That Cornelius was close to Meyer’s apartment at the time of his death, and that he was also involved with a family who knew the dead man and possibly also knew about that man’s guilty past, seemed like more than mere coincidence. However, this did beg the question of why the Englishman had so willingly admitted to being in Balat on that fateful afternoon. Surely if he had known what was happening, he would have at least tried to distance himself from the event?
Ikmen got up, went over to the window and opened the curtains. The full, fierce heat of the day was still several hours away, but already the shopkeepers were washing down the pavements with water. By lunchtime everyone would be well and truly frazzled in the heat and the dust and the ever-present swarm of flies. By then, he knew, thinking would be next to impossible. By then he, like everybody else, would be simply going through the motions. He put the light out, returned to the couch and sat down again.
What his boss, Commissioner Ardiç, wanted was, of course, a neat and quick solution. He’d even told the press that they were indeed on the brink of a major breakthrough. Not that Ikmen had done so in person, of course. He’d made very sure that he was well and truly out of the way when that press conference had started. Ardiç had nearly gone berserk. What he wanted was Smits and, furthermore, Ikmen’s backing for the Nazi connection theory. And, to be honest, Ikmen had to agree that if Smits’s past or present allegiances could be proved as well as a rather more current connection with Meyer, this probably was the most fruitful direction in which to move. Of all the people that Ikmen had interviewed so far, Rabbi Şimon had seemed to be the most reliable and he had been of the opinion that Smits could be involved at some level. The big black car as reported by the raving alcoholic was a tenuous link but Ikmen had seen such vehicles on Smits’s drive.
What really puzzled Ikmen most was not, however, something that was, or seemed to be, central to the case. It was how and indeed why the Gulcu family appeared to live in the country without any official status. There had to be a reason, although he could not fathom what that might be. But that it was connected in some way to Leonid Meyer was, irrationally but pervasively, on his mind. He was just pondering how, now that he was in possession of this fact, he might effectively hide this information from the heavy-handed clutches of immigration until after his investigations were concluded, when the lounge door burst open and his father staggered in.
“Good morning, son,” Timür said as he moved painfully over toward the couch. “Got a cigarette?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The old man positioned himself next to his son on the edge of the couch and then peered at the notebook in the younger man’s hands. “Well, let’s have one then!”
“What?”
“A cigarette!”
“Oh.”
Ikmen picked one up out of his packet, placed it in the old man’s mouth and then lit it. Once his coughing had subsided, Timür Ikmen pointed down at the book and cackled. “Now there’s something I haven’t seen for a very long time.”
Ikmen, unable to work out what his father was referring to, frowned. “What?”
“The name Reinhold Smits.”
“You know him?”
“I know of him,” the old man replied. “What’s your interest in him, Çetin?”
“He owns Şeker Textiles, that company that our murder victim once worked for.”
“Oh, Smits owns that, does he?”
“Yes, I think he always has. I told you about it the other day when…”
The old man made a dismissive gesture with his cigarette. “Oh well, it passed me by then, you know how it is. And besides, with all the companies Smits owns it would be difficult to recall each and every one.”
“So he owns more than just Şeker Textiles, then?” Ikmen asked.
His father shot him a jaundiced glare. “Marvelous detective you are! Smits owns cotton mills and fields, coal mines, white-goods plants—you name it, he has it. Like most Germans he’s very good with money.”
“So, er, how do you know of him then, Timür?”
The old man dragged contentedly on his cigarette before replying. “When I was a young lecturer I was involved in a demonstration outside one of his places. All his workers went on strike and we went out in support of them.”
“Went on strike? Why?”
“Because Smits had unfairly dismissed a couple of his people. I was very political in those days and—”
“Unfairly dismissed? How?” Ikmen was having a feeling about this, a very bad feeling.
