Harem Read online

  ‘Strained?’

  ‘I don’t know what Hikmet is or was involved with, or Vedat. I only say that Allah will punish them in the end and Hikmet, I know, is torn to pieces inside.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us any of this before?’ İkmen asked.

  Hale Sivas shrugged. ‘Tell you what? That my brother mixes with bad people?’

  ‘Who may be responsible for what happened to your sister-in-law,’ İkmen countered, ‘yes.’

  ‘But how can that help?’ The old woman shook her head. ‘I don’t know who any of them are. They are foreigners, I don’t speak their language.’

  ‘So you never asked either Hikmet or Vedat about them?’

  ‘I tell my brothers only to behave like proper Muslims and reject the infidel. They both know what I think. The world loves Hikmet Sivas, but he is a disappointment to me.’ Tears began to well up in her eyes now and her voice cracked with emotion. ‘I tell him not to go to America, to make films here, but he goes there without a care for me! I tell him not to marry infidel women who will give him only Christian children, but he ignores me. I tell him not to buy this yalı and he does so. Oh, he’s always very, very sorry afterwards, begging forgiveness of me all the time, promising that Vedat will always be here to take care of me . . .’

  ‘Why do you live here if you disapprove of this yalı and its associations?’

  Hale Sivas turned to look hard at İskender. ‘Because I must live with my brother Vedat, there is no one else to care for me. I live where he lives, and with my prayers and the purity of my life I work to keep the evil ghosts of Mahmud Effendi and his crimes at bay. Maybe Allah in his wisdom will see my suffering and will forgive my brothers for their womanising and their badness.’

  Yıldız, for whom talk of ghosts was a more unusual experience than it was for İkmen, coughed in spite of himself.

  Hale Sivas gazed at his face.

  ‘You don’t believe in ghosts?’ she asked gruffly. ‘You don’t think that the damned walk abroad? Too sophisticated, are you?’

  ‘No.’ But the young man bowed his head.

  ‘I don’t think that Constable Yıldız, Inspector İskender or myself are in a position to refute the possibility of such things after what we have just experienced,’ İkmen said.

  She turned to look at him. ‘Oh?’

  İkmen smiled. ‘You see, Miss Sivas, Mahmud Effendi’s secret passageway does exist. Behind some of his stylish French panels, via a lift. We’ve just been down there. The passage leads from your brother Hikmet’s bedroom underneath the garden to the houses. It’s very dark and very eerie, but it has been used recently. We think your brothers may have used it to disappear.’

  Hale Sivas looked genuinely shocked.

  ‘The only thing we don’t know is why,’ İkmen said. ‘If neither of your brothers killed your sister-in-law then they had no reason to leave – unless they knew who had killed Kaycee.’

  ‘But wouldn’t they have told you?’

  ‘Not if they were involved in some sort of illegal activity with these people themselves,’ İkmen replied. ‘As I told you before, right at the beginning of this investigation. Vedat tried to prevent Hikmet from involving us. There must have been a reason for this beyond your own explanation which, if I recall correctly, was distrust of the police. I personally believe that your sister-in-law’s murder had rather more to do with Hikmet’s associations than hers. I think, as I’ve also told you before, it was some sort of warning.’ He leaned in closely to her and said, ‘What do you think?’

  Hale Sivas, unable to sustain İkmen’s gaze for long, averted her eyes.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said sadly. ‘Sometimes Vedat begins to talk about his anxieties but I always turn my head away and block up my ears. I don’t want to know about evil. It can taint a soul . . .’

  ‘Well, that’s a great pity,’ İkmen said as he rose angrily to his feet in one quick movement. ‘Had you taken a risk with your soul we might now have some idea where your brothers are and with whom. Las Vegas, where you once met Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, was owned by the Mafia in the early nineteen sixties, and if Hikmet and Vedat are, or were, connected to them, then they’re probably well beyond your prayers now.’

  And with that he left the room. İskender and Yıldız followed soon afterwards, leaving as quietly as they could while the old woman wept into the thick folds of her headscarf.

