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

by Barbara Nadel

  “And so who killed Meyer and why?”

  “Maria Gulcu, or rather some other more capable member of her family killed Meyer.”

  “But why?”

  Çetin’s face took on a grave aspect. “You saw how that family lived, Suleyman. How far do you think you would have to retreat into a delusion like this to arrive at the conclusion that your ‘father’s’ murderer must die?”

  “But why now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And why couldn’t it have been Smits?”

  Çetin sighed. “Because the swastika, as it did, would have led us right to him and what did he, a dying man, want with trouble like that? Don’t forget that he killed himself because of all this—he knew everything, the lot.”

  “So why,” put in Arto, “didn’t he tell you all this and get himself off the hook?”

  “I can only assume,” Çetin answered, “that even at the end he didn’t want to give the lovely Maria away. Remember that if you follow the line of the delusion to its logical conclusion and if Maria Gulcu were indeed the Grand Duchess Maria, she must have been at considerable risk for much of her life. Had she truly been genuine then the old Soviet Government would have wanted her dead.”

  “But they’re all gone now,” said Suleyman, “so what was the point?”

  “The point is, Suleyman, that old men and women do not change. Smits had harbored this ‘great secret’ for most of his life and he wasn’t going to let go of it now. Perhaps he even, deep down, feared that it was an illusion too and maybe he just couldn’t face that.”

  “So,” Arto mused, “the swastika was daubed there to implicate Smits?”

  “I assume so,” Çetin replied, “although as I think I’ve said before, it does have other, older meanings.”

  “Strange then,” Arto continued, “that he should continue to keep Maria’s secret when she, obviously, had no regard for him whatsoever.”

  “He had wanted her once. He and Meyer had argued over her. Infatuation like that, particularly for a princess, dies a hard death. Although I must say that I think he was getting close to revealing something just before he died. He told us Maria ‘had’ something on Meyer. He was almost ready, but not quite.”

  “And this Robert Cornelius, where does he feature?”

  “Robert Cornelius was totally ignorant of the events I have outlined. He had, for him, the double misfortune of being in love with Natalia Gulcu and being in the wrong place, i.e. Balat, at the wrong time. Having said that, however, I do believe he had some knowledge about who may or may not have killed Meyer. My personal opinion is that it was probably his girlfriend.”

  Suleyman frowned. “How so?”

  “Remember when he asked us about penalties and sentences during that last interview we had with him?”

  “Yes?”

  “Remember how he went on about the death penalty and about people who might be excepted from it?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Well,” Çetin continued, “if he didn’t have anybody in mind then why ask? I think that he had at least a vague notion of who might be involved in his mind. Perhaps he thought that if one of the more elderly members of the family were involved age might preclude execution.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “But then that’s only a theory too. Like everything else to do with this case, including the definite identity of the person who killed Rabbi Isak, we can only theorize.”

  “Even though,” Suleyman put in, “we know that it had to be Robert Cornelius.”

  “Even though we think we know that, yes. With his body in the condition that it is, quite where we start with regard to forensics, I don’t know.” Çetin smiled. “And why he, poor soul, would have done such a thing, I cannot imagine.”

  All three men sat in silence for a while after that and until Suleyman altered the subject slightly there didn’t appear to be anything more to be said.

  “So,” Suleyman began, “why, out of interest, did you give me the day off yesterday, sir?”

  Çetin and Arto briefly exchanged a knowing glance. The good doctor knew all about Çetin’s family and their little peculiarities. Therefore, rather gallantly, so Çetin later thought, he answered for his old friend. “Çetin’s reasons for doing that centered on certain beliefs he then had about what was about to take place. He feared for your life.”

  Suleyman, who didn’t know his superior as well as the doctor, did nevertheless understand that this referred to Ikmen’s rather unconventional belief in pre-cognition. Not sharing such views he responded rather sourly, “I see.” He could not help it.

  Arto, who had anticipated a reaction of this type, went on to say, “And, as you are only too painfully aware, Suleyman, my old friend’s intuitions were, in part, rather borne out—don’t you think?”

  “Yes.” It was said slightly sulkily, but just accepting enough to indicate to all present that the subject was now closed.

  “Well, it’s been absolutely fascinating,” said Arto as he rose, rather stiffly, from his chair, “but I really must go now, I’m afraid, Çetin. Those bodies of yours won’t formally identify themselves, will they, and after all the trouble and confusion there has been over this case, I want to make sure that everyone is who we believe them to be.”

  “Oh, yes, please. I don’t think that I can stand any more mystery with regard to this one.”

  “No.” The two men embraced warmly.

  After the doctor had gone and Çetin was alone with Suleyman, however, his earlier, almost jovial mood disappeared. “You know,” he said as he went out to retrieve another soft drink for his colleague from the kitchen, “this case has been the nastiest one I have ever worked on.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because there was absolutely nothing to like about any of the people involved in it. For one reason or another they were all absolutely selfish.”