“Well, the 1939–5 war had just started and so Smits got rid of these men because they were Jews. He was right behind Adolf Hitler and all that Nazi business, just like his father. It was, I believe, early autumn and…”
But Ikmen wasn’t listening anymore. Ikmen, in his mind, was very far away. Back with another old man who couldn’t or rather, so it appeared, didn’t want to address his past.
* * *
Robert Cornelius was angry with himself. His last lesson had been a complete disaster. It was one thing having little real interest in your students, but it was quite another actually showing it for all the world to see. If he wasn’t careful he was going to lose his job and if he lost his job he lost his apartment too. If only he could focus on something other than Natalia. But he was wasting his time even trying. She had shown him something the previous night, something he had never seen before—a tenderness. Her hands had cradled his pain. Like a small child healing a wounded bird, she had stroked him back to life. Then, just before she left, he’d told her all about Betty. About the hurt. But now he had to help her. He wanted to help her; she was his now, she’d said so. Promised. If only he could think of something!
He’d been back over the problem a dozen times, but he was still no nearer to a solution. What he had to do, somehow, was inform the police that this old Nazi, if indeed he was such, had once had a personal grudge against Leonid Meyer—if indeed he had. All this was based upon pure hearsay which emanated from a source that was, at best, he had to admit, dubious. To further compound the problem, there was also the issue of how he was, if he was, going to tell the police. He neither wanted nor felt that it was wise to tell them directly. If he did, they would probably question his motivation. They would certainly want to know where he, a man by his own admission totally unacquainted with Smits, had got his information from. There was, however, yet another issue that was even more deeply troubling than any of that: why had Natalia asked him to perform this task?
If it had merely been a case of, as she had said, protecting the Gulcu family from further investigation because of their illegal status, that would have been acceptable—just. If only she hadn’t been at Meyer’s apartment on the day of the murder! If only he hadn’t seen her! If only he could believe that she had not been involved in the old man’s death!
But he couldn’t believe her even though he wanted to more than almost anything else in the world. Even though what she was putting him through now was bad, very bad, for him.
Great curling waves of self-loathing crashed across his tortured mind. What kind of person even contemplated feeding false information to the police? Even if this Smits man were a Nazi that was still a million miles away from the assumption that he was a killer too! Putting aside his politics he might even be quite a nice man with grandchildren and charitable interests and all sorts of good things. Because Robert didn’t know him he couldn’t possibly hazard a guess about what he was like!
But all that was, unfortunately, he knew, the rational, lighter side of the argument. The irrational, but to Robert, far weightier and more important side related to Natalia and what she wanted. And because he wanted her, what she wanted had to take precedence. What a foolish, weak, unpleasant little man he was! Complying with the demands of an evil, manipulative girl!
It made him laugh—not because he was happy but because there was nothing else to do in the face of such an abomination. Every mistake he had ever made he could trace back t
o some woman, or rather his desire to possess some woman. But then unless he wanted to change now, what on earth was the use of pursuing such fruitless lines of thought? And he didn’t want to change.
No.
What he wanted was Natalia and in order to get her he had to do this thing—one way or another. If only his mind would work upon the problem. If only he could think without feeling sick!
Think! Think!
Chapter 12
“Anyone would think that I was asking you to murder somebody!”
Suleyman replaced his car keys in his pocket and sighed. “Mother…”
“I mean, I think I am being really quite flexible. If you tell me a time I will work with that and—”
“But, Mother, as I have told you several times now, I can’t tell you what time I’m going to be home tonight because I don’t know what that is going to be myself.”
Nur Suleyman pouted—an expression that was not terribly appropriate either to her age or her position in life. “But if you can’t give me a time then I can’t possibly go ahead with tonight’s meal. I’ll have to tell Auntie and Zuli not to come…”
“But if you hadn’t invited them without asking me this wouldn’t have happened!”
“I wanted it to be a surprise!”
“What kind of surprise is that!”
She looked for just a moment as if she had been slapped. Suleyman leaned against the side of his car and put his hand up to his head, instantly regretting what had just been said.
