Harem (8 page)

For a moment they sat like that, their hands joined as if arm-wrestling across the table. And although afraid of what he knew she could do and say, Orhan Tepe was also excited by how Ayşe was at this moment. When she was like this, determined and manipulative, she was also very sexy. In his mind he replayed old scenes of her kneeling on the floor in front of him, taking him into her mouth as he pushed and raked at her head with his fingernails. He felt his penis stiffen.

‘Come on, let’s go,’ he said thickly.

She pulled her wrist out of his slackening grasp and stood up.

Orhan took her to the apartment his brother used on the rare occasions he visited from Ankara. There he first re-enacted the scene he had imagined earlier and then, later, he laid her down on his brother’s bed and entered her hard in the way his wife, Aysel, hated. Almost as soon as he had come inside her, he wanted her again. He couldn’t get enough. Only afterwards did he give thought to how he was going to continue this. Yes, he did want to give her all the things, the good times, that she wanted. If he did that he knew she would become even more accommodating, more open to sexual experimentation. But he couldn’t do that right now and it made him angry. A woman like Ayşe needed more than just vague promises to keep her interested and out of the way of his wife. If only he didn’t have to spend all his money on his family. The thought of it threw a temporary cloud across his features – until, that is, she mounted him again, making all thought disappear. Orhan Tepe gladly embraced the oblivion.

They hadn’t planned a stopover in Amsterdam, but when Hikmet heard that the connection to İstanbul was delayed by at least three hours, he decided that both he and Kaycee needed a break. And since money was no object, he first changed their flights and then booked them into the exclusive floating Boatel. There they made love, drank several bottles of champagne and watched the sun set over the city. It was idyllic and they were both very content until Kaycee, who was completely relaxed, fell asleep, leaving her husband alone to frown at and then turn away from his reflection in the mirror on the wall. That his wife didn’t have a clue why they were really going back to the place of his birth didn’t please him. With Kaycee he had hoped, old as he was, to make a new start. But in his heart Hikmet knew, had always known, that that wasn’t going to be possible. He turned on his mobile telephone and called his brother Vedat.

When Vedat answered, Hikmet announced himself and then said, ‘There’s been a change of plan.’

‘But this is urgent,’ Vedat replied, his voice heavy with what sounded like anxiety.

‘Yes, I know and I’m sorry,’ Hikmet said. ‘But the flight was delayed and I needed to rest. This has all been most . . . worrying. I’m not young any more, Vedat, I don’t know whether I can—’

‘So when will you be here?’ his brother asked, displaying more impatience than sympathy in his voice.

‘Our flight will get in at three fifteen tomorrow afternoon. Inşallah it will be on time.’

‘I’ll be there to meet you.’

‘Thank you.’ Hikmet rubbed his hands up and down his tired features. ‘I’m so looking forward to seeing you, Vedat, you and our beloved Hale.’

‘Yes.’

It was a strange, cold response which made Hikmet frown. He hadn’t seen either his brother or his sister Hale since well before his marriage to Kaycee. Putting aside the fact that he effectively bankrolled them, the three of them were, or had been, very close and loving siblings. But then perhaps Vedat blamed him for what had happened. He was, after all, living with it, enmeshed in a way that Hikmet had chosen to ignore for some time. They’d hurt Vedat . . .

As he muttered a distant farewell to his brother, Hikmet Sivas shuddered. Today he was in Amsterdam, tomorrow he would be in İstanbul. Only Allah knew what would happen then, what was already written.

Hikmet Sivas, film star and millionaire, lay down beside his sleeping wife and closed his eyes.

It was always difficult to tell when İkmen was particularly tired or strained. His usual look was, by anyone else’s standards, one of crumpled disaffection. Close association with the man had, however, taught Orhan Tepe that a particularly manic light in İkmen’s eyes was the key to how much rest he had managed to get. Today, given that İkmen’s eyes were both very watery and a little crazy, it would seem that he had slept even less than Tepe himself. But then Tepe had been pleasuring himself with Ayşe Farsakoǧlu, while İkmen had the look of a man who had been involved in much grimmer tasks.

‘Hatice İpek was both raped and buggered prior to her death,’ İkmen said without any preamble as soon as Tepe entered the office. ‘Her pubic area was cut up, probably with a razor.’

