Harem Page 12

  ‘You think Sivas may have set the thing up himself? Possibly with help from the States?’

  ‘I don’t know. But if you add together Sivas’s assertion that neither he nor his wife had any enemies and the lack of ransom or any other kind of cogent demand then you have to conclude that something isn’t genuine. I mean, why take the woman, whoever you are, if you don’t intend to do something with her?’

  ‘Do you think he has the ability to organise such a thing himself?’

  ‘He’s certainly got enough money to do it, although why he would want rid of such a lovely woman, I can’t imagine. He is also genuinely upset.’

  ‘Then perhaps as well as continuing our operations on the street and in Sivas’s house we need to find out more about Hikmet Sivas himself. By that I mean the stuff beyond the publicity.’ Ardıç re-lit his cigar. ‘We all know he is Turkey’s only great Hollywood star – the Sultan they used to call him over there in the early days, as I recall.’ He smiled. ‘But there has to be more to him than just money and fame. He must have friends, ex-wives, this agent . . . In fact, if you think about it, İskender, he has to be quite a person. As I understand it, it is difficult for Americans to break into Hollywood. But for a Turk . . .’ He shrugged.

  ‘You’re saying that Hollywood bosses don’t particularly like us.’

  ‘I mean if you compare the number of Turkish names in Hollywood to the number of other foreigners they have employed, the ratio is not in our favour,’ he said. ‘I think I might tell İkmen to look into that, he’s good with people’s pasts. Which reminds me, how are you getting on with Inspector İkmen, İskender?’

  ‘I can’t really say, sir. We’ve been doing rather different things today and have had little time to consult.’

  It was a truthful as well as a diplomatic answer and they both knew it. İskender had not, so far, had much to do with İkmen directly, but it was well known that they possessed radically different styles. Whereas İkmen would take time and employ great patience when dealing with both witnesses and suspects, İskender took a more direct and sometimes not altogether pleasant approach. In a world obsessed by results and statistics, İskender was without doubt the more immediately effective of the two. But İkmen still got results, especially in cases like this which could be delicate and protracted. The strange ‘feelings’ the older man occasionally experienced about cases could be unnervingly accurate. And whatever Ardıç might feel about such occult doings, even he had to admit that they were generally useful. They were, however, only one of the many things that İkmen and İskender were likely to fall out over in the future and so it was a good idea to give them separate tasks for the moment.

  ‘We have a briefing in the morning,’ Ardıç said, his eyes returning once again to the papers on his desk. ‘I’ll decide exactly what I want you to do and tell you then.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Without any further comment, Ardıç waved İskender from the room. He worked in silence for a few minutes before he received a phone call from State Police Headquarters in Ankara. After that he was on the line for quite some time, mostly listening to what his superiors had to say. The sunset call to prayer had already finished when at last he put the phone down.

  Chapter 10

  * * *

  Hulya İkmen had just shut the door to the family apartment behind her when she caught sight of her dead friend’s mother, Hürrem İpek. White-faced, her eyes dark from ceaseless crying, Hürrem was not wearing her customary Zabita uniform and had her head covered by a thick, dark scarf.

  ‘Dr Sarkissian says that I can make arrangements for Hatice’s funeral now,’ she said as she crossed over to Hulya who, at the woman’s approach, felt herself go cold inside. Recalling what her father had told her about Hatice’s ‘natural’ death made Hulya feel awkward in Hürrem’s presence. Officially her dad was now working on the Sivas case and even though Hulya knew he was continuing his investigations into Hatice’s death, she still felt ill at ease. Not of course that she doubted that her father would do his best. He’d promised her he would and she knew he always kept his word.

  ‘My dad will find out who hurt Hatice,’ she said as she placed a hand gently on Hürrem’s shoulder.

  ‘Yes.’ Hürrem managed just the shadow of a grateful smile. ‘They say the case is not a priority, but . . . He’s a very good man, your father.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And my daughter was such a bad girl . . .’ In spite of all the dust and rubbish the lazy building kapıcı Aziz had allowed to build up in the hallways, Hürrem İpek suddenly sat down.

  ‘Mrs İpek!’

