İkmen sprang to his feet. ‘Oh, I see. And what am I to tell Mrs İpek? What am I to tell the bereaved family and friends of Hatice? Your girl was a whore and she deserved everything she got?’
‘When he returns to duty Inspector Süleyman will be assigned to the İpek case, such as it is.’
İkmen shook his head in disbelief. ‘Inspector Süleyman won’t be back this week, sir.’
‘I am aware of that, İkmen.’
‘By which time—’
‘Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you! This case is my priority now! This case involves somebody who might, if we are very fortunate, still be alive!’ Up on his feet now, Ardıç pointed his smouldering cigar directly at İkmen’s face. ‘You will do your duty as I dictate and you will support me when we go downstairs and talk to my men.’ And then shifting his gaze from İkmen’s furious face to İskender’s passive features. ‘If you would like to go and tell them that we are on our way, please, Inspector.’
Wearily İskender pulled himself upright. ‘Yes, sir.’
When he had left the office and shut the door behind him, Ardıç moved towards İkmen. Taking İkmen’s thin shoulders roughly in his meaty hands he held him firmly as he said, ‘Of course the truth is that I don’t think İskender can do this without you, İkmen.’
Çetin İkmen was not a man easily taken in by flattery and just snorted by way of reply.
‘He’s very young, he can be impulsive and his manner is not attractive.’
Knowing that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with this particular line of argument, Ardıç sat down once again and looked at the floor. It was at this point that he assumed his most casual tone.
‘What İskender does know, however, is that Hikmet Sivas is hiding something. He doesn’t know what it is—’
‘Then how does he know he’s hiding something?’ İkmen said. ‘Does he have a feeling, an intuition?’
‘I don’t know, İkmen,’ Ardıç said as he gathered up everything he needed for the meeting, ‘It is a fact that Mr Sivas’ brother did try to stop him talking to our officer at the scene. A little strange, I feel. Perhaps if you were to talk to Mr Sivas and his brother yourself . . .’
İkmen knew exactly what his superior was trying to do – piquing his interest – which Ardıç had done. İkmen knew that İskender was not one to give in easily to gut feelings like this, but he had to have them, as all officers did, from time to time. Not that that was relevant; İkmen knew he had to involve himself in this case whether he wanted to or not. It was probably best to pretend he had fallen for Ardıç’s clumsy ruse. Then when he was off duty he could do as he pleased, hopefully without questions from Ardıç. In this way it might be possible to continue to investigate Hatice’s death and find Kaycee Sivas too. When he would sleep he didn’t know, but he’d sort that out some other time. The important thing was to discover who had assaulted Hatice and why. He had made a promise to both Hürrem İpek and his own daughter, and rich American or no rich American, he was going to honour it.
So İkmen smiled at Ardıç and said that he would go and talk to the Sivas family as soon as the briefing was over. He’d had an argument, calmed down and been mollified by a man who thought that he was under his control. And as Ardıç left the room with İkmen respectfully at his heels, the commissioner did indeed feel that he had won. But then this, or rather events like this had happened before – events after which İkmen had gone off and done what he wanted to do anyway. Therefore in order to cover just such an eventuality, Ardıç did take the precaution of turning on İkmen yet again, just before they reached their destination.
Zelfa looked down at the baby sleeping peacefully in her arms and felt nothing except despair. Yes, she could see that he was beautiful and, yes, she was amazed that she could have produced such a perfect late baby. But she didn’t feel anything for him. He was there in much the same way as the tube that drained fluid from the site of her operation – something produced by and part of the hospital. When she left she knew that little Yusuf İzzeddin would, unlike the tube, go with her. But she didn’t really want him to. Her stomach, which had never in truth been exactly flat, now looked like an enormous deflated bladder, saggy and wrinkled. On the few occasions they had allowed her to get out of bed – they were old-fashioned about bed rest here – she had felt it flop against the tops of her legs, all limp and slimy with sweat.