‘Indeed.’ It was said coldly and, strangely to İkmen, without judgement.

‘She wasn’t a virgin before she was attacked,’ İkmen continued, ‘but I don’t feel that is relevant given the nature of her injuries. She was cut and bruised. She resisted. That’s rape. It’s a crime; whoever did it to her will be punished.’

‘So what was the cause of death then, sir?’ Tepe asked as he sat down behind his desk and looked across at İkmen’s long, grey face.

‘I don’t know,’ İkmen replied. ‘Dr Sarkissian has yet to discover that. In the meantime we need to find out just who was having sex with this girl. He or they could be our perpetrator. Hatice admitted nothing to my daughter, who as we know made her own observations and came to her own conclusions; but Hatice’s mother is still convinced of her chastity. And then there is Mr Şeker.’ He smiled unpleasantly.

‘We let him go,’ Tepe said, lighting what for him was his first cigarette of the day.

‘Yes,’ İkmen responded, ‘we did. And if the stories told by my daughter and Mr Sılay did not concur so well and were not also such interesting addendums to Hatice’s “ruined” state, I would probably give Şeker the benefit of the doubt. But Hatice was not a virgin and my daughter is perfectly convinced about her observations. Şeker touched her and she liked it. She was a beautiful girl and he’s a good-looking man.’

‘Just because he had her doesn’t mean that he killed her.’

‘True, but I would like to know the facts of this anyway,’ İkmen said. ‘I let him off last night, but that was then and this is now.’ He lit a cigarette and then leaned wearily on his elbows. ‘Take a couple of men and apply some pressure to Mr Şeker. Convince him that the humiliation of supplying a semen sample can be avoided provided he does the right thing. Be pleasant.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Tepe stood up.

‘Oh, and while you’re out you might also bend your mind to the issue of what Hatice was wearing when she died.’

‘It was some sort of long gown, wasn’t it, sir?’

‘Yes.’ İkmen frowned. ‘Dr Sarkissian is of the opinion that, as well as looking archaic, it is also in reality quite old. I feel it is unlikely that a modern girl like Hatice would choose such a garment herself, so the dress could point towards some sort of preference for such clothing in her assailant.’

‘So you think that whoever raped her dressed her first? Like that?’

‘According to my daughter, Hatice was going to dance for some nice men who had promised to introduce her to show business. Now as you and I both know, girls who “dance” for “nice” men don’t generally do it wearing a great deal of clothing, much less hugely elaborate gowns. No.’ İkmen leaned back in his chair and blew a long stream of smoke up at the ceiling. ‘I’ve given it some thought and have come to believe that the people who did this are probably not the type we might be accustomed to in cases such as this.’

‘Oh.’

It was a simple word, signifying little, and it irritated İkmen mightily. Tepe hadn’t understood and so he just made a noise to convey the fact. So unlike Süleyman who had always questioned, commented and formed opinions. But then as İkmen knew only too well, Süleyman was not just better educated than Tepe, he was also far more adept at keeping his mind away from his private life during working hours. At times like this, İkmen missed him badly. Still, at least with Mr Şeker it was unlikely that Tepe could do much harm even if he did spend all of his time thinking about Ayşe Farsakoǧlu. Hassan Şeker may very well have robbed young Hatice of her virginity, but he was not, İkmen felt, a serious contender for either the assault upon the girl or her murder. After all, both Hulya and Ahmet Sılay had said that Hatice liked it when Hassan made advances to her. The man or men who had dressed Hatice in that gown had had to fight her, hurt and damage her to get what they wanted.

İkmen sent Tepe about his business and briefly moved his thoughts away from poor dead Hatice. In the early hours of that morning, Zelfa Halman Süleyman had given birth to a son – a very large and healthy boy, according to his old partner’s friend Balthazar Cohen. Crippled as a result of the 1999 earthquake, the former Constable Cohen now busied himself almost exclusively with following the lives and adventures of his friends. Always a gossip, Cohen gathered and passed on information in a far more efficient way than most media, with the exception, maybe, of the internet. He hosted frequent gatherings at his Karaköy apartment and had a variety of telephones, one of which he had used to call İkmen about the Süleyman child at five o’clock that morning.

