Cetin Ikmen rolled over on to his back and peered myopically at the face of his watch. Ten to six. Just too late to try and get some more sleep (although that was a joke) and too early to start moving around. He cursed and then hit the back of the couch with murderous intent. Many more nights like this and he would go insane.

It wasn't that he actually resented Fatma for consigning him to the couch. It wasn't even that he would have actually preferred to sleep with her in her current condition.

Pregnant, she was both huge and restless and, if he were honest, he would have to admit that being with her would be almost as bad as being where he was now. If only he could find some way to stop almost smothering himself against the back of the confounded thing every time he turned over, he could cope. He had tried just about every position and technique he could think of, but to no avail. The couch, Allah damn it to hell, was far too cunning to allow itself to be outwitted by a mere policeman. It wanted him sleeping down on that awful smelly floor and if he wasn't really, really dedicated to defeating it, that was where he was going to end up.

He cursed again, murmuring the word 'bastard!' under his breath, lest he wake his sleeping family. That done, he sat up and instead of performing his usual morning ritual of reviewing the horrors of another sleepless night, he turned his mind towards the more productive subject of his current case. Just before he and sleep had entered into their familiar nightly battle for supremacy, Ikmen had written down a few notes regarding possible routes through the maze of evidence that had accrued in the Meyer case so far. With one lazy but deft movement he picked a cigarette up off the floor, threw it into his mouth and lit up. Thus fortified, he then lurched across to the light switch, pressed it and flooded the lounge with ghastly neon brilliance. As he shuffled back to the couch from hell, rubbing his eyes as he went, he picked up the notebook from the place where he had dropped it so many agonising hours before - on top of a heap of laundry. Amid a welter of cigarette smoke, he then sat down and reviewed his handiwork. Basically there were three main bodies of information.

Firstly there was the strictly factual evidence. Leonid Meyer, an elderly Jewish man, had been first battered with some sort of blunt instrument and then subjected to torture by sulphuric car battery acid. His death had been protracted and agonising and, having witnessed its course, his assailant had then drawn a large swastika in Meyer's blood on the wall above his head. At some time either before, during or after the event, someone - possibly the assailant had been sick over by the door. Forensic analysis had since revealed that the main constituent of said mass was principally beetroot. The Englishman, Robert Cornelius, had by his own admission been in the vicinity of Meyer's apartment at the time, as had, rather more tenuously, a large black car - although this latter piece of evidence, it had to be admitted, had come from an old alcoholic who couldn't even remember his own name. In addition, further investigation of the corpse by Arto Sarkissian had revealed some extremely old but nevertheless deep burn scars on Meyer's hand and arm - scars caused, possibly, by gunpowder. ikmen, looking at this veritable rag-bag of disconnected evidence, sighed deeply, put his cigarette out and then immediately lit another.

Around these somewhat bizarre facts revolved, so he believed, the two other bodies of information, which he had labelled 'Two Routes to Resolution', as he saw it so far.

The first one concerned the original and most immediately obvious explanation for Meyer's death, which was that of anti-Semitism. Supporting evidence for this included, of course, the swastika, plus the testimonies of both Rabbi SJmon and Maria Gulcu - both of which had included reference to the notion that Meyer had suffered from anti-Semitism before. Against this was the fact that there was not, apart from one address in Meyer's notebook, any hard evidence to suggest that the man who had been named as Meyer's anti-Semitic persecutor had ever known the victim or held such unsavoury views. In any event, their supposed liaison had happened so long ago that it was almost irrelevant. In addition, there was no reason to suppose that anti-Semitism was a growing movement within the city, either amongst the young or, like Smits, the older generation. The only really concrete act of violence against Jews that had come out so far was that which had been perpetrated by Robert Cornelius. And that had happened in England for reasons, if Cornelius were to be believed, which stemmed not from anti-Semitism, but from rather more personal motives.

The second, and perhaps most esoteric, route concerned issues surrounding Meyer's past. One source had expressed the opinion that Meyer had been a member of the Bolshevik party when a young man back in Russia, and Maria Gulcu's reaction had seemed to confirm this. Quite naturally, for those troubled times, he had killed people in the course of his duties. Unusually, however, he had then traded his new life of working-class glory for a life of poverty in a foreign country, firstly with a woman who only ever tolerated him and secondly with his only true love - the bottle. Tortured by guilt and, possibly, fearful lest some, as yet unknown, witness to his old crime should come forward and reveal this horror to the world, Leonid Meyer died without any of the honours the old Soviet Government would have, no doubt, bestowed upon him had he stayed where he was.

