Deadline (6 page)

A strong smell of tobacco accompanied by a cough heralded the arrival of
İ
kmen. He stopped at Süleyman’s table on his way back to his own and sat down next to Krikor. ‘A woman in a severe black gown is sitting in my chair,’ he said.

‘Oh, that’s one of the actors,’ Krikor said. ‘You should go back to your table, Çetin. This is when we get some clues
about the personalities and problems or issues that surround our characters. You should go back and listen.’

‘She’s in my chair.’

‘Well, there’s another, empty chair at the table,’ Süleyman said.

‘And it’s not as if you’re actually eating, are you, Çetin?’ Krikor added. ‘I don’t think I’ve actually seen you put food in your mouth since we were children.’

But then
İ
kmen got to the real point of his visit to their table. ‘Krikor,’ he said, ‘did you order anything to be delivered here tonight?’

‘No,’ Krikor said. ‘Why?’

İ
kmen told him about the man at the concierge’s desk and Krikor said, ‘Oh, I expect it was something for the hotel. Unless a guest has had something delivered . . .’ He shrugged.

But
İ
kmen still wasn’t easy about it.

The far end of the Kubbeli Saloon was just far enough away from the dining area for Alp to be able to talk in private. Söner Erkan, who was playing his brother Yusuf Effendi, was hassling about money. This wasn’t unusual.

‘Söner, we’ll get paid tomorrow when the performance is over,’ Alp said.

‘Bowstrings, the company account, will be paid, not me! How
am I supposed to get home tomorrow with no money?’ the boy asked. He was an eighteen-year-old student who lived in a shared flat in Ortaköy and, in spite of having rich parents, he was always hard up for cash.

‘You use your Akbil to get on a tram,’ Alp said. ‘Then get a bus.’

‘I’ve got no money on my Akbil,’ he said.

Alp sighed. To let his Akbil,
İ
stanbul transport pass, run down to nothing was typical of Söner. He never had any money because he spent it all on clothes and entertainment. Alp, at twenty-three, was a little older and wiser and he really wanted the Bowstrings to be successful. But Söner, in spite of his avowed love of acting, his obvious talent and the funding he’d brought to the project via his rich parents and their friends, was a liability.

‘I’ll pay you as soon as the money has gone into the account,’ Alp said. ‘And in the meantime I’ll lend you some money to put on your Akbil.’

‘I need cigarettes and some food too.’

‘All right, I’ll lend you enough for a pack of cigarettes and something to eat. But you must get back to the guests. We have a job to do, Söner. We need to be professional.’

‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ Söner said. ‘Bowstrings wouldn’t even exist without me. You only run things because
I let you, Alp. I’ve people in my life beside you, you know. People who like me.’

Alp bit his tongue both because he was angry and because what Söner said was true. He put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and said, ‘Come on, let’s get back in there.’

The woman in
the severe black gown was the young Yusuf Effendi’s governess. She was American, from Chicago, and she’d been with the boy ever since he was a small child. But to Çetin
İ
kmen that didn’t make any sense.

‘If Yusuf Effendi is going to the Sorbonne then he must have had tuition other than from you,’ he said.

‘Oh, Yusuf Effendi attends the Galata Lycée,’ Sarah said.

‘And so what is your purpose? Your role?’

She smiled. She wasn’t American in reality of course, but she was blonde and quite tall. ‘When one has been with a family for a long time, one becomes part of that family,’ Sarah said. ‘I have continued to tutor Yusuf Effendi, while also helping Nuray Hanımefendi around the house in these difficult times. Since the . . . since the end of the Great War, we have lost many servants. Hanımefendi cannot run the house alone.’

This was
a good point. After the First World War a lot of aristocratic families had lost many members of their domestic staff but
İ
kmen wondered whether there was more to it than that. Sarah was an attractive woman and, according to Süleyman, who had graciously filled him in on conversations with other characters he’d missed while he was smoking,
İ
zzedin Effendi was a man who spent very little time with his wife. Süleyman had also pointed out that, in spite of having been married for four years,
İ
zzedin and Nuray still didn’t have any children. Was he spending some time, maybe, with American Sarah? In spite of himself,
İ
kmen was actually beginning to show an interest in this murder mystery thing.