  ‘She was a whore, Hulya, giving herself to that man – her employer, a married person!’ She looked up into Hulya’s face, her own features a picture of pain. ‘What was she thinking? Did I not teach her enough of the values of her poor, dead father? Am I myself such a bad, bad person?’ And with that she took handfuls of the filth around her and, crying now, rubbed it over her face and across her chest as if she were using it for washing.

  Hulya, horrified by the depth of agony she was witnessing, tried to stop her, but Hürrem was too strong for her.

  ‘No, I must be punished! I must!’

  Cat fur, cigarette butts, dust, sweet wrappers and fragments of newspapers – she threw all of it over her head, until she looked like an old discarded doll, lost and forever alone at the bottom of the dustbin.

  ‘Mrs İpek . . .’ Hulya was about to hitch up her long flowery dress so that she could squat down to talk to Hürrem when she heard footsteps on the stairs. ‘You’ve got to get up, Mrs İpek!’ She reached down to Hürrem. ‘Somebody’s coming!’

  ‘No!’

  With even more urgency than before, Hürrem İpek scrabbled in the dust, pouring the filthy stuff all over herself, crying and screaming.

  ‘Hulya?’

  The girl turned and, when she saw who it was, she blushed.

  ‘Berekiah!’

  ‘Has the lady fallen? Is she ill?’ He drew level with Hulya, so close that she could feel the intense heat from the street radiating from his body. She had to swallow hard before replying.

  ‘She’s my friend’s mother,’ she said. ‘My friend who has just died. She’s upset.’

  ‘As she would be,’ Berekiah replied. He squatted down in front of Hürrem and offered his hand to her. As he bent down, Hulya noticed that the crisp, white shirt he was wearing crackled as he stooped.

  ‘Come along, madam,’ he said firmly, taking Hürrem’s hand. ‘Let me help you up and then we can attend to all this mess.’

  And as quickly as it had begun, Hürrem’s crying ceased. Her mouth opened as if in a silent scream and she toppled forward into his arms, her head tucked into his midriff. They stayed like that for some time, while Hulya looked on and wondered what had brought him to her building in the first place.

  The briefing had been shorter than İkmen, at least, had imagined it would be. Basically Ardıç had floated the idea of Turkish ‘family’ involvement while at the same time emphasising that they should continue to monitor activity in and around the Sivas house. It was, according to Ardıç, rather too early to start actively pursuing families, against which there was, as yet, no evidence. This, from the man who had asked İskender to ‘tear Beyazıt apart’! But not antagonising the families did make sense to Çetin İkmen. Nobody wanted a war on the streets.

  ‘Oh, Inspector . . .’

  İkmen, who was walking out of the squad room with Tepe, looked round and saw the small and stylish figure of Metin İskender behind him. Groomed and perfumed to perfection, he was wearing a suit that İkmen had never seen before and which, he uncharitably thought, had to be yet another gift from İskender’s very successful wife.

  İkmen and Tepe stopped. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did the commissioner talk to you about looking into Hikmet Sivas’s background?’

  İkmen frowned. ‘No. But then having been my superior for many years now, the commissioner knows that I’d do tha
t anyway. The past is usually of some value in situations like this. Why?’

  ‘Oh, just that he mentioned it at a private meeting I had with him last night.’ Both the words ‘I’ and ‘private’ were heavily emphasised.

  ‘Really?’ İkmen looked at Tepe and smiled. ‘Well, it’s a good thing that I had scheduled in a little research this morning then, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector.’

  İskender made to go about his own tasks, which involved attendance at the Sivas house, in as businesslike a fashion as possible. But İkmen, who some would say had already bested a man for whom promotion and position were far more important than anything except perhaps wealth, had to push it that little bit further.

  ‘I’ve actually identified an old friend of Sivas – a man who knew him before he was famous.’ He smiled. ‘Sergeant Tepe has already spoken to him, haven’t you, Tepe?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Oh. Good.’ İskender smiled tautly at Tepe. ‘Well done.’ And then with his back as straight as a broom handle, he marched off down the corridor.

