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

by Barbara Nadel

  “No.” Maria lit her cigarette and then blew large, expertly rounded rings of smoke at the ceiling. “No, I was thinking of approaching the problem from a more oblique angle.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean, Natalia, is that although the Inspector is aware of the fact that Uncle Leonid had enemies in this city, he is not, at present, in any position to verify that.”

  Natalia eyed her grandmother through veils of pure jaundice. “And this concerns me how?”

  “Although the police know of the existence of someone who may very well have killed Uncle Leonid…”

  “Yes, yes, but he—”

  “Although they know, they have little evidence upon which to draw. However, that does not mean that that particular situation might not change sometime in the future.”

  “Ah.” Natalia raised her eyebrows out of sudden realization of what was being said rather than surprise. “And you want me to…”

  “No.” Maria’s smile was sweet, almost as if it had not emanated from her. “No, Natalia, I just want you to listen for a moment—listen and learn about a grave injustice that was done to Uncle Leonid by a very unpleasant man many years ago. The incident affected me also, very badly. This awful man who wanted me, absolutely persecuted…”

  But Natalia knew her grandmother too well and although she smiled as Maria spoke, her heart was already hardened to whatever she had to say. “No, I don’t think so, Grandmama. I don’t think I want to hear it.”

  “Then you must be forced to!” Maria suddenly leaned forward and grabbed Natalia by the chin. The younger woman pulled away as the older one’s rancid breath puffed violently into her eyes. “I am not asking you, Natalia!”

  The girl groaned. Not for the first time she felt trapped, caught on the end of one of Maria’s talons like a worm. It had happened to all of them at one time or another. But of late it was always Natalia. “Why me?” And then, rather more acidly, “Again.”

  “Because you live in the world, my darling.” It was said with spite, laced with jealousy. “You chose to be a little bit free. You were also, and please believe that I am so grateful for this, very willing to go out to Uncle Leonid when—”

  “Don’t!”

  Natalia was not inclined to cry easily but on this occasion, quite suddenly, her eyes were brimful with moisture. This did not go unnoticed by her grandmother and although the latter did not go so far as to attempt to comfort her granddaughter she did soften her tone somewhat.

  “Look, I know that you have suffered most horribly already, Natalia, and I am sorry for that. But what we have started we must now finish. There is so much at stake here and—”

  “Yes, I know. I know.”

  “And so I, we, need you to do something more in order to complete this work. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I…”

  “And so now. This boyfriend of yours, this Mr. Cornelius…”

  The sudden change of direction and the renewed firmness in her grandmother’s tone made Natalia’s head swim. “Yes, er, what of him?”

  “He was around and about at the time the police say Leonid was killed.”

  “Yes, he—”

  “And he has been interviewed by them, has he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well.” Maria smiled as she ground her cigarette out in her ashtray. “Strange as it may sound, that could work to our advantage, inasmuch as I believe Mr. Cornelius may well be very interested in this old injustice perpetrated against Uncle Leonid. By your own admission, he is very interested in the whole affair. He is troubled, looking for answers…”

  “Oh, my God, you mean…”

  Natalia sat back heavily in her chair and stared at the wall. The old woman’s smoke drifted across her face and stung her eyes. There was nowhere for it to go. Open windows were not permitted in Maria’s apartment. The smoke and her perfume and the sickly reek of her incense were not allowed to escape. She bathed in them, embalming her live body in their mixture of sweet and sour odors.

  “I mean,” said Maria, “that I think you should listen to my story and then make up your own mind about how you might use it. After all, if Mr. Cornelius is actively seeking answers, and if he is as disturbed by recent events as you say…”

  She didn’t want to stay, much less listen, but then if Natalia wanted to get away from the dreamy, soporific darkness of Maria’s presence, she would have at least to consider … As a child, listening to Grandmama’s stories day in and day out had excited the young Natalia, made her feel special, loved, superior. It still did, despite the fact that with adulthood had come difficulties, the psychological realignment she knew she had never achieved. And the family as a whole had so very much to lose: the material things, the safety, the gift of the past …

  She felt herself weaken even before she spoke—almost before her thoughts had organized themselves. “All right,” she said with a sigh, “all right, tell me if you must.”

