Harem (32 page)

‘A lot of girls get married at my age.’

‘Yes, I know, but not usually ambitious, educated girls like you.’

She looked gravely up into her father’s face. ‘I don’t think I want to be an actress any more,’ she said, ‘not after what happened to Hatice.’

İkmen got up from his chair and went and sat down beside his daughter. He put his arms round her shoulders. It was good that she was no longer considering entry into the uncertain world of entertainment, but now that her attention had moved towards Berekiah Cohen, life was no less problematic. What was it with this girl? She’d never been easy – Fatma said she’d been born with an ‘attitude’.

The sound of a door slamming across the corridor made İkmen jump. Bülent was up and about. Obviously still furious about having to surrender his bedroom, the İkmens’ other teenager was showing some attitude of his own. İkmen closed his eyes and hoped that his son didn’t decide to come in and have yet another argument about his room. He needed quiet in order to think about what Sofia Vanezis had just told him, and where he might need to go with that information.

The tip of the knife was so very close to the main artery in her neck that Suzan Şeker hardly dared breathe for fear of bleeding to death.

‘I know that you told the police about our arrangement with your late husband,’ Ekrem Müren said as he moved the blade just fractionally away from her so that she could talk. ‘Who else would’ve done that? It had to be you.’

‘No!’

‘They arrested Ekrem!’ Celal, his brother, put in from where he was leaning against the kitchen door. ‘They let him go, but they did arrest him. They said we collected money from Hassan.’

‘Shut up wittering, Celal!’ Ekrem leaned into Suzan’s face, blasting her features with beer fumes. ‘I don’t actually care anyway,’ he said, ‘because our association with you is about to end.’

Suzan, her lips quivering with fear, closed her eyes. So this was it. This was where she joined Hassan in whatever darkness and pain awaited the unclean soul in the afterlife. Her children would be orphans! Her eyes flew open at the horror of this image and she swallowed hard. How could she have been so stupid? One never spoke to the police about arrangements! Not even off the record. There was no such thing. Süleyman had used the information against her wishes. What had possessed her? The grief following her husband’s death? A desire to impress her father-in-law Kemal Bey with courage that his son had never possessed? She didn’t know. The only thing she was sure of was that she wasn’t going to beg these brutes for her life. It’s what they would want, but it was the one thing, given that no one was going to come to her aid from beyond the locked doors of the pastane, she had the power not to give them.

‘Do what you will,’ she said, looking fiercely into Ekrem’s eyes. ‘Just leave my children alone.’

‘Oh, we have no problem with your children,’ the gangster replied. ‘We have no further interest in this business.’

‘We won’t need to do shitty little collections like this any more,’ his brother boasted. ‘We’re going to be so rich, my dad says—’

‘Celal!’

The younger man bowed his head and murmured, ‘Sorry.’

‘So you’re going to kill me.’

‘Oh, no,’ Ekrem said. ‘No, no, no!’ Once again he pushed the blade upwards so that it just dented the skin on her throat. ‘No, you will have to pay us what you owe, but we’ve sold this business on.’

‘Who to?’ Suzan asked carefully so as not to jog the knife in her tormenter’s hand.

‘To a less, shall we say, experienced group of young men,’ Ekrem replied. ‘Far more unreasonable than us.’

‘Azerbaijanis.’

‘Celal!’

‘Well, she has to know.’

‘Shut up!’ Ekrem laughed into Suzan’s white face. ‘They’ll like you,’ he murmured softly. ‘I like you. Maybe they’ll let you pay them without money.’

‘I—’

‘Look upon your new masters as punishment from me,’ he said. ‘And remember that if you ever cross them they will cut your children up in front of your eyes.’

Tears burst out of Suzan’s eyes like the overflow from a swollen river.

Ekrem smirked. ‘But now you must pay your debt to me,’ and he pushed down hard against her shoulder with his free hand.

‘But I’ve put all the money in the bank,’ Suzan stammered as she sank to her knees in front of him.

‘That’s all right,’ Ekrem said. ‘I’ll take payment in services.’

He unzipped his trousers and pulled her head roughly towards him.

