Deadline (3 page)

After a
moment, unable to contain her excitement any longer, Lale said, ‘I never thought I’d stay in the Pera Palas. Not me.’

Canan smiled. Was it an indulgent smile? Lale couldn’t tell. All she knew was that for a girl from her village to be able to read, much less write a book, was totally miraculous. But then if she hadn’t run away from that hot, baked nowhere to
İ
stanbul, would she have even thought about writing a book? Probably not.

The lift passed beyond the first floor and made its way towards the second. What she could see of the hotel was big, opulent and bright. Two years ago, Faruk, her husband, had taken her to Paris for a weekend. The Pera Palas reminded her of that city.

The lift stopped at the fourth floor. The porter opened the doors for her and Lale stepped out on to a sweeping oval concourse lined with guest rooms and decorated with furniture and artefacts from the hotel’s illustrious past. In the middle, a great open space was cordoned off by an ornate, metal scrollwork banister. Lale looked up and saw that the roof of the hotel was made of glass. The sun was shining and it lit up everything it touched. They walked along the right-hand side of the gallery until the porter stopped in front of room 411. As he opened it with a key card, Canan turned to Lale and said, ‘I hope you find the room inspiring, Mrs Aktar.’

‘I’m sure
I will.’

As the porter pushed the door open to reveal the antique furniture and modern fittings inside, Lale began to shake. Only very vaguely did she later recall Canan saying, ‘Dr Sarkissian sends his greetings and says that he will meet you for tea in the Kubbeli Saloon at three o’clock, provided that is convenient.’

‘It is.’

Lale moved into the room and came to a halt in front of a large, backlit photograph of a rather motherly looking woman in late middle age. Canan, smiling, said, ‘I will leave you alone now, Mrs Aktar. Enjoy the room and if you need anything, please do not hesitate to call.’

‘Thank you.’

The porter left, followed by Canan who, just before she closed the door behind her, said, ‘You know, Mrs Aktar, Agatha Christie’s room is supposed to be haunted. I hope you’re not afraid of ghosts.’

Lale looked away from Agatha Christie’s portrait for a moment and said, ‘No. Ghosts don’t bother me at all.’

‘Happy birthday, Dad!’

Ever since he’d gone to live and work in England, Çetin
İ
kmen’s eldest son, Sınan, had always celebrated his father’s birthday by phoning up and joyfully shouting his good wishes at him. It was touching, if annoying, especially if it happened when he was in his office.

‘Yes
, thank you, Sınan,’ he said. ‘It’s very good of you to remember.’

Ay
ş
e Farsako
ğ
lu, who was fully aware that it was
İ
kmen’s birthday but knew better than to allude to it, looked up at her superior’s disgruntled face and suppressed a smile. As far back as she could remember he had been a lugubrious man. Devoted to his wife Fatma and their children, a loyal and generous friend, he was nevertheless not one for outward displays of joy or big celebrations. Ay
ş
e smiled in his direction.

İ
kmen ended his call from his son and looked at her. ‘Yes?’ he inquired.

‘Oh, I was just feeling jealous about your stay at the Pera Palas,’ she said.

‘Were you?’
İ
kmen
sniffed disconsolately. ‘If it’s any help, if I could give my ticket to you, I would. I fail to see what all the fuss is about. My daughter Hulya got married at the Pera Palas.’

‘But, sir, it’s had a total refit since then,’ Ay
ş
e said. ‘It’s really fabulous now.’

‘You’ve been there?’

‘With Sergeant Melik,’ she said. ‘We looked at the ballroom as a venue for our wedding but . . . But it was too expensive.’

‘Huh!’
İ
kmen grunted. ‘These sorts of places are always the same. They’ll give a prominent man like Krikor Sarkissian the whole place for a night free of charge—’

‘But, sir, it’s for his charity, not for Dr Sarkissian personally,’ she said. ‘I think it’s very generous, especially so close to New Year when they must have so many requests for accommodation.’

‘Mmm.’
İ
kmen was unconvinced. ‘Anyway, no one needs their wedding to be wildly elaborate.’ His certainly hadn’t been. ‘I think the venue you have chosen is very nice. I’m looking forward to it enormously.’

He wasn’t and she knew it. But she was grateful and honoured that he and his wife had agreed to come. The small boutique hotel in Sultanahmet she and
İ
zzet had chosen was pretty and had wonderful views of the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmara from its terrace. But it wasn’t
grand
. It didn’t make a statement and it wouldn’t impress Inspector Mehmet Süleyman even though he wasn’t coming. Although why
that
bothered her . . . But it did and she knew full well why it did.

