Dance with Death (17 page)

‘Seeing all of this fabulous scenery from above is such a privilege,’ Dolores said as she turned round to take in the full sweep of the lilac-blue sky, glimpsing the snow-capped peak of Mount Erciyes floating like an airborne island in the azure distance. ‘I wish my dad could’ve seen this.’

‘But I thought you said he came here?’ Emily replied.

‘I mean from up here in a balloon,’ Dolores said. ‘They didn’t have all this back in the fifties and sixties when Daddy came here. Leastways, I don’t think that they did.’

Turgut Senar, who could possibly have answered this question, merely stared out into the vastness of the sky.

‘Your dad didn’t mention it at all?’ Emily asked.

Dolores sighed. ‘Daddy was none too well for some years before he died. He didn’t talk too much, you know.’

Emily took her long black hair down from out of the comb that held it behind her head and then pinned it straight back up again. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s OK.’ Dolores smiled. ‘Daddy, God bless his soul, wasn’t himself towards the end.’ She spent a few moments riffling in her handbag before producing a small photograph, which she handed to Emily. ‘That’s Daddy in his prime. He was a sergeant in the military.’

‘Oh, er . . . He was a good-looking guy,’ the other woman said.

‘Yes, he was.’

Turgut Senar, now back from his reverie, looked over the Californian’s shoulder at the photograph and said, ‘Who?’

‘My father,’ Dolores replied.

He frowned. ‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see.’

‘That was before his illness came on him, poor sweetheart.’

‘Illness?’ the guide asked. ‘What . . .’

‘It’s called St Vitus’s Disease, it’s . . .’ She looked up and smiled. ‘It’s not important now. Gone and forgotten.’ She put the photograph away again in some haste.

İkmen, who hadn’t been close enough to the group to see the photograph, nevertheless noted that both Emily and Turgut Senar appeared a little embarrassed, or at least uncomfortable, about it. It was, he thought, probably one of those instances where a person shows you a picture of a relative they, and only they, find attractive.

‘In a few minutes we’re going to be landing at the head of the White Valley,’ Ferdinand said as he abruptly brought the women’s conversation to a close. ‘Then I will hand you over to Turgut for your hike. You have a very lovely day for it, I must say.’

İkmen didn’t think that any day could be considered nice if that day involved a lot of walking. But at least down on the ground he would be able to smoke – even if his lungs gave out and his feet collapsed beneath him. The altitude of Cappadocia, over one thousand metres above sea level, isn’t easy for those visiting the area who are fit – much less someone like Çetin İkmen. That and the dust from the tufa in the air made his chest wheeze. Stiff and tired before he had even begun the wretched walk, it took İkmen some time to get out of the basket once they had landed. When he finally emerged, he noticed that Turgut Senar had insinuated himself amongst the American women again and was looking at some photographs Emily was now showing and smiling very broadly. Amazing how such a dour character could change around women, he thought. But then there was currently some interest in foreign women in and around the village. Mainly young gigolos from the coast who found it easy to home in on these lonely, generally middle-aged foreigners, like Emily and Dolores. İkmen wouldn’t have taken Turgut Senar, middle-aged himself, for one of them, but then nothing in life, as İkmen knew only too well, was as straightforward as most people would like to think. Maybe Turgut’s wife was no longer interested in him? Or maybe he had just simply been smitten by Dolores and Emily? Anything was possible.

‘So this is the White Valley,’ Turgut said in English. ‘It is called the White Valley because as you can see all of the fairy chimneys in this area are very white. We will walk through the valley now and will pass some rock churches on the way. The first one on the left will be the Church of Mary the Madonna . . .’

Allah protect me, İkmen thought as he watched the seemingly endless whiteness of the valley stretch before him. The Valley of the Saints, their final destination, wasn’t even on the horizon, and Turgut Senar hadn’t so much as mentioned its existence. He looked down at his cheap, plastic shoes and tried not to imagine the colour or condition of the frozen feet inside.

‘Inspector Süleyman!’

Commissioner Ardıç didn’t usually come out of his office unless it was to formally brief his men or meet some sort of dignitary. He certainly didn’t come and get people himself, in the corridor. He had a telephone and minions to do that sort of thing for him. But on this occasion he seemed to be making an exception. Süleyman turned and smiled at the large, ravenously hungry figure behind him.

