Belshazzar's Daughter: A Novel of Istanbul (Inspector Ikmen series Book 1)

by Barbara Nadel

  Although next to Natalia, he wasn’t happy. His hands clenched and unclenched nervously as he desperately tried to think of something to say. But nothing would come. Not even the kind of mindless trivia the English are supposed to be so good at. Talk of the weather, the iniquities of politicians, the price of food.

  Looking at her was bad. It made him want to fall on her, bury himself between her hair and her massive breasts. But if he turned away from her it allowed his mind to think. Here was a person he loved without understanding, a woman at whose capabilities and motives he could only guess. Logically the object of a person’s desire was no less prone to unspeakable acts than any other mortal. But logic had never been Robert’s strong suit. Some things defied it and yet still seemed to make perfect sense. Like Billy Smith, his bane, his bête noir, the wicked boy. London. He could see the child. Twelve years old, thin, red hair and freckles. He looked mischievous and self-satisfied, every child with red hair seemed to. It had been stupid to dislike him just because of his appearance. Unfortunately he had made no secret of it either. His colleagues had criticized him. But he had been right. It was Billy who extorted money from the smaller children, Billy who disrupted his class and called him “Blondie” to his face, Billy and the Norris twins who were caught with the cat in the playground. The poor cat. Its fur, black, silky, caked with its own thick blood. The memory even two thousand miles away in Turkey made the acid in his stomach rise. Little bastards! What he hadn’t wanted to do to them! And yet, despite the poor cat’s pain, the incident had given him some satisfaction. It had vindicated him. For a short while afterward the other teachers had understood. But only for a short while, just until Billy and the twins got going again. Then things had changed. Robert looked down at his hands and sighed deeply. It was so hot. That was the worst thing about Istanbul really, the awful, stifling, humid heat.

  He turned to look at Natalia again. Her face was still cold, as cold as it had been when they had met. She hadn’t wanted to go with him. It was “their” Thursday afternoon, a regular and, on his part, much treasured weekly event in their lives. But this time she hadn’t wanted to go. Perhaps she thought that the little pantomime he had witnessed at her house was enough? That now he would just go away, dissolve silently into the background? But all this was based upon the assumption that she didn’t care for him and he knew that that was just not true. If he meant nothing to her, why had she stayed with him for so long? How could she have loved him with such perfect passion? Oh, she cared. Something was very wrong, but she still cared.

  Her mouth was straight-set and her beautiful eyes were dead in their sockets. Robert’s heart sank and all the old doubts returned. She didn’t want to be with him now.

  He made up his mind that as soon as they reached the apartment he would ask her straight out about what had been going on the previous evening. He didn’t expect a coherent answer, but he would have at least to try. While he still had no answers he couldn’t help but be constantly anxious. He tried hard not to make comparisons, but it wasn’t easy. He’d felt like this before. Wired. He knew when. It wasn’t hard to remember, but it was unwise. He’d left all that behind him, back in England: the sweats, the crippling worry, that feeling of haziness, lack of control. Robert brought his hand up to his brow and wiped away the perspiration that had gathered just under his hairline.

  * * *

  When she got inside the apartment she went straight to the bathroom and took off all her clothes. It was so hot and the heavy waistband of her skirt had chafed as it rubbed her sweat into the soft skin of her belly. Besides, wasn’t that, after all, what Robert wanted? He didn’t want to talk. He’d made that quite obvious during their silent and boring journey. Robert always wanted sex. What man didn’t? And yet in this case perhaps it was a blessing, a distraction. Yes, a distraction. His “little presents” were always good too, usually expensive. He was so open-handed she didn’t have just to take as she did with the others. Robert had always been so generous. Desperate. She looked at herself in the mirror. Slim hips, flat stomach, rich, full breasts that dropped only a fraction as she loosed them from her brassière. Normally her body was a pleasing sight, but this time the look of it irked her. Her beautiful body was trapped. Her mind clouded with misery again. She’d felt like it all day; she’d felt like it all her life. One coincidence, that’s all it had been. A chance in a million. But that chance had built a chain and it was one that she could feel strangling her. Robert was at its head, a link. One she couldn’t afford to break—yet.

