Dance with Death (30 page)

Why had Turgut Senar suddenly developed a passion for Dolores Lavell and why had he been so appalled when his brother masturbated in front of her? He’d been so upset he’d even pointed the dastardly action out to his mother. Why? Dolores Lavell was a foreigner who, so she claimed, had no connection to the Senar family or anyone else in the village for that matter. But her father had been to the area before, her father who had been in the US army, together with his fellow soldier ‘buddies’. When Dolores had shown that photograph of her father to Turgut and Emily in the balloon, perhaps the former hadn’t been as shocked by the colour of the American’s father, so much as by his familiarity. Perhaps Turgut Senar, who must have been a child in the late fifties and early sixties, knew him. Perhaps the big, friendly black GI had taught the cute little Turkish kid to shoot – Turgut Senar was as Altay Salman had said, a very good shot. Did Dolores’ father perhaps give the kid a keepsake, a Colt 45? GIs had, after all, done such crazy things in Vietnam; he’d read about it.

But why would Turgut Senar kill Aysu Alkaya, whether he had an old American weapon or not? He had no motive that İkmen could see. Both Nazlı Kahraman and her father had several motives, not least of which was the fact that the girl and her father had effectively duped the Lemon King into matrimony. And if Nazlı Hanım had in fact been lying about having any inkling of Aysu’s pregnancy . . . It wouldn’t, after all, have been difficult for a wealthy woman like Nazlı to get hold of a weapon, American or otherwise, that was impossible to trace back to her or her father’s estate.

Kemalettin Senar might have had a motive no one knew about or maybe he had killed the girl by accident. He would have to have had access to the Colt 45 in order to do this, however, and İkmen couldn’t see Turgut actually giving his strange and much younger brother what had probably been a prized possession. Perhaps Kemalettin had stolen the gun? He and Aysu planned to spring her and their unborn child from their ‘prison’ in the Kahramans’ house. Kemalettin brought the gun along for their protection, but the boy was clumsy and there was an accident. That İkmen himself had had an accident of sorts was something he considered as he gazed fixedly at the ground straight beneath his face. Someone who probably had not counted on his being with the corpse of Aysu Alkaya had hit him. Later, that person or someone else, because he now remembered that there had been a lot of people around at some time during that night, had hit him again – and then again . . . His brain was working now, but slowly, oddly.

‘Inspector İkmen!’

Oh, and now voices in the head for company too! Concussion maybe. Fantastic. It sounded just like that idiot who lived in the apartment next to the İkmens, Mr Gören. Stupid idiot lived with his great dollop of a daughter who just sat and ate lokum all day long. Why the voice couldn’t be his Fatma’s sweet tones, he didn’t know. ‘Fuck off,’ İkmen murmured. ‘Fucking Mr Gören!’

‘Inspector İkmen! Is that you?’

It took a while for the reality of what he’d just heard to filter through, but when it did, İkmen frowned. Mr Gören did not, as far as he was aware, speak English, or any other foreign language, come to that. Slowly, İkmen raised his face upwards into the falling snow. Above him was a great big silver balloon that made a roaring sound as flames shot hot air up into its huge body. Someone whom he couldn’t recognise because of the snow was waving at him from the basket underneath the balloon. The policeman hoped that it wasn’t just an illusion.

‘What are we going to do?’ Tom Chambers said to Atom Boghosian. ‘We’re supposed to be looking for the inspector!’

‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Atom replied as he leaned against the side of the jeep, watching, together with the Englishman, the progress of the fight between Turgut Senar and Baha Ermis.

‘I wish I knew what it was all about,’ Tom said. ‘One minute they were OK and the next minute – this.’

Atom shrugged. ‘Without language we are helpless,’ he said. ‘I would have felt better if my cousin had come with us.’

‘Me too.’

And then the fight, which had up until that moment involved only the two men’s fists, took a sinister turn. Baha Ermis reached into a pocket in his jeans and took out something which he then held in front of him. There was a small clicking sound and the innocuous-looking instrument revealed its deadly secret – it was a knife.

‘Oh, my God!’

Atom turned to look at Tom and said, ‘We are not too far into this valley. I think that maybe we should leave to go and get some help.’

‘Well, why don’t I phone someone?’ the Englishman said as he took his mobile telephone out of one of the pockets in his parka. ‘We can’t leave them!’