Recovering herself, Nur Suleyman’s face now took on an expression of anger. “What do you mean by that?”
“I didn’t mean anything. I’m sorry, Mother…”
“Do you want to be single and lonely for the rest of your life?”
“No. Look—”
“Well, you’re behaving as if that is exactly what you do want. I can’t understand you! Your cousin will make an excellent wife—”
“Mother!” He took his car keys out of his pocket again and rattled them in front of her face. “Not now. I have to go!”
“Oh well, if your job is more important…” Nur turned quickly on her heel and then marched, straight-backed, into the house.
Suleyman sighed and then, pushing himself away from the side of the car, walked around to the driver’s side.
* * *
“Could I speak to Mr. Smits, please?”
“Who is calling?”
“It’s Inspector Ikmen.”
The butler paused, although only briefly, before replying, “I am afraid that Mr. Smits has already gone out for the day, sir.”
“Oh.”
“Can I take a message, or…”
“No, no, that’s all right. I’ll ring back later. Thank you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Wilkinson replaced the receiver in its cradle and turned to face his master. “That was Inspector Ikmen, sir. I hope I—”
“Yes, yes,” Smits replied, “you did absolutely the right thing.” For just a moment he fiddled with a pair of tiny calfskin gloves and then put them, with some determination, on his hands. “And now I really am going out, Wilkinson,” he said. “I may be some time.”
As he turned to leave the butler noticed that his face was white.
* * *
Suleyman hardly noticed what his fellow road-users were doing as he sat within the grip of heavy traffic along the coast road. Consequently, he was subject to several furious horn-beepings as those behind him attempted to gain those vital extra few meters. Not that such behavior, on this occasion, bothered him unduly. His mind was far too occupied with replaying the recent altercation with his mother for it to be troubled by a little irate traffic. When one is facing what amounts to in all but name an arranged marriage, most other aspects of one’s life pale into insignificance. Not, of course, that Mehmet Suleyman had anyone else but himself to blame for his current situation. The match, which was with his first cousin Zuleika, had been both suggested and set up by his mother and his aunt. Theoretically, at least, he could have said “no” to this at any time, and considering the fact that the whole idea of his cousin appalled him, it would have been in his own interests to do just that. But, in practice, like a lot of things, it wasn’t that simple.
What Nur Suleyman wanted, she tended to get. Both Suleyman and his father had always let her have her own way. The only exception to this rule was his elder brother, Murad, who despite wild protestations from Nur had married a Greek. That he was now, as far as Nur was concerned, a non-person within the family group was quite chilling and, furthermore, demanded the kind of rebelliousness Mehmet Suleyman knew he didn’t possess. As a member of the once ruling classes, albeit one with neither money nor social position, Suleyman was aware that he had certain duties and to marry well was one of these. To either deny or attempt to circumvent such a duty went against everything he had been trained to be. That it was making him unhappy was simply a price he had always suspected he would one day have to pay.
Obsessed as he was with these morbid and uncomfortable thoughts he hardly noticed the passing scenery as he battled his way toward the center of the city. This condition only held, however, until he was obliged to stop the car to allow a large limousine to exit from between a pair of tall iron gates. Not that the place itself was instantly familiar—there were many such large entrances to old mansions along this stretch of road—but Smits’s drawn little face in the back of the limousine was unmistakable.
* * *
It was a terrible thought. Robert had first noticed it growing toward the end of the last lesson. It had started slowly at first, but then, suddenly and unaccountably, it had accelerated, weaving its way into his brain like a maggot. He’d been appalled, but it lodged there looking at him. For a while he fought it and, to his credit, it was a brave fight. But this thought had allies: panic, fear, the needs of his own body. He should have silenced it earlier, he knew that now.
Because it wouldn’t let go, Robert cried off his next class, pleading a sick headache. It pleased the students, he could tell. When he announced the cancelation, they didn’t exactly cheer, but he could see the relief on their faces, the sweet anticipation of time spent munching burgers and discussing their unwanted virginity. If he had cared, it would have been an insult.
