Harem (27 page)

‘But she didn’t say who?’

‘No.’

İkmen leaned back into the slack softness of the sofa and sighed. So Rat had been right all along about the odalisques. They had been ‘sold’ in modern İstanbul for many years. A Turkish ‘delight’ of sorts for curious, rich and probably sated foreigners. Silly old Europeans who, for the price of a whole Turkish house, could play at being sultan for an hour with a ‘genuine’ Ottoman princess. But then perhaps not. Perhaps those involved hadn’t been so silly, perhaps they’d been better than that, more important. After all, it had been a great and well-kept secret. And if, as Rat had said, families were now involved, they must feel the harem’s customers were wealthy and powerful enough to justify their time.

‘Miss Yümniye,’ he said slowly, ‘have you ever heard of a family by the name of Müren?’

Yümniye looked blank. ‘No. Why?’

‘Oh, no reason.’ İkmen shrugged. ‘Just a thought.’

They both sat quietly for a few moments until Yümniye, frowning as if she were making an effort to remember something, said, ‘You could speak to Sofia, I suppose. If you want to know more about the harem.’

‘Sofia?’

‘Yes, Sofia Vanezis. You know, about your age. Very pretty girl she was, a little slow.’

‘Was that the girl who came to live at Panos the shoe-mender’s?’ İkmen inquired.

Yümniye smiled. ‘Yes. She and her mother moved here from Fener when Sofia’s father died. Panos was, I think, his brother.’

‘Yes.’ İkmen nodded. ‘They were very poor. But her mother was a proud woman, always well-dressed.’

‘Maria Vanezis was a Phanariote, old Byzantine aristocracy,’ Yümniye said. ‘One of the last. But, as you say, living in very reduced circumstances when she came here. Like all of us.’ She sighed, her face sad again at yet another mournful memory. And then for a few moments she just sat, lost in some small corner of the past. But then İkmen cleared his throat and the sound brought her back to him.

‘Well, anyway,’ Yümniye continued, ‘the point is that when Maria was dying, Sofia needed money. She was quite young and she was afraid. She couldn’t work because she was slow and Panos wanted her out. Muazzez felt sorry for her and so she arranged for her to, er, work at the harem. Muazzez always liked to believe that I didn’t know, but I heard them talking. Sofia still comes – came – to see Muazzez from time to time. She’s grateful, you see. Through Muazzez she got treatment for her mother and bought that little boarding house she lives in now.’

‘So Sofia had sex for money.’

‘Yes. The poor thing had been letting men touch her for several years because she knew no better. Muazzez must have felt that this was the only way she’d ever have any money and she was probably right.’

İkmen lit up another cigarette. ‘The attraction, I presume, was Sofia’s Phanariote background.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘But you think she might talk to me about the harem, do you, Miss Yümniye?’

‘I don’t know,’ Yümniye replied. ‘If she did talk to you, she could probably tell you quite a lot. She has a remarkable and very precise memory. It’s the way she is. I can talk to her, try to persuade her. But she never actually utters a word to me. She just stands gawping with all that mad red hair of hers.’

So that was the woman who had stared at him when he’d visited the Hepers with Hatice’s dress. Weird Sofia. It all came back now – İkmen’s guilty secret. The first female breast he’d ever seen in the flesh had belonged to weird Sofia. She’d been very pretty then and he’d had fantasies about her. He was twelve at the time. She’d aged frighteningly badly. He wondered whether she’d recognised him.

Upbringing can be a wonderful indicator with regard to what a person can tolerate. The Yıldız family were a case in point. Mustafa and Arın Yıldız, although village born and bred, had lived in the livelier quarters of the city for nearly thirty years. First in a gecekondu shack in Gaziosmanpaşa where their three sons, İsmet, Hikmet and Süleyman, had been born and then later in the three-roomed apartment they lived in now. Almost as small and noisy as the gecekondu, the Yıldız high-rise apartment overlooked the Londra Asfaltı highway and was situated, together with numerous similar blocks, about four kilometres from Atatürk Airport. Packed with noisy adults, screamingly loud adolescents and hordes of children, the blocks resounded day and night to the sound of television, Arabesk music and frayed tempers. Not that any of this had any effect upon Constable Hikmet Yıldız and his brothers as they slept soundly upon the hard divans that had always been their beds. Even when the telephone rang just after midnight, none of the boys stirred. It was up to Arın to get Hikmet up to answer it.

‘It’s somebody from the police,’ she said nervously as her son staggered, sleep-sodden, into the tiny grey-painted hall. Even with a son in the police force, Arın still felt cold every time they contacted the Yıldız home. Back in the village all those years ago, the police had been both feared and appeased in equal measure. They had never been liked.