The sound of a thick blade swishing through the air caused them both to look just as Baha took an unsuccessful swipe at Turgut.

‘But what if they turn upon us?’ Atom said. ‘If the one with the knife kills the other one then he will not want any witnesses to his crime. No, he will . . .’

A strange puffing or sucking noise was coming from somewhere. It was nothing to do with either of the men fighting in front of the jeep. In fact it had a most alarming tone to it. Atom turned around in an attempt to locate its source. But then Tom Chambers prodded his shoulder with his finger and said, ‘Look, up there!’

He looked up at the very same moment that the two combatants also looked at the sky above the valley.

‘Kismet!’ Turgut Senar said as he first looked up at Ferdinand Mueller’s hot air balloon floating above the valley and then back down at Baha Ermis once again. ‘Kismet.’

Baha, his face now white with cold and with fear, dropped his flick-knife on to the ground, and the instrument slipped down a crack in the snow-covered rock and disappeared.

‘I want a cigarette! Give me a cigarette!’ İkmen demanded from inside the folds of the enormous blanket Altay Salman had draped round his body.

The horseman looked up at the puffing and overweight doctor, who had just finished looking into İkmen’s eyes and taking İkmen’s pulse, then shrugged.

‘Oh, give him one, for God’s sake!’ the Armenian said as he shook his head from side to side in disbelief. Then bending down towards İkmen just as Altay Salman placed a cigarette into his mouth he said, ‘Don’t blame me if you throw up!’

‘Fuck off, Arto,’ İkmen replied as he breathed in heavily as soon as Altay Salman lit the end of the Marlboro cigarette.

The doctor held his arms aloft in a gesture of submission to the inevitable while İkmen, bent double over his own empty stomach, coughed on to the rock underneath him.

Altay Salman’s radio began to crackle and so he turned aside in order to answer it.

‘I telephoned Fatma as soon as the balloon pilot told us you were alive,’ Arto said as he lowered himself down beside İkmen and then placed an arm round his shoulders.

‘Fatma knew I was missing?’

‘Everyone knew you were missing,’ the Armenian replied. ‘I told them.’

‘But with Berekiah . . .’

‘Fatma told me to tell you that Berekiah is doing very well,’ Arto said and then, lowering his voice so that none of the young cadets could hear him, he asked, ‘Do you have any idea who did this to you, Çetin? Who brought you here?’

‘No. Not really.’

‘Maybe it will come back to you,’ the doctor said. ‘You’ve had a shock and been through a terrible ordeal.’

‘Yes.’ İkmen let the smoke permeate every fibre of his being. It hadn’t made him feel in the slightest bit nauseous – unlike the sight of the young cadets going into that chimney with its bits of Aysu Alkaya all over its uneven tufa floor. ‘Someone wanted to destroy that body. They were afraid of what our tests might reveal.’

‘Yes.’

‘But the whole village knew about the tests and so . . .’

‘Sssh, sssh!’ Arto put his hand on Çetin’s arm to help to calm his sudden agitation. ‘The boys are going to stay with the remains until I get back out here with some proper receptacles for them. You did a really heroic thing when you took them out of that fire, Çetin.’

‘I just reacted,’ the policeman said as he ground the little that remained of his cigarette out in the snow by his feet. ‘Can I have another cigarette now?’

‘Yes, I expect so.’

Altay Salman, who had now finished speaking on his radio, said, ‘That was one of the boys I sent into the Valley of the Birds. Your cousin and Mr Chambers are safe, Doctor.’

Arto Sarkissian sighed. ‘Well, that’s a relief.’

İkmen, for whom news about anyone in the Valley of the Birds was all new, said, ‘What was Atom Boghosian doing out in some valley in the snow?’

‘Looking for you.’

‘Turgut Senar took Mr Boghosian, Mr Chambers and Baha Ermis out in his jeep to help with the search,’ Altay Salman added. ‘Just after Ferdinand and Mrs Mueller found you they also saw Senar, Ermis and their passengers. Although this valley is effectively sealed off from those around it, the Valley of the Birds where Senar and company were searching is only a few hundred metres away. Ferdinand radioed to say that Senar and Ermis were fighting which was why I sent a couple of my lads over there. Apparently one of them had a knife.’

‘Why were Ermis and Senar even together?’ İkmen asked. ‘They’re enemies.’ And then looking up at the captain he said, ‘Altay, can I have another cigarette?’

