Dance with Death (24 page)

Once she had gone, İkmen turned back to his fellow diners and the English language that they used.

‘So at the risk of being a gossip myself, what do you think about Dolores Lavell and Turgut the guide?’ he said. ‘Do you have any theory about why he is suddenly interested in her? She has been coming here for some time, it would seem.’

‘Dunno,’ Tom said. ‘He just seemed to latch on to her in that balloon.’

Emily picked up her knife and fork from the table and fiddled with them for a moment before first grimacing and then frowning. ‘That whole thing with that old photo of her dad was creepy,’ she said.

Dolores Lavell’s ‘dear old dad’ as İkmen recalled her saying herself. Not that he’d seen the photograph with his own eyes.

‘Creepy? In what way?’

Emily shrugged. ‘Maybe I just feel like I do because I know she comes from the south.’

‘What do you mean?’ İkmen asked.

‘Well, you know that until the sixties we had segregation in the south. Whites and blacks couldn’t mix.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s all over now, at least according to the law,’ Emily said. ‘So it’s weird to come across someone who’s obviously so freaked about it still.’

İkmen frowned.

‘Well, look, you must have noticed how shocked that guide and I were when we saw her photo,’ Emily said. ‘It was a shock.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the guy, her dad, was black. I don’t know about the guide, but it suddenly hit me what she’d been doing. Creeped me out.’

Tom poured out water for everyone from a large bottle on the table and said, ‘What was that, then?’

‘All that make-up all over her face, it’s to cover up her colour,’ Emily said. ‘With her hair dead straight like that and all that stuff on her skin . . . she’s trying to be white and it’s just creepy. And people don’t need to do that these days. My mom was Japanese, you can see that and I’m proud of it. I don’t know, maybe it’s to do with her being from the south.’

‘I’ve never been there myself, but I’ve heard that places like Alabama are still quite primitive and prejudiced,’ Tom said gravely. ‘Maybe poor Dolores has suffered discrimination. Maybe it’s a sort of a protection – the make-up and what have you. I mean, her mother must have been white, I should imagine.’

‘It’s a bit Michael Jackson,’ Emily replied. ‘It . . .’

‘It’s my business is what it is,’ a southern drawl interrupted. Dolores Lavell was right behind Tom’s left shoulder.

‘Er . . .’

‘And for your information, Miss Bronstein, my hair is naturally straight and I wear make-up because I have acne scars.’ Then, turning to Tom, she said, ‘But you were right about my mom. She was white. My parents never married; you couldn’t in those days because of segregation.’ Her eyes blazed. ‘It isn’t me who’s prejudiced! I leave that to trendy-in-denial Californians like Miss Bronstein. If I was prejudiced, why would I show folks that picture of my dad? He always took an interest in me even when, years ago, we could hardly see one another. I’m proud of him. Turgut understands that.’

‘I don’t think so!’ Emily said.

‘It’s a pity he does not seem at times to understand his brother with such sympathy,’ İkmen said gravely. ‘If indeed he has exhibited that emotion.’

‘He just gets tired of poor Kemalettin’s ways sometimes,’ Dolores replied. ‘I can understand that.’

‘Can you? You seemed quite upset this morning.’

‘I don’t have to give any sort of account of myself to you! I understand about Kemalettin and how it all is!’

‘I’m not certain that you do, Miss Lavell,’ İkmen replied.

‘Well, screw you!’ And then with a toss of her head she walked out of the restaurant. Menşure, who had been watching the ‘action’ from the bar, shook her head at İkmen as Dolores Lavell left the building. The American had said that she would be taking her dinner in the restaurant – something that had been, apparently, ruined by Menşure’s cousin and his friends. She made a mental note to add one extra meal to his bill.

After a few moments’ embarrassed silence, Tom said, ‘Well, that was us told.’

‘What?’

‘About inheritance, Inspector,’ Tom continued. ‘Em and, I expect, you and I, once we knew, assumed that because Dolores’ father was black she could not have straight hair. But that is perfectly possible. I went to school with a chap whose mother was Sri Lankan and he was whiter than me! No one can predict how inheritance will play out in reality. Genetics is such a lottery.’

‘Yes, I’m learning rather a lot about that subject this week,’ İkmen said as his cousin approached the table with a basket of bread. ‘Menşure . . .’

‘You upset Miss Lavell . . .’

