Belshazzar's Daughter (7 page)

But really such excuses were puny. Close investigation would no doubt reveal - what? Names and faces from many and various points in time became confused, missorted, like jumbled cards in his head. He had to stick with the bad stomach! That was a fact, all the rest was— He made himself look at his wrist.

The class was over. Thank Christ! His musing subsided into the deep feeling of relief that swept across him.

‘All right, everybody,’ he said. ‘Books away now.’

There was a frantic scraping of chair legs against the floor as ten suddenly animated teenagers leapt from their seats and made towards the door of the classroom, their faces smiling, voices chattering merrily as they pushed past him.

Robert was reminded of the Bible story about Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. He didn’t understand. Surely learning was supposed to be a pleasurable and mind-expanding experience?

‘Complete the exercise on page nine at home!’ he shouted above the general multilingual babble. Then added in a barely audible voice, ‘If any of you can be arsed.’

The students left the classroom. The more academically inclined would probably return for one or two of the afternoon sessions. The rest, Robert knew, would repair to Taksim Square and the exotic delights of McDonald’s.

There they could do what they did best: spend money, imbibe plastic Americana of the worst kind and show each other their jewellery. Very like their English counterparts in fact, although probably minus the flick knives. Just like teenagers all over the world.

Robert gathered his papers, pens and textbooks together and put them into his briefcase. There had been very little point taking them out in the first place, but … He locked his case with its small brass key and leant heavily on the top of his desk. Even if he did go and see Natalia, how the hell was he going to broach the subject of Balat? Even to him it sounded ridiculous. What business was it of his anyway? The decision to lie to the police about Natalia’s presence had been his and his alone. She had seen him.

She must have done. Logically, if there had been anything, well, dodgy, she would have contacted him. He was after all her lover, and weren’t lovers supposed to share the bad as well as the good?

Robert Cornelius picked up his briefcase, checked his pockets for cigarettes and made his way purposefully towards the staff room. Perhaps half an hour of undiluted cricket scores and the relative merits of Turkish manhood would cure his ridiculous internal wrangling.

Timur ikmen was less a person and more a total experience.

If Mehmet Suleyman thought Cetin ikmen was a

larger-than-life character, the Inspector’s father had to rank amongst the immortals.

The drive back to the station was interesting and not just because ikmen’s old Mercedes handled like a dead cow.

Like his son, ikmen senior existed in his own private smoke cloud. Tiny, bent double and cruelly twisted by arthritis, Timiir ikmen reminded Suleyman of the old, gnarled olive tree that stood at the bottom of his grandparents’ garden, ikmen senior, however, unlike the tree, talked continuously.

It wasn’t just idle chatter either. Much of it was prurient and, at times, downright offensive.

The questions started as soon as Fatma ikmen eased him, his teeth gritted against pain, into the car.

‘So what do you do with yourself when you’re not on duty then, young man?’

The old, generally, liked to hear that the young were behaving themselves. Suleyman’s reply was quite truthful too. Reading, the occasional visit to the opera, accompanying his father and grandfather to the mosque whenever

duty permitted. He might have guessed that the old man would not react in the normal manner; after all, he was an ikmen. Suleyman was to regret his own rash and foolhardy honesty.

‘Good-looking young man like you! It’s a waste!’

‘Pardon?’

‘A waste! It’s boring! How old are you?’

‘Twenty-eight, sir.’

‘Virgin?’

“I beg your pardon, sir?’

“I said, are you a virgin?’

‘Well, I, er …’

Sex was not the only subject upon which the old man expressed strong views during their short journey to the police station. Religion (‘don’t understand it’) and contemporary Turkish politics (‘an aberration’) also got an airing.

By the end of the journey, Mehmet Suleyman was left in no doubt as to the character and opinions of his passenger.

He was an atheist, an anarchist, an intellectual

snob and a libertine. He also possessed marvellous spirit in the face of his ‘bastard illness’. He still wanted to do things: travel, learn new skills, meet women. Not women his own age - only young and pretty ones. It occurred to Suleyman that Timur ikmen did not so much live life as intimidate it.

When they arrived at the police station, they found Cetin ikmen waiting for them on the pavement. As the car came to a halt he opened the door and peered inside. Suleyman’s pale face spoke eloquently about his recent experiences.