And he, Yusuf İzzeddin, her baby, had done this. Of course the logical part of her knew that he hadn’t. Both as a doctor and as a woman she knew that she and her husband had actually done this to her. But she couldn’t blame Mehmet because she loved him, and as for blaming herself, well, that was just faulty thinking, wasn’t it? Self blame was pointless, useless – she always told her patients they should have no time for it. It crossed her mind that perhaps this was post-natal depression, but as quickly as the thought came, Zelfa dismissed it. To dignify her feelings with the status of a clinical condition this early on in motherhood was absurd. And yet there was no doubt that she was miserable. Although she managed to keep herself together whenever her husband was with her, as soon as he left she descended into often uncontrollable weeping. Her father was aware of her feelings but, strangely for him, he wasn’t much use. But then the aunts were probably to blame for that.
Babur Halman had two sisters, Alev and Zehra, both older and far more outspoken than their brother. Governed by tradition and religious customs that Babur had largely either lost or forgotten during the years he had lived and worked in Ireland, Alev and Zehra had been quick to advise Zelfa about the ‘right way’ to look after babies. Despite temperatures in excess of forty-five degrees, the child needed to be kept away from draughts and swaddled as tightly as was safe. This, without any reference to Zelfa, the two sisters did while at the same time reminding their niece that when she did finally leave hospital she would have to stay indoors with little Yusuf İzzeddin for at least a month. Babies were susceptible to all sorts of evil forces during the first forty days of life.
And Zelfa’s father, a paediatrician, said nothing. Even when that dreadful old bitch of a mother-in-law reminded Zelfa that the announcement of Yusuf İzzeddin’s birth in the newspapers should be discreet and tasteful, she knew what the subtext was. Ostentation attracted the ‘evil eye’ which could bring bad fortune to the child. Nur Süleyman was after all only a peasant in origin, and like Alev and Zehra she believed in these ridiculous practices. Babur Halman, however, was educated, travelled and informed, he had no excuse, and Zelfa was very angry with him.
If things didn’t change soon, Zelfa knew that she would probably have to start taking anti-depressants. She didn’t want to but even in her distress the professional part of her recognised that this might be essential. In order to allow her feelings for her baby to grow she needed to be relaxed, which was not easy around people and in surroundings that were not her own. Although she had lived and worked in her father’s country for the last thirteen years, Zelfa, or Bridget as she had been called back home, was still Irish at heart. And as such she had little time for ‘evil eyes’ or swaddling or even the enforced bed rest she was currently ‘suffering’. But she had to be quite strong when Ireland came into her mind and so she dismissed all thoughts of it. If she didn’t, she knew she would just pull the tube out of her stomach and go straight back there now – probably without little Yusuf İzzeddin. Poor little prince. Zelfa started to cry again.
‘Sir, I have the utmost confidence in Sergeant Çöktin’s abilities as a negotiator,’ İkmen said tartly. ‘And if it is any comfort to you I can tell you that the methods he uses are similar to those employed by the FBI. I know what value you Americans place on your own institutions.’
He stressed the word ‘Americans’, but it seemed to be lost on Hikmet Sivas. Clearly devastated by the events of the last twenty-four hours, he paced his now smoke-filled living room, chain-smoking and occasionally exploding into impotent rages.
‘But whoever has my wife isn’t going to co
ntact me if they know that you’re here,’ he said, and then more to himself than anyone else he murmured, ‘I should have listened to Vedat. I should never have approached that constable.’
‘Yes, but you did, didn’t you, sir,’ İkmen said. ‘I agree that whoever has your wife must now know that you have contacted us. But if the plan was to exchange Mrs Sivas for money then I can’t see that that can have changed. Kidnappers always think they can outwit us and so I am confident that they will make contact.’
Whilst accepting that İskender had been careful to use other pretexts during the Beyazıt raid, İkmen was not happy – though he would never tell Hikmet Sivas this. Those responsible for the kidnap would know why Beyazıt had been torn apart. İstanbul, as he well knew, could be a very small town at times, particularly within its criminal fraternity. He would not have approached the problem in the way that İskender had done. In spite of this, however, he was still confident that if money were the motive, those holding Kaycee would call. If not, if an element as yet unknown were involved, that could be a problem. According to Çöktin, Hikmet Sivas had not been the most forthcoming crime victim he had ever met and was continuing to exhibit some resistance to the young officer’s efforts.