It was far too hot to be out and about. Even with the shade thrown by the trees it was close, humid and uncomfortable. If he had any sense he’d be at home, drifting in and out of consciousness in front of some rubbish on one of the satellite channels. With both balcony doors wide open, the apartment he shared with Belkis could be very airy and there was a huge jug of iced tea in the refrigerator . . .

Metin İskender looked across at the Malta Kiosk. He’d have to go up there soon and buy a cold drink, some of the diners outside were beginning to give him strange looks. He’d walked this path, just the section one could see from the kiosk, for some time. Up and down, his eyes trained on the ground and amongst the thick foliage beside the path. So far he’d found nothing. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting to see. A wooden trap door that sprang outwards when activated by some sort of device under the ground, a suspicious-looking drain cover, some odd and unexplained clearing in the foliage . . .

But, he knew, it wouldn’t be any of those things, this mechanism that raised a man from the ‘subterranean passages’, as Mehmet Süleyman had described them. No, if attending that David Copperfield show in Paris had taught him anything it was that the best illusions were simple and involved the manipulation of perception. Somehow the eye was diverted from what was really happening to something far more interesting or active within the immediate environment. İskender sat down on one of the low stone walls beside the path and lit a cigarette. The main distraction in this environment was the Malta Kiosk itself. Always busy, especially at weekends and on warm summer evenings. Nobody who dined there was poor; indeed, when Zhivkov had appeared on the path in his pale grey summer suit with the fine Italian shoes, he had looked just like any other prosperous man out for a little al fresco dining. Not that Zhivkov had dined. He’d walked round the restaurant, following the path across the vine-covered loggia and then, presumably, down the hill towards the entrance on Ciraǧan Caddesi. İskender, though attended by a most concerned Belkis at the time, had nevertheless followed the gangster’s every move.

He put his hand up to his forehead to wipe away some of the sweat that had collected there and then ground his cigarette out on the path. Now he just had to get a drink. He crossed to the veranda in front of the kiosk and ordered some water and a can of cherry juice. Sitting at the table just to the left of the one he’d shared with Belkis, he let his eyes roam down and along the path, picking out any salient features on the way. He was only just awake now. He hadn’t had very much sleep the previous night, tormented as he was by pictures of Nina Zhivkov’s severed head. Then at İkmen’s apartment, the three of them had feverishly tried to make sense of the many seemingly discrete and confusing events. As his eyelids drooped under the weight of what felt like iron bars, he was conscious of something niggling away at the back of his brain, but he didn’t know or even now care what that might be. He needed sleep whether or not he was in a public place.

His chin had dropped down to his chest when the sound of a familiar voice made him open his eyes. Amazed, as people always are, at just how immediate the reaction to anything familiar is, he shook his head to clear it so that he could address his colleague who seemed to be just behind him.

‘You said eight,’ he heard the voice say as it passed beside him and began to move off the veranda.

‘Yes,’ the man who was with him replied. ‘Here at eight.’

İskender, who had already seen his colleague’s companion in profile, quickly put on his sunglasses. Even underneath the large hat and the unaccustomed moustache, the nose and the fine eyes, just like his brother’s, were unmistakable.

İskender watched fascinated as Vedat Sivas took Orhan Tepe’s arm in his and together they walked towards the loggia, using the exact same route that Zhivkov had taken the previous day.

İkmen leaned forward onto his elbows and rubbed his hot face with the cologne Süleyman handed him.

‘We, or rather you, Metin,’ he said, addressing a travel-weary İskender who sat on the other side of the table, ‘should tell Ardıç.’

‘Yes, I know.’

The kitchen descended into silence for a few moments as all three men attempted to deal with both the heat and the disturbing nature of what İskender had seen. Assembled for the second time that day, these officers were, they all felt, quite alone with the information that had come their way.

‘But can we trust Ardıç?’ Süleyman offered his cigarettes to his colleagues and then took one for himself.

‘I don’t know whether we can trust anyone,’ İkmen responded gloomily.

‘If Ardıç is taking instruction from Ankara,’ İskender offered, ‘then it’s possible that Tepe is part of that. He could be setting Vedat up in some way.’

‘True. Although Orhan, it would seem, has obtained rather a lot of money very quickly. He told me he has a credit card. But according to Ayşe Farsakoǧlu he paid with cash for their meal at Rejans, which included French champagne. I can’t see Ankara paying Tepe extra to do what would seem to be police work and is therefore his duty anyway.’