  Chapter 15

  * * *

  Muazzez Heper allowed her sister to escort her to the pavement and even to hail a taxi for her, but nothing else.

  ‘It’s me he’s asked to see,’ she said, clinging to Yümniye’s arm as they moved towards the pavement. ‘I’ve always said that you know nothing.’

  Yümniye, unbeknown to her sightless sister, frowned. ‘We should have told Çetin.’

  ‘You nearly did,’ Muazzez replied acidly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is far bigger than you know, Yümniye.’

  ‘Yes, but we had nothing whatever to do with that girl’s death!’

  ‘That is irrelevant!’ Muazzez turned her blank eyes in her sister’s direction and scowled. ‘Now get me a taxi, please. I’ve no time to waste.’

  With a reluctant sigh Yümniye released her arm from Muazzez’s grasp and approached the road. One of the many things of which İstanbul has an abundance is taxis. Bright yellow and sporting their registration numbers on the side, they are driven by a group of people committed to the twin macho ideals of speed and positional supremacy on the road. One skidded to a halt in front of the two women almost immediately.

  Yümniye opened the back door nearest the pavement and helped her sister into the vehicle. It was unwise to sit alongside the driver, especially in the older cabs, like this one, which could have old and inefficient brakes.

  ‘My sister wants to go to Sultanahmet, İshak Paşa Caddesi,’ she said, ‘just before the railway underpass.’

  The driver shrugged and then put his foot down.

  ‘Be careful, Muazzez,’ Yümniye said as her sister sped away towards the Bosphorus Bridge. Away to meet ‘him’, the one Yümniye had never met but had always wanted, in spite of anything, to do so. He had, after all, made their lives possible. He had saved the General from ignominy.

  İkmen saw Ardıç speak briefly to İskender outside in the garden. İskender had been on his way home. He had probably had even less sleep than İkmen. Hikmet Sivas’s furniture, though beautiful, was hardly comfortable and all night long both men had shuffled around trying to get settled while at the same time listening for strange sounds in the house and the telephone. It had been awful and probably the last thing İskender needed now was Ardıç, who, it seemed, hadn’t exactly lingered in Ankara.

  İkmen took the small glass of tea offered to him by one of the younger policemen and sat down. Çöktin, who had now also returned to his home, had discovered nothing useful at Yıldız Palace the previous night. Staff there knew Vedat Sivas, they also knew who his brother was. Vedat had worked every day at the palace when he started there forty years before; now he worked there once a week. He kept his own counsel and did not get too close to colleagues. Maybe having a famous brother was the reason for this. İkmen doubted that any of Vedat’s colleagues lived in anything like the splendour he enjoyed.

  A bustlingly impatient sound behind him alerted İkmen to the fact that Commissioner Ardıç had entered the building. He turned and saw that Tepe, looking pale and anxious, was standing in Ardıç’s considerable shadow.

  ‘You look like a vagrant,’ Ardıç said disapprovingly as he came and sat down next to İkmen.

  ‘I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, sir,’ İkmen replied.

  Ardıç turned to Tepe. ‘Well, go about your business then,’ he said and waved a dismissive hand towards the sergeant.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Tepe walked smartly out of the room.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ İkmen asked, tipping his head in the retreating man’s direction.

&n
bsp; ‘I want him to make sure there are no pressmen waiting outside,’ Ardıç said.

  ‘I thought you had negotiated a blackout.’

  ‘I did but you know what they’re like. We can’t afford any slip-ups. No one must know what’s going on in this house. As far as the world is concerned, Sivas is here.’

  ‘And if anyone sees him on the street?’ İkmen inquired.

  ‘Well, nobody will, will they, İkmen!’ Ardıç lit up one of his fat Cuban cigars and then leaned back into the over-stuffed chair. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘They might,’ İkmen mumbled as he lit a cigarette that had been far too long loose in his pocket. ‘It’s possible.’

  Ardıç coughed. ‘Well, whether it is or it isn’t, it doesn’t concern you, İkmen,’ he said. ‘Not any more.’