  Suleyman shrugged. “I suppose you—”

  “Yes, they were,” Ikmen concluded, “even in the wildest reaches of their delusions.”

  * * *

  It was late and all the children were in bed. Fatma was sleeping too. Mercifully, the baby had gorged himself into a deep, open-mouthed slumber. Only Çetin and Timür remained in the living room, drinking and watching the wonderful rain wash down the window-panes. The air seemed so much clearer now, as if a great thick blanket had been lifted from the city and flung into the sea.

  “So why did you try and get rid of that boy yesterday then?”

  “What, Suleyman?”

  “Yes, Suleyman. Well?”

  Çetin pulled a miserable face and stared down into his drink. He hated explaining these things to Timür. “Samsun did a reading for me. She saw it. The boy falling from the window, the fire. Suleyman standing in the path of the falling body—the lot.”

  The old man grunted. “Coincidence. Anyway, what was Samsun doing in town, I thought that Ahmet and his terrible tribe had moved away.”

  Çetin shrugged. “Uncle Ahmet moved to Izmir, but Samsun stayed behind. Istanbul’s better for people like her.”

  “Him.” Timür spat the word out contemptuously. “Your mother’s family are weird. You should stay away from them, Çetin.”

  “You married her and I’m like her!”

  “Yes, you are, cursed witch-boy!” Timür paused for a second, wishing he hadn’t said it, knowing that it was too late. “But you’re also like me too, Çetin. Your mother wasn’t clever. She was artful, but she was no intellectual.”

  Çetin lit a cigarette and looked at the reflection of its glowing tip on the window-pane. “I know. But they are my family and they are the only people I can talk to about…” He changed the subject. “Anyway, Suleyman is safe, that’s all that matters. How is not important. Now his mother can marry him off to his boring cousin and watch helplessly as he has affairs, just like Cohen.”

  “Cohen?”

  “One of my constables. Jewish. His hobby is chasing young Swedish tourists. I despair.
”

  The old man took a cigarette from his son’s packet and lit up. “I never did that to either of you.”

  “I’m grateful, OK?” He was still smarting from being called a witch-boy. Only Fatma could do that and expect to get away with it. Timür always claimed to understand Çetin’s “gift” but he couldn’t, not really.

  The old man realized that the time had come to change the subject. “You know I heard all of your explanation of the Meyer murder, don’t you? I listened at the door before I came in.”

  “I guessed you were probably there.”

  Oh, they knew each other so well! Timür laughed. “It was good, Çetin, but there was one possibility that you didn’t consider.”

  Çetin raised a tired eyebrow. “Oh? And what was that?”

  “Well, remember you said that you didn’t know what Maria Gulcu was doing in Ekaterinburg?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, did it ever occur to you that perhaps she was supposed to be there?”

  It was very late for this cryptic kind of talk. Çetin rubbed his eyes and yawned. “What are you talking about?”

  Old eyes gleamed mischievously at him. “That she was one of the prisoners! That she was shot at too and that somehow Meyer managed to save her.”

  Çetin groaned. “And her real name was Anastasia, right?”

  “No, Maria like you said, as in the photograph.” He leaned forward and rested one shoulder against his son’s side. “It’s not that crazy, Çetin. I was reading the English newspaper The Times not so long ago and a report in there said that although most of the royal remains have now been found in a wood near Ekaterinburg, two bodies are still missing. The Tsarevich and one of the girls, they think.”

  “But Maria Gulcu and the Grand Duchess looked nothing like each other—really. We’ve established that, I thought.”

  “In your and Arto’s opinion, yes. But what about getting some expert advice?”

  Çetin was really too tired for all this. “I don’t know. What about it?”

  “Well, isn’t it worth pursuing it?”

  “Look, they all died, Timür. It was just a delusion, a dangerous one, but a delusion and—”

  “Ah, but what if it wasn’t!” The old man’s eyes were shining now as slowly he leaned forward and picked up the picture of the Grand Duchess Maria from the table. “What if this Gulcu woman was Belshazzar’s Daughter?”

  Çetin smiled. He had to under the circumstances. “You’re a bit of a secret royalist beneath all your republicanism, aren’t you, Timür?”

  “No, no.” But as he looked down at the picture, his usual scowling expression changed. “But I do come from that era, Çetin, and even I have to admit that it was a more gracious time. Sultan Vahideddin still ruled over what was left of our Empire when I was born.” He sighed, “We were Ottomans then as we had been for hundreds of years. What are we now?”

  “We’re Turks,” said his son, yawning as he spoke, “and we’re a great deal better for it.”

  The old man smiled. “Yes. Yes, you are right. No more veiled women, no more wars fought on the whim of one man.”

  “That’s just about right.” Çetin stood up and stretched, only suddenly and quite unexpectedly to be grabbed from behind.

  “What if I were to be right about Belshazzar’s Daughter, what if…”

  Gently, but firmly, Çetin removed his father’s hand from his waist and smiled. “I’ve got to get to bed. I am a dead man.”