Sarah moved on and, whilst waiting for the meat course plates to be cleared away,
İ
kmen found himself alone at his table with Hovsep Pars. He hadn’t seen the elderly Armenian for more years than he cared to remember. But then the last time he’d seen him it had been at Hovsep’s sister’s funeral. The poor woman had killed herself a couple of years after her son had been murdered and her death had been closely followed by that of her husband, also a suicide. This family tragedy had led to Hovsep having a breakdown and had subsequently turned him into a virtual recluse. Those had been dark days for a lot of people, including Çetin
İ
kmen.

They looked
at each other in silence for a moment and then the old Armenian said, ‘Do you keep well these days, Inspector?’

İ
kmen smiled. ‘I’m fine thank you, Mr Pars.’ He’d always liked Hovsep Pars even if he’d had issues with his brother-in-law Sevan Avedykian. But then he’d been a lawyer and
İ
kmen didn’t generally like those much – especially if they were stiff-necked and arrogant.

‘You must think it odd that I should come to a murder evening,’ the old man said.

‘I think it’s even odder that I’m here,’
İ
kmen said.

‘I came for Krikor,’ Hovsep said.

‘Yes.’

All around them people were leaving to go out for cigarettes, women were disappearing to repair their make-up and, under the watchful eye of the maître d’hôtel, the staff were clearing the plates and setting up for dessert as quickly as they could.

‘When I die, Krikor, or rather his clinic, will inherit my estate,’ Hovsep said.

İ
kmen was taken aback. Apart from the fact that his own death was a strange thing for the old man to bring up at this time, he was astonished that he’d decided to leave his property to Krikor.

‘He’s been very kind to me over the years,’ Hovsep, a lifelong bachelor, continued. ‘And who else do I have to leave it all to?’

In the normal
course of events, Hovsep’s property would have passed to his only nephew. But he was dead and with no nieces to pass it on to, that left only his sister’s husband’s family, and he’d never liked them.

‘That’s very generous of you, sir.’

He smiled. ‘Not really. My parents’ poor old house is . . . well, it’s not what it was. I fear poor Krikor will have to spend a considerable amount of money on it in order to be able to sell it.’

‘I’m sure that’s a long way off yet, Mr Pars,’
İ
kmen said, not really believing what he was saying but saying it anyway. The old man looked pale and sick.

‘Then you’re wrong, Inspector. I’m dying,’ the old man said.

Shocked at his frankness,
İ
kmen was left temporarily speechless.

‘I have cancer,’ he said. Then he looked about to see if anyone else was listening and he said, ‘Tell me, Inspector, does that monster still live?’

İ
kmen thought for a moment, wondering whether he could get away with a lie of kindness. But he knew that he couldn’t. The death of the man who murdered Hovsep’s nephew would be reported in the media.

‘Yes, Mr Pars, he does,’
İ
kmen said. ‘I hear he is a reformed character now. A good Muslim, I understand.’

‘Is
he?’

‘He is also in prison for life, Hovsep Bey. That does mean until he dies. He’s never getting out.’

‘Is that supposed to make me feel better, Çetin Bey?’ the old man said.

And then Hovsep Pars gave
İ
kmen such an accusing look that
İ
kmen was forced to turn away. He should never have engaged in conversation with the old man and so he moved across the room so that he could hear what the fictional prince’s brother was saying. Not that he could concentrate on it. As if being at another of Krikor’s benefit events was not enough, now he had Hovsep Pars reminding him of that terrible murder he’d investigated all those years ago. Pars’s nephew had been murdered by his lover, a psychopath whom
İ
kmen could have killed – but he hadn’t.

‘I am Venetian.’

Via
İ
zmir
, Mehmet Süleyman thought uncharitably.

‘My name is Dr Enzo Garibaldi,’ the actor said, ‘and I will be travelling on the Orient Express tomorrow to go back to my home in La Serenissima.’

‘Have you been working in
İ
stanbul, Dr Garibaldi?’ Lale Aktar asked.

‘Yes, I have.’

‘For the family of
İ
zzedin Effendi?’

He frowned. ‘I do not know such a person, madam,’ he said.

‘Oh, he’s over
there,’ Lale said, pointing to the ‘prince’.

The fake Italian looked to where she was pointing and said, ‘No, he isn’t known to me. I haven’t been working in the city for long and so I know few people.’