Hikmet took the receiver from his mother’s hand. ‘Hello?’

The voice on the other end sounded urgent, fevered even. ‘Hikmet, it’s Inspector İkmen.’

‘Oh, hello, sir.’

‘What time do you come off duty tomorrow, Hikmet?’

‘Um,’ he had to think for a moment, ‘er, three.’

‘Look, Hikmet,’ İkmen said, ‘do you trust me? My judgement?’

Hikmet frowned. What was this? ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘of course.’

‘And so if I ask you to do something you might find strange or irregular, offering absolutely no explanation for it, you would do it for me?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose . . .’

‘Good,’ İkmen replied, ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

‘Sir, is it—’

‘Don’t ask, Hikmet, I won’t tell you. The less you know, the better. Now you’re sure you’re OK with this?’

He wasn’t entirely but he said yes anyway, and İkmen cut the connection.

Hikmet replaced the receiver to the sound of his father’s snoring and a blast of garage music from the apartment across the corridor. Neither the noise nor the troubling nature of İkmen’s request would keep him awake, however. He needed his sleep. Only he and İsmet had employment at the moment and the young policeman knew that if he was late or didn’t do as he was told the consequences could be dire.

He flopped back down onto his divan just as İsmet murmured a woman’s name and groaned.

Orhan Tepe rubbed his bloodshot eyes with the heel of his hand and then sipped his coffee. Sitting on the small balcony at the back of his apartment he could observe the comings and goings at the büfe opposite. The sun had only been up for just over half an hour and most of those purchasing börek and tea from the büfe were poorly dressed peasant workers – taxi drivers, simitcis, security men. One uniformed cop was amongst their number, a younger man whose clothes fitted badly. Orhan wrinkled his nose into a sneer. Allah, but this country needed something! Not that he knew what that was. He supposed it had to be an attitude more akin to that which he had witnessed when he’d taken Ayşe out amongst the smart folk at Rejans. A cleanliness, a confidence – a whole package that only money could buy. One day, he smiled, one day soon. But the thought did not make him feel better; actually it made him feel worse and the smile faded from his lips. Perhaps when he got off duty later on he would buy one of those CD players he had been hankering after for so long – perhaps that would make him feel better. Maybe he’d get one for Ayşe too . . .

The door from the living room opened, interrupting his thoughts. Orhan looked round and saw his wife, Aysel, smiling at him.

‘Çetin Bey has come to see you, Orhan,’ she said and moved aside to allow the small crumpled figure to walk out onto the balcony. ‘Would you like some coffee, Çetin Bey? It’s French and very good.’

İkmen smiled. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Tepe,’ he said, ‘that would be nice.’

Aysel left. The two men heard her wittering happily to her child Cemal as she went to the kitchen.

‘So how goes your search for Hikmet Sivas and his brother?’ İkmen said as he eased his tired, cigarette-reeking form into the chair opposite Tepe.

‘I thought you were on holiday,’ his junior replied with a bluntness that İkmen would have challenged had he had any sleep the night before.

‘Yes, I am, Orhan.’ He took what was left of a soft packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit up something that looked like an old piece of string. ‘But even though Ardıç denies me access to the house in Kandıllı, I can still show an interest. That he cannot prevent.’

‘No.’

‘And so?’

Tepe shrugged. ‘We’re interviewing known associates. Had a look at the old paşa’s tunnel. Commissioner Ardıç is basing himself at the house. In case someone calls.’

‘Has he contacted the authorities in America?’ İkmen asked.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Poor Metin İskender must feel as if this case is going to be the one to bury his career,’ İkmen responded tartly.

‘Why?’

‘Because I can’t see that any of you are doing very much,’ İkmen said. ‘Both the sister and Ahmet Sılay have intimated that Hikmet Sivas has Mafia connections.’

‘Commissioner Ardıç says that’s only hearsay.’

‘Yes, but he should still check it out. I would! Stupid—’

Aysel returned with the coffee at this point, cutting off İkmen’s rant against his superior. As she placed the cup in front of him, he looked up at her and smiled. ‘That smells very good, Mrs Tepe,’ he said.

‘We’ve got crystal sugar too,’ Aysel replied, placing the bowl of sparkling sugar down beside his cup.

‘How lovely!’ İkmen bowed his head in appreciation. ‘French coffee and crystal sugar. Win the lottery at last, did you, Orhan?’

Only İkmen and Aysel laughed, and then she left to return to her domestic duties. İkmen stirred his coffee thoughtfully for a few moments before speaking again.