‘Ah, I see he’s been talking at you,’ said ikmen as he lifted the old man from his seat.

‘Can I help, sir?’ Suleyman offered.

ikmen was just about to reply in the affirmative, but the old man pre-empted him. ‘I’m not a filing cabinet!’

ikmen sighed deeply. ‘It’s all right, Suleyman, I can manage.’ He moved his head close to his sergeant’s ear and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘The best thing you can do is make sure there’s a glass of tea ready up there for the old bastard.’

The very confused young policeman, somewhat thankfully, left the ikmens to their own devices.

The old man looked at the shakily executed script in the address book and frowned. Slowly he inserted one twisted claw into the top pocket of his jacket and withdrew an ancient pair of spectacles. Rather than put them on, he simply held them up to his eyes and peered.

‘All right, Cetin?’ he said.

ikmen took a pen from the middle of the mess on his desk and opened his notebook. ‘Yes, OK.’

‘Right, the first one is Rabbi SJmon, 33, Draman Caddesi, Balat. Then, er …’ He peered very closely, moving his spectacles down until they almost touched the paper below.

‘Maria Gulcu, 12, Karadeniz Sokak, Beyoglu. Um, Sara Blatsky, 25/6, Gtirsel Sokak, Balat, and finally, §eker Textiles, Celaleddin Rumi Caddesi, Uskudar.’

‘Telephone numbers?’

The old man looked down at the page again. ‘For the Rabbi and the textile company, yes. Look here.’

ikmen peered at the top set of figures and carefully copied them down on to the back of his hand. He then picked up the telephone receiver and jammed it hard against the side of his head.

‘I’ll ring this Rabbi §imon right now,’ he said and then, waving his hand in the general direction of his two companions, added, ‘You two amuse yourselves in whatever foul way your hearts desire.’

Timiir ikmen raised one eyebrow and said something that Suleyman couldn’t quite catch - although the chances of the word not being an oath of some sort, he knew, were quite slim. For a few moments silence reigned as the old man and the young policeman both tried to decide what and what might not be suitable topics for conversation.

As soon as ikmen received a reply on the telephone, he turned away from the others in order to obtain some privacy.

One long, nicotine-stained finger tapped down hard against the cover of the little address book, waking the hot and slightly soporific Suleyman from his reverie.

‘That’s a curious combination,’ he said, ‘that foreign first name, “Maria”, coupled with the Turkish surname.’

“I suppose so.’ Suleyman hadn’t really thought about it until now. ‘But then there are a lot of mixed marriages these days. Could even be one of the victim’s relatives.

He was, apparently, Russian by birth and considering that no relatives have come forward so far—’

‘How old was this person?’ asked Timur.

‘The neighbours seemed to think that he was about

ninety.’

The old man smiled sadly. ‘Old enough to be my father.’

‘Yes.’ It was a curious, if not, in view of Timur ikmen’s extremely raddled appearance, a disturbing thought. ‘Yes, I suppose he would have been.’

‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

Suleyman frowned questioningly. ‘Mr ikmen?’

‘Why anyone would want to kill anything that old.

I’m nearly seventy-three and I’m totally fucking useless.

But somebody of my father’s vintage …’ He shrugged his shoulders helplessly as his son replaced the telephone receiver with a satisfied grunt.

‘Rabbi §imon will see us at nine-thirty tomorrow morning, Suleyman.’

‘Good.’

ikmen turned to face his father and smiled. ‘Well, thank you for coming in and helping us with that bit of translation, Timur. It’s saved me a lot of time and aggravation.’

Timiir looked at the grubby floor beneath his feet and sighed. “I suppose you want me to go now, don’t you?’

‘Well, I’ve got things to do. Check up on the other three names. Then, after that, I must contact Arto …’ He looked at his watch. ‘Can’t afford to sit about at the start of an investigation. Your clues are like women, you have to grab them quickly before they cool down. Suleyman will drive you home again—’

‘How is Arto Sarkissian?’

ikmen lit a cigarette and wordlessly passed it to his father.

‘Oh, same as ever. Fat, overworked … you know.’

Timur smiled. His two sons had grown up with the

Sarkissian children, Arto and Krikor. Every summer for fifteen years the two families had gone on holiday together.