‘Where were you working before?’ Süleyman asked.

‘Various cities.’

‘Where?’

‘Oh, Urfa, Antep,
İ
skender.’

‘Rather dangerous places in what has been a theatre of war,’ Süleyman said. The Italians, along with the British, the French and the Greeks, had attempted to partition what was now Turkey after the First World War. The Turks had only finally tasted complete victory in 1923 when Atatürk founded the republic. One would have thought that someone like Dr Garibaldi would have either been killed in the conflict or gone home a lot sooner than he clearly had. So there had to be a reason why he had stayed.

‘Prince
İ
zzedin’s wife, Nuray Hanımefendi, comes from Antep,’ Süleyman said. He pointed her out. ‘That lady, there.’

The Italian barely glanced in her direction. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t know her.’

‘Are you sure? Look again.’

He did, shrugged, and then repeated, ‘I don’t know her.’ Then he walked away.

‘Mmm.’ Lale
Aktar gave Süleyman a meaningful look.

‘We are on opposite teams,’ he said to her. ‘You should not be so much as looking at me in case I can read your thoughts.’

She laughed. He noticed how beautiful, and perfect, her teeth were.

‘So policemen can mind-read now, can they?’ she said.

‘Not exactly.’

‘I may be giving you false signals,’ she said as she moved closer to him and smiled. She took a sip from her champagne flute. ‘Maybe I want to confound your investigation.’

‘Mmm. Maybe you do.’

‘Or perhaps I just like looking at you,’ she whispered.

He felt himself go cold. Women flirted with him all the time and he found Lale Aktar extremely attractive in her shimmering gold sheath dress with her lovely face and her tiny, perfect teeth. But in this context, it wasn’t right. She was in Krikor Sarkissian’s circle, she was married to one of his friends. Maybe she was merely trying to cloud his mind so that she could win.

‘I am afraid,’ he said, slowly, ‘that I can see right through your flattery, to a woman who is determined to beat me.’

She laughed and
held her hands up. ‘Ah, you have the better of me, Inspector.’

‘I thought so.’ He hid his disappointment carefully although maybe not quite carefully enough.

Either she sensed what he felt or she was just continuing to tease him when she said, ‘But I do like looking at you. And that is not me trying to mess with your mind.’

The meal finished with fruit and a massive cheeseboard which included the famous (according to Ay
ş
e Farsako
ğ
lu) Circassian smoked cheese. Because his sergeant had mentioned it, Çetin
İ
kmen did try a piece but he wasn’t that impressed. It was, to his way of thinking, rather dry. Still a little shaken by his conversation with Hovsep Pars, he looked around the ballroom to take his eyes away from the old man. Soon they’d all go into the Kubbeli Saloon for coffee and liqueurs and he’d be able to get away. But for now he just had to distract himself.

To his chagrin he noticed that Süleyman and Lale Aktar were enjoying each other’s company rather more than was good for either of them. But then years ago he’d decided that his friend had to have some sort of unique pheromone that made him irresistible to all women, except lesbians. In fact, watching women with Mehmet Süleyman was a good
way of finding out who was and was not a lesbian – not that that was germane to anything. He looked at them again and saw the familiar stars in Lale Aktar’s eyes. He’d have to have words. If Süleyman and Mrs Aktar ended up falling into bed together and Krikor Sarkissian found out, he’d be both hurt and disgusted. Faruk Aktar was his friend and he’d never be able to look him in the face again if Süleyman had an affair with his wife.

Over the other side of the room, both Sarkissian brothers had joined forces to talk to a man
İ
kmen knew to be a very wealthy landlord. He was a Kurd –
İ
kmen couldn’t recall his name – from somewhere in the east, the coastal city of Adana sprang to mind, but
İ
kmen couldn’t be sure that was right. What he did know was that the man’s son had been shot by police in a drugs bust in Edirnekapı over ten years ago. It had been some sort of inter-gang incident and the boy, a small-time dealer, had been collateral damage en route to the big-time players who had also been taken down that day.
İ
kmen had not been involved, but he felt for this man whose son had died. There was a sad connection between people who had lost children and
İ
kmen had to be hard on himself not to think about his own dead son, Bekir. He too had been killed by police in the distant far eastern Turkish town of Birecik. And also in
common with the Kurd’s son, he had been a drug dealer.