Dance with Death (28 page)

Rachelle was just folding herself into the back of the vehicle when their small group was joined by Dolores Lavell. Her face was full of concern.

‘I’ve just heard,’ she said as she placed a hand on Turgut Senar’s arm, ‘about Inspector İkmen.’

‘Yes,’ the guide responded, ‘we are now going to look for him.’

‘Oh, can I . . .’

‘I am sorry, there is no room in the jeep,’ Turgut said coldly.

‘She can always crush in between me and Atom,’ Rachelle said from her cramped position behind Tom Chambers.

‘I do not think so,’ Turgut said as he swung himself into the vehicle and fired up the engine.

‘But . . .’

‘Why don’t you go to see my mother?’ the guide said as he squeezed his foot down on the accelerator. ‘Kemalettin will behave himself this time.’

And then he was off, leaving Dolores behind, looking small and doe-like in the thick-falling snow.

‘That was really nasty, you know, Turgut,’ Rachelle said once they had gained the main Nevşehir Road.

‘She has no business . . .’

‘So you’ve just used her and now you don’t want to know any more,’ the Australian said in Turkish.

Tom, who hadn’t been able to understand the previous comment said, ‘Last time Dolores spoke to the inspector she was really quite angry with him – and me – and that nice Emily. We were gossiping about her, and she . . . she’s sensitive about her family, it turns out.’ And then twisting around to look at Rachelle he said, ‘Did you know that Dolores’ father was black?’

‘No.’ Rachelle frowned. ‘I . . . Well, is it a big deal?’

‘She comes from the south and so I suppose it could be,’ Tom said.

‘Mmm.’ And then slipping back into Turkish in the full knowledge that Turgut Senar knew exactly what had passed between herself and the Englishman, Rachelle said, ‘A black woman, eh? Well, Turgut . . .’

‘If you want to get out and walk, Miss Jones,’ the guide said menacingly.

‘No.’

‘Then do not question or even mention my motives,’ he replied.

And then they all fell into silence, which continued until Turgut took the jeep off the main Nevşehir Road and began to drive up into a valley both he and Rachelle Jones knew as the Valley of the Goat. Tom Chambers, who had not known its name, was intrigued as to its origin.

‘At the end of the valley there is a church with a fresco showing the father of Jesus, Yusuf, milking a goat,’ Turgut said as he steered his vehicle over a large flat expanse of tufa and into a narrow valley of mainly pink-tinged chimneys.

‘But not all the valleys are named for the frescos that have been discovered in them, are they?’

‘No. We have the White Valley, named for its brilliant colour, and the Valley of the Dervishes. It is only occasionally that a fairy chimney is given a name because of the frescos it has inside.’

‘Usually they call those the church of something or other,’ Rachelle Jones put in. ‘Like the Church of the Snake down in the İlhara Valley. There’s a painting of a snake in there; I saw it a long time ago.’

‘Well then, the chimney where that girl’s body was discovered will probably end up being called the Church of the Leper,’ Tom said, thinking only after he had spoken that he had in fact said something that he shouldn’t have. İkmen had, after all, told him not to mention the startling fresco of Christ and the strange bandaged figure to anyone. But it was too late.

‘Why is that, Mr Chambers?’ Turgut Senar enquired.

Nazlı Kahraman pulled Baha Ermis into her courtyard and then pushed him back against her father’s old great wooden door.

‘Did you take that body from the mortuary?’ she said in a low voice, keeping one eye as she did so on her oblivious young husband humming away to himself in their kitchen.

‘No! I swear! Why would I?’

‘You had better be telling me the truth!’ she hissed.

‘I am,’ Baha Ermis replied. ‘Believe me, Hanım . . .’

‘Because when I said that we needed to find a solution to the problem of who killed Aysu, I didn’t mean that I wanted you to kidnap her body!’

‘But I haven’t!’ the man protested. ‘Someone else has done that, Hanım. Someone also worried and concerned about what this DNA business might reveal.’

‘And who might that be?’

‘Well, Kemalettin Senar, of course!’ Baha said with a shrug. ‘Or rather his family. I doubt he could do such a thing himself. But that brother of his will do anything to protect him. They’ve taken the body and destroyed it, no doubt.’

‘And this policeman from İstanbul? What is this I hear about him?’

Baha Ermis made a face. ‘He’s missing, apparently. Maybe he got too close to what was going on with the Senars and the body and . . .’

‘If I find you’ve been lying to me, Baha, about Aysu’s body, if I find you have taken it . . .’

‘But . . .’

‘You’ve always been a liar!’

