Belshazzar's Daughter (41 page)

‘Yes.’ Suleyman lowered his head and looked into the depths of his glass. The horrid brew seemed almost to leer back at him. Like an evil omen.

‘Of course,’ ikmen continued wearily, ‘if I hadn’t ordered Ferhat back we wouldn’t be in this situation now.’

‘You weren’t to know that Cornelius would go off sick.’

ikmen sighed. ‘No. But if only the swine had gone back to his apartment! I mean what is he doing out there wandering about if he’s supposed to be ill!’

‘I don’t know.’

They sat in silence for a few moments, both men pondering upon what might have been had fate not placed yet

another obstacle in their path.

It was Suleyman who came out of this grim reverie first.

‘But still,’ he said, ‘at least we now know that Cornelius and Natalia Gulcu are definitely more than just friends.’

ikmen laughed. ‘Well we always knew that - at least I did.’

‘Oh, yes, but the kapici was very graphic about it all: the fights, the loud sex’ - he wrinkled his nose up just very slightly - ‘the shamelessness of that girl.’

‘Yes, well …’ ikmen paused for just a moment to light a cigarette. ‘You asked at the Gulcu house, I take it?’

‘Yes, but he wasn’t there. The old man with the beard answered the door and was, it must be said, really very emphatic on that point.’

‘Mmm.’ ikmen narrowed his eyes, his suspicions instantly aroused.

‘But then what could I do?’ Suleyman continued. ‘As you said yourself, we don’t have enough proper evidence to arrest Cornelius and I had no authorisation to search the Gulcu property.’

‘Then perhaps that’s the next step,’ ikmen said.

‘What, you mean search the house for Cornelius now?’

‘No. No, he isn’t there, I’m pretty certain of that.

But …’

Suleyman used this pause in order to push his foul drink to one side. ‘But what, sir?’

‘But that canister, or whatever, that held the acid has to be somewhere, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And if one of them did kill Meyer then it’s likely that it’s still in the Gulcus’ house.’

Suleyman looked doubtful. ‘Yes, but they’d have to be mad to still have it now, surely!’

ikmen smiled. ‘Ah, but then they are mad, aren’t they, Suleyman? You’ve seen how they dress, how they live.

The Gulcus are not quite of this world and I suspect they don’t really appreciate the rules of the world as the rest of us do.’

‘Granted, but …’

‘But what?’

He shrugged. ‘Well, I still don’t see why they would have killed Meyer. I still don’t get the motive.’

ikmen tipped what was left of his drink down his throat and then banged the glass back down upon the table. ‘Well, you’re not alone there! And until Mrs Gulcu, Mr Smits or both of them give up some of their secrets we can only guess about that I’m afraid. I do, however, believe that Meyer’s supposed involvement in an execution all those years ago does have something to do with it. I mean, if you do away with people, I imagine that after such a great passage of time as we are dealing with here the memory or hurt, or whatever, goes away. But not so for Meyer. Not even the drink could keep his guilt at bay. It’s like it was on his mind all the time, informing every self-destructive thing that he did. And, as I’ve said before, it is my belief that someone kept it well in his mind too.’

‘Yes, but why? I mean particularly with regard to Smits, why keep Meyer guilty for all that time and to what end?’

‘I can only assume,’ said ikmen, ‘for reasons we do not yet understand. It is, I believe, all to do with the three of them having “things” on each other.’

‘Like what?’

ikmen shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Meyer’s old crime,

Smits’s guilty Nazi past. Mrs Gulcu? Well …’

‘Her illegal status?’ Suleyman offered,

ikmen took another pull from his glass. ‘Oh, no, I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘You and I both saw how bothered she was when that subject came up in conversation and it wasn’t very much. Whatever else she may be, Mrs Gulcu is not a respecter of bureaucracy.’

‘But…’ Suleyman noticed that ikmen was looking down at his empty glass now and thought that perhaps he should give him a chance to replenish it. ikmen, however, had other ideas.

‘But what, Suleyman?’ he urged.

‘But why would either Smits or Mrs Gulcu kill Meyer now? I mean what is the connection?’

ikmen threw his cigarette end down on to the floor and then ground it out with his foot. ‘That I don’t know,’ he said, ‘but unless something either concrete or of a forensic nature turns up soon, I’m really afraid we’re going to lose this one.’

