Harem (13 page)

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 contact 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 eventuality, 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.

When İkmen arrived home that evening he didn’t go straight up to his apartment after he had parked his car. He needed yet more cigarettes and so he walked across Divanyolu Caddesi and over to the kiosk. Furnished with forty Maltepe, İkmen crossed back again, passing as he did so the Sultanahmet pastane. Hassan Şeker stood outside smoking a cigarette of his own, but his eyes didn’t so much as flicker when İkmen passed even though he must have seen him.

İkmen had heard a few things about Hassan well before all of this business with Hatice began. People said that he was weaker than his formidable father; they said that he allowed some of his employees and his friends to take liberties with his time and his products. Some even said that his cakes and pastries were inferior to those Kemal Bey had prepared. İkmen was doubtful about the latter observation even if he could see what folk meant about Hassan’s rather more relaxed attitude towards commercial life. What was fairly clear, however, provided one believed what had been written in Hatice İpek’s diary – which İkmen who had now read all of it did – was that he wasn’t a beast. Although detailed and specific in her descriptions, Hatice’s accounts of her sexual relations with Hassan were neither distasteful nor pornographic. Rather they focused on how his lovemaking made her feel, which seemed to have been very good. And although sometimes he would ask her to do things that she didn’t really want to, he would never force her. Hatice, or so it would seem from her diary, achieved satisfaction every time Hassan Şeker licked, caressed and penetrated her body. İkmen wondered how many other women could claim such a record.

He was just turning into the alleyway that cut through to the back of his apartment building when someone grabbed his wrist. Instinctively, İkmen raised his other arm to defend himself. But when he saw who it was, he knew that there couldn’t possibly be any threat.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said disdainfully as he dropped his arm again and pulled his wrist out of the assailant’s greasy grasp.