Although claiming to be sick, he didn’t go home. The idea of his silent, empty apartment appalled him. Instead he sat in a corner of the staff room and smoked. At least there he was on the periphery of reality; people coming and going; the sound of ridiculous or boring chatter. It didn’t drown the voice of the thought, but it prevented it from completely overwhelming him. He knew this stuff. These things were all basically the same. With others around it could nag rather than scream. Alone, he would be entirely at its mercy. Robert didn’t want to be alone, because that way he knew he didn’t stand a chance. It was just too bloody good.
He stubbed one cigarette out and immediately lit another. He didn’t really like chain-smoking, it made him feel sick, but he had to do something. If he did absolutely nothing people would become concerned. But closing his eyes and pretending to be asleep wasn’t a solution—he’d tried that. As soon as his lids had drooped, he’d felt the thought hook its icy fingers round his testicles.
Robert didn’t want to do it. It was good, but he didn’t want to do it. The thought constantly showed him the advantages, but the disadvantages were immense. They far outweighed the benefits, but only, and unfortunately, on the rational plane. In the domain of the emotions, Robert’s real home, where logic is useless and the rational mind a joke, there was nothing to be done but follow the long finger of the thought. And yet he could see, despite the fluffy and appealing images that littered this path of the heart, exactly where it led. Brief sweetness gave rapidly over into a space that contained nothing. An echoing, doorless room, waiting to be filled.
“Do you want a paracetamol?”
He hadn’t noticed Rosemary slip into the chair beside him. She could have been there for
hours for all he knew. Looking inward with such intensity blinds the eyes. His answer was stupefied and sounded drugged, even to his own ears. “What?”
“A paracetamol. Helena said you had a headache…”
“Oh.” He looked at her eyes and was shocked by the level of concern he found there. Perhaps he looked terrible? Robert made an attempt at a slight smile. “No, no thanks.”
She moved her powdery face close to his. “Are you all right, dear?”
Robert felt himself start to panic. Rosemary, though notoriously vague, was no fool. Again he wondered how he looked. He put his hand to his chin and heard a faint rasping sound as his fingers dragged across his unshaven flesh. He moved his hand up; his cheeks were still unmistakably flushed from the previous night’s gin. He didn’t need a mirror to tell him that he looked a fright. His appearance was probably the reason why Rosemary persisted. It was unlike him. Robert was always at least clean and tidy, well, he had been until—When had it all started? How many awful days now?
“Robert…” Rosemary frowned. “Don’t you think you should go home?”
“Oh, no! No! It’s OK—really.”
But Rosemary wasn’t convinced. She touched his knee lightly with her fingers.
Robert froze.
“If this girl is giving you this much grief, I’d get out if I were you.”
As he turned to face her, Robert felt pain as the taut muscles in his neck unwillingly moved. He could see by the expression on her face that he was answering her advice with hard and contemptuous eyes.
She looked sadly down at the floor and sighed. “Just a thought, Robert.”
He felt ashamed. Poor Rosemary, she hadn’t deserved a killing look, she was only trying to be kind. But it was too late. She rose from her chair and smoothed her skirt down toward her knees. Robert didn’t follow her with his eyes. She’d momentarily drowned out the voice of the thought and perhaps that had been wrong. Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken to her at all. Speaking was sometimes bad. He’d spoken to the headmaster about the Norris twins and Billy on numerous occasions, but it had never done any good. Betty likewise. Best to keep silent, like back at school when he was a child. The thought was good in that it gave structure, direction. Just like school really—good old Christ’s Hospital. The other way there was too much freedom, too many paths. Some could be right, but he knew that he would choose the wrong one, he knew it! Then he would be alone again, single, without her. People like Rosemary just couldn’t understand.
Belshazzar's Daughter: A Novel of Istanbul (Inspector Ikmen series Book 1) Page 21