  İkmen, his eyes narrowed against the rancid smoke from his ancient cigarette, leaned forward and furrowed his brow.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I want you to go home and take a few days’ leave.’ Ardıç shuffled in his seat, rearranging himself to make his large stomach more comfortable. ‘For the moment I’ll work with İskender.’

  ‘But I don’t want to—’

  ‘That’s an order, İkmen,’ Ardıç said in the low, menacing voice he used only when he was being deadly serious. ‘Go home, see your children, eat something. You’re looking even more skeletal than usual.’

  ‘I don’t eat when I’m busy, I can’t.’ İkmen lowered his head and then asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I tell you to,’ Ardıç responded mildly. ‘Because it must be.’

  İkmen looked up. This wasn’t Ardıç’s idea. This was something he’d been told to do. ‘Who told you to get rid of me? You’ve just come back from Ankara . . .’

  ‘I’ll need a report on this case,’ Ardıç said, changing the subject without a flicker.

  İkmen, incensed, sat up smartly. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘although Metin and I have become rather more accustomed to each other of late and I think he is fully up to date.’

  ‘Write it down anyway, İkmen. Go back to the station, write your report and then go home. You have so much leave owing it’s almost incalculable.’ He looked at İkmen steadily. ‘Take a week.’

  ‘A week!’

  ‘A week, İkmen,’ Ardıç growled. ‘With your children. It will be very nice.’

  Tears of frustration and anger rose behind İkmen’s eyes. He’d worked hard to get where he was with this case. Now someone in authority over Ardıç was discarding him. Why? But there was no point arguing, that was evident from the look on Ardıç’s heavyset face. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said miserably.

  And then Ardıç, uncharacteristically, smiled. ‘Forget about all this,’ he said as he waved his cigar expansively in the air. ‘Get your strength back. People will always be greedy, violent and unreasonable, there will still be plenty to do when you return.’

  ‘Yes.’ İkmen’s face, which was heavily lined and rumpled at the best of times, looked crushed now and, as if moving underneath the weight of an enormous burden, he rose slowly and wearily from his seat.

  He had in fact, to Ardıç’s obvious relief, turned to go when he swung back again suddenly. He couldn’t let this just go!

  ‘Was it the same people who told you to get me off the İpek case?’ he said, his voice husky with bitterness. ‘Did they tell you to get me away from here too?’

  ‘The İpek case, as you put it, barely exists,’ Ardıç, his eyes now dangerous, said. ‘The girl died naturally. Süleyman will take any necessary action against any attackers.’

  ‘Just as soon as he returns to work and the trail has gone cold, yes,’ İkmen said, ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s a non-case, İkmen!’ Ardıç’s normally ruddy complexion had turned an alarming shade of grey. If İkmen hadn’t been so very angry himself he would have paused to consider what effect his words might be having on his superior’s state of health. But he was beyond that now.

  ‘I am making progress here!’ he yelled. ‘I’ve discovered how the Sivas brothers melted out of this building, I’ve discovered yet more evidence of a connection between Hikmet and the Mafia.’

  ‘Put it in your report and I will read it!’ Ardıç tried to spring furiously to his feet but only succeeded in lumbering slowly upwards.

  ‘All right, sir! All right.’ İkmen leaned forward so that his nose was almost touching Ardıç’s face. ‘But I’m telling you, if you don’t immediately contact the American authorities as I suggested originally—’

  ‘I will do whatever is necessary!’

  İkmen backed off. He stood for a moment regarding his boss with deep disdain. ‘Even if those who are, for whatever reason, pulling your strings at the moment don’t want you to?’

  Every one of Ardıç’s chins shook with indignation. ‘Don’t be so fucking insolent! Now get out before I do something you’ll regret!’

  İkmen turned about smartly and started walking towards the door.

  ‘Tell Metin I wish him good fortune,’ he said as he opened the door and then turned back to look at Ardıç once again. ‘I hope that whatever game is going on here doesn’t end up tainting him too.’

  Ardıç sat back down again and re-lit his cigar. İkmen shut the door quietly behind him.