  İkmen just shook his head and smiled. Poor İskender. Usually his efforts at self-elevation were successful, but not with him. He was still lead officer in this case and he needed everybody, including İskender, to be mindful of that.

  ‘So will you go and see Ahmet Sılay this morning, sir?’ Tepe asked as he followed his superior in the direction of the car park.

  ‘Yes. And I’ll ask him a few more questions about Hatice İpek’s relationship with Hassan Şeker while I’m there too,’ İkmen replied. ‘After speaking to Mr Sivas yesterday, I’m not so sure that his evidence is sound.’

  ‘I thought we were supposed to be sidelining that now that we know the girl died of natural causes,’ Tepe said.

  İkmen took his car keys out of his pocket. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Ardıç might like that to be so, but I intend to carry on pursuing any leads that come my way. And because Mr Sılay is, coincidentally, connected to both cases . . .’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘As I told you earlier, Tepe, I have independent information that the circumstances surrounding Hatice’s death are suspicious.’

  ‘Yes.’ They’d spoken of it briefly as soon as İkmen had arrived in his office. ‘The informant who mentioned family involvement and those Heper ladies you want to see.’

  ‘Yes.’ İkmen sighed. ‘A person not of entirely good character, my informant, but nevertheless someone it would be stupid to ignore.’

  What Rat had told him the previous evening had indeed occupied much of İkmen’s thinking time since. Whether or not ‘family’ members had involved themselves in a prostitution operation of some sort was not entirely germane to how İkmen was approaching the situation. As time had passed the idea of young women dressing up and behaving like odalisques had grown, in his mind, ever more freakish. As far as he could recall, odalisques were renowned for the passivity of their sexual performance. Lying on beds like pieces of wood, offering little more than orifices for their royal masters to gain relief through. Modern men would surely need rather more stimulation than that. In Hatice’s case, that had certainly been so. Arto Sarkissian had identified two types of semen in her body and a third in her mouth. No sultan that İkmen knew of ever got his friends round for a gang rape. But he made a mental note to ask Süleyman about palace practices when next he saw him. After all, if a prince didn’t know about such things, who would?

  Hikmet Sivas couldn’t imagine how the box had got into his bedroom. It wasn’t small – about three-quarters of a metre in height and quite wide. No one apart from the police and their technicians had entered the house for a day and a half. There had been no post or deliveries. Vedat had been out once, with one of the officers, for cigarettes, but that was all, and besides, if Vedat had placed the box in Hikmet’s room he would have told him.

  Hikmet knew he should call one of the policemen. The box was large and its contents were unknown. It could be a bomb or even, and this had once happened to a B-list soap star back in the States, a very small admirer. Not that Hikmet believed it was. This was most likely a message of some sort from the kidnappers. And in that respect he’d already made one mistake by involving the police in the first place. So, if this parcel did indeed come from them, he shouldn’t really alert Sergeant Çöktin or any of his fellows. He should open the box himself and face whatever consequences might follow. If it was a bomb and he died, well, that was just kismet.

  Hikmet walked over to the desk that stood by his bed and picked up the letter opener that lay on top. The box was made of wood, but it was only balsa, by the look of it. It should shift easily under a blunt knife. But it didn’t and because it was so very hot, being almost midday, just a couple of abortive attempts to open it wore Hikmet out. Panting, he took some time to sit on his bed, still observing if not touching the box as he did so. It was only then that he noticed the note.

  He hadn’t looked at the box from this angle before. It hadn’t been there when he’d woken so he hadn’t seen it from the bed previously. It had turned up sometime between seven am and five minutes ago when he’d returned to his room. And now there was this note . . .

  Taped to one of the sides, it was a little pale yellow envelope and it was addressed to him. After first calming himself with a few deep breaths, Hikmet leaned forward and peeled the little missive from the wood. Then he turned it over. The envelope flap was not stuck down but tucked in. He gently lifted it up and looked at what was inside.

  The note was folded in half and so in order to read it he had to pull it all the way out of the envelope. When he did read it, however, his face turned from brown to grey and he had to stuff a corner of the embroidered counterpane into his mouth. He didn’t want the policemen downstairs to hear his screams.