‘But Hanım,’ Baha pleaded, ‘whatever has happened, your late blessed father’s good name is now no longer in any doubt. Now, with no body, the situation returns to what it was before the girl was discovered. I didn’t take the body, on the life of my mother, but I am not unhappy that others may have done so. Anything to shield your father’s sacred name.’

Nazlı Kahraman took in one deep breath which she then let out slowly.

‘I have always worked only for the greater honour of the Kahraman family,’ Baha Ermis continued as he looked down at her with obvious sympathy. ‘I have never expected anything in return apart from the honour of . . .’

‘Someone must go to the Senars’,’ she interrupted. ‘Find out what they are doing. I don’t want that body to just turn up again.’

‘No, Hanım.’

‘I can’t go and you shouldn’t . . .’

‘Turgut Senar is out helping to look for the İstanbul policeman. Nalan may be alone.’

Nazlı Kahraman put her hands up to her head, seemingly rubbing away a headache. ‘Nalan Senar would never kidnap a dead body!’ she said, her voice tired and exasperated. ‘She certainly wouldn’t keep it in her house. Underneath all her fancy jewellery she’s just a peasant. She believes in peris and ghosts, she wouldn’t want an “unquiet” spirit in her home. No, if any of them has done this thing, it has to be Turgut. I must talk to him, away from here . . .’

‘He is out looking for the policeman, Hanım. He is with the Jones woman, some German and a boy from Menşure Tokatlı’s hotel – an Englishman.’

‘Do you know where they’ve gone?’

‘Out into the valleys, somewhere,’ he shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

Nazlı Kahraman sat down on one of the empty oil cans that was awaiting transformation into a plant pot. ‘Then we will have to await his return,’ she said. ‘But after this, you must follow him. I want to know where that body is. I want to know that Nalan Senar will not try to use whatever it conceals against me.’

‘But why would she? Your father . . .’

‘The Senars have always maintained that my father killed my stepmother.’

‘But that is a lie, Hanım!’

She turned on him like a fury. ‘You don’t know that, you lying little creep!’ And then looking through the kitchen window at her husband yet again she said, ‘Why do people always lie to me? Why can no one face the truth?’

Mehmet Süleyman lay down on what had recently reverted to being ‘their’ bed and stared at the ceiling. His friend, Berekiah Cohen, was making what looked like a good recovery up at the Italian hospital. It would have been excellent news had it not been tainted by that telephone call from a frantic Fatma İkmen. Çetin had gone missing somewhere in Cappadocia – in the snow. That Dr Sarkissian was in Muratpaşa, and apparently helping to look for İkmen, was a consolation. Mehmet, however, would have much rather been there himself. But he couldn’t go anywhere now, something that İkmen, knowing Mehmet’s situation, would have agreed with. Although he didn’t know what to do about what looked to him, and to İzzet Melik, like evidence and witness manipulation in the peeper case, he knew that he couldn’t just stand by such things in good conscience. He didn’t have a clue as to how he might, for instance, tackle Ardıç on these issues, however . . .

‘Mehmet?’

He looked up to see his wife coming towards him carrying a cordless telephone.

‘It’s Arto Sarkissian,’ she said as she handed the instrument to him.

Mehmet, standing now, took the telephone from his wife and walked over to the table and chairs Zelfa had placed in the bay window overlooking the now-darkening garden. ‘Doctor?’

‘Oh, Inspector, I wish I could say that I had some good news for you, but . . .’

‘You haven’t found him.’

Mehmet heard Zelfa leave the room with a frustrated sigh.

‘No,’ the doctor replied. ‘And now it’s too dark to carry on the search tonight.’

‘You must be exhausted.’

‘Not really, I’m too worried,’ he said. ‘Or rather, my brain is too worried. Another part of my anatomy is extremely tired, I must admit. It is many, many years since I rode a horse, Inspector. Both the beast and myself are at the end of our patience.’

In spite of himself, Mehmet smiled. The doctor was a heavy, very unfit man. Riding one of Altay Salman’s horses had to have been pure torment.

‘We’re resuming the search tomorrow at first light,’ Arto continued. ‘A lot of the villagers have volunteered to help and so we must remain hopeful. How is young Berekiah?’

Mehmet told him.

‘Well, at least we have that to be thankful for,’ he said in response to the positive news from the Italian hospital. ‘We will find Çetin, you know, Mehmet.’

He didn’t often use Mehmet’s first name, he only used it in times of tremendous strain.

‘İnşallah,’ the younger man said, and then repeated the formula again just for good measure.

