Harem (2 page)

Out in the hall, a grey-faced İkmen was just taking his jacket down from one of the hooks on the wall when the doorbell rang. With a sigh of resignation, knowing that if he didn’t answer it no one would, he opened the door. A small woman dressed in the navy blue uniform of the Zabita, or market police, stood before him.

İkmen smiled in recognition. Hürrem İpek had lived in the apartment opposite the İkmens’ place for nearly ten years. A widow, Hürrem was a hard-working mother of two young girls, her careworn face belying her thirty-eight years.

‘Oh, Inspector İkmen,’ she said, ‘I am so sorry to disturb you. But I wondered if you or in particular Hulya have seen my Hatice this morning?’

The eldest of the İpek girls, Hatice, was one year older than Hulya and also worked at the Sultanahmet pastane. The girls had been firm friends since high school.

‘No, I haven’t.’ He ushered her into the apartment. ‘But I expect my daughter saw her at work last night. Maybe she’s gone out to buy something.’

‘Her bed hasn’t been slept in, Inspector,’ the woman bit her bottom lip nervously. ‘I went to bed early last night, I was tired. Hatice usually gets in at about ten thirty, but I was asleep by nine.’

‘What about your other daughter?’ İkmen asked. ‘Didn’t she hear her sister come home last night?’

‘Canan is staying with my sister at the moment,’ Hürrem replied. ‘It’s better for her in the summer. There are cousins there for her to play with . . .’ She looked down at the floor.

Hulya entered from the kitchen.

‘Did you walk home with Hatice last night?’ İkmen asked his daughter. The girls usually walked home together when they worked in the evening, as they had been instructed to do. Sultanahmet in the height of summer could be somewhat rowdy.

‘Yes,’ Hulya replied. ‘Why?’

‘Did you see her go into her apartment?’ İkmen asked.

Hulya lowered her eyes. ‘Yes. Or at least I saw her at the door.’

‘You didn’t actually see her go in?’

‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged, ‘maybe.’

İkmen sighed and then turned with a thin smile to Hürrem. ‘I’m sorry about this, Mrs İpek,’ he said, ‘but as you can see this particular teenage mind is not very attentive.’

Hürrem managed a small smile of understanding in response.

‘Oh, well,’ she said, ‘I’m sure there must be a reasonable explanation. But if you do hear of anything . . .’

‘We will let you know, of course,’ İkmen replied. Then as his neighbour left the apartment he added, ‘Maybe she just sat up watching TV and then went out. Children do such things these days – I know mine do.’ He smiled. ‘Hatice is a good girl, I’m sure she’s fine.’

‘Thank you.’

When he had closed the door behind Hürrem, İkmen turned his attention back to his daughter. She was, he noticed, still intent on the floor in front of her.

‘Why,’ he said, ‘do I get the feeling that you know more about Hatice’s movements last night than you are prepared to admit?’

There were, so it was said in some quarters, shops far better than the one on the corner of Kütlügün Sokak and Dalbastı Sokak. There were some that, in addition to traditional groceries, sold children’s toys, covers for mobile telephones and even cheap clothing. But no other, or rather none that Neşe Fahrı had ever come across since her migration to İstanbul in the 1970s, boasted a shopkeeper who actually came from her village. Selim Bey, though many years older than Neşe, had not only lived in the same street as her but had known her late husband, Adnan. It was a background that to Neşe was more valuable than gold. For whatever else he might have been – unemployed, faithless – Adnan Fahrı had been, as well as the father of her son Turgut and daughter Fatima, the love of Neşe’s life.

As she entered the shop, Selim Bey reared up from behind a large box of Winston cigarettes.

‘Good morning, Neşe Hanım,’ he said. ‘I trust you are well.’

‘Allah still bestows good health upon this old woman,’ Neşe replied with a sad smile. If only the Great and Merciful had extended such an honour to her Adnan.

‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ Selim Bey replied. ‘And how is Turgut?’

‘The boy is well.’ Neşe sighed and then leaned over to open up the glass bread cabinet and remove one of the corn husk-shaped loaves. ‘Still waiting at table, but he is well. Do you have any green olives?’

Selim Bey reached down into the chilled cabinet in front of him and then frowned. ‘No. But I do have some excellent black ones.’

‘Mmm.’ Neşe looked doubtful. ‘Well, if you recommend them, Selim Bey.’

‘I do.’