Suleyman let out a long, weary breath. ‘This is a nightmare.

And like you I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll ever

find out what’s going on, what has gone on, who is telling the truth …’

‘Well, if I have anything to do with it we will.’ ikmen smiled suddenly and brilliantly - it was typical of him, this sudden switch from deep despair to over-confident optimism, in almost less than a heartbeat. He pointed to Suleyman’s nearly full glass. ‘Can I get you something else?

Something that won’t make you go blind?’

As he watched the last glorious, cherubic countenance curl up amongst the flames and turn to ashes, Reinhold Smits wiped one small tear from his eye. It had been a long, long time since he’d actually felt the pressure of a little girl’s skin against his own and yet had he been asked to name any of those children he could have done so. But it had to be better this way and with the poor, tattered examples that Leonid had held over his head for all these years now also consigned to a fiery grave, there was finally an end to the matter. Now he was where he had always, in reality, resided, totally and completely alone - all the crutches removed, all the self-delusory stories told.

A sharp rap on his door announced the arrival of Wilkinson.

Smits, wearily, got up from his place in front of the fire and started to make his way back to his bed.

‘Come,’ he said as he moved, so painfully, across the room. As the butler entered, Smits could tell by the expression on his face that he looked even more ghastly than usual. But then it had been a long day. As usual, however, he did not allude to anything of a personal nature with his staff.

‘You can take that book back down to the library now,’ he said, pointing to the volume that rested on his writing table.

‘Lay it out at the page indicated on my desk, if you will.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The butler glided soundlessly across to the table and took the book lovingly between his gloved fingers.

‘Oh

and there’s a letter you might deliver for me also, beside the book.’

The servant picked up the pink perfumed envelope and looked at the information on the front. ‘Do you wish me to do this now or in the morning?’

‘Now, if you please.’ Smits eased himself painfully back into his bed. ‘Tell Muhammed he’s to take you in the car.’

‘Very well, sir.’ He made to leave but Smits momentarily prevented him.

‘Oh, Wilkinson

‘Sir?’

‘Just one more thing.’ He moved his pillows slightly in order to be more comfortable. ‘Have you ever wondered, having worked for me for so many years, what it must be like to be as wealthy as I am?’

For a moment, the butler looked totally nonplussed, but then, regaining his customary savoir-faire, he replied, ‘Well, yes, it has crossed my mind, sir.’

Smits smiled. ‘And?’

‘I think that in some ways, it must be really rather nice, sir.’

Smits nodded. ‘Yes, I thought so.’

The butler put the book under his arm and slipped the letter into the pocket of his tailcoat. ‘Well, sir, if that will be all …’

‘That will be all, Wilkinson, thank you.’

He bowed before he left. ‘I’ll see you in the morning then, sir.’

‘Goodnight, Wilkinson.’

‘Goodnight, sir.’

Smits didn’t move again until he heard the engine of his car start up in the drive outside. Then, with one uncharacteristically swift movement, he opened the drawer of his bedside cabinet and took out what had been waiting in there for him all that day. He knew that he would need to move quickly now or his nerve would desert him.

It is said that a criminal will always return to the scene of his crime. It is the sort of cliche that causes those too sophisticated actually to work in the law-enforcement profession themselves to laugh. But it didn’t have that effect upon Robert Cornelius. As he watched the moon rise above the dark bulk of the Kariye Museum, mirth was the last emotion that motivated his thoughts.

He had returned to Balat almost unconsciously. It had all started innocently enough with the simple desire he’d had earlier that afternoon to get drunk. One drink in the first bar had led to others in other bars and it wasn’t until he was on his seventh or eighth gin and tonic that he’d realised where his seemingly random wanderings were leading him. At first the sight of Meyer’s grim apartment block had come as a shock: how and when had he got back there? But as he looked from it to the Kariye and then back again he realised that somehow it was meant. He didn’t know why, perhaps it was simply the way the alcohol was acting upon his brain. By the light of the round, bright moon he fancied he saw her again, pressed close up against the wall, ready to run. But he blinked and saw that it wasn’t her, it was a policeman, complete with submachine-gun, looking bored and leaning against the entrance to the stairwell. He’d seen a lot of them since he entered the quarter, but none that he recognised and certainly not Ikmen. Their presence did, however, bring home the fact that for him to be wandering around Balat at night was probably not a good idea. If Ikmen were to find out it could lead him to certain damaging but understandable conclusions. There was, however, another bar just around the corner, he’d seen it once before when he’d worked late at the school, and Robert desperately needed another drink.