Those who mourned him included the widow Blatsky and the Gulcu family who, he now knew, possessed absolutely no legal status in Turkey. A group of ghosts headed by the oldest spectre of them all, Maria Gulcu - the woman who could never love or be loved - unlike her granddaughter.

And here, once again, was Mr Robert Cornelius, teacher of English, lover of Natalia Gulcu, destroyer of Jews - the only person in the right place at the right time.

And yet, although Cornelius seemed to pop up in each and every body of evidence or route to resolution that was contemplated, what on earth could his motive for killing Meyer be? So he knew the Gulcu family and had once hit out at a Jewish lawyer - that amounted to very little really. Even the fact that he had admitted being in the vicinity of the crime and had been identified didn't mean that he had been involved with it. Although the fact that he had exhibited more than just a passing interest in the mechanics of the death penalty - or rather those people who might be excepted from that process - did strike Ikmen as odd. Unless Cornelius actually had someone in mind with regard to this, his interest would appear to be quite unintelligible.

That Cornelius was close to Meyer's apartment at the time of his death, and that he was also involved with a family who knew the dead man and possibly also knew about that man's guilty past, seemed like more than mere coincidence. However, this did beg the question of why the Englishman had so willingly admitted to being in Balat on that fateful afternoon. Surely if he had known what was happening, he would have at least tried to distance himself from the event?

ikmen got up, went over to the window and opened the curtains. The full, fierce heat of the day was still several hours away, but already the shopkeepers were washing down the pavements with water. By lunchtime everyone would be well and truly frazzled in the heat and the dust and the ever-present swarm of flies. By then, he knew, thinking would be next to impossible. By then he, like everybody else, would be simply going through the motions. He put the light out, returned to the couch and sat down again.

What his boss, Commissioner Ardic, wanted was, of course, a neat and quick solution. He'd even told the press that they were indeed on the brink of a major breakthrough.

Not that ikmen had done so in person, of course. He'd made very sure that he was well and truly out of the way when that press conference had started. Ardic had nearly gone berserk. What he wanted was Smits and, furthermore, ikmen's backing for the Nazi connection theory. And, to be honest, ikmen had to agree that if Smits's past or present allegiances could be proved as well as a rather more current connection with Meyer, this probably was the most fruitful direction in which to move. Of all the people that ikmen had interviewed so far, Rabbi SJmon had seemed to be the most reliable and he had been of the opinion that Smits could be involved at some level. The big black car as reported by the raving alcoholic was a tenuous link but Ikmen had seen such vehicles on Smits's drive.

What really puzzled ikmen most was not, however, something that was, or seemed to be, central to the case. It was how and indeed why the Gulcu family appeared to live in the country without any official status. There had to be a reason, although he could not fathom what that might be. But that it was connected in some way to Leonid Meyer was, irrationally but pervasively, on his mind. He was just pondering how, now that he was in possession of this fact, he might effectively hide this information from the heavy-handed clutches of immigration until after his investigations were concluded, when the lounge door burst open and his father staggered in.

'Good morning, son,' Timiir said as he moved painfully over towards the couch. 'Got a cigarette?'

'Yes, thank you.'

The old man positioned himself next to his son on the edge of the couch and then peered at the notebook in the younger man's hands. 'Well, let's have one then!'

'What?'

'A cigarette!'

'Oh.'

ikmen picked one up out of his packet, placed it in the old man's mouth and then lit it. Once his coughing had subsided, Timiir ikmen pointed down at the book and cackled. 'Now there's something I haven't seen for a very long time.'

ikmen, unable to work out what his father was referring to, frowned. 'What?'

'The name Reinhold Smits.'

'You know him?'

'I know of him,' the old man replied. 'What's your interest in him, Cetin?'

'He owns eker Textiles, that company that our murder victim once worked for.'

'Oh, Smits owns that, does he?'

'Yes, I think he always has. I told you about it the other day when ...'

The old man made a dismissive gesture with his cigarette.

'Oh well, it passed me by then, you know how it is. And besides, with all the companies Smits owns it would be difficult to recall each and every one.'

'So he owns more than just eker Textiles, then?' ikmen asked.

His father shot him a jaundiced glare. 'Marvellous detective you are! Smits owns cotton mills and fields, coal mines, white-goods plants - you name it, he has it. Like most Germans he's very good with money.'

'So, er, how do you know of him then, Timur?'