  The southern end of İshak Paşa Caddesi disappears underneath the railway just before Cankurturan station. For those with sight, the station is visible as one descends into the underpass. Now just a suburban railway, this line used to carry the famous Orient Express to and from glamorous Paris. Muazzez Heper remembered it well. Not its plush and luxurious heyday of course, but its slow decline in the 1950s and 1960s when it was mostly used by peasants going to or returning from their Gastarbeiter jobs in Germany. Nevertheless she had still dreamed of riding its shabby carriages one fine day.

  As soon as the General’s mind started to deteriorate, however, all such dreams had disappeared from her young life. It was as much as she and Yümniye could do to pay for his treatment and try to keep on top of the rent without thinking about foreign travel. Sometimes, however, Muazzez, unable to stand her father’s ravings any more, would have to cut loose and take a glimpse at life beyond the house in Üsküdar. Sometimes she would just go for a walk, but occasionally she would scrape together whatever money she could and go to the Alkazar cinema in Beyoǧlu. There she would gaze upon large-breasted heroines trembling before bristling moustachioed villains in the latest Yeşilcam epic, or clap gleefully as the latest offering from Hollywood – films of unbelievable sumptuousness – featuring real stars like Cary Grant, Frank Sinatra and Marilyn Monroe. It was at the cinema that she had met the man who had changed her life forever – in ways both good and bad, but mostly good. After that meeting the rent hadn’t been a worry any more and with the occasional big commission from the same source to augment their other work, the Heper sisters had done really very well. Muazzez had never managed to ride the Orient Express or get across to Europe by any other means, but one could not have everything. The general had lived and died with dignity and that was worth everything. That was why she had done it in the first place and why, in spite of what would be said about it by friends, neighbours and even relatives should they ever get to know, it had been the right thing to do. Muazzez regretted nothing.

  Wearied by the heat, which wasn’t tempered by even the lightest breeze from the Sea of Marmara, Muazzez leaned back against the wall of the underpass. She was too old to stand around for long periods in strange places. Where was he? Heavy vibrations in the concrete wall of the underpass told her that a train had just arrived at Cankurturan station. Outside of commuter times not many people opted to travel to the city by train and so there was no great flurry of activity around the train’s arrival. Just more heat and a quietness punctuated by the distant voices of children at play in the shabby streets of Cankurturan district. Muazzez smiled. At night this place had a reputation as a haunt for robbers, prostitutes and drunks. But by day it was all right, or at least she
thought it was.

  The train started to pull out of the station and rolled across the underpass. The car which had been stationary two hundred metres up on İshak Paşa Caddesi came to life and moved forward. Gathering momentum in line with the departing train, the white Volvo estate was travelling at quite a speed as it rounded the bend into the underpass.

  Muazzez, who was concentrating on the sound of the train above her head, didn’t hear the car until it was too late. Even when its heavy metal bonnet smashed into her legs, she didn’t for a second imagine that what had happened was anything other than an accident. But when the car reversed and then, still under cover of the noise from the train up above, came at her one last fatal time, she knew she was meant to die. And as the reality of impending death engulfed her she was saddened that after all these years he had felt he had to do this in order to silence her. He should have known there was no need.

  As the car disappeared down Kennedy Caddesi at high speed, Muazzez Heper died on the ground, alone.

  Sometimes, even with the greatest of one’s friends, certain things are hidden. You know it from the way the friend behaves, from the atmosphere inside the room, house or apartment. Like an intrusive odour, it lingers, weighing down the most ordinary conversation with its spaces full of silent questions.

  İkmen knew that there was something odd happening in Süleyman’s house as soon as he crossed the threshold. Not only did Mehmet look uncharacteristically unkempt, he had a very unpleasant scratch on his face as well. İkmen did not mention this even though he noticed old Dr Halman, who entered the salon carrying the baby Yusuf İzzeddin, look at the wound with undisguised concern. And then there was their visitor. İkmen couldn’t recall his name but when the young man descended from the bedrooms upstairs, İkmen recognised him as one of Zelfa’s psychiatrist colleagues. Babur Halman went to meet him. And even though Mehmet closed the door after his father-in-law had left the room, İkmen could hear the sound of their voices talking quietly for a long time afterwards.