Read Online Belshazzar's Daughter by Barbara Nadel - Free Book Online

textbooks together and put them into his briefcase. There had been very little point taking them out in the first place, but … He locked his case with its small brass key and leant heavily on the top of his desk. Even if he did go and see Natalia, how the hell was he going to broach the subject of Balat? Even to him it sounded ridiculous. What business was it of his anyway? The decision to lie to the police about Natalia’s presence had been his and his alone. She had seen him.
    She must have done. Logically, if there had been anything, well, dodgy, she would have contacted him. He was after all her lover, and weren’t lovers supposed to share the bad as well as the good?
    Robert Cornelius picked up his briefcase, checked his pockets for cigarettes and made his way purposefully towards the staff room. Perhaps half an hour of undiluted cricket scores and the relative merits of Turkish manhood would cure his ridiculous internal wrangling.
     
    Timur ikmen was less a person and more a total experience.
    If Mehmet Suleyman thought Cetin ikmen was a
    larger-than-life character, the Inspector’s father had to rank amongst the immortals.
    The drive back to the station was interesting and not just because ikmen’s old Mercedes handled like a dead cow.
    Like his son, ikmen senior existed in his own private smoke cloud. Tiny, bent double and cruelly twisted by arthritis, Timiir ikmen reminded Suleyman of the old, gnarled olive tree that stood at the bottom of his grandparents’ garden, ikmen senior, however, unlike the tree, talked continuously.
    It wasn’t just idle chatter either. Much of it was prurient and, at times, downright offensive.
    The questions started as soon as Fatma ikmen eased him, his teeth gritted against pain, into the car.
    ‘So what do you do with yourself when you’re not on duty then, young man?’
    The old, generally, liked to hear that the young were behaving themselves. Suleyman’s reply was quite truthful too. Reading, the occasional visit to the opera, accompanying his father and grandfather to the mosque whenever
    duty permitted. He might have guessed that the old man would not react in the normal manner; after all, he was an ikmen. Suleyman was to regret his own rash and foolhardy honesty.
    ‘Good-looking young man like you! It’s a waste!’
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘A waste! It’s boring! How old are you?’
    ‘Twenty-eight, sir.’
    ‘Virgin?’
    “I beg your pardon, sir?’
    “I said, are you a virgin?’
    ‘Well, I, er …’
    Sex was not the only subject upon which the old man expressed strong views during their short journey to the police station. Religion (‘don’t understand it’) and contemporary Turkish politics (‘an aberration’) also got an airing.
    By the end of the journey, Mehmet Suleyman was left in no doubt as to the character and opinions of his passenger.
    He was an atheist, an anarchist, an intellectual
    snob and a libertine. He also possessed marvellous spirit in the face of his ‘bastard illness’. He still wanted to do things: travel, learn new skills, meet women. Not women his own age - only young and pretty ones. It occurred to Suleyman that Timur ikmen did not so much live life as intimidate it.
    When they arrived at the police station, they found Cetin ikmen waiting for them on the pavement. As the car came to a halt he opened the door and peered inside. Suleyman’s pale face spoke eloquently about his recent experiences.
    ‘Ah, I see he’s been talking at you,’ said ikmen as he lifted the old man from his seat.
    ‘Can I help, sir?’ Suleyman offered.
    ikmen was just about to reply in the affirmative, but the old man pre-empted him. ‘I’m not a filing cabinet!’
    ikmen sighed deeply. ‘It’s all right, Suleyman, I can manage.’ He moved his head close to his sergeant’s ear and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘The best thing you can do is make sure there’s a glass of tea ready up there for the old bastard.’
    The very confused young