‘So, Mr Sivas,’ İkmen said as he joined the movie star in his heavy smoking session, ‘is there any other reason, apart from money, that you can think of to explain your wife’s disappearance?’
‘I’ve told him no!’ Sivas exploded, pointing at Çöktin who was sitting beside the telephone extension which was now attached to recording equipment.
‘Your brother tried to stop you talking to our officer at the scene.’
‘Because he was scared!’ the star screamed. ‘I’ve told you people that too!’
İkmen shrugged. Hikmet Sivas was not how he had imagined. Not as tall as he appeared on screen, he looked good for his age but that was all. His hair was quite obviously dyed and the plastic surgery he had no doubt paid dearly for had done little to improve either the wattles on his neck or the slackness around his jaw line. Despite being very upset he was clearly a star, but one who had passed his prime and was fortunate still to be so wealthy. Not all Hollywood’s old stars were so lucky – or so İkmen had heard. Unwise investments, drugs, drink, ex-wives and rapacious ‘friends’ frequently ruined such people. But with his lovely young wife, his homes in Los Angeles, New York, Hawaii and İstanbul, Hikmet Sivas had obviously made the money he had earned in the sixties and seventies work very well for him.
‘So,’ İkmen continued, ‘neither you nor your wife had any enemies.’
‘Not that I know of. You know,’ he cast a baleful glance at the unfortunate Çöktin once again, ‘I really need to telephone my agent.’
İkmen ignored this. ‘And there was no trouble between yourself and Mrs Sivas?’
Yet again, Sivas exploded. ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘And before you start speculating about whether my wife might have arranged this herself with some smooth young Turkish lover, just remember that she’d never been to this country before!’
‘Sir, I—’
‘I don’t know why Kaycee has been taken!’ he yelled, ‘I have no idea . . .’
‘It has happened because it is written.’
İkmen turned towards the voice and saw the small figure of a woman carrying a tray laden with tea glasses. She was probably about seventy although her face, albeit stern, was not heavily lined. Swathed in a dark coat, her head covered by a plain brown headscarf, she was obviously, if her words alone were not enough to tell by, a religious woman. Hikmet Sivas went immediately to her side as she placed the tray down on one of the coffee tables.
‘Oh, Hale, my soul,’ he said, ‘I know what you believe but not now, dear sister, please don’t say those things now!’
‘If you live your life beyond the laws of the Koran, what do you expect? Eh?’
‘Hale . . .’
‘Running around film sets with naked women! Living like an American! Drink and whores and working for Jews.’
‘Hale, I know I am not suitable to pour water to wash your hands.’
The woman snorted, before indicating that the policemen should help themselves to tea. She then left. İkmen had listened with interest to Hikmet Sivas abasing himself so thoroughly and publicly before his sister. Either he was grateful to her for something quite considerable or he was feeling guilty. Perhaps also he wanted something from her. Whichever it was, the interlude İkmen had just witnessed had been both interesting and surprising. In spite of having spent most of his life as an American, Hikmet Sivas had not forgotten the rules of his native land or the formulaic expressions, originating in Ottoman times, that gave shape to how one experienced one’s social and moral standing in relation to others. And by not responding to her brother’s declaration of inferiority, Hale Sivas had made it plain that she did indeed know that she was exalted above him. Odd, given that he was the rich and famous sibling, the successful child most families would fete, whatever their peccadilloes.
Çöktin and the technician in charge of the recording equipment got up and took tea with İskender who had just returned. İkmen, aware that Hikmet Sivas would need some time to gather his thoughts again, left to go outside. The car Vedat Sivas had been driving when Kaycee was abducted was being investigated by a team from the Forensic Institute. He had left Tepe, who had been rather quiet that morning, in charge.