‘That’s true,’ Süleyman said, ‘but still we might be interfering in an operation deemed to be way above our heads.’

‘Then perhaps we shouldn’t interfere but merely observe,’ İkmen replied.

İskender frowned. ‘But how would we know, without more information, what we were observing?’

‘I don’t know,’ İkmen said, ‘but I do feel that we should be there. Something is happening in that park tonight at eight and I want to know what it is. Vedat Sivas is alive and apparently in good health. He is doing something with Tepe. There may or may not be a connection to Zhivkov but one thing is for certain: after forty years Vedat knows Yıldız very well.’

‘He must know you two quite well too,’ Süleyman said, looking both of his colleagues up and down.

‘Well, if anyone, you’ll have to track him, Mehmet,’ İkmen said. ‘Metin can give you a description – if, of course, you want to come in on this with us?’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’

‘You’re a new father,’ İkmen said. ‘You might not want to take such a risk with your career.’

‘Or your life,’ İskender added. ‘Whatever else we may think we know about this business, one fact that is irrefutable is that Kaycee Sivas was brutally murdered. And whoever the killer is, he’s dangerous and ruthless.’

‘Think about it, Mehmet,’ İkmen said gravely.

Süleyman smiled. ‘Without me it’s going to be difficult for you to follow Vedat.’

‘Difficult, but not impossible. We can stay out of sight and keep in contact by mobile.’

‘Yes, but I can follow him overtly, right up until he meets Tepe. I want to do this, Çetin,’ Süleyman went on. ‘I always remember you telling me the story of that London murderer Jack the Ripper. You said no one will ever now know who he was and how frustrating that was. I know this isn’t the same, but it is a mystery, and no one else seems keen to unravel it. More to the point, our superiors could be involved, and if they are, I want to help get to the bottom of it.’

‘Well, if you’re sure.’

‘I am.’

They agreed to meet at a büfe they all knew in Beşiktaş at six. From there it would take them about ten minutes to get to the palace gates and, although they were as yet unsure about what they might then do beyond observing what may or may not unfold, İkmen for one felt that it was important their activities were not heavily proscribed. They had to be both mobile and reactive since they had no idea what they might find at the palace. In a sense they didn’t want to think about that too deeply.

İskender left first. Like the others he wanted to get changed.

When he’d gone, İkmen turned to Süleyman. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘Hikmet Sivas may have been one of the Harem’s customers.’

Süleyman’s face assumed a grave expression. ‘Why do you think that?’

‘I have a rather unusual source.’

‘Someone very odd and unreliable,’ Süleyman said, only too familiar with the sort of informants his former boss seemed to attract.

İkmen smiled. ‘You could say that.’ Then his expression sobered. Although the decision to get into whatever it was they were about to embark upon had been jointly reached, he still felt responsible. Against orders he was taking two young men into something that could either ruin or kill them all.

Tonight was the night when all things became possible. The moment he had thought about, planned for, done the most awful things to facilitate was about to come to pass. Sometimes he had thought that it would never happen, that Hikmet’s ‘friends’ would simply overwhelm them all. And indeed without the intervention of the Bulgarian they would have done. It was why Vedat had sought him out in the first place. Alone, even with all the knowledge that he had, he could never even have considered it. Zhivkov’s money had bought so much: silence, fear, loyalty, death. Even the police.

In spite of the steepness of the climb, Vedat smiled. That young sergeant was going to be struck dumb when he saw who he was going to be sharing a dinner table with tonight. In years to come people would talk about this night with awe. But only some people. Most would never know that a ‘new order’, as Zhivkov had put it, had been imposed. As long as they had TVs and mobile telephones, people cared little about who actually pulled the strings.

Strange to think that what was about to happen had been born out of weakness. Hale had always said that only damnation and death could come from licentiousness and greed and she had been right. Vedat himself had never been troubled by too many sexual feelings, and as for being greedy, well, he was only getting what he deserved, wasn’t he? He’d spent years and years in those brainless security jobs, taken just to help Hikmet and his ‘friends’, watching as his son went to university courtesy of his film star uncle and all the time knowing what was going on, why and by whom. Hikmet had to be cursing himself now for sharing it all so willingly with his poor, dull brother.