With a smile the captain leaned down and gave İkmen a whole packet of Marlboro plus his one and only lighter.

‘Çetin, do you have any idea how you came to be out here?’ Altay Salman asked once he had straightened up again.

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I know a vehicle was involved at some point, with people. Lots of people . . .’

‘Sir!’ One of the captain’s cadets came over and snapped his superior a salute.

‘Yes?’

‘Sir, the snow is thickening. I think that we should get the inspector out of here now.’

The captain nodded his assent. ‘Yes, you’re quite right,’ he said, and leaning down towards İkmen he said, ‘If the boys lift you on, are you all right to ride a horse?’

İkmen’s eyes widened. ‘On my own?’

‘I had to, why shouldn’t you?’ the doctor put in without a great deal of humour.

Altay Salman smiled. ‘No, you’ll ride with me,’ he said. ‘You’re only light and my Süleyman is a big, strong fellow.’

And so İkmen was lifted on to the horse and left with Altay Salman, the doctor and three of the cadets. The original plan was to get İkmen checked out by a proper medical doctor at the hospital in Nevşehir, but as the snowfall increased that possibility began to recede. When they finally got back to the village, the local doctor, Ali, was brought over to the Fairy Chimneys Hotel in order to check the policeman out. A lot of other people were at the hotel too, some of whom, once he had warmed up a little, İkmen was eager to see.

During the course of the doctor’s examination he suddenly remembered one thing about his ordeal. Just one.

The tiny two-roomed apartment reeked of alcohol. As soon as Estelle Cohen opened the door to him, Mehmet Süleyman could see that she was embarrassed.

‘Hello, Mehmet,’ she said as she failed to immediately usher him inside as she usually did. ‘It’s very nice to see you.’

‘And you, Estelle.’

He bent down in order to remove his shoes and saw her face descend into panic. ‘Is it OK?’

‘Er . . .’

Shortly after the Karaköy bombing, Balthazar Cohen’s brother Leon had contacted the Italian Hospital and offered to take in whichever of his relatives was fit enough not to require medical attention. It was a very generous offer. Leon, although a bachelor, didn’t have a lot of space in his fifth-floor apartment in Yeşilköy, but he was prepared to share it with Balthazar and Estelle for the time being. Not that Leon Cohen was often bothered by his new guests. When not out in the city’s rougher meyhanes with his group of like-minded male friends, he could generally be found passed out in a puddle of rakı either on his bed or across the floor of the tiny toilet and shower room just beside the front door. Like his father before him, Leon Cohen was a hopeless alcoholic. Unlike his late father, however, he did not, mercifully, have any children or even a wife or girlfriend to suffer his drunken incoherence – only, and latterly, his brother and his wife.

‘Who’s that at the door?’ Mehmet heard a familiar voice call from inside the dingy apartment. ‘Estelle?’

‘It’s Mehmet, Balthazar,’ she said. ‘Is Leon . . . ?’

‘Snoring like a pig in his bed,’ Balthazar replied. ‘Mehmet knows all about Leon. Let him in, woman!’

The hall floor felt disturbingly sticky as Süleyman walked across it to the small, nicotine-stained living room.

‘Come in,’ Balthazar said from his place propped up in what looked like a settee in the midst of an explosion. Horsehair and rubber foam spilled from every numerous rent in the body of this terminally disfigured item of furniture.

‘I’m sorry about this, Mehmet,’ Estelle said as she ushered him over to one of only two dining chairs that stood in front of a slightly listing table.

‘We live in reduced circumstances, but at least we are alive,’ her husband said. ‘More importantly, Berekiah is alive and we must all thank the Almighty for that.’

‘Yes.’ Mehmet sat down. In spite of these dismal surroundings he was feeling better now that Fatma İkmen had phoned and told him that Çetin had been found alive. No one had felt the Cohens could take any more bad news at the time when the inspector had first disappeared. But now Süleyman did fill them in on what had been happening out in Cappadocia. It was part of the reason he had come to see them.

‘Well, thanks to the Almighty yet again for Çetin Bey’s safety,’ Balthazar said just as the snores from the bedroom next door reached a crescendo.

‘Balthazar . . .’

The small Jew leaned forward in his seat and said, ‘You know it was good of Leon to take us in, but . . . My brother Jak called, from England. He’s coming over. Jak will sort things out.’