'Goodbye, sir,' Suleyman replied, bowing very slightly prior to exiting.

It wasn't until the two men had left that Smits allowed the smile to drop from his face. As he heard the front door close behind them, he rang the bell to summon the butler once again. In the minute that it took Wilkinson to return, Smits wiped his hands across his brow several times and shuffled in his chair as if seeking, but not finding, some sort of comfort.

When Wilkinson did finally knock and gain admittance, Smits's tone told him all he needed to know about his master's mood.

'Get my address book and look up the number for Demidova.'

'Yes, sir.' He made a move to walk further into the room - an action that was quickly cut short by Smits's voice.

I mean now, Wilkinson!'

'Yes, sir, but the tea-'

'Just leave the bastard tea things and do as I have asked!'

'Er, yes, sir, er ...' He scuttled out far more rapidly than he had arrived. This type of mood that his master was exhibiting, though uncommon, was not unknown to the butler.

Smits, now alone once more, looked into the middle distance, an expression of blind fury playing upon his taut, aged features.

Under ikmen's direction, Suleyman brought the car to a halt just outside the entrance to Reinhold Smits's drive.

As soon as the engine had been switched off, Ikmen began to speak. 'So what did you make of Mr Smits, Suleyman?'

'Well, I suppose his reactions to the questions were understandable. Whatever his connections may or may not have been with Meyer, they happened a long time ago. And the contention that he dismissed Meyer because he was a Jew came rather rapidly and-'

'You think I handled that part ineptly?' It was said with a twinkle in his eye which Suleyman, nevertheless, missed entirely.

'Oh, no, I don't think that you-'

Ikmen laughed. 'It's all right, Suleyman, you can criticise me - provided' - here he scowled in a most overt and theatrical manner - 'you don't do it too often.'

Suleyman smiled, if a little weakly. 'I just thought that you launched into that particular subject a little hastily. I wasn't sure about forcing his antagonism at that point.'

'Oh, but I was, you see.' Ikmen raised a finger in order to stress his point. 'My reasoning being that if Smits did know Meyer, whose name originally you may have noticed elicited absolutely no reaction, and if he did indeed dismiss him because he was a Jew, he is probably quite a worried man now.'

'Which of course we want him to be?'

'Absolutely. How Smits behaves from now on and whether or not he "discovers" whether Meyer worked for him all those years ago could give us some useful pointers to his alleged anti-Semitism.'

'Without, of course,' Suleyman added, 'giving us any clues as to whether Smits may have murdered Meyer.'

'No.' ikmen's face dropped slightly again and he sighed.

'No, even if Smits did dismiss him for that reason there is still nothing, as yet, to connect him to the murder. And even if Smits is involved there has to be more to it than simply Jew-baiting. I mean, if he'd wanted to kill Meyer because of what may or may not have occurred in the 1940s, he would have done it long ago, wouldn't he?'

'Yes.'

'And besides' - he paused briefly to light up a cigarette - 'I don't think that Mr Smits is the only person in the frame.'

'No?'

'No. I can't tell you why, but I feel that those Gulcu people could be involved too. It may be that I am being led astray by the appearance of Mr Cornelius in their home, but-'

'Ah!' Suleyman, suddenly remembering, turned quickly towards ikmen. 'Yes. I telephoned London about him.

Inspector Lloyd said he'd get back when he had some news.'

'Good.' Not that ikmen had really heard, in the fullest sense, what his deputy had just said. His mind, as had happened before when he thought about the Gulcus, was fully on that family and their strangeness. 'You don't think I'm being a bit irrational about those people, do you, Suleyman?'

'Well ...' He did and he didn't, it was hard. 'Well, yes and no, I ... They were very strange and it was odd that Cornelius should be with them at the time of our visit. But ... from what the old woman said it would seem that she had at least some affection for Meyer. I mean, to kill him would be - well, really rather nonsensical. It ...'

'A bit like Smits killing him after all this time, I suppose.

Yes, I see what you mean, Suleyman.'

The younger man eyed the older one narrowly. 'You're not convinced though, are you, sir?'

ikmen smiled. 'Oh, I don't know, Suleyman. Mind you, whichever way you look at it, it's doubtful whether any of the extraordinarily elderly people we've seen so far could actually have perpetrated the crime themselves.'