  She felt sure that he would press her for the information again. He was out there beyond the bathroom door, waiting. Perhaps she should tell him. But then would he understand? Could he? She thought about his stupid, doglike face, besotted, and she felt sick. If only Monday hadn’t happened!

  She closed her eyes and tried to steady her nerves. Sex would stall him for a little while. He was so simple it might even shut him up completely—for the moment. There was no choice anyway! For now, while panic and fear still sullied the air around her, she was stuck with this man, a man she had been trying to offload for weeks, months even. It hadn’t always been so. There had been a time when that very English reserve, which she now found so tedious, had excited her. But that was way back when she still imagined that she could persuade him to take her to London. Escape! One great big cosmopolitan city all to herself, no mothers, no grandmothers, no uncles … lots of exciting foreign men. Such a pity that Robert had been so intractable on that subject. Such a weakness of his always to let the past color his present. She briefly laughed at her own hypocrisy and then fell silent. London was a dead dream now. Buried, like all the others. Her anger flared once more and she stamped her foot impatiently. Ah, how she was bored! To death! God knew she’d dropped enough hints! But perhaps it was better this way. Perhaps, seeing what he’d seen and being her enemy would have been worse. For the moment it was safe, all she had to do was keep him happy. It wasn’t difficult. Unpleasant, but not difficult.

  She put her hands around her breasts and pinched her nipples with her fingers. Who was she going to fantasize about today? There had to be someone. She couldn’t just go in there and concentrate on him. How unadventurous he was sexually! And this time could prove even worse than usual! The stupid heavy-handed uncles had really screwed up. She could tell by the way he had been to her afterward. And then the police had arrived. That had not improved things. Natalia had a nasty feeling that she might not receive her usual present when the sexual deed was done. No valuable little trinket to make it run just that little bit smoother. That Robert loved her, she was certain, but he was becoming uneasy. Unfortunately she knew why. She also knew that in his place she would be uneasy too.

  She increased the pressure on the sides of her nipples and closed her eyes. Today it would have to be good. Today she was going to have to give him a very good time. Just thinking about him made her nipples go limp, her mouth clench into a hard unsexy line. She felt herself start to panic. This wouldn’t do! Not at all!

  She put her mind to concentrating. As usual, those of a martial nature were the first to come to mind. The Guards outside the Dolmabahçe Palace! Tall, big, handsome, the power of the submachine-gun resting between their feet, primed, safety catch off, ready. Guns! Ah, that was something! Hard, cold, delicious to the mouth, heavy and painful in her vagina. Ecstatic pain; agony from heaven. She remembered the marine and his games. The awakening. The day upon which it had all suddenly made sense. What had she been? Seventeen? Rising and falling, enveloping and then releasing him with her body. His eyes closed, pushing, pushing the pistol deep into her mouth. The click of the trigger as one by one the empty chambers were eliminated. Fellating cold metal, her body high, counting, waiting for the last click that would detonate and explode inside her head. Four, five … The metal wrenched itself from between her lips and a shot rang out somewhere to the side of her head. She’d heard herself scream, almost dead with pleasure.

  She felt her nipples harden in
her fingers and her breathing came sharply in gasps. Gunmetal! How she’d wanted him to … And then there were the others that followed. The Kurd; the rich Armenian with his gold chains and Armani suits; the raddled police officer in Üsküdar; and then boys. Lots of them. Boys in uniform, boys with guns, boys willing and unwilling to play. But they always played in the end, of course. Ah yes. There were only two ways out of the game and so they always chose “play.” Play …

  She stopped herself. At last she was ready. No good wasting the moment now! She opened the door and saw him lying back against the sofa, his long legs spread wide. As long as she remained safe inside the fantasy, the memory of the game, her revulsion wouldn’t show. It never had done before.

  She stood in front of him, her nipples dark, painfully sensitive, engorged with blood. He looked up at her and she reached down to unzip the fly of his trousers. Her mouth ached and drooled for the bitterness of steel. But she found only his soft tongue. Her fingers wound themselves sensuously around his stiffening penis. At least he was big. At least she had that. She lowered herself on to him and prayed that it would hurt.

