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

policeman, somewhat thankfully, left the ikmens to their own devices.
     
    The old man looked at the shakily executed script in the address book and frowned. Slowly he inserted one twisted claw into the top pocket of his jacket and withdrew an ancient pair of spectacles. Rather than put them on, he simply held them up to his eyes and peered.
    ‘All right, Cetin?’ he said.
    ikmen took a pen from the middle of the mess on his desk and opened his notebook. ‘Yes, OK.’
    ‘Right, the first one is Rabbi SJmon, 33, Draman Caddesi, Balat. Then, er …’ He peered very closely, moving his spectacles down until they almost touched the paper below.
    ‘Maria Gulcu, 12, Karadeniz Sokak, Beyoglu. Um, Sara Blatsky, 25/6, Gtirsel Sokak, Balat, and finally, §eker Textiles, Celaleddin Rumi Caddesi, Uskudar.’
    ‘Telephone numbers?’
    The old man looked down at the page again. ‘For the Rabbi and the textile company, yes. Look here.’
    ikmen peered at the top set of figures and carefully copied them down on to the back of his hand. He then picked up the telephone receiver and jammed it hard against the side of his head.
    ‘I’ll ring this Rabbi §imon right now,’ he said and then, waving his hand in the general direction of his two companions, added, ‘You two amuse yourselves in whatever foul way your hearts desire.’
    Timiir ikmen raised one eyebrow and said something that Suleyman couldn’t quite catch - although the chances of the word not being an oath of some sort, he knew, were quite slim. For a few moments silence reigned as the old man and the young policeman both tried to decide what and what might not be suitable topics for conversation.
    As soon as ikmen received a reply on the telephone, he turned away from the others in order to obtain some privacy.
    One long, nicotine-stained finger tapped down hard against the cover of the little address book, waking the hot and slightly soporific Suleyman from his reverie.
    ‘That’s a curious combination,’ he said, ‘that foreign first name, “Maria”, coupled with the Turkish surname.’
    “I suppose so.’ Suleyman hadn’t really thought about it until now. ‘But then there are a lot of mixed marriages these days. Could even be one of the victim’s relatives.
    He was, apparently, Russian by birth and considering that no relatives have come forward so far—’
    ‘How old was this person?’ asked Timur.
    ‘The neighbours seemed to think that he was about
    ninety.’
    The old man smiled sadly. ‘Old enough to be my father.’
    ‘Yes.’ It was a curious, if not, in view of Timur ikmen’s extremely raddled appearance, a disturbing thought. ‘Yes, I suppose he would have been.’
    ‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’
    Suleyman frowned questioningly. ‘Mr ikmen?’
    ‘Why anyone would want to kill anything that old.
    I’m nearly seventy-three and I’m totally fucking useless.
    But somebody of my father’s vintage …’ He shrugged his shoulders helplessly as his son replaced the telephone receiver with a satisfied grunt.
    ‘Rabbi §imon will see us at nine-thirty tomorrow morning, Suleyman.’
    ‘Good.’
    ikmen turned to face his father and smiled. ‘Well, thank you for coming in and helping us with that bit of translation, Timur. It’s saved me a lot of time and aggravation.’
    Timiir looked at the grubby floor beneath his feet and sighed. “I suppose you want me to go now, don’t you?’
    ‘Well, I’ve got things to do. Check up on the other three names. Then, after that, I must contact Arto …’ He looked at his watch. ‘Can’t afford to sit about at the start of an investigation. Your clues are like women, you have to grab them quickly before they cool down. Suleyman will drive you home again—’
    ‘How is Arto Sarkissian?’
    ikmen lit a cigarette and wordlessly passed it to his father.
    ‘Oh, same as ever. Fat, overworked … you know.’
    Timur smiled. His two sons had grown up with the
    Sarkissian children, Arto and Krikor.