The baby, so Cohen told İkmen, was to be called Yusuf İzzeddin. It was, apparently, the name of some noble ancestor. It had, again according to Cohen, pleased Mehmet’s father who was reputed to be giving the child the largest, thickest gold coin in the entire city. İkmen smiled. How very Ottoman it all was. The child with the name of a noble, princely relatives bringing gold . . . He, too, would have to arrange for some sort of, certainly inferior, gold coinage to be bought for the child. Mehmet was his friend as well as his colleague and anyway, money or no money, Fatma would be scandalised if he didn’t buy something.

That would have to come later. In the meantime it was important that he add to his knowledge about Hatice İpek, which meant talking, more formally than before, to her mother.

This was the second time that the police had visited the pastane. On both occasions they had come to see Hassan and, although Suzan Şeker tried to convince herself that she must have misheard, she could distinctly remember the name of Hatice İpek featuring in that first conversation between her husband and the sergeant. Hatice. Suzan frowned at the memory of her. She had been a nice girl, popular with the customers and good at her job – perfect, in fact, had she not been giving herself to Hassan. Suzan had only seen them once, but it was enough. Through a crack in the office door she’d watched as her husband took the girl’s breasts into his hands and kissed them. Hatice’s gasp of pleasure haunted her still.

But now the girl was dead and, somehow, the police had come to know about Hassan’s connection with her – at least Suzan assumed that they had. To question a mere employer three times, once at the police station, was surely unusual. Now her husband was alone in his office with the sergeant. Two uniformed officers sat outside, drinking her coffee and, no doubt, listening to the occasionally raised voices from inside the office, waiting. To deploy such numbers for, on this occasion, such a long time, seemed pointless unless they were going to arrest Hassan. And yet Suzan, in spite of everything, was convinced that he was innocent. Of course the fact that he was her husband, the father of her children and the man that despite everything she loved, did inform her feelings. But there was something else as well and that was that Hassan, for all his faults, was just not a violent man. He hated violence. One of the reasons they were not nearly as rich as people thought they should be was because Hassan so hated violence. His father, Kemal, had been of a different order. When he was in charge of the business he had stood up to people like the three men who had just now entered and seated themselves by the front door. Suzan quickly finished cleaning some ashtrays and then approached the newcomers with a grave face. The men, all bright open shirts and nasty jewellery, smirked as she approached them. She was going to enjoy telling them just who was currently out of sight behind the partition in front of her husband’s office.

She leaned forward to speak to the oldest of the three, a man of not more than twenty-five who wore his hair short and waxed and intimidating.

‘The police are here,’ she said as she nervously shuffled the cutlery on the table.

The man with the unusual hair frowned. ‘What do they want?’ he said in a rasping, desiccated voice.

‘I don’t know,’ Suzan lied. ‘But they are talking to Hassan now. I think you should go.’

‘Why are they talking to Hassan?’ asked the youngest of the three, a sad-faced, sniffling character little more than a boy. ‘He’s nobody. He just—’

‘Shut up, Celal,’ the leader snapped. He rose to his feet and said to Suzan, ‘Tell your husband he is to call me as soon as he’s through with them.’

Suzan pulled herself up to her full, not inconsiderable height. ‘And if they take him away with them when they go?’ she asked. ‘What then?’

‘Then you’ll have to call me, won’t you, Suzan,’ he replied as he leered up into her face.

‘We need some more coffee here.’ Although arrogant and demanding, the young officer’s request couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. Suzan turned to look at the policeman who had just appeared from behind the partition.

‘Of course,’ she said with a smile. ‘No problem.’ And as she moved behind the counter to retrieve the coffee pot, the three men by the door left the building.

Unbeknown to them, however, they did not leave quickly enough to escape the scrutiny of Constable Hikmet Yıldız. He didn’t know who all of them were but he had come across two of the men before professionally. Not ‘good boys’. Yıldız hadn’t liked their familiarity with Mrs Şeker. It gave him an uneasy feeling.

Kaycee didn’t know what she had expected when they landed, but a huge new airport hadn’t been uppermost in her mind. Vaguely she had imagined some sort of third world arrangement of shacks and in a way she was almost disappointed that it wasn’t like that. The immigration and customs men were, however, comfortingly menacing, as were the police officers who seemed to favour hanging around the No Smoking signs puffing heavily on evil-smelling cheroots.