  * * *

  Suleyman mustered all of his schoolboy English and made a start.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Cornelius.”

  “I didn’t have much of a fucking choice, did I!”

  Suleyman shot a rather alarmed glance at Ikmen. The older man motioned for him to continue.

  Suleyman cleared his throat. “My apology, sir. But there is one thing, I am sorry, we must ask.” He moved a small piece of paper across the desk and placed it in front of him. “Is about two things which happen in 1987.”

  Cornelius laughed sourly. “I was in London then, for God’s sake!”

  “Yes.” Suleyman consulted his paper. “Is about a Mr. Simon Sheldon, sir, and—”

  “What the—!” Cornelius whipped round in his chair and looked at Ikmen. He was furious. “Have you been checking up on me?”

  “Routine, sir. We check everyone out in cases like this. Just part of the investigation. You are not alone.”

  “Routine! What my past has to do with—”

  “Please listen to Sergeant Suleyman, sir.” Ikmen was tired. He didn’t have either the time or the stomach for outbursts. He hadn’t had his first drink yet.

  Cornelius fell furiously silent and turned back toward his young interrogator. He didn’t like this young policeman, with his smooth hands and perfect features.

  Suleyman cleared his throat again. “First in 1987 you were assaulting Mr. Sheldon in Islington, North London. Mr. Sheldon did not make charges.”

  “So?” It was said with some arrogance, but Cornelius crossed his arms and hunched his legs back closer to his body.

  “Could you please maybe tell us about that, sir?”

  “Why?”

  Suleyman swallowed hard. “We must know sir, because…” Quite without warning his command of English failed completely. Knowing what he wanted to say wasn’t enough. How to say it, that was the problem! He opened his mouth and made a few faltering noises, but he couldn’t speak.

  Cornelius looked at him like he was an idiot. Suleyman’s failure seemed to please the Englishman. “Well!”

  Ikmen jumped into the breach with an easy and erudite grace. “The murder of our Mr. Meyer may, and I must stress that this is only a theory, sir, possess a racist or, more specifically, anti-Semitic dimension. Mr. Meyer, like most of the residents of the Balat district, was a Jewish gentleman.”

  Cornelius was silent for a moment as the realization of what Ikmen had said dawned upon him. His face became very white and he had to lick his suddenly dry lips in order to make them work. When he did finally speak his voice quavered slightly as if his throat were partially blocked. “So you think that because I had a fight with Sheldon in 1987, I am some kind of Jew-baiting—”

  “We do not think anything of the sort, Mr. Cornelius.” Ikmen took his feet off the waste-paper bin and lit a cigarette. He made sure he kept his voice light and pleasant. “It is a line of inquiry, that is all. But we must check. Your motive for attacking Mr. Sheldon may be quite justified. It may also be ugly an
d political. I do not know until you tell me.”

  For a moment, Cornelius seemed mollified, but it was a lull that did not last. “Why me? Why are you checking up on me?”

  “We check up on everybody who was at or around the scene of the crime, sir. As I told you, it is routine. You are simply assisting—”

  “You with your inquiries!” Cornelius shouted.

  “Yes, sir.” Ikmen smiled very warmly. It was important not to get worked up at times like this. Calm usually gave one the edge.

  Cornelius raked his fingers through his hair and then fumbled in his pockets for his cigarettes. “In my country, Inspector, ‘assisting the police with their inquiries’ usually means that one is under suspicion.”

  “I can assure you—”

  “And if a confession is not forthcoming, then they take you down to the cells and beat one out of you!”

  The office went very quiet. Ikmen looked at Suleyman and then back at the livid Cornelius once again. He sighed. Foreigners were never easy. It was annoying, but he decided to bow to the inevitable. “Would you prefer to have a representative from your Consulate present, sir?”

  But rather than defuse the situation, Ikmen’s suggestion seemed to alarm the Englishman still further. It was not a reaction he had anticipated.