  * * *

  His telephone rang. Sergeant Suleyman, in one smooth movement, both picked up the receiver and knocked one of Ikmen’s overflowing ashtrays on to the floor.

  “Damn!” Ash swirling about his feet, he spoke into the instrument somewhat tetchily.

  “Suleyman.”

  “Hello, Sergeant Suleyman?” The voice was English, cheery and, thankfully, familiar.

  “Oh, hello, Inspector Lloyd. How are you?” Although he had never actually met the English policeman himself, Suleyman instinctively felt sorry for him.

  “Oh, you know.” He sounded tired. Police work was the same the world over, long, often boring shifts, meager pay, even more meager sleep. And London, he’d heard, was a tough city: bombs, an exploding population, ethnic tension. “I’ve got something on this Robert Cornelius chap for you.”

  “Oh.” Suleyman picked up a pen and took the lid off with his teeth. The dead cigarette butts on the floor stared up at him with, he felt, almost gleeful intent. “What is this, Inspector Lloyd?”

  “I’ve got no details, just bare facts, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes?”

  “In June of 1987, Robert Cornelius was arrested in connection with an assault upon the person of a barrister, a Mr. Simon Sheldon, that’s SHELDON…”

  Suleyman wrote it down quickly.

  “Barrister is lawyer, yes?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Cornelius admitted the charge but Mr. Sheldon dropped it for some reason and your man was let off with a warning. It happened in Islington, that’s North London. Cornelius was living up there at the time.”

  “Thank you, is very useful.” He continued taking notes, the pen-lid sticking out sideways from his mouth giving his face an unexpectedly rakish look.

  “Oh, I haven’t finished yet!” said the cheery voice from London. “Just before he allegedly assaulted Sheldon, in April 1987, Cornelius was accused of striking a child at the school where he worked, Rosebury Downs, that’s Hackney, East London.” He laughed grimly. “One of the most violent parts of the city, Hackney. A right shit hole. Anyway, his accuser was a Miss…” He broke off briefly to consult his notes.

  “Yes?”

  “A Miss Sandra Smith. Cornelius was supposed to have struck her son William across the face. In school.”

  Suleyman struggled to get it all down on paper. Mr. Cornelius had quite a past for a quiet English teacher, or so it seemed. He just hoped he’d got it all down properly and that Hackney really was spelled HAKNI.

  “So what happen with the child, Inspector?”

  He heard Lloyd chuckle lightly at the other end of the line. “Well, believe it or not the lucky bastard got off again! Insufficient evidence.” He paused for a second, consulting his notes once again. “Mind you, he resigned from his job shortly after. Although whether out of guilt or because young William Smith and his cronies gave him a rough time in class, I can’t say.” He sighed deeply. “Anyway, that’s it.”

  “OK.”

  “Oh, except that…”

  Suleyman frowned. There was something in Lloyd’s voice, a certain hesitation that he felt was of significance. “Yes, Inspector?”

  “Well, it may not mean anything, Sergeant, but Sheldon’s statement regarding the attack did also include an accusation of racism against Cornelius.”

  “Racism?” The word was not immediately familiar to Suleyman, although what he felt upon hearing it unaccountably alarmed him.

  Lloyd was, however, all too ready to explain. “Racism means making remarks or doing things to mock or denigrate another’s race or religion. Simon Sheldon was Jewish, you see, and apparently your Mr. Cornelius was not very polite about that.”

  “Oh.” Suleyman, writing as fast and furiously as he could, struggled to stop his shaking hand rendering his words illegible. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!”

  The cheerful voice at the other end of the telephone grunted knowingly. “That’s quite significant, I feel, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, well, is very good, Inspector. Of great use to Inspector Ikmen, I think.”

  “Good. Good, I’m glad.” Lloyd sighed heavily. “Anyway, have you made any progress yet?”

  “Little. Small ones. Inspector Ikmen looks to er…” He groped for the right word and he didn’t find it. “Psychological explain, you understand?”

  The voice at the other end of the line roared with laughter. “Oh, Çetin! Tearing around building biographies, getting to know the victim. I don’t know!” He paused. “Trouble is, he’s so often bloody well right!”