'No,' Suleyman agreed, 'I think they would have to have had some help.'

'Oh, yes indeed. Someone young and fit. Perhaps, in Smits's case, someone typically Aryan too ...'

Suleyman smiled. 'Someone like Cornelius?'

ikmen laughed, a short, sharp retort. 'Perhaps. Although I think that that particular mixture might just be a little too rich for my stomach.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning that it is quite exotic enough having the Englishman "involved" with the lovely Gulcu girl without throwing the disturbing Mr Smits into the equation too. Let's not get too carried away, eh?'

'No.'

'Anyway' - ikmen, laughing, banged his hand down hard against the dashboard - 'let's get back to the station. I must find Cohen and then get out to see the Blatsky woman and some of those derelicts. She has, in my opinion, waited quite long enough for a slice of our attention.'

Chapter 7.

They met, as they usually did on their shared short day, at the bus-stands on Taksim Square. In spite of the fact that he had left his school at twelve and she her shop just thirty minutes later, both of them looked and indeed were quite tired. Although very little had happened to either of them since their last meeting, internally they had both been very busy with their own thoughts. Robert, in particular, looked pale and strained - not, of course, that his beautiful companion seemed to notice. When the bus arrived she simply got on board and sat down without either proffering a ticket to the driver or speaking so much as a word. Gallantly, but typically, Robert found himself paying for her transport. Then, as if to compound his burgeoning isolation, Natalia didn't speak a word to him during the entire course of their journey across the city. In an attempt to distract himself from her coldness, Robert looked out of the window and tried to enjoy the view. The route back to his apartment took them right along the edge of the Bosporus. The broad seaway sparkled in the sunlight; ferries ploughing and criss-crossing their way between Europe and Asia left glittering trails of thick white foam in their wake, like great, fast-moving snails.

Although next to Natalia, he wasn't happy. His hands clenched and unclenched nervously as he desperately tried to think of something to say. But nothing would come. Not even the kind of mindless trivia the English are supposed to be so good at. Talk of the weather, the iniquities of politicians, the price of food.

Looking at her was bad. It made him want to fall on her, bury himself between her hair and her massive breasts. But if he turned away from her it allowed his mind to think.

Here was a person he loved without understanding, a woman at whose capabilities and motives he could only guess. Logically the object of a person's desire was no less prone to unspeakable acts than any other mortal. But logic had never been Robert's strong suit. Some things defied it and yet still seemed to make perfect sense. Like Billy Smith, his bane, his bete noir, the wicked boy. London. He could see the child. Twelve years old, thin, red hair and freckles.

He looked mischievous and self-satisfied, every child with red hair seemed to. It had been stupid to dislike him just because of his appearance. Unfortunately he had made no secret of it either. His colleagues had criticised him. But he had been right. It was Billy who extorted money from the smaller children, Billy who disrupted his class and called him 'Blondie' to his face, Billy and the Norris twins who were caught with the cat in the playground. The poor cat.

Its fur, black, silky, caked with its own thick blood. The memory even two thousand miles away in Turkey made the acid in his stomach rise. Little bastards! What he hadn't wanted to do to them! And yet, despite the poor cat's pain, the incident had given him some satisfaction.

It had vindicated him. For a short while afterwards the other teachers had understood. But only for a short while, just until Billy and the twins got going again. Then things had changed. Robert looked down at his hands and sighed deeply. It was so hot. That was the worst thing about istanbul really, the awful, stifling, humid heat.

He turned to look at Natalia again. Her face was still cold, as cold as it had been when they had met. She hadn't wanted to go with him. It was 'their' Thursday afternoon, a regular and, on his part, much treasured weekly event in their lives. But this time she hadn't wanted to go. Perhaps she thought that the little pantomime he had witnessed at her house was enough? That now he would just go away, dissolve silently into the background? But all this was based upon the assumption that she didn't care for him and he knew that that was just not true. If he meant nothing to her, why had she stayed with him for so long? How could she have loved him with such perfect passion? Oh, she cared. Something was very wrong, but she still cared.