  Now, he thought as he scrambled wildly across his bedroom towards the window, I will have to get out of here and tell G the truth. Now I really don’t have anything, of value, left to lose.

  ‘Hikmet was only ever a mediocre actor. He could play one-dimensional heroes but that was about it.’

  It was just coming up for 1 p.m. and Ahmet Sılay was already drunk. As he spoke he waved his arms around to emphasise his various points.

  ‘His portrayal of the evil general Bekir Paşa in his last film for Yeşilcam was truly awful,’ Sılay continued. ‘When he left İstanbul saying that he was going to be a star in Hollywood, nobody believed him. I just laughed.’

  ‘But he did achieve fame, didn’t he, Mr Sılay,’ İkmen put in. ‘While you did not.’ Sılay took another swig from his rakı bottle before replying. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, ‘he did. But it had nothing to do with talent.’

  ‘Then what did it have to do with, Mr Sılay?’

  The elderly actor leaned towards İkmen and smiled. His breath, İkmen felt, would have disabled a lesser man than himself.

  ‘He got friendly with some people from Las Vegas,’ Sılay said in a heavy stage whisper. ‘People who owned Las Vegas at that time, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘This was the early nineteen sixties, wasn’t it?’

  ‘When Las Vegas was full of Italians, yes.’ His smile was lopsided and bitter. ‘When all the stars and their women went to Las Vegas. When a man willing to do anything for such people could do himself many favours.’

  Although hardly an aficionado of Hollywood movies, İkmen was aware that the Mafia were known to have had some involvement with the entertainment industry, particularly in Las Vegas, at that time. Rumours had even circulated implicating people as prominent as Frank Sinatra – rumours that, with regard to Frank, Fatma İkmen had always staunchly disbelieved. Nothing was ever proved and neither the name Hikmet Sivas nor the more familiar Ali Bey had been mentioned in connec tion with such allegations. If they had, İkmen would have known. The Turkish press would have made sure that everyone knew.

  But if Sivas had been involved with the Mafia, if he had crossed them in some way, that could explain why his wife had disappeared.
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  As if reading his thoughts, Sılay said, ‘You’ll probably find that the Mafia have his wife. He’s upset them in some way. Hikmet always upsets people in the end. They’re international, these people. They probably waited until he got here to take her because they know Turkish police can’t catch a cold without help.’

  İkmen turned briefly to look at Tepe who just shrugged.

  İkmen looked back into the crimson eyes of Ahmet Sılay. ‘Did Mr Sivas tell you he was involved with the Mafia?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then . . .’

  ‘Look, he used to write to me, in the nineteen sixties.’ He smiled, ‘And then ten years ago when I went to see him in Hollywood they were all around his Turkish crescent-shaped pool.’

  ‘Who were?’ İkmen asked. ‘The Mafia?’

  ‘Italians! Alberto and Martino, Giovanni, Giulia – all around a pool “advertising” this country.’ He leaned forward again and the smile returned. ‘I tell you, who but someone with powerful connections would tell the world he is a Turk? In America? No. Americans and Europeans hate Turks. Çetin İkmen policeman, you know that, I know it, we are raised to understand that.’

  İkmen who had heard and felt such sentiments himself, nevertheless did not encourage Sılay any further down this particular road.

  ‘Mr Sivas says that you make up stories, Mr Sılay,’ he said. He lit a cigarette and then provided a light for the ageing actor. ‘Would you like to tell me about that?’

  Sılay laughed. ‘Well, he doesn’t want you to know that he works for the Mafia,’ he said. ‘He knows I’m clever, knows I’ve worked it out.’

  ‘The subject actually came up when I asked Mr Sivas about your reliability in relation to the Hatice İpek case,’ İkmen said. ‘If you remember, you said that Hatice was having a relationship with the confectioner Hassan Şeker.’

  ‘Yes, and I stand by it!’ Sılay, his eyes now furious, responded. ‘Just because I drink—’

  ‘Lawyers regularly rip people like you apart in court, Mr Sılay. People who fuck up their brains every morning before breakfast! I asked Mr Sivas his opinion because I needed to know whether I could even think about going to court if I received further evidence in that case. I suspect it would be difficult.’