Wonderful holidays. There had been other benefits too. The Sarkissian boys had always been studious. Their diligence had rubbed off on Timur’s elder son, Halil, the accountant.

Cetin, on the other hand …

Timiir stretched to the side and tapped Suleyman on the elbow. ‘Do you know Arto Sarkissian?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘A fine doctor. My son grew up with him. Inseparable, they were, as children.’ He became gloomy and he showed it. ‘Pity he didn’t follow his example when it came to choosing a career!’

‘Timur!’

Suleyman cleared his throat. He didn’t know what to say really. One could never be sure when the old man was joking and when he wasn’t. Cruel jest, it seemed to Suleyman, was the principal form of communication between this father and son. He didn’t begin to understand and had the feeling that he wasn’t really meant to either.

ikmen interrupted his sergeant’s musings by handing him the car keys once again. ‘Here, you drive him back. I’ll help you down the stairs with him and then I must get on!’ He slipped his arms gently around his father’s waist and hauled him slowly to his feet. ‘Come on, Timur, time to go.’

‘Oh, wonderful!’ said the old man, his voice dripping with what sounded very much like resentment. ‘Back to your lovely wife and beautiful children!’

‘You love it!’

Suleyman followed the ikmens out of the office and down towards the stairs. He watched the two men descend, locked in an embrace, both swearing loudly and copiously at each other.

He saw her, but she didn’t see him. The window, although only dimly and inadequately lit, threw back a yellow, glittering glow into the tiny cubby-hole shop behind. It was well stocked. Mr Avedissian, her employer, made sure of that. The stock wasn’t just anything either. All was gold without exception and the workmanship was

of the finest, from the tiniest signet ring right up to the great Egyptian-style collar that took centre stage in the latest display. The patrons of Avedissian’s were, with few exceptions, wealthy and powerful. Only the best was good enough. Not surprising that this minute cupboard-like shop had attracted Robert’s attention all those months ago when he had been searching for some jewellery for his mother. Not for tourists, Avedissian’s; there was not even the slightest whiff of popular influence upon its glittering, high-class shelves. It had been just what he wanted, and so had the assistant who had served him. Just what he had, and still, wanted.

He looked at her dark, delicately sculptured profile, her smooth skin lit and warmed by the soft iridescent gleam bouncing off the precious items around her. A princess in her treasury, bathing her beauty in the warm fires of great wealth. A thick black curl flopped forward on to her broad forehead. One long, perfectly manicured hand pushed it away, back over on to the crown of her head.

The movement was lazy, sensual, typically her. She was arranging a display of rings, her face set, intent upon the task in hand. Absorbed, and yet he knew that at least part of her mind would be elsewhere. Maintaining that perfect profile, sustaining the most alluring stance possible, took concentration. A very high degree of self-absorption, self-love.

He pushed the door open. Glowing colours assailed his eyes. Before he found Avedissian’s it had not occurred to him that gold could be so variable. White gold, cold and hard as silver; red gold, warm, fiery, sexual; yellow workaday, familiar gold; and then, most mysterious of all, green gold, unnatural to the eye, jealous, evil. Green gold was Natalia’s favourite.

The bell above the door clanked rustily as he entered and she looked up. Enormous, round, brown eyes, ringed with black kohl, protected by lashes so thick they were almost feathers. Her mouth opened slightly, but she did not smile.

He had not expected her to. He was a trespasser, poaching upon her time, the space in which she did ‘other things’.

The unknown country of her life without him.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello,’ she replied, her heavily accented English stiff, devoid of emotion. ‘What you do here, Robert?’

‘I came to see you.’

Her face didn’t change. Beautiful, severe, a little nervous even, he thought. She put the ring display on to a shelf behind the counter.

‘I wondered if you wanted to come for a quick drink.

. The ring display fastened to the shelf with a sharp click.

She turned back and looked at him again, her neck held high, elongated and arrogant.

‘Is Tuesday.’

As usual when faced with her displeasure, he fumbled his words clumsily. It irritated her, he knew. She hated him in apologetic, doormat mode, and yet what did she expect? Her eyes were ice, they offered no help or support to their lowly struggling victim.