Belshazzar's Daughter by Barbara Nadel

step! So she’d slipped from grace a little in Balat? A tawdry but probably, to her, exciting liaison with one of the local toughs. It had to be that! Was he going to let something like that, a minor indiscretion, come between them? And yet if this assumption were correct, why was she so afraid of the police? He looked at her perfect, smiling face. He couldn’t think why. There were lots of seemingly irrational things he didn’t understand about Turkey and the Turks. Perhaps it was one of those? Perhaps … ?
    Although still tense, he smiled back. ‘When?’
    ‘Tomorrow evening, for a meal?’
    It seemed pointless to deny himself such an opportunity.
    For what tangible reason would he? ‘Yes.’ He felt good again. ‘What time?’
    She spread a paper napkin out in front of her and took a pen from the pocket of her blouse. ‘At about seven?’
    ‘Fine.’
    She wrote slowly and carefully on the thin tissue paper.
    When she had finished she handed it to him. ‘My address.’
    He looked at the words on the paper. So she lived in Beyoglu, the old diplomatic quarter, near Istiklal Caddesi, the Oxford Street of the East. Number 12, Karadeniz Sokak.
    She finished her drink and rose from her seat. She looked around - nervously, he thought.
    “i must go now, Robert. I have things I must do.’
    He was slightly disappointed, jealous even. ‘Things to do’
    again! But he hid his feelings behind a smile.
     
    She bent towards him as she passed and brushed her lips lightly against his cheek. Even after a year the merest touch of that thick, fleshy mouth excited him. It had explored every part of his body, kissed, nibbled, sucked. He raised his arm up to her as she passed and gently stroked her side with the back of his hand. ‘See you tomorrow.’
    He heard the heels of her shoes click-click against the cheap linoleum floor, then the loud clunk as she stepped down on to the pavement outside. He turned to look after her, but she had disappeared into the thick rush-hour crowds on the street. Robert picked up his drink and sipped thoughtfully. The strange events of the previous day had unexpectedly played into his hands. He smiled.
    Balat and its ghosts, the police, his own anxiety: he could file all these things away now. He was one step closer to possessing her. It was all that really mattered.
    He paid for the drinks and left. On his way to the bus stop he bought an evening paper. He noted with interest that the Balat murder had graduated to front-page news.
    The article even mentioned the strange policeman who had interviewed him, ikmen, a very high roller by the tone of the article. Robert laughed inwardly at this piece of hype and continued on his way. It was only when he reached the bus stop and read the article properly that an element of unease resurfaced in his mind. Until the murderer was caught it would be difficult to get away from the subject of Balat and the events of the previous afternoon. It made him feel like there was a loose end somewhere in his life, dragging behind him, waiting to be tied.

Chapter 4
    The following morning dawned bright, clear and, as far as ikmen was concerned, much more promising than its predecessor. As he left his apartment for Balat he actually had a smile on his face, although this had all but disappeared by the time he had negotiated the rush-hour traffic. And when he discovered that it was impossible to park anywhere within three blocks of his destination, his customary gloom returned with a vengeance. He met Suleyman, who had already been into the station to pick up messages, on the corner of the Rabbi’s street.
    ‘Ready to meet the Supreme Ruler of the Universe’s
    representative on earth, are you then, Suleyman?’
    The younger man dealt, on this occasion, with ikmen’s irreligious flippancy by ignoring it. There were, besides, much more important moves afoot. ‘Forensic found over ten million lira in Meyer’s apartment you know, sir.’
    ikmen frowned. ‘Ten million