‘What time are you leaving to go to the hotel?’ Ay
ş
e asked to distract herself from issues she didn’t want to think about.

‘Six,’
İ
kmen said. The whole horrible social thing started with a champagne reception in the Orient Bar at seven thirty. Before that he had to check into his room and climb into the awful tuxedo that Arto had made him hire. Mehmet Süleyman was going to look like a god in his tux, of course. He was handsome.
İ
kmen knew that he would look like a skinny, rumpled old peasant wearing his ‘best’ suit for his son’s wedding. But then he was a peasant, albeit a very well-educated urban one.

‘I won’t
be happy until I’m back at this desk tomorrow morning,’
İ
kmen continued.

‘After a wonderful hotel breakfast, I hope, sir,’ Ay
ş
e said. ‘When I went to look at the ballroom, one of the catering managers showed us the breakfast menu. They have everything. Nut preserve, can you imagine it? Things you’ve never heard of! Circassian smoked cheese . . .’

‘Oh, well, I must make a point not to miss that under any circumstances,’
İ
kmen said.

Ay
ş
e knew he was being sarcastic.

‘But at least the Pera Palas has one advantage,’
İ
kmen said.

‘What’s that?’

‘On certain floors you are still allowed to smoke in the rooms,’ he said. ‘I’m on the fourth floor where smoking is permitted.’ Then he smiled. ‘Now that is worth, in my opinion, many, many smoked Circassian cheeses.’

Dr Krikor
Sarkissian was much thinner and had a lot more hair than his younger brother Arto. Unlike the pathologist, his patients were the living, if only just. Drug addicts and alcoholics. In spite of the hike in alcohol prices introduced by the current, Islamically influenced government, people still routinely used drink or drugs or both to escape their troubles. Life in the big city was fast and tough and could be stressful, especially if one was poor, even more so if one was an immigrant – Roma kids from Bulgaria and Romania, Russian and Czech prostitutes, and now also refugees from places like Iraq and Syria which, some said, was only just managing to keep a lid on internal dissent. They came, they stayed, they worked – or not – and sometimes, often, they resorted to alcohol or heroin just to keep themselves together.

Krikor had started his charitable foundation, in the form of a free addiction clinic, back in 1998. He’d obtained government support as well as gifts, stipends and the proceeds from numerous fund-raising activities from companies and wealthy individuals. But in the past twelve years, the problems as well as the numbers that the clinic had to deal with had increased. Now more money was needed and so he had used his own and his friends’ considerable influence to organise what should be his most valuable fund-raiser yet. He’d started negotiations with the owners of the Pera Palas a whole year in advance of the refit which had finally been completed in September. Eventually a date, 12 December, had been selected and the hotel had agreed to host the event free of charge. Drinks and a meal would be served, which would be paid for by the guests. Certain key members of Pera Palas staff would work the event for free (casual labour would make up the rest of the staffing), as would Turkey’s principal crime writer, Lale Aktar. The young company of actors would be paid.

Blonde
and slim and groomed, Lale Aktar walked towards Krikor across the parquet floor of the Kubbeli Saloon and he stood up to shake her hand.

‘Lale, it’s so nice to see you again,’ he said. ‘I really do appreciate you taking the time to do this.’

She smiled. ‘It’s my pleasure,’ she said. They both sat down.

‘Would you like afternoon tea?’ he asked.

She looked at the vast display of French patisserie, macaroons, Turkish pastries and sandwiches on display and then said, ‘No, I’d just like a cup of tea, thank you, Krikor.’

‘Are you sure?’ He was too embarrassed to order the full Pera Palas afternoon tea experience just for himself but he knew she would not change her mind. When Lale Kanlı, as she had been then, had first come to
İ
stanbul she had been a rather overweight girl with very bad teeth. But Krikor’s old friend, the music promoter Faruk Aktar, Lale’s husband, had taken care of both those issues. There was no way Lale would jeopardise her sleek new look.

Krikor ordered
just tea for both of them and then Lale said, ‘Faruk sends his best wishes.’

‘It’s a shame he can’t be here too.’

She shrugged. ‘He’s looking for the next big club act. Somewhere down in the Hatay.’

‘Young people make music everywhere,’ Krikor said.

‘And so here we are,’ Lale said. ‘I Googled that theatre company we’re having tonight.’