  “Inspector Ikmen is very clever.”

  Lloyd laughed again. “I know, the bastard! Anyway, look, Sergeant, give him my regards and if there’s anymore help I can give you, just say the word.”

  “Thank you, Inspector. You have been very help. It’s good.”

  “All right, Sergeant, speak to you soon.”

  “Goodbye, sir.”

  “Bye.”

  Suleyman pushed himself back against his chair and looked at the note he had just written. Sheldon. A Jewish lawyer. It would get Ikmen going all right. More strange connections, if tenuous. And the child. Hitting a child! Suleyman wondered what Sheldon and this Smith child had done to Cornelius, if anything. He wondered whether Smith was a name that English Jews used. He wondered, more immediately, how he might sweep up the upturned contents of Ikmen’s ashtray without soiling his hands. He had just decided that two pieces of old card provided the answer when Ikmen’s telephone rang.

  He went over to his desk and picked up the receiver. “Hello, Inspector Ikmen’s extension?”

  “Where’s Ikmen?” It was Commissioner Ardic’s voice and he was not sounding best pleased.

  “Oh, Commissioner, I’m sorry, the Inspector isn’t here at the moment, he’s out with Cohen.”

  “What’s he doing? Who’s Cohen?”

  “Well, sir, he’s interviewing. One of our victim’s friends, an old Jewish lady and some old drinking…”

  “Arsing around with life histories.”

  “Biography-building, yes, sir. Can I help at all…?” His voice faded out and he felt annoyed with himself. Why did he always sound so weak!

  The Commissioner sighed. “I’ve got a meeting with the Israeli Consul in fifteen minutes. I’ve only just been told myself! You know what diplomats are like! He wants a progress report, of all things, on this Meyer case.”

  “Oh.” Weak again!

  The Commissioner sounded like he was pulling himself together. “Look, Suleyman, if Ikmen isn’t back in time you’ll have to do it. It’ll look terrible for the Department, but it can’t be helped. Just be here in fifteen minutes and bring all your papers and stuff. Do you have Sarkissian’s lab report yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, bring that along too. If any of us can understand it, it will be a miracle, but … Oh, and Suleyman…”

 
; “Yes, sir?”

  There was a long pause followed by a deep sigh. He obviously meant to say something of great importance, but decided against it. Suleyman imagined, bitterly, that it was probably something Ardiç didn’t consider him bright enough to understand. It would be typical of the man. “Oh, nothing!”

  The line went dead and Suleyman gently replaced the receiver. A briefing with the Israeli Consul was not a regular occurrence. The great and the good coming to listen to him! He moved around the side of Ikmen’s desk and wondered where he should start to look for Dr. Sarkissian’s report. In the tower block of files or perhaps within the depths of an overflowing drawer. And what about the upturned, stinking ashtray? He quickly grabbed two used envelopes and hunkered down in order to get to grips with the job at hand. He had just managed to balance the stinking load delicately on to one of the envelope flaps, when suddenly the full portent of what he was about to do struck him. A diplomat, the Commissioner, the as yet complete lack of progress! He felt his hand twitch but it wasn’t until he saw the whole reeking mass hit the floor again that he gave vent to his feelings.

  “Oh, fuck it!” he cried, not caring that probably the whole floor could hear him.

  * * *

  Despite the fact that Ikmen and Cohen had already spent rather more time in that tiny, cabbage-tinctured apartment than either of them would have liked, Ikmen at least felt he had to get some semblance of a clear story before he could even think about leaving.

  Mrs. Blatsky had proved to be a very pleasant, if rather alarmingly whiskery old lady and had been only too willing to answer any questions that the officers put to her. That she spoke very rapidly and that her grasp of neither Turkish nor Ladino was very secure was not her fault, Ikmen knew. It did not, however, do a great deal for his patience.

  Just before he spoke once again, he smiled. Mrs. Blatsky duly smiled back, exhibiting an extremely large and varied selection of broken teeth.

  “All right, madam,” Ikmen said, “let’s get this straight, shall we? Leonid Meyer was, so he told you, a Bolshevik during the course of the Revolution. Is that right?”