‘She’s having it off with Turgut Senar!’ İkmen said in Turkish. ‘So sorry for her now, are you?’

‘He shouldn’t go with anyone outside of his marriage, especially not a foreigner,’ she retorted.

‘Why? Scared the experience will cause him to grow horns on his head?’ İkmen turned back to his fellow diners and reverted to English. ‘This village makes me tired,’ he said. ‘It’s very picturesque, but the people . . . I want to go home.’

The two constables on duty at the crime scene were not surprised to see him. İzzet Melik had warned them of his coming.

‘Sir,’ they both said, saluting as Süleyman passed them and walked down beside the now dark and silent hamam.

It was easy to see where İzzet Melik was. An inveterate smoker, just like his superior, the glowing end of his cigarette guided Süleyman to his side. What was surprising about this scenario was that Melik wasn’t alone. Dr Mardin, Arto Sarkissian’s assistant, was with him. She looked particularly anxious.

‘So, Sergeant,’ Süleyman said as he drew level with the pair, ‘what is all this about?’

‘Someone has tampered with the crime scene,’ İzzet Melik said baldly.

‘How do you know?’

‘When the body was removed, after it had been measured and photographed, a forensic team moved in.’

Süleyman shrugged. ‘Quite right.’

‘If they’d been from the Forensic Institute, yes, Inspector,’ Melik said sharply. ‘But they weren’t.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because when the corpse failed to turn up at Dr Sarkissian’s laboratory, Dr Mardin called me and I called the Institute, thinking it might have gone there with the other data by mistake.’

‘And had it?’

‘No,’ the young female pathologist cut in anxiously. ‘I don’t know where it went. It was missing for a good two hours.’

‘So you do have the corpse of, what was the young man’s name?’

‘Nizam Tapan. Yes,’ Dr Mardin said, ‘but only since he’s been cleaned.’

Süleyman frowned.

‘Whoever took him, not boys from my laboratory, cleaned him up,’ she continued angrily rather than fearfully now. ‘There’s not a scrap of evidence on him! I was all set to send my boys out to get him when I received a call from your boss, Commissioner Ardıç, to say that the police had taken care of transport and the boy was on his way. I counted on it taking an hour at most for them to get to me – it took three!’

‘I see.’ Süleyman took his cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket and lit up. Fortunately, the darkness of the night hid the many blood stains that still marked his jacket and trousers. Zelfa had nearly gone mad when he’d left the house in such a state. ‘So you telephoned Sergeant Melik?’

‘Yes. He’d called me originally from here.’

‘I checked to see whether the body had turned up at the Institute by mistake,’ Melik continued. ‘It hadn’t and neither had the samples from the site – the blood-soaked dust, the rubbish around the body.’

‘Have the samples turned up since?’

‘Apparently, yes.’ Melik frowned. ‘At a laboratory out of town, or so the Institute told me a couple of hours ago. They will get the results from this unknown place and, I am told, pass them on to you, Inspector.’

‘But you don’t like it, do you, İzzet? Dr Mardin?’

‘No, Inspector.’

‘No.’

He looked at them both and then sighed. He didn’t like it either. First he was, seemingly, prevented from talking to a live peeper victim, Abdullah Aydın, and now his people were having dead bodies and vital evidence on the case disappear from view. Furthermore, the commissioner seemed to be involved in both instances. It was something he knew he’d have to take further on both his own and Dr Mardin’s account.

‘These teams who came to pick up the body and the samples,’ Süleyman said to Melik, ‘did you recognise anyone?’

‘No, but then I’ve not been in the city for very long, have I, Inspector? I mean, if this had been İzmir . . .’

‘Yes, it’s all right, İzzet,’ Süleyman said, ‘I’m not blaming you for anything. I take it these constables are unaware of these matters.’

‘Yes. They think you’ve just come out to see the site again.’

‘Good.’ He coughed. ‘Leave it with me and keep what has passed here just between ourselves.’

‘Why do you think I sent you a text?’ İzzet Melik snapped. ‘Why do you think we’re out here in the dark? I’m not James Bond and neither are you, Inspector Süleyman.’

