Harem (16 page)

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.

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.’

‘Oh, lawyers, lawyers!’ Sılay lifted his bottle up towards the ceiling and laughed raucously. ‘Nothing but fucking arse whores for the state! They don’t care about the common man, only money, money – just like Hikmet!’

‘Money is important, Mr Sılay.’

‘No it isn’t!’

‘To those who’ve never been without it I suppose it can be peripheral,’ İkmen said tartly, mindful of what Tepe had told him about Ahmet Sılay’s privileged background.

‘Hikmet Sivas sold his body, his soul and his principles for money.’

‘Yes, and you may have done the same had you been born into poverty,’ İkmen said, his patience stretched to breaking point by this bitter, ruined old rich boy. He would have said more along those lines had his mobile telephone not started ringing at that moment.

He turned away to answer it. Tepe and Sılay both watched the back of his head as he spoke, sometimes urgently, into the small device. The conversation lasted less than a minute. But when İkmen turned back to face the others, his face was the colour of dust. Tepe felt his heart beat faster.

‘Sir?’

‘We have to go, Tepe,’ İkmen said as he rose quickly to his feet. ‘Now.’

She’d had all the time that it had taken them to calm Mrs İpek to think about why Berekiah might have come up to the apartment. First she had made tea for her friend’s mother, while Berekiah disappeared briefly in order to buy Hürrem a packet of cigarettes. And then they had talked, the three of them. Sometimes about Hatice but usually in more general terms about how cruel life could be and how that cruelty could come about so suddenly. Hulya knew that Berekiah had personal experience of such things himself. There had only been the briefest warning of his older brother, Yusuf’s, mental breakdown and there had been no time at all to prepare for the massive 1999 earthquake which had ripped Berekiah’s father’s legs away.

Hürrem İpek was both charmed and comforted by Berekiah, but all Hulya wanted to know was what had brought him here in the first place.

At last they felt able to leave Hürrem and the two young people walked back into the dusty, litter-strewn hall. ‘I actually came to see whether any of your family wanted to go to the hospital to see Mehmet’s baby,’ Berekiah said. ‘Zelfa can’t receive people at home in the normal way because she’s had an operation. But the family are very happy to see friends at the hospital and I know Çetin Bey has bought a gift for the child.’

‘So you came to see my dad then really,’ Hulya said as she fought to disguise her disappointment.

‘I didn’t know who would be at home,’ Berekiah replied. ‘But today is my day off and I was passing. Do you want to come?’

She did. And so they went together, picking up various items of food, as instructed by Berekiah’s mother, along the way.

When they arrived at the hospital, however, Hulya could see instantly that all was not well with the new little family. Dr Halman, as she even now felt obliged to call Mehmet’s wife, still looked worn out from her ordeal and barely managed to raise a smile even when little Yusuf İzzeddin was brought in to her. Her father, Dr Babur, made numerous and forced attempts at jolly conversation which worked only patchily. The whole experience was strained in a way that Hulya couldn’t understand. When babies came, people were happy. Her mother had always been happy when a new child arrived. She couldn’t understand why Dr Halman looked so sad.

But when, a little later, Mehmet Süleyman arrived, Dr Halman’s demeanour changed. Now animated, she passed the baby quickly over to her father and then held her husband’s hands in hers. Gazing up into his eyes, she laughed wildly at any little comment he made even if it was only remotely amusing. It was almost as if, Hulya felt, Dr Halman and Mehmet were on a first date and she was trying to impress him. Not once did she look at the baby after her husband arrived and when Mehmet himself wanted to spend some time with his son, Dr Halman looked positively jealous. It was all very odd. But Hulya didn’t say anything about her observations even after she and Berekiah left.

However, on the way back to Hulya’s apartment, to which Berekiah had insisted on returning her, he raised the subject of what they had just seen at the hospital.

‘I think that my mother is right when she says that having babies takes a lot of energy out of women,’ he said as he took her hand in his to cross the road. ‘Zelfa is still, I think, quite ill.’

And although Hulya herself wouldn’t have put what she had observed in Dr Halman down to ‘illness’ as such, she agreed.

‘But not all women are ill like that, you know,’ she said.

‘Oh?’ Now that they were back on the pavement he let his fingers gently disengage from hers.

Hulya, feeling the sudden loss of him, forced a smile. ‘My mum has always been all right,’ she said. ‘And I think that I will be too – if I ever have children. Hatice and I always dreamed of starring in the movies . . .’

‘Well, you’re, er . . .’ he looked down briefly and then smiled into her eyes, ‘you’re very beautiful and so I expect that you could . . .’

Hulya felt her face catch fire and so she looked away from him, fixing her eyes on the side of a passing tram.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

He pulled her round to face him and put his hand up to her cheek.

It was a touching sight and one that affected Ayşe Farsakoǧlu who had noticed one of Inspector İkmen’s daughters being romanced by the son of old Cohen the Jew. Ayşe was across the other side of Divan Yolu where, overheated, she’d stopped to buy a drink. Just for a moment she felt jealous. Never again would a young man make her blush, take her hand tenderly in his. Not that she wanted any of that juvenile stuff, of course not. She wanted a man, a home of her own, and not to be pitied by her family any more. If she couldn’t have Süleyman, she’d have Orhan instead. As soon as he divorced that wife of his, she could have him and no one would pity her ever again.

But then she tore her mind away from Orhan and looked at the young people once again, this time frowning.

İkmen looked down at the crumpled figure of Metin İskender as he bent his head over the bucket one more time, retching, but without production.

‘How many times has he thrown up?’ İkmen asked İsak Çöktin who, together with all the other officers stationed inside the Sivas house, was standing on the landing outside Hikmet Sivas’s bedroom.

Çöktin shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve not been that concerned with him, to be honest.’

İkmen nodded. He could understand that. Aside from the fact that İskender wasn’t well liked, what had taken place in the house in the last two hours overshadowed any other considerations.

At approximately eleven forty-five that morning, Hikmet Sivas had said that he was going up to his bedroom to lie down. He hadn’t managed to get much sleep the previous night and he was tired. Çöktin had said this was OK although when, five minutes later, Inspector İskender had arrived he had asked him whether anyone should go with Sivas to his room. İskender had said that wasn’t necessary. He would check on the star in a while. Half an hour later he did so. What he found was an absence of Sivas and the presence of an unknown box that he had made the mistake of opening. He had been vomiting ever since.

Çöktin, his hands covered by the familiar thin whiteness of surgical gloves, held a small piece of paper up in front of İkmen’s face.

‘I found this with it,’ he said.

İkmen motioned for him to open the note so that he could read it.

‘
Japanese Ivories – to be personally delivered to His Majesty, the Sultan.
’ İkmen, strangely, grinned. ‘How very apt.’

‘Sir?’

‘It’s to do with history, Çöktin,’ İkmen said. ‘History concerning perceived betrayal and remarkable cruelty.’

‘So what does it mean, sir?’ Tepe looked across İkmen’s shoulder at the small piece of paper between Çöktin’s fingers.

‘The words are the same as those alleged to have been written in a note sent to Sultan Abdul Hamid II by the men he charged to execute our great reforming Vizir, Midhat Paşa. Midhat was killed in Arabia, where he had been exiled some years before. So the Sultan in İstanbul didn’t actually see his old enemy die. But because he was paranoid, which is why he had Midhat killed in the first place, he couldn’t believe it had happened until he saw Midhat’s head, which arrived, apparently, some weeks later with a note just like this.’