‘Then write half a kilo in the book.’

The shopkeeper set about weighing the olives, nodding just briefly as he did so to a young man who came in and took a packet of cigarettes, placed some notes down upon the counter and left.

Neşe glanced behind her, scanning both the shop and the street for other people. When she was certain that no one else was coming she tilted her heavily bound head towards the shopkeeper.

‘A good, strong shovel can also go into the book too, if you have one,’ she said.

‘Oh, I always have one for you, Neşe Hanım,’ the shopkeeper said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘I still have faith.’

‘Inşallah, once we have found that which we seek, I can pay off everything in the book and much more besides.’

Selim Bey poured the olives from the scales into a plastic bag and then twisted the top of it into a knot. ‘If Adnan believed that treasure existed, even though he never told me where it might be, then that is good enough.’ The shopkeeper continued, ‘You are a good woman, Neşe Hanım, to keep your husband’s ambitions alive.’

Neşe Hanım reached across the counter and took the bag of olives from Selim Bey’s hands.

‘What choice do I have? My boy deserves an education. How else am I, a poor widow, to give him that in this city of thieves?’

Selim Bey came out from behind his counter and then reached behind a large sack of rice. Neşe Hanım’s eyes lit up as she looked at the shiny new shovel in his hands.

‘Well, it looks strong,’ she said.

‘It is.’ Selim Bey replied as he banged it down onto the floor and then passed it across to her. Grave-faced, she nodded her approval and then turned her long, wiry frame towards the shop door.

‘May it come easy,’ Selim Bey said as he watched Neşe step out into the sun-baked street beyond. From the near by Sea of Marmara the sound of a ship’s hooter echoed plaintively through the narrow streets of the battered Kumkapı district.

The pastane was only a short way from where İkmen usually parked his car. And having received little beyond sulky denials from Hulya with regard to the movements of Hatice İpek, it made sense just to see whether the girls’ employer, whom he knew, could shed any light on the situation. Besides, averse though he normally was to food, İkmen possessed something of a passion for all things chocolate.

As he entered via the elegant art nouveau doorway, İkmen cast his eyes across the creamy and sugary delights that filled the glass confectionery cabinet to his left. Numerous rich gateaux, profiteroles and croissants oozing with liquid chocolate vied for supremacy with local sweets. Syrup-drenched baklava, thick rice puddings and aşure, a sticky fruit and nut dessert packed with fat and calories. But İkmen’s thin frame could do with some extra bulk. And so in lieu of breakfast and because his wife was hundreds of kilometres away, İkmen ordered a cappuccino and a plate of profiteroles. Then he sat down, lit a cigarette and waited for his food and drink to arrive. Out in the street, curly-headed Ali, one of the local waiters, also known as ‘Maradona’ because of the facial resemblance, nodded a cheerful greeting.

The coffee and profiteroles were eventually brought over to İkmen by Hassan, the proprietor of the pastane. A tall, slim man in his early thirties, Hassan had taken over the shop from his father, the formidable confectioner Kemal Bey, early the previous year. Hassan placed the pastries down with a small bow and then offered his hand to İkmen, inquiring after his health as he did so. İkmen gestured for Hassan to join him.

‘We don’t often have the pleasure of your company, Inspector,’ the younger man said as he called across to the woman at the counter to bring him a cup of Nescafé.

‘No,’ İkmen shrugged, ‘but my wife is away visiting her brother in Antalya. And seeing as a man must eat . . .’

‘Ah.’ Hassan smiled.

‘Not of course that being here isn’t a pleasure,’ İkmen added as he forked a large lump of profiterole into his mouth. ‘You and your father have always been the Picassos of chocolate and pastry, Hassan. It is an art that is as important as painting and sculpture, in my opinion.’

‘You’re very kind, Inspector.’

‘It’s nothing.’

The policeman continued to eat in silence, his eyes at times half closed in appreciation. Shortly after Hassan’s Nescafé arrived, İkmen came to the point of his visit.

‘So is my daughter behaving herself?’ he asked. ‘And her friend Hatice?’

‘But of course.’ Hassan cleared his throat with a strange, almost feminine giggle. ‘The girls are very nice. The customers like them.’

‘Any particular customers?’ İkmen inquired.

The confectioner’s face assumed a sudden grave expression. ‘You mean young men, Inspector?’

‘Amongst others.’

