followed by a fitful, uncomfortable slumber on Sunday. A doze punctuated and studded with images of tiny, filthy prison cells, dirt floors. His feet tied tightly together and hauled high up above his head; a young man in police uniform, his torso bare, wielding a heavy bastinado. ‘Helping the police with their inquiries.’

But he wasn’t! Robert looked down at his feet and

tried not to feel ashamed. Anyone in his situation would have done what he did! That was love, it was just like that!

He looked at the smiling faces around him. Normal,

reasonably happy people. People who made the best of their jobs, allowed themselves to enjoy the good times without worrying about the future. People who got drunk in company, not alone.

Dieter, of course, was getting absolutely shit-faced. Well, his wife had just had his baby, he was entitled. Robert remembered Dieter’s Turkish wife, Hande. She was nice, a gentle girl, she and Dieter got on without undue complications.

Perhaps the fault lay in him, in Robert. Perhaps

it was his Britishness that was the root of their

difficulties? Maybe it was Natalia who was being reasonable?

Rosemary

came over with that sickly-sweet Yusuf, that

supposed administration assistant. That full-time gigolo!

‘Perhaps you can get him to loosen up and have a little drink,’ she said, nodding her head in Robert’s direction. ‘I think he should, don’t you?’

Yusuf smiled, exposing enough teeth for a regiment.

Robert cringed. ‘Bob! Why you don’t celebrate?’

Robert shrugged, smiling slightly. ‘Bit of a dodgy stomach, actually.’

‘Oh!’ Yusuf’s smile disappeared. Robert felt this was a shame. He had been hoping that the young man’s head might fall in half at the mouth.

‘Oh, but Robert, Turkish wine is very good for the

stomach!’

Rosemary wound her hands around one of the young

man’s hairy arms. ‘Turkish things in general are, I find, good for the body.’

They both exchanged a knowing look. Robert’s disgust suddenly bubbled over. Rosemary was old enough to be Yusuf’s mother, for Christ’s sake! And the young man was just a tart anyway!

‘Oh please!’ he found himself saying. ‘Please!’

Rosemary’s face dropped into a frown. ‘What’s the matter?

What is it?’

It was like working to a script. He didn’t want to make a scene, but he knew that he had to. The words were already waiting in his head.

‘For Christ’s sake, Rosemary, you’re old enough to be his mother! God, what are you doing, woman?’

‘What?’ Her voice was calm and low; it was obvious that she didn’t want to shout. But her tone was dangerous and her eyes were fierce.

‘Rosemary, it’s almost prostitution! You feed him, take him out a bit, wash his smelly socks for a few months and he gives you the odd screw! He’s probably got some Danish eighteen-year-old stashed at home! I’m sorry, but—’

‘What he say, Rosemary?’

‘I said—’

‘I think you’ve said enough!’ Now she had raised her voice. She didn’t care who heard any more. Her face blazed with crimson blood. ‘Just because your own love life is an utter shambles! You’re probably a dismal failure at it too!

How dare you! How dare you criticise me and the way I live my life!’

She didn’t see, nor was she going to see.

‘But, Rosemary, you’ll get hurt again, you know you will!’

He’d started shouting too, he could hear it.

Heads were starting to turn. Some people had ceased replenishing glasses in mid pour. They were bored language teachers, of course they enjoyed a good row.

‘I don’t believe you!’ Rosemary shook her head, her blonde curls bounced against Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you recently, you’re like a, a …’

‘Rosemary, I …’ He touched his own face with stained and trembling hands. He’d started feeling bad. It had been a terrible, cruel thing to say.

‘Just look at you! You’re falling to bits!’ She pulled a disgusted face and backed away. ‘You’ve always been weird, but — You don’t talk, you look like you don’t sleep, the other day you didn’t shave. God knows I’ve tried to help you, but quite honestly, I think you’re beyond it!’

He looked into Rosemary’s hurt middle-aged face and wondered: Why? Why had he said it? He hadn’t had to!

Like all that stuff with the confounded letter had been, it was optional. It occurred to Robert that perhaps in both these cases he’d done the wrong thing. In trying to do the best for someone, perhaps, just sometimes …

‘I’ll do what I want and when I want!’ She shook her head angrily. ‘Don’t you dare tell me how to live, Robert Cornelius! And don’t you dare come to my flat again, whining about your marriage fantasies! It’s pathetic! You’re pathetic!’