‘But I haven’t come to talk to you about Sivas or even about this very expensive coffee.’

‘I have a credit card,’ Tepe responded tightly.

‘Oh, do you? Well, don’t get into difficulty with it, will you?’ İkmen said. ‘Coffee, meals out at Rejans and diamond earrings can rack up, you know, Orhan.’

Tepe looked down and sipped his own coffee, frowning.

‘Yes, I’ve come to talk to you about Ayşe Farsakoǧlu,’ İkmen said. ‘I’ve come to tell you that it would be unwise to buy her such extravagant presents again.’

‘It’s my money.’

‘No it isn’t. It’s a credit card, or so you say.’ İkmen paused. ‘But money and baubles are not the issue here.’ He leaned forward. ‘Not when they’re given to women in exchange for perverted sexual favours.’

The colour in Tepe’s face flared. ‘What do you mean? What’s she been saying?’

‘It’s not often, fortunately, that I get an opportunity to see someone’s back when it’s been whipped,’ İkmen said through his teeth, keeping his voice low so as not to attract Aysel Tepe’s innocent attention. ‘You touch her again, Orhan, and I’ll finish you!’

‘I didn’t do anything to her!’ Tepe, his face now contorted with anger, hissed. ‘She’s lying! She’s a whore who will give herself to anyone! You’ve seen how she dresses.’

‘I don’t care how she dresses!’ İkmen retorted. ‘I know that you’ve been seeing her. I know you’ve promised to leave your wife for her. I know how used and cheated she feels.’

‘Lying, greedy bitch, I never said I would marry her! She’s a cheap slut, only out for what she can get!’

‘I don’t know about that. But even if she is, she doesn’t deserve the disfiguring beating you gave her! She doesn’t deserve to be lied to!’

‘If she’s accusing a serving officer of sexual violence then she insults our security forces and our nation,’ Tepe said. ‘She could go to prison.’

‘Oh, yes,’ İkmen said, smiling now, if unpleasantly, ‘that law. Which I will not comment upon except to say that Sergeant Farsakoǧlu is a serving officer too. So any legal action could go either way. I personally would support Ayşe.’

‘You’ve always hated me!’ Tepe spat as he searched furiously and in vain for his cigarettes. ‘Like that bitch, you too resent the fact that Mehmet Süleyman left you.’

‘At my recommendation, Orhan,’ İkmen corrected. ‘I wanted Süleyman to progress because he is a good officer. I took you on because you were a good officer. Ayşe, I will admit, has not been good for you. She thought she had a chance with our resident prince but she didn’t and so she turned to your very willing, if second best, arms instead. I don’t know when your obsession with Ayşe and your jealousy of Süleyman turned you into a sadist, but it has to stop.’

‘Or else?’

İkmen sipped his coffee for a few moments, put his cigarette out and lit another. He didn’t offer his packet to Tepe.

‘Or else I will ruin you,’ the older man said simply. ‘I can do it, Orhan, and I will. Leave her alone and also give some thought to your career. I can’t have someone on my staff who beats other officers and who also talks about my activities to our superiors behind my back.’ He wanted to address this particular suspicion. After all, if İskender hadn’t spoken to Ardıç about Hassan Şeker . . .

Tepe’s face whitened, which seemed to confirm that it was indeed he who had spoken to the commissioner about İkmen’s continued involvement in the İpek case.

‘Any request you make for reassignment will be fully supported by me,’ İkmen said as he finished his coffee. He rose to his feet. ‘Think about it. Soon.’

At the door he paused.

‘Oh, and the coffee was excellent, best I’ve had all year.’ He smiled. ‘My compliments to your credit card.’ Then he left.

Tepe put his head in his hands and closed his eyes against tears of rage. He hadn’t dreamed that this could happen. Lots of other things could and had gone wrong, but Ayşe he had absolutely counted on. He’d done all this for her – people had died, indirectly of course, he was no killer after all, so that she could have what she wanted. All he’d ever wanted in return was some acknowledgement of him as a man, some validation of his needs, of his superiority over ‘Prince’ Mehmet. What he was going to do now he didn’t know. He needed to be on duty in Kandıllı in less than an hour, but how could he concentrate with all this on his mind? If İkmen was going to send him off into some sort of service wilderness he’d have to try and get his hands on money. More money. He’d have to sell something, just like he’d done the last time. There had never been any possibility of going back anyway. Hassan Şeker had made that quite plain when he’d interviewed him for the second time, alone, at his place of business. Hassan Şeker who had blown his own brains away with a shotgun . . .