Her mouth was straight-set and her beautiful eyes were dead in their sockets. Robert's heart sank and all the old doubts returned. She didn't want to be with him now.

He made up his mind that as soon as they reached the apartment he would ask her straight out about what had been going on the previous evening. He didn't expect a coherent answer, but he would have at least to try. While he still had no answers he couldn't help but be constantly anxious. He tried hard not to make comparisons, but it wasn't easy. He'd felt like this before. Wired. He knew when. It wasn't hard to remember, but it was unwise. He'd left all that behind him, back in England: the sweats, the crippling worry, that feeling of haziness, lack of control.

Robert brought his hand up to his brow and wiped away the perspiration that had gathered just under his hairline.

When she got inside the apartment she went straight to the bathroom and took off all her clothes. It was so hot and the heavy waistband of her skirt had chafed as it rubbed her sweat into the soft skin of her belly. Besides, wasn't that, after all, what Robert wanted? He didn't want to talk.

He'd made that quite obvious during their silent and boring journey. Robert always wanted sex. What man didn't? And yet in this case perhaps it was a blessing, a distraction.

Yes, a distraction. His 'little presents' were always good too, usually expensive. He was so open-handed she didn't have just to take as she did with the others. Robert had always been so generous. Desperate. She looked at herself in the mirror. Slim hips, flat stomach, rich, full breasts that dropped only a fraction as she loosed them from her brassiere. Normally her body was a pleasing sight, but this time the look of it irked her. Her beautiful body was trapped.

Her mind clouded with misery again. She'd felt like it all day; she'd felt like it all her life.

One coincidence, that's all it had been. A chance in a million. But that chance had built a chain and it was one that she could feel strangling her. Robert was at its head, a link. One she couldn't afford to break - yet.

She felt sure that he would press her for the information again. He was out there beyond the bathroom door, waiting.

Perhaps she should tell him. But then would he understand?

Could he? She thought about his stupid, doglike face, besotted, and she felt sick. If only Monday hadn't happened!

She closed her eyes and tried to steady her nerves. Sex would stall him for a little while. He was so simple it might even shut him up completely - for the moment.

There was no choice anyway! For now, while panic and fear still sullied the air around her, she was stuck with this man, a man she had been trying to offload for weeks, months even. It hadn't always been so. There had been a time when that very English reserve, which she now found so tedious, had excited her. But that was way back when she still imagined that she could persuade him to take her to London. Escape! One great big cosmopolitan city all to herself, no mothers, no grandmothers, no uncles ... lots of exciting foreign men. Such a pity that Robert had been so intractable on that subject. Such a weakness of his always to let the past colour his present. She briefly laughed at her own hypocrisy and then fell silent. London was a dead dream now. Buried, like all the others. Her anger flared once more and she stamped her foot impatiently. Ah, how she was bored! To death! God knew she'd dropped enough hints! But perhaps it was better this way. Perhaps, seeing what he'd seen and being her enemy would have been worse. For the moment it was safe, all she had to do was keep him happy. It wasn't difficult. Unpleasant, but not difficult.

She put her hands around her breasts and pinched her nipples with her fingers. Who was she going to fantasise about today? There had to be someone. She couldn't just go in there and concentrate on him. How unadventurous he was sexually! And this time could prove even worse than usual! The stupid heavy-handed uncles had really screwed up. She could tell by the way he had been to her afterwards. And then the police had arrived. That had not improved things. Natalia had a nasty feeling that she might not receive her usual present when the sexual deed was done. No valuable little trinket to make it run just that little bit smoother. That Robert loved her, she was certain, but he was becoming uneasy. Unfortunately she knew why.

She also knew that in his place she would be uneasy too.

She increased the pressure on the sides of her nipples and closed her eyes. Today it would have to be good.

Today she was going to have to give him a very good time. Just thinking about him made her nipples go limp, her mouth clench into a hard unsexy line. She felt herself start to panic. This wouldn't do! Not at all!