‘Sir?’ He’d just spent a fruitless hour with a man who, as well as frequently assaulting his own children, was known to have beaten up several homosexual men. But he hadn’t been anywhere near any of the peeper’s victims at the relevant times – he’d been getting drunk in quite different parts of the city.

‘I need to talk to you, now,’ Ardıç said.

And so Süleyman followed him into his office, noting the usual signs that Ardıç was fasting – unlit cigar, empty cups – as he did so.

‘One of your people has called Dorotka Taşkiran,’ he said without preamble as he eased his large behind down into his chair.

‘Yes, Sergeant Farsakoğlu.’ Ardıç rarely could remember names below the rank of inspector. ‘Why?’

‘The boy Aydın’s physician, Dr Arkın, feels that further questioning of the lad is not advisable at this time,’ Ardıç replied.

Süleyman frowned. Dr Arkın had been of the opinion when he’d been at the hospital that Abdullah Aydın would be fit enough to answer more questions that very same day. And so he told his superior this.

‘Perhaps the boy has deteriorated,’ Ardıç said. ‘But, anyway, I have cancelled the mad Polish woman.’

‘Sir, I hadn’t given Mrs Taşkiran a date,’ Süleyman said. ‘I was simply lining her up . . .’

‘Well, for the immediate future, there will be no need.’

‘Sir, with respect, Abdullah Aydın claims to have seen the peeper’s face.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Ardıç replied. ‘It is most frustrating, but if Dr Arkın has said that Aydın cannot be questioned safely then we cannot proceed.’

‘But Abdullah was, or seemed, so much better . . .’

Ardıç shrugged.

Süleyman shook his head. True, the boy had been suffering from a terrible cough when he had left him, but having just come out of a coma that was to be expected. When the throat isn’t used it becomes dry and sore. Something else must have happened since Süleyman and Farsakoğlu had left the hospital – something of some seriousness. After all, how often was it that people like the commissioner paid heed to doctors? Usually if information was required and needed from a suspect or a witness in hospital it made little difference what the attending doctor had to say on the matter.

‘So did Dr Arkın say when I might have access to Abdullah Aydın?’ Süleyman asked.

Ardıç looked down at his desk. ‘No. But I will inform you as to when you may visit the hospital in the future.’

‘She’ll telephone you?’

‘Yes.’ Ardıç looked up sharply. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

‘No, sir, except that I can’t really understand why Dr Arkın didn’t contact me herself. Why she went through you . . .’

‘Well, there’s no mystery to it, Süleyman! I am your superior. You take your orders from me and I am ordering you not to bother that boy with your questions for the time being.’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘İnşallah, the boy will soon be well again and you will be able to question him,’ Ardıç responded tightly. And then, smiling, he continued, ‘But in the meantime you will not go anywhere near him. Do you understand?’

‘Sir, I . . .’

‘I’m sure that you have other lines of inquiry in this investigation, Süleyman.’ Ardıç rose from his chair with some difficulty. ‘I would suggest that in the meantime you pursue those.’

Süleyman, standing as his boss stood, bowed his head. ‘Sir.’

‘I am confident the boy will recover soon,’ Ardıç said, and then with a wave of his hand he signalled for Süleyman to go.

‘Sir.’

Once outside the disturbingly un-smoke-filled office of his superior, Süleyman stopped to think for a few moments. In situations like that of Abdullah Aydın, doctors usually liaised with the investigating officer himself. Rarely, if ever, did they approach Ardıç unless it was to complain about police treatment of one of their patients. Süleyman knew he had done nothing wrong and so there were no fears there. But for the doctor to approach Ardıç, as opposed to himself, with news of Aydın’s deterioration wasn’t usual. It wasn’t even as if he’d been unavailable – he’d been in all the time! But there was only one way to find out and so Süleyman went back to his office and retrieved his car keys from his desk. It was lunchtime now and, even if Dr Arkın was keeping Ramazan, she would almost certainly be having a break at this time.