  “No! No, I don’t want that! No!” His unlit cigarette quavered dangerously between his fingers.

  Very odd! But Ikmen kept calm. “Very well, sir.” He paused. “Perhaps you would like to tell us about Mr. Sheldon.”

  As Cornelius lit his cigarette, Ikmen noticed that the man’s hands were shaking.

  “Simon Sheldon QC was my now ex-wife’s lover. I caught him in my bed with my wife and I broke the bastard’s jaw. I don’t hate Jews, only Sheldon. I think even you can appreciate why.”

  Ikmen leaned back in his chair and looked at the bowed fair head before him. The man looked ashamed, but not, Ikmen suspected, of his criminal act. No, Cornelius was ashamed that his wife had taken a lover. Tall, blond and attractive, it must, Ikmen thought, have reflected badly upon his virility.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Cornelius,” he said and crossed his arms across his chest.

  The Englishman lifted his head. “Are you?”

  “Yes. But I think you can appreciate why I had to ask.”

  Cornelius didn’t answer.

  Ikmen breathed in deeply and consulted his notes. “And the child, William Smith, Mr. Cornelius? Rosebury Downs School in Hackney?”

  “Oh come on, for Christ’s sake!”

  “I am sorry, sir.” Ikmen’s tone hardened. “But I need to clear these matters up.”

  “Billy Smith was a little bastard!” Cornelius sighed. “The child lied. Lots of them do it. Claim that ‘sir’ hit you and get him into trouble. It was a game, for Christ’s sake! I never touched the little swine! I never touched any of them! God, I wanted to, juvenile barbarians! But I didn’t and the court upheld my innocence.” He looked up at Ikmen and sneered. “Oh, and before you ask, Smith wasn’t Jewish. I doubt he was actually human!”

  “I see.”

  Cornelius laughed mirthlessly. “No you don’t! Unless of course you’ve been a teacher too. Inner London schools are fucking hell, Inspector Ikmen. Animal houses! As you no doubt know, I resigned soon after that incident. But not because of it. I resigned because I’d had enough of children, because my wife was leaving me and because I could feel my life falling to bits around me. It isn’t nice, Inspector, strain like that…” He stopped and stared up at the ceiling. His eyes glistened with bulging tears, but he did not allow them to fall. He swallowed hard to contain them and breathed deeply for a few seconds.

  Ikmen bit his lip. It had not been pleasant interviewing this man. If what he had just told him was true, then 1987 had been one hell of a year for him. But there was one more thing he had to ask him before he could let him go. Cornelius looked so broken that he was loath to do so. On further consideration, however, perhaps it was better to hit him with it now. Perhaps it would have more effect. Kicking people already down wasn’t nice, but it had its place and he had a job to do.

  “What do you know about the Gulcu family, Mr. Cornelius?”

  Ikmen couldn’t see his face, it was turned away from him, but Suleyman could. Cornelius’s face reddened in a moment.

  “Why?” His tone was measured, but taut.

  “I saw you at their house on Wednesday evening. I just wondered if you knew them well.”

  “Are they under suspicion too?” Still he didn’t look at Ikmen. He was trying not to look at Suleyman, but the young sergeant had caught his eye and he was not letting go.

  “No,” replied Ikmen levelly. “I just wondered what your connection was, that is all.”

  “Natalia Gulcu is a … friend.” He hesitated slightly before the last word.

  “A friend.” It was a statement, not a question, but Cornelius reacted violently to it.

  “Yes, a bloody friend!” He raised his head and looked defiantly at Ikmen. “What the hell is this?”

  Ikmen was silently asking himself the same question. From his albeit brief experience of Cornelius and Miss Gulcu it had appeared that they were more than friends. Whatever her ancestry, the girl was Turkish and it seemed to Ikmen strange that a middle-class Turkish girl should allow such physical intimacy with a man who was only a friend. The man had rubbed his body up against her, pawed at her hips! He wondered if he was being unnecessarily narrow minded but then decided that he probably wasn’t. Not that any of this adequately explained the way Cornelius was now behaving. He must, at the very least, desire the girl. And she in her turn had behaved as if she were accustomed to his caresses.