Outside, İkmen stopped briefly to observe how the midday sunlight hit the glass-like waters of the Bosphorus. This side of town, if not the district, was still home. All through his childhood he had seen İstanbul from this perspective. The imperial mosques were ‘across the water’, as was Pera, the ‘new’ city which had all that was European and naughty and tantalising – and important. Asia, where he was now and where he had beenborn in poor, old, working-class Üsküdar, was different – older almost, he sometimes felt, even though he knew that wasn’t so. Perhaps it was a mindset – the Asian mind, hard-working and given to suffering and the reality of death; the whole area was characterised by massive, tree-darkened cemeteries. Even here in smart Kandıllı there was a huge graveyard less than five minutes from where he stood now looking at Tepe watching the activity in and around the car. It was perhaps this fleeting contemplation of death that made him return to the subject of poor little Hatice İpek.
‘So,’ he said as he offered his inferior a cigarette, ‘you don’t think that the confectioner Hassan Şeker has anything more to tell us about my daughter’s friend?’
Tepe took the cigarette and shrugged. ‘Beyond what I told you on the phone yesterday, no, sir. He still maintains their “relationship” was all in the heads of the girl and others.’
‘Including my daughter,’ İkmen said darkly.
‘Yes. But he is willing to give a semen sample for analysis and he appeared to be confident about that,’ Tepe said, attempting to gloss over the reference to İkmen’s daughter.
‘Mmm.’
‘Do you want me to arrange for him to provide the sample?’
‘Yes, Tepe, do that,’ İkmen said and then he went over to look at the water more closely.
Hulya wasn’t lying. Not about this. Hassan Şeker was willing to provide a semen sample probably because he hadn’t had sex with Hatice on the night that she died. Tepe had taken statements from employees at the pastane who maintained he had been with them, or at his home, at the time of her death anyway. But then why was Şeker still insisting that he had never had relations with Hatice? True, his wife would hardly be pleased if she found out, but he was a wealthy man and so it was unlikely she would leave him. His continuing refusal to admit to what was an affair with a consenting adult seemed ridiculous – and to İkmen suspicious. For some reason Şeker was trying to distance himself from Hatice İpek.
Ahmet Sılay, like Hulya, also insisted that Şeker and Hatice had been having relations, and Ahmet Sılay had once been a close friend of the man whose wife was now missing, Hikmet Sivas. In order to cover every even
tuality, İkmen decided to ask Sivas about his friend, just in passing, to try to ascertain how honest the elderly alcoholic was. He did not want Hulya’s statement to become a lone voice of dissent against Hassan Şeker. She was young and susceptible to the sort of fantasies that Şeker claimed both Hatice and Hulya had indulged in about the affair. Perhaps, İkmen expanded, they had even written in Hatice’s diary to embellish just such a fantasy. Young girls could and would do such things, he knew. But not in this case. Hulya was, after all, a policeman’s daughter. What happened to people who made up stories to the police was well known to her. Hulya had not lied.
İkmen made his way back into the house where he met a worn-out İskender at the entrance to the star’s living room. Sivas, seated now, was on the telephone.
‘Who’s he talking to?’ Ikmen asked.
‘He kept on berating me about needing to speak to his agent,’ İskender responded sourly, ‘so I let him.’
Ikmen shrugged and then turned his attention towards Sivas.
‘I’m telling you, G,’ the star shouted in almost unaccented American, ‘my life is over, it’s all gone totally wrong . . . It’s fucked is what I’m saying! Yes, yes, sure they are, but . . .’ He turned his head away from the two officers before he continued. But he was still shouting so they could hear what he said anyway. They and Cöktin, who was also still in the room, shared a disdainful look.
‘Have you ever seen Turkish police in action?’ Sivas continued. ‘Well, imagine a bunch of violent retards and you’ll get the picture. No, they won’t find her. I need help, proper people. Yeah, I know I gotta go with it, but—’
In the silence during which the agent was no doubt yet again attempting to mollify Sivas, İkmen left. He knew he wasn’t a ‘violent retard’ and he didn’t want to listen any more. Sivas was still officially a victim of crime and İkmen didn’t want to feel as angry as he was rapidly becoming towards an innocent man.
Harem Page 10