Nothing much more beyond mutual assurances to keep in touch passed between them then. They were both relieved to end what had been an essentially miserable call and when Zelfa came back into the bedroom a few moments later she had to make an effort to gain her husband’s attention.

‘Come back to the bed and lie down for a bit,’ she said as she pulled him gently to his feet and guided him across the bedroom. ‘Father’s back home tomorrow, so if you want some really noisy sex . . .’

Mehmet lay down, pulling Zelfa after him and smiled as she too sank towards the mattress.

‘Can I know what it means yet?’ he asked, watching her face intently as he spoke.

‘What?’

‘Your attitude towards me,’ he explained. ‘I mean, I know that you want me . . .’

As if to underline this point, Zelfa slipped a hand underneath his shirt and began massaging his chest.

‘But . . .’

‘I have to give our marriage one more chance,’ Zelfa said with, he observed, something of regret in her tone. ‘For Yusuf and . . . I don’t know what it is about you . . .’

She leaned over and kissed him. Then when she had finished she said, ‘You’ve let me down, you’ve fucked about. Why I can’t be rid of you, I . . .’

‘I won’t let you down any more,’ he said. His heart was now racing with the thrill of being back with his family once again. He pulled her body close in towards his own and said, ‘I promise.’

Although during the course of their love-making he thought of nothing but her, as soon as Zelfa was satisfied and asleep his mind turned back to other things. To how he might discover who or what was blocking his progress on the peeper case, but mostly he thought about İkmen and how an underweight man in a thin summer suit could possibly survive outside in the wilds of Cappadocia. For, although winter had not yet, officially, arrived in the land of the Fairy Chimneys, temperatures of
-10°C had been recorded already at night time. In full winter that could fall as low as -25°C. Mehmet, in an attempt to blot such thoughts out and to comfort himself, took one of his wife’s breasts between his hands and then buried his face in its softness.

Had his mouth not been frozen shut or his body wracked with uncontrollable shivering, Çetin İkmen would, he thought, have jumped up as soon as dawn arrived and cried,
Oh joy, it is morning! Another day without warmth or cigarettes!
But he was too cold even to get excited by his own cynicism. That he had actually survived the night was a miracle. He hadn’t slept and had been obliged to drape himself in the half-burned remnants of Aysu Alkaya’s tapestry winding sheet, but he’d made it. What was more, his brain had been busy all the time even if his body had not.

One of the things that had, seemingly, become lost in all the speculation about who killed Aysu Alkaya and why, was the story that had to surround the weapon that had killed her. As had been observed right at the beginning of the investigation, Cappadocian grape growers were not famous for carrying this particular weapon. Made in the US, the Colt 45 was, İkmen knew, an iconic American gun. That said, of course by virtue of the fact that American military bases had existed in Anatolia for many years, a US weapon in the hands of a local was not outside the bounds of reason. In addition, he knew that Americans had been coming to Cappadocia for some time. Nazlı Kahraman had mentioned it and the American Dolores Lavell had said that her father and his fellow GIs had visited too. It was because she’d enjoyed her father’s Cappadocian stories so much that Dolores had decided to follow in his footsteps.

But Americans walking around with Colt 45s was one thing – Turks having such weapons was quite another. How one of these revolvers had come into the possession of a local was a problem that İkmen found very interesting. Had an American perhaps given his gun to someone he met, and liked, in the village? Some people did after all, see guns as quite legitimate gift material. Not İkmen himself, he rarely carried the gun he was actually required to have in his possession, but if a serviceman made a present of a weapon to someone outside his own unit then surely his superiors would be angry to say the least? Maybe he was a deserter or perhaps the gun was not given at all but stolen by someone in the village? Maybe it hadn’t come via anyone from the US, but had entered the village by another, less obvious route? Effectively trapped inside a chimney riddled with ice-encrusted holes with only various mummified body parts for company was not conducive to finding solutions to these many, many questions İkmen was asking himself. But thinking about them was better than thinking about the whereabouts of his mobile phone, if Berekiah was continuing to recover from his wounds or, worst of all, if he himself was going to live long enough to smoke another cigarette. He moved his still sore and bloodstained head just a little so that he could see the outside world. It was no more appealing than the last time he’d looked – all rocks and snow and a distinct lack of vegetation. He knew, however, that somehow he’d have to make himself move outside soon. If he didn’t, anyone who might be searching for him wouldn’t stand a chance of finding him. And people had to be searching for him now. In fact, knowing his friend Arto as he did, İkmen knew that he at least must have been looking for him for some time.