His manner was, to Süleyman’s way of thinking, unnecessarily brusque. But he let it pass – for the moment. After all, Melik’s attitude was hardly top of his list of things to deal with if one compared it to speaking to Ardıç about misplaced evidence. If indeed ‘misplaced’ was the right word. Süleyman and Melik escorted Dr Mardin back to her car and then stood in the street, in front of the Kamondo Steps on Voyvoda Caddesi. Constructed at the behest of a once-powerful Karaköy banking family, the strange art decoesque staircase had always fascinated Süleyman. When he had lived in the district with the Cohens, when the Cohens had still had an apartment to call their own, he had often come to the steps to sit and enjoy their stylish strangeness – and of course to get a little peace away from Balthazar’s endless complaining. Suddenly he experienced terrible guilt about these old feelings he was having and so he turned back to Melik and the problem in hand.

‘You were right to come to me with this, İzzet,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why these things are happening, but it is better that I try to get to the bottom of it rather than you.’

‘I agree,’ Melik said as he put one cigarette out and lit another, trying to get as many in as possible before sunrise. ‘I don’t get paid an inspector’s wage.’

‘Nor do you always address me as “sir”, which you should,’ Süleyman responded sharply. ‘You’ve done well to bring this malpractice to my attention, İzzet, but I am having problems with your attitude as I am sure you know.’

‘Inspector . . .’

‘Let me finish!’ Süleyman then lowered his voice, unwilling to share his observations with small groups of people leaving iftar meals with very stuffed bellies. ‘Your prejudices are, on occasion, stomach-turning, and your attitude towards women is offensive.’

‘I’m a traditional man . . .’

‘Who is going to have to shape up when all of this new legislation designed to bring us into line with the European Union really starts to bite.’ Süleyman lit a cigarette of his own and then breathed out shakily. The events of earlier that day were still reverberating through his body. ‘You are not my sort of person, İzzet, I could not call you my friend.’

‘Nor I you, sir.’ İzzet Melik scowled. ‘But you’re wrong if you think that I don’t respect you. I know you’re honest and I’m proud to be able to work for you. I’m old-fashioned and I’m not going to change, but I won’t betray you, Inspector. I won’t tell anyone about this evidence tampering and if you want my support with your superiors then you can have it. I always do my job to the best of my ability, up to the limits of my responsibilities as a sergeant.’

Süleyman looked down at the stocky figure of İzzet Melik, so clearly the very image of the coarse maganda of the 1990s’ youth magazines. But instead of causing him to feel disgust, now he felt a sort of, if not affection, gratitude towards this man who had been nothing but honest with him. Melik didn’t like him any more than Süleyman liked Melik. But that was all right because, for all his faults, Melik didn’t let that colour his attitude towards his work. He knew what was right and what was wrong and what to do if the latter situation applied.

‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ Süleyman said eventually. ‘I appreciate your candour.’ The two men would then have gone their separate ways. But, seeing as he was now in the area, Süleyman had decided to go to the Italian hospital on Defterdar Yokuşu Sokak, which was where Berekiah Cohen was currently being treated. Melik, rather oddly, expressed a desire to accompany him.

‘I speak Italian,’ the sergeant offered as the two of them made their way up into Cihangir.

Süleyman, a little taken aback by this information, frowned. Italian and Melik did not somehow seem to go together very easily.

‘And anyway,’ the sergeant continued, ‘you look a mess, sir, if you don’t mind my saying . . .’

‘Yes, well, it’s been quite a day.’

‘Not so bad for us as those poor people in that synagogue, though, eh?’ Melik said. ‘We’ve a Jewish population in İzmir as I expect you know. One of them was my Italian teacher. I’ve got friends in that community. I hope the young Cohen boy is all right.’

They threaded their way through the now heightened security measures in the district in, now companionable, silence.

İkmen had decided upon a walk before bedtime. Alone, by choice, he had declined the offer of company from Tom. It had just started to snow lightly once again and he wanted to get one last magical view of the chimneys before he headed on back to İstanbul. As the days had progressed he’d become increasingly jaded in his attitude towards Cappadocia, something he knew was not really right. After all, not everyone in the district was obsessed by blood purity and revenge. Most Cappadocians just wanted to get on with their lives, just like he did. İkmen took his mobile phone out of his pocket, looked at it and then replaced it once again. If Fatma or Hulya had any news about Berekiah they would let him know. Mehmet Süleyman who had, apparently, been at the scene when Berekiah was rescued from his family’s apartment might have called. But he had not and so İkmen had to assume that his son-in-law’s condition was unchanged.