The wonderfully weird Valley of the Saints, famed for its impenetrable caves and hermitages, might just as well have been the dull mining district around the Black Sea city of Zonguldak for all İkmen cared when he got there. He was out of breath and footsore; there wasn’t a bone in his body that seemed to be happy about this latest, crazy, physical adventure. While Turgut Senar pointed up at one of the triple-coned chimneys that the valley was famous for, İkmen found a piece of ground that wasn’t covered with snow, sat down on it, and rubbed his ankles.

‘The Valley of the Saints has for a long time been famous as a place of mystery,’ Turgut Senar said as the rest of his group, apart from İkmen, looked round with awestruck expressions on their faces. ‘People who could not fit in with ordinary life would come here. Some Christian monks who chose to live in the way of St Simeon of the Stylites came here. They lived in caves and prayed many metres up in the air at the top of the fairy chimneys.’

‘So this was like a place to escape from the world, I suppose?’ Dolores Lavell asked.

‘Oh, yes, many people, many, many things, have been hidden in this Saints’ valley.’

Because she knew both Menşure and Rachelle Jones, Dolores Lavell had to have known about what had so recently been found in the Valley of the Saints, what had been hidden away in its chimneys for so long. But she didn’t comment upon anything pertaining to Aysu Alkaya; that came from the Englishman, Tom.

‘Wasn’t a body discovered here recently?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Turgut Senar replied. ‘But it was not a monk. They have been gone many years.’ And he laughed.

‘But where was the body discovered?’ İkmen asked in English. ‘Do you know?’

‘In a cave,’ the guide said noncommittally.

‘Which one?’

Turgut Senar frowned before replying in Turkish. ‘How would I know? You’re a policeman, ask the cops in Nevşehir.’

‘Don’t speak so that no one else can understand, Mr Senar, it’s very rude,’ İkmen said before reverting to English again. ‘Well, maybe we’ll come across it during our exploration.’

‘Maybe.’

İkmen could see that the guide was displeased about his interest in this subject and so he pushed it that little bit further. ‘There may even be an officer or two still at the scene.’ And then looking up at the Englishman he said, ‘Perhaps Tom and I will see what we can find.’

‘That’d be cool,’ the young man said as he reached down in order to help İkmen to his feet.

‘You are supposed to stick with the group,’ Turgut Senar said sternly. ‘I am taking everyone to the St Simeon Stylites chimney in a moment. It is on three levels of caves.’

‘OK,’ İkmen said with a smile. ‘I will just wait outside and have a look round. I don’t suppose you would like me to smoke in the St Simeon chimney, anyway, would you, Turgut?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s settled, then.’

And so the party made off towards one of the largest triple-coned chimneys with İkmen and Tom very obviously bringing up the rear.

‘He’s a bit of a control freak,’ the Englishman said to İkmen as he watched Turgut periodically turn round in order to see what everyone was doing.

‘He doesn’t want to lose any of us,’ İkmen replied as he winced against the pain from his feet.

‘He’s coming on to those American women though, isn’t he?’ Tom said.

İkmen smiled. ‘I’m afraid it is a reality of our lives that some of our men will do this,’ he said. ‘Westerners have, in comparison to us, so much more money.’

The two men watched as the rest of the party, led by Turgut Senar, entered the large sand-coloured chimney that was the St Simeon Stylites chapel.

‘Don’t you think that Western women and Turkish men can really have relationships then, Inspector?’ the Englishman asked.

İkmen lit up a cigarette and sighed. ‘Oh, I think it can be genuine,’ he said. ‘Indeed, one of my own friends is married to a Western woman and loves her very much.’ He didn’t go on to talk about Süleyman’s difficulties with Zelfa, but then they were largely irrelevant to this conversation. ‘But they are matched in both class and intellect. It’s important. The problem occurs I think, when older women come here looking for some fantasy dark, handsome young lover. Usually they find poor waiters, boys who rarely got beyond primary school. These boys take the women’s money and they break their hearts with other Western women they are also involved with. Not that I am entirely sorry for these women. They are educated, they should know better than to fall for such a transparent fantasy. Why do you ask?’

Tom shrugged. ‘I’m just interested. So what about this body, Inspector? Are we going to see what we can find?’

‘We will take what you British call a little stroll,’ İkmen said with a smile. And so the two of them set off down beside the chapel of St Simeon Stylites and very soon they disappeared from view. The valleys are like that. One can disappear and be rendered silent within them in a heartbeat.