She put her mind to concentrating. As usual, those of a martial nature were the first to come to mind. The Guards outside the Dolmabahqe Palace! Tall, big, handsome, the power of the submachine-gun resting between their feet, primed, safety catch off, ready. Guns! Ah, that was something! Hard, cold, delicious to the mouth, heavy and painful in her vagina. Ecstatic pain; agony from heaven.

She remembered the marine and his games. The awakening. The day upon which it had all suddenly made sense. What had she been? Seventeen? Rising and falling, enveloping and then releasing him with her body. His eyes closed, pushing, pushing the pistol deep into her mouth. The click of the trigger as one by one the empty chambers were eliminated.

Fellating cold metal, her body high, counting, waiting for the last click that would detonate and explode inside her head. Four, five ... The metal wrenched itself from between her lips and a shot rang out somewhere to the side of her head. She'd heard herself scream, almost dead with pleasure.

She felt her nipples harden in her fingers and her breathing came sharply in gasps. Gunmetal! How she'd wanted him to ... And then there were the others that followed.

The Kurd; the rich Armenian with his gold chains and Armani suits; the raddled police officer in Uskiidar; and then boys. Lots of them. Boys in uniform, boys with guns, boys willing and unwilling to play. But they always played in the end, of course. Ah yes. There were only two ways out of the game and so they always chose 'play'.

Play ...

She stopped herself. At last she was ready. No good wasting the moment now! She opened the door and saw him lying back against the sofa, his long legs spread wide.

As long as she remained safe inside the fantasy, the memory of the game, her revulsion wouldn't show. It never had done before.

She stood in front of him, her nipples dark, painfully sensitive, engorged with blood. He looked up at her and she reached down to unzip the fly of his trousers. Her mouth ached and drooled for the bitterness of steel. But she found only his soft tongue. Her fingers wound themselves sensuously around his stiffening penis. At least he was big.

At least she had that. She lowered herself on to him and prayed that it would hurt.

His telephone rang. Sergeant Suleyman, in one smooth movement, both picked up the receiver and knocked one of ikmen's overflowing ashtrays on to the floor.

'Damn!' Ash swirling about his feet, he spoke into the instrument somewhat tetchily. 'Suleyman.'

'Hello, Sergeant Suleyman?' The voice was English, cheery and, thankfully, familiar.

'Oh, hello, Inspector Lloyd. How are you?' Although he had never actually met the English policeman himself, Suleyman instinctively felt sorry for him.

'Oh, you know.' He sounded tired. Police work was the same the world over, long, often boring shifts, meagre pay, even more meagre sleep. And London, he'd heard, was a tough city: bombs, an exploding population, ethnic tension.

'I've got something on this Robert Cornelius chap for you.'

'Oh.' Suleyman picked up a pen and took the lid off with his teeth. The dead cigarette butts on the floor stared up at him with, he felt, almost gleeful intent. 'What is this, Inspector Lloyd?'

'I've got no details, just bare facts, I'm afraid.'

'Yes?'

'In June of 1987, Robert Cornelius was arrested in connection with an assault upon the person of a barrister, a Mr Simon Sheldon, that's SHELDON Suleyman wrote it down quickly.

'Barrister is lawyer, yes?'

'Yes, that's right. Cornelius admitted the charge but Mr Sheldon dropped it for some reason and your man was let off with a warning. It happened in Islington, that's North London. Cornelius was living up there at the time.'

'Thank you, is very useful.' He continued taking notes, the pen-lid sticking out sideways from his mouth giving his face an unexpectedly rakish look.

'Oh, I haven't finished yet!' said the cheery voice from London. 'Just before he allegedly assaulted Sheldon, in April 1987, Cornelius was accused of striking a child at the school where he worked, Rosebury Downs, that's Hackney, East London.' He laughed grimly. 'One of the most violent parts of the city, Hackney. A right shit hole. Anyway, his accuser was a Miss ...' He broke off briefly to consult his notes.

'Yes?'

'A Miss Sandra Smith. Cornelius was supposed to have struck her son William across the face. In school.'

Suleyman struggled to get it all down on paper. Mr Cornelius had quite a past for a quiet English teacher, or so it seemed. He just hoped he'd got it all down properly and that Hackney really was spelt H.A.K.N.I 'So what happen with the child, Inspector?'