  “Oh, but Çetin, if it were true! If Maria Gulcu had been the Tsar’s daughter! The miracle of it! Think!”

  “But she’s dead now anyway, Dad.” It wasn’t often that Çetin called Timür “Dad,” but here it seemed appropriate somehow.

  The old man persisted. “But if she was then you met history, my son. You touched a great mystery. You know that?”

  Çetin humored the old man as he knew he should. “Yes, I know that, Dad. Don’t stay up too long. Goodnight.”

  The old man didn’t answer until he heard his son enter his bedroom. Then, looking at the two photographs laid together once again, he said, “Goodnight, my son. My poor blind soul.”

  Epilogue

  30 September 1992, Side, a popular resort on the Southern Mediterranean Coast Even though it was the end of the season it was still hot. The beach was quite crowded too, although mostly with locals now. The foreigners had gone, which was good in one way because so many of them were irritating and ignorant. Their passing did leave her feeling somewhat exposed though.

  She chewed thoughtfully on the vegetable, relishing its sweetness, and then picked up the newspaper yet again. It was, even now that she’d read about it three times over, almost impossible to believe. That Turkey’s latest millionaire, the one time English butler, John Wilkinson, could have done such a thing was both amazing and really quite despicable. To tell the world about the depraved proclivities of a man who had bequeathed one so much money smacked of base lower-class ingratitude. Not, of course, that she didn’t have other, more personal concerns on her mind …

  She drank deeply from her blue water bottle and scanned the beach for Anwar. He’d said he wouldn’t be long. He’d only gone to the garage to make sure that the car was ready. She hoped that it was because that meant they could leave immediately if they wanted to. She wanted to.

  She pushed her hair behind her ears and put on her sunglasses. Touching her hair wasn’t nice as the dye had made it very dry and brittle. Anwar loved the color, but she sometimes wondered how he felt about its texture, especially when they were making love. He liked to hold her hair when he rode her, he used it as a handle when he thrust himself inside her body. Anwar was very rough, which was good, especially in view of the fact that she might have to be with him for some time. She put the paper down again, taking care to avoid reading the very good description of herself on page five. Someone had taken great care to identify all those poor bodies very accurately. Someone, she felt, she didn’t much like.

  “The car’s fixed.” He’d come up behind her which was why she hadn’t seen him. His Turkish was so perfect, but then so many of the big Egyptian families were originally Turkish. The old Ottoman civil-service class. It reminded her of the flawless way in which her grandmother had spoken English. But that was for another reason.

  He sat behind her, spreading his legs on either side of her body, pressing his groin into her plump, rounded bottom.

  “We can go whenever you like, Maria,” he said, winding his arms around her shoulders and touching her breasts with his fingers.

  She smiled. She was so used to the name now it was almost second nature. The way she had adapted in such a short space of time pleased her. It also meant that at least something lived on, even though she was the only one who could ever appreciate it.

  “I’d like to go today.” She didn’t turn to look at him. She knew he was there, she knew how handsome he was too. Not that his looks had ever been a consideration. The Rolls-Royce, the Sudanese manservant and the finest hotel suite in town were the things that had persuaded her to give him everything on that first date. Times were hard and a girl had to live. If the man was handsome it was a bonus, but not essential.

  “Then we should go and pack now,” he replied.

  Yes, she thought, I will pack all the things you’ve bought for me. I’ve little else.

  She put one of her hands on his arm. “You go first. I’d like just a few more minutes here.” She turned and looked into his young, innocent face. “I’ll join you soon.”

  He kissed her. “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Oh, he was so keen to keep her! How much he reminded her of that other man. But Anwar would keep her, of course. The wedding was scheduled for December, after her conversion to Islam. She knew his parents weren’t happy, but then what could they do? She knew about powerful families.

  He disengaged himself from her and ran up the beach toward the hotel. Twenty-four and fit as an athlete!

  She thou
ght about her hair again and wondered whether she should soak it in olive oil again before they started the journey. Not that it made much difference. Her hair wasn’t supposed to be the color of sand, it was rebelling.

  She looked along the beach to where a group of young Turkish boys were playing football on the waterline. For just a moment an old evil thought crossed her mind. She knew that was impossible now. The things a person had to do to survive! But then wasn’t that what it was all about? Wasn’t that the reason why she had despised those sainted dead so much? No woman had to die at the hands of a man—ever. Quite the reverse. And one day, perhaps when Anwar was not quite so young and she had grown tired of playing consort to a member of the nouveau riche, he might have to learn what that reverse meant.

  Natalia popped another plump bottled beetroot into her mouth and smiled again. When your family has ruled half the world you can do what you like.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

  BELSHAZZAR’S DAUGHTER. Copyright © 1999 by Barbara Nadel. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  ISBN 0-312-31653-4

  First published in Great Britain by Headline Book Publishing, a division of Hodder Headline PLC

  First U.S. Edition: February 2004

  eISBN 9781466869288

  First eBook edition: March 2014