He smiled. ‘The Bowstrings.’

‘Yes. How gruesome to name yourself after an Ottoman instrument of execution.’

‘Ah, but the bowstring was only used on princes,’ Krikor said. ‘Not for the likes of you or me. I think the name is great for a company that specialises in murder mystery evenings.’

‘Their literature says that they put on a sort of play, where a murder or murders are committed, and then the audience have to try and solve it.’

‘Yes.’

The waiter arrived with their tea, which came in a silver teapot with bone china cups. When he’d finished serving them, he took a vast plate of chocolate pastries over to a large table of Russians who, between them, took the lot. Krikor envied them.

‘The
way we’re going to do it is we’ll split our guests up into investigative teams,’ Krikor said. ‘One team will be led by an
İ
stanbul police inspector called Mehmet Süleyman and the other one will be led by you.’

Lale laughed. ‘Eek! Up against a real policeman.’

‘It’s just a bit of fun,’ Krikor said, knowing full well that if Mehmet Süleyman’s team lost to one led by a crime writer, it would drive him insane. ‘It doesn’t matter who solves the crime as long as it is solved. You know Burak Fisekçi?’

‘Your assistant. Yes.’

‘Well, the murder mystery element of the evening is actually his baby and so he will speak to you before we begin later this evening. He’s much more au fait with it all than I am.’

‘But the play or whatever you call it will happen after the meal?’

‘Most of it, yes,’ Krikor said. ‘I didn’t want one of those stupid little murder mystery dinner things where someone just drops apparently “dead” beside the cheeseboard. This is a proper puzzle that you and the other guests will have to think about. People are donating large sums of money to the clinic, I have to give them something decent in return.’

‘So, no
pressure, as the Americans say,’ Lale said.

Krikor laughed. ‘Not on you, I hope, Lale,’ he said. ‘It is, like I said, meant to be fun.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it will be, Krikor,’ she said. ‘I’m really looking forward to it. I do hope that we manage to raise the money you need and more too.’

Krikor sipped his tea. ‘Well, your time, and I know you have so little of it these days, is appreciated, as is Faruk’s considerable contribution.’

‘We both like to do what we can.’

A waiter went by with a tray of cakes so heartbreakingly beautiful, Krikor had to actively stop his mouth from watering.

‘You do such a lot for the disadvantaged in this city,’ he said.

She lowered her eyes, her face suddenly grave. ‘Only because I’ve been where they are,’ she said. ‘I’ve been poor and homeless and I know only too well about the temptations that can lead such people astray. If it hadn’t been for Faruk . . .’

‘Your talent would have shone through anyway!’

But she didn’t respond to Krikor’s jolliness with a smile. Instead, she said, ‘I don’t think that’s really true. You know, Krikor, my father was sent to prison when I was ten and he’s still there. People like me do not get anywhere without people like Faruk and you. It just doesn’t happen. We have to claw our way out.’

He was
on the same floor as Çetin
İ
kmen although not, thankfully, in the same room. Mehmet Süleyman looked around his elegant magnolia and grey deluxe hotel room and lit a cigarette. He opened the French windows on to his balcony and the sound of the early evening traffic swept in at him like a noisy wind. The sun was just setting over the Golden Horn and the city looked both exciting and comforting to him. He’d never lived anywhere except
İ
stanbul and for all its massive increase in size and population, it was still essentially the same city he had been born into back in the 1960s. And the Pera Palas Hotel had been part of that. As a child, his mother had brought himself and his brother Murad to the hotel with her when she met her friends for afternoon tea. Back then it had been a neglected, slightly dusty place populated by rather odd foreign tourists and members of
İ
stanbul’s faded Ottoman remnants – like his family. He and Murad had usually amused themselves going up and down in the antique lift. The lift attendant, an elderly man, as Mehmet recalled him, had been both very patient with them and appalled.

Mehmet finished his cigarette out on
the balcony and then went back into his room. There was a fabulous shower in the white marble bathroom and so, once he’d hung his suit up in the wardrobe, he took his clothes off and washed. The pressure of the hot water on his face and body was so much more vigorous than that of the one he had at home. His parents’ bathroom was ancient and scruffy and neither he nor they could afford to do anything about it. Quite apart from the maintenance he paid to his ex-wife for his son Yusuf, Mehmet had to run a car, pay rent to his parents and try to have some sort of life in what was becoming an expensive city. There was no money left over for bathrooms.