Hassan leaned back in his chair, bathing his face in the strengthening morning sun. ‘Well, the girls are young and pretty,’ he said, ‘and so naturally the men do try to engage them in conversation from time to time. But nothing serious takes place, I can assure you, Inspector. I take care of my staff, particularly the women.’

‘But of course.’

‘And besides, as far as I am aware the only male those two ever show any interest in is old Ahmet Sılay.’

İkmen raised his eyebrows. ‘Wasn’t there an actor of that name? Long ago?’

‘Yes, the very same.’ Hassan sipped his coffee before continuing. ‘He’s a regular but he has to be sixty at the very least. He’s a contemporary of Hikmet Sivas who, to be candid, he talks about at some length. As regards Hulya and Hatice, I don’t think there’s anything you need to be concerned about beyond a bit of filmstar worship.’ He smiled. ‘Not for Ahmet, you understand, but for Sivas.’

‘Our Turkish brother in Hollywood,’ İkmen observed.

‘Our
only
Turkish brother in Hollywood,’ Hassan corrected. ‘Although he is rather past his prime now, don’t you think?’

İkmen shrugged. Films didn’t really interest him. He was aware that Hikmet Sivas had appeared in a lot of Hollywood films in the 1960s but beyond that he knew very little about the man.

‘So was Sılay in here last night?’ İkmen asked.

‘Yes.’ Hassan frowned. ‘Why?’

At this stage, with the possibility of Hatice İpek turning up at any moment, İkmen didn’t want to sound any alarm bells.

‘Oh, it’s just that Hulya keeps going on about wanting to be an actress,’ he said. It was, after all, the truth.

Hassan smiled. ‘Oh well, yes, she would have probably got that idea from Ahmet,’ he said. ‘His stories about theatrical tours of Turkey and other countries he went to in the fifties are quite exotic, plus of course his association with Sivas.’

‘So Sılay is still friendly with Sivas?’

‘He has apparently visited him in Los Angeles in the past,’ Hassan replied. ‘I’ve no reason to disbelieve him.’

‘No.’

‘But if you want me to speak to him about putting ideas in the girls’ heads, I will,’ Hassan offered as he stood up and made ready to go back to his work. ‘I don’t want to lose Hulya and Hatice to the dubious business of entertainment, do I?’

İkmen smiled. ‘No, but I’m sure that Sılay is, from what you say, quite harmless. And if the girls are just amusing themselves, there’s no harm in that.’

‘Well, it’s up to you, Inspector,’ the younger man said and then with a small bow he departed.

İkmen finished his profiteroles and then looked out of the window again. Of course nothing ever sprang from nothing and it was interesting to know the source of Hulya’s theatrical ambitions. And if, as Hassan seemed to think, both girls were currently bent upon careers in the entertainment industry then maybe Hatice had gone off to try and see some of the film and theatrical agents up in Beyoǧlu. Perhaps that was why Hulya had seemed so reluctant to talk about her friend. But surely Hatice wouldn’t have gone to see agents in the middle of the night?

Inspector Mehmet Süleyman was just leaving for work when he heard the scream rip through the upper storey of his house. Zelfa! He dropped the sheaf of papers he had been carrying and raced upstairs to his bedroom. As he entered, Patrick, his wife’s fifteen-year-old cat, bounded nimbly past him heading, presumably, for somewhere where Zelfa wasn’t.

His wife, whom he had left apparently sleeping only half an hour before, was sitting up in their bed, her face red and contorted with pain.

‘What is it? Has it started?’ he said as he ran over to her side and placed an arm round her trembling shoulders.

By way of reply, Zelfa pushed the duvet down towards her feet and then stared, panting at what she had revealed. The underside of the duvet as well as the sheet were drenched with pink, blood-stained water.

‘Seems like it’s time to get to hospital,’ her husband said. He turned away from her and walked over to her wardrobe. He took a suitcase and a winter coat from inside it.

Zelfa, panting still as she watched what her husband was doing, frowned. ‘I can’t wear that,’ she said in her gruff, Irish-accented English. ‘I’ll die of heatstroke.’

Mehmet draped the coat loosely round her shoulders.

‘You can’t go out in just a nightdress,’ he said. ‘I’ll put the air conditioning on in the car. It’ll be fine.’

‘Jesus Christ!’

Mehmet helped Zelfa swing her swollen legs down onto the floor and then pulled her slowly to her feet.