The police guard outside Meyer’s apartment appeared to look straight at him and cleared his throat as if making ready to speak. Robert put one unsteady foot in front of the other and moved very carefully in the direction of the bar. The policeman took a step back at this point and to Robert’s relief seemed to melt into the shadow beneath one of the first-floor balconies. Perhaps he too felt that slightly eerie sensation that had come over Robert when he’d first looked around and discovered where he was a few minutes earlier.

The quarter was certainly quiet, but then it always was the Jews didn’t seem to share the Turks’ love of blaring radios and maximum-volume televisions. But wasn’t there something else?

He turned into the little alleyway where he remembered seeing the bar and peered ahead of him. Here, because of the height of the buildings on either side, the clean white rays of the moon couldn’t penetrate and where balconies overhung the street even the night sky was blotted out.

The intense darkness was similar to that experienced when a tube train stops in a tunnel and the lights go out. Robert hated that feeling too. But if he wanted a drink he’d have to go forward into the blackness and just take his chances.

Either that or he’d have to turn away and leave the quarter altogether and he didn’t want to do that. Not yet.

As he staggered forward he experienced a sharp rush of sour bile entering his throat and he gagged noisily. Too much booze already - as if that mattered. But then not much did any more. He was a bad teacher; he’d never really been cut out for the job, never really liked it. He’d just sort of drifted into it, like most of the things he’d done, except of course his relationships. That was what was so galling. Conscious or unconscious, he always seemed to make a mess of everything. Perhaps it all came down to lack of self-esteem, his anticipation that everything was always going to go wrong affecting actual events.

Just ahead of him a door opened and a hand threw a

squawking cat out into the sultry night. For a moment a tiny part of the street was illuminated, giving him a depressing view of the piles of rubbish heaped high against the edge of the pavement. The door closed and Robert knew that he was alone with the cat, wherever it was.

It was when he was about halfway down the unnamed

and unknowable street that he heard the music. At first he thought it was Turkish, but as his ears became accustomed to the sound he realised that the singer, a woman, was performing in a language that was completely unknown to him. Perhaps it was Ladino, the queer Hebrew/Spanish dialect native to the district. Whatever it was was clearly oriental. Even after all this time the half-tones still jarred uneasily against his ordered European ears. It was good though because the advent of music probably meant that he was on the right track for the bar. He hoped so, he was having odd thoughts and no longer wanted to be alone.

It wasn’t like him, this irrational rage against a poor old dead Jew he’d never known. Logically he knew whom he should be angry with and it wasn’t Leonid Meyer. But the anger persisted. Everything had been all right up until the point he’d seen Natalia running away from Meyer’s apartment. Progress with her had not been either fast or easy, but …

Another policeman stepped suddenly out of a doorway and pushed roughly past him. Robert turned and watched him strut arrogantly on his way towards the Kariye. For a second he wondered why the officer hadn’t challenged him, they often did late at night, but then he remembered the invisibility of drunks. People always gave them a wide berth, even sometimes policemen. It was less hassle to leave them where they were than to bring them in. It saved on cell space and nine times out of ten it was the more pleasant option.

Robert turned back and noticed a small string of red and green Christmas lights strung across the top of a doorway to his left. That was where the music was coming from, and as he drew closer he could smell the sharp, oily aroma of cheap raki.

It was an odd notion, a Jews’ bar. Years before, when he was still at university, Robert had been to a Jewish wedding in a place called Forte Hall, just to the north of London.

It had been a peculiar affair and had been almost entirely devoted to the consumption of large amounts of food. Of course there had been alcohol, lots of it, but nobody had bothered much with it. He reached the dark and, as he could see even by the meagre light of the Christmas bulbs, filthy door, and pushed it gently with his foot. It wasn’t locked and creaked open easily. Light the colour of thin rose wine spilt out into the street and across Robert’s shoes, closely followed by a puff of dense greenish smoke. There was noise inside, the woman still singing and the sound of deep masculine voices conversing in a tongue that sounded both hard and liberally laced with thick mucus.