  Ikmen looked Cornelius straight in the face for a second. The man’s defiant expression told him that it was unlikely he would learn much more about this relationship. But there were other ways of finding out.

  Ikmen smiled broadly and stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Cornelius, you may go now.”

  There was a pause. “You mean that’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  For an instant he looked confused. Relief and confusion mixed. He collected his briefcase from under his chair and rose to his feet. “Will you be—requiring me again, Inspector?” It was not said pleasantly.

  Ikmen offered him his hand. “Not unless you have anything else to tell us about Monday afternoon, sir.”

  Cornelius smarted. He ignored the outstretched hand and made his way toward the door. Something had angered him again. Perhaps the reference to Monday afternoon. “If I discover that my father was Heinrich Himmler I will be sure and let you know, Inspector!”

  Ikmen did not rise to the bait but he did use the Germanic reference in order to ask one final question. “Oh, talking of which, you don’t happen to know a man called Reinhold Smits do you, Mr. Cornelius?”

  The Englishman’s face was now completely blank and without expression. “No, why?”

  Ikmen smiled. “Oh, no reason. Thank you.”

  Cornelius was just about to open the door when a thought seemed to strike him and he stopped. Without turning he spoke in a low, suddenly very calm voice. “One question for you, Inspector Ikmen.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “When you catch this murderer, what will happen to him?”

  Ikmen shrugged and lit a cigarette. “There will be a trial and if found guilty he—will be sentenced.”

  “To what? Sentenced to what?”

  Ikmen watched Cornelius very closely, and as his words flowed he saw the lines deepen around the Englishman’s mouth. It was like watching fabric rumple and fold. “Often a prison term. Twenty, thirty years. However the Republic does retain the death penalty for certain offenses, Mr. Cornelius. Murder, like this one, with malice aforethought, would come into that category.”

  “I see.” Cornelius played a little with the handle of the open door before continuing and then said, “Is that the case for everyone? The death penalty, I mean?”

  “Everyone?”


  “Yes. I mean all categories and types of people?” Because this elicited absolutely no response from Ikmen that he could see, Cornelius elucidated a little further. “Like, are there any exceptions dependent upon a person’s status or…”

  “Possibly. For those already terminally ill, for instance, or some females, the mentally incapacitated…”

  “Oh.” He brightened just enough for a keen eye to notice. “Oh right. Thank you.”

  Ikmen bowed his head slightly and smiled. “You are very welcome, sir.”

  Just before Cornelius left, however, the policeman’s eyes connected with his and for just a moment both men remained quite frozen in each other’s gaze. Then with a short cough Cornelius turned away and stepped out into the corridor beyond.

  As he closed the door behind him and Ikmen and Suleyman listened to the sound of his retreating footsteps, Ikmen turned to his young deputy and smiled. “Did you catch most of that, Suleyman?”

  “Most of it, sir. I’m sorry I messed my questioning up, I—”

  “It’s all right.” He walked over to the window and looked out into the street. For a few seconds he watched to see whether or not Cornelius passed by. But he didn’t and Ikmen gave up and turned back into the room again. “What are your thoughts, Suleyman?”

  “About Cornelius? He was very afraid, wasn’t he, sir?” He thought for a moment. “But then even the most innocent behave irrationally when they come in here.”

  Ikmen scratched his head. “Yes, true. Although I don’t think that he was really terrified until the end of the interview.”

  “Sir?”

  Ikmen smiled grimly. “I find close interest in the technicalities of the death penalty rather unhealthy, don’t you?”

  “Oh,” Suleyman replied.

  “Oh indeed,” said Ikmen, relishing every short syllable.

  * * *

  Ahmet Demir flung himself down in Cohen’s chair and hooked his long feet under the bottom of the desk.

  Cohen, laboriously working his way through the top drawer of a filing cabinet, mumbled through a cigarette, “Get out of my chair, Demir.”