scream?’ Arto Sarkissian eased himself down into the chair next to İ kmen’s and smiled. ‘Krikor has told me nothing about any of this, you know,’ he said. ‘I’ve no idea what to expect.’
‘Nor I,’ İ kmen said. ‘But then thankfully we don’t have to worry too much about it, do we? It’s for Süleyman and the novelist to work it out.’
‘I think we have to help,’ Arto said. ‘And anyway, it’s supposed to be fun.’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t like fun.’
‘But my brother’s guests do and so if you can be a little bit convivial . . .’
‘Arto, my dear friend, I will strain every nerve to make sure that everyone except me has a wonderful time,’ İ kmen said. Then recalling his recent conversation with Mehmet Süleyman, he added, ‘I’ve already done my bit in terms of my colleague and his apparent fascination with Mrs Aktar.’
‘Süleyman and Lale Aktar?’
‘Don’t look so shocked, you know what he’s like,’ İ kmen said. ‘You also know how most women can be around him too.’
‘But Lale lovesher husband, he—’
‘I put him straight,’ İ kmen said. A long discussion about Lale Aktar and her husband was not something he wanted to have. ‘It’s OK – now.’
The Armenian sighed. He’d drunk far too much whisky and eaten much more than was good for him and he felt really rather uncomfortable. İ kmen knew the signs, Arto wanted to go to bed and sleep it all off. But he wasn’t going to be able to do that. İ kmen looked across the room for Krikor Sarkissian’s assistant, Burak Fisekçi, but he wasn’t about. The whole event had largely been his work. Burak, the son of Armenian parents, was single. Dedicated to Krikor and his clinic, he seemed to have very little life outside of his work. In that respect, İ kmen could relate to him, but İ kmen had a family. Voices could be heard in his apartment twenty-four hours a day. What, he wondered, could Burak, who lived alone now that his mother was dead, be feeling in this place so full of people and their noise?
‘Oh, I do wish they’d get on with it!’ İ kmen said. ‘Having to keep getting up to go outside for a cigarette is making me tired.’
‘Then stop smoking,’ Arto said. ‘I’ve been telling you to stop for over forty years, indulge me for once.’
‘And lose my reputation as the man who chooses not to listen to his doctor?’ İ kmen stood up.
‘If I were your lungs, I’d leave home,’ Arto said.
‘Ah, but you’renot, are you, you’re . . .’ And then he stopped talking, as did everyone else in the Kubbeli Saloon. He looked where they were looking and he had to admit that he was impressed.
Like some of the other guests, İ kmen had expected the murder to be a bit farcical – a bloodless, almost comic affair, complete with unconvincingly fainting ladies. But this was in a whole other league. It was also, in terms of suspects and players, entirely unexpected.
Lale Aktar, her face trembling with an emotion she could barely hold in check, stumbled into the Kubbeli Saloon with both her bloodstained hands held out in front of her. Her gold sheath dress, her hair and even her face were also spattered with blood. İ kmen was just thinking what excellent make-up had been used on her when he smelt something that was most definitely not make-up.
Chapter 7
Someone gaveher water, probably because they thought that’s what you should do. İ kmen wiped one of her bloody hands on a tissue which he then turned away to examine and to taste. His suspicions confirmed, he pushed aside all the other men who were coming to Lale’s aid and asked her, ‘Where did this happen?’
‘Happen?’ She looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. İ kmen led her to a chair.
‘Come on, Lale, tell us what you found and where?’ one man asked jovially.
People were laughing, but then why shouldn’t they? It was an entertainment, a performance. Wasn’t it?
‘My room . . . four hundred and
‘Nor I,’ İ kmen said. ‘But then thankfully we don’t have to worry too much about it, do we? It’s for Süleyman and the novelist to work it out.’
‘I think we have to help,’ Arto said. ‘And anyway, it’s supposed to be fun.’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t like fun.’
‘But my brother’s guests do and so if you can be a little bit convivial . . .’
‘Arto, my dear friend, I will strain every nerve to make sure that everyone except me has a wonderful time,’ İ kmen said. Then recalling his recent conversation with Mehmet Süleyman, he added, ‘I’ve already done my bit in terms of my colleague and his apparent fascination with Mrs Aktar.’
‘Süleyman and Lale Aktar?’
‘Don’t look so shocked, you know what he’s like,’ İ kmen said. ‘You also know how most women can be around him too.’
‘But Lale lovesher husband, he—’
‘I put him straight,’ İ kmen said. A long discussion about Lale Aktar and her husband was not something he wanted to have. ‘It’s OK – now.’
The Armenian sighed. He’d drunk far too much whisky and eaten much more than was good for him and he felt really rather uncomfortable. İ kmen knew the signs, Arto wanted to go to bed and sleep it all off. But he wasn’t going to be able to do that. İ kmen looked across the room for Krikor Sarkissian’s assistant, Burak Fisekçi, but he wasn’t about. The whole event had largely been his work. Burak, the son of Armenian parents, was single. Dedicated to Krikor and his clinic, he seemed to have very little life outside of his work. In that respect, İ kmen could relate to him, but İ kmen had a family. Voices could be heard in his apartment twenty-four hours a day. What, he wondered, could Burak, who lived alone now that his mother was dead, be feeling in this place so full of people and their noise?
‘Oh, I do wish they’d get on with it!’ İ kmen said. ‘Having to keep getting up to go outside for a cigarette is making me tired.’
‘Then stop smoking,’ Arto said. ‘I’ve been telling you to stop for over forty years, indulge me for once.’
‘And lose my reputation as the man who chooses not to listen to his doctor?’ İ kmen stood up.
‘If I were your lungs, I’d leave home,’ Arto said.
‘Ah, but you’renot, are you, you’re . . .’ And then he stopped talking, as did everyone else in the Kubbeli Saloon. He looked where they were looking and he had to admit that he was impressed.
Like some of the other guests, İ kmen had expected the murder to be a bit farcical – a bloodless, almost comic affair, complete with unconvincingly fainting ladies. But this was in a whole other league. It was also, in terms of suspects and players, entirely unexpected.
Lale Aktar, her face trembling with an emotion she could barely hold in check, stumbled into the Kubbeli Saloon with both her bloodstained hands held out in front of her. Her gold sheath dress, her hair and even her face were also spattered with blood. İ kmen was just thinking what excellent make-up had been used on her when he smelt something that was most definitely not make-up.
Chapter 7
Someone gaveher water, probably because they thought that’s what you should do. İ kmen wiped one of her bloody hands on a tissue which he then turned away to examine and to taste. His suspicions confirmed, he pushed aside all the other men who were coming to Lale’s aid and asked her, ‘Where did this happen?’
‘Happen?’ She looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. İ kmen led her to a chair.
‘Come on, Lale, tell us what you found and where?’ one man asked jovially.
People were laughing, but then why shouldn’t they? It was an entertainment, a performance. Wasn’t it?
‘My room . . . four hundred and
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