The old man dragged contentedly on his cigarette before replying. 'When I was a young lecturer I was involved in a demonstration outside one of his places. All his workers went on strike and we went out in support of them.'

'Went on strike? Why?'

'Because Smits had unfairly dismissed a couple of his people. I was very political in those days and-'

'Unfairly dismissed? How?' ikmen was having a feeling about this, a very bad feeling.

'Well, the 1939-45 war had just started and so Smits got rid of these men because they were Jews. He was right behind Adolf Hitler and all that Nazi business, just like his father. It was, I believe, early autumn and ...'

But ikmen wasn't listening any more, ikmen, in his mind, was very far away. Back with another old man who couldn't or rather, so it appeared, didn't want to address his past.

Robert Cornelius was angry with himself. His last lesson had been a complete disaster. It was one thing having little real interest in your students, but it was quite another actually showing it for all the world to see. If he wasn't careful he was going to lose his job and if he lost his job he lost his apartment too. If only he could focus on something other than Natalia. But he was wasting his time even trying. She had shown him something the previous night, something he had never seen before - a tenderness. Her hands had cradled his pain. Like a small child healing a wounded bird, she had stroked him back to life. Then, just before she left, he'd told her all about Betty. About the hurt. But now he had to help her. He wanted to help her; she was his now, she'd said so.

Promised. If only he could think of something!

He'd been back over the problem a dozen times, but he was still no nearer to a solution. What he had to do, somehow, was inform the police that this old Nazi, if indeed he was such, had once had a personal grudge against Leonid Meyer - if indeed he had. All this was based upon pure hearsay which emanated from a source that was, at best, he had to admit, dubious. To further compound the problem, there was also the issue of how he was, if he was, going to tell the police. He neither wanted nor felt that it was wise to tell them directly.

If he did, they would probably question his motivation.

They would certainly want to know where he, a man by his own admission totally unacquainted with Smits, had got his information from. There was, however, yet another issue that was even more deeply troubling than any of that: why had Natalia asked him to perform this task?

If it had merely been a case of, as she had said, protecting the Gulcu family from further investigation because of their illegal status, that would have been acceptable - just. If only she hadn't been at Meyer's apartment on the day of the murder! If only he hadn't seen her! If only he could believe that she had not been involved in the old man's death!

But he couldn't believe her even though he wanted to more than almost anything else in the world. Even though what she was putting him through now was bad, very bad, for him.

Great curling waves of self-loathing crashed across his tortured mind. What kind of person even contemplated feeding false information to the police? Even if this Smits man were a Nazi that was still a million miles away from the assumption that he was a killer too! Putting aside his politics he might even be quite a nice man with grandchildren and charitable interests and all sorts of good things. Because Robert didn't know him he couldn't possibly hazard a guess about what he was like!

But all that was, unfortunately, he knew, the rational, lighter side of the argument. The irrational, but to Robert, far weightier and more important side related to Natalia and what she wanted. And because he wanted her, what she wanted had to take precedence. What a foolish, weak, unpleasant little man he was! Complying with the demands of an evil, manipulative girl!

It made him laugh - not because he was happy but because there was nothing else to do in the face of such an abomination. Every mistake he had ever made he could trace back to some woman, or rather his desire to possess some woman. But then unless he wanted to change now, what on earth was the use of pursuing such fruitless lines of thought? And he didn't want to change.

No.

What he wanted was Natalia and in order to get her he had to do this thing - one way or another. If only his mind would work upon the problem. If only he could think without feeling sick!

Think! Think!

Chapter 12.

'Anyone would think that I was asking you to murder somebody!'

Suleyman replaced his car keys in his pocket and sighed.

'Mother ...'

'I mean, I think I am being really quite flexible. If you tell me a time I will work with that and-'

'But, Mother, as I have told you several times now, I can't tell you what time I'm going to be home tonight because I don't know what that is going to be myself.'

Nur Suleyman pouted - an expression that was not terribly appropriate either to her age or her position in life. 'But if you can't give me a time then I can't possibly go ahead with tonight's meal. I'll have to tell Auntie and Zuli not to come ...'

'But if you hadn't invited them without asking me this wouldn't have happened!'

'I wanted it to be a surprise!'

'What kind of surprise is that!'

She looked for just a moment as if she had been slapped.

Suleyman leant against the side of his car and put his hand up to his head, instantly regretting what had just been said.

Recovering herself, Nur Suleyman's face now took on an expression of anger. 'What do you mean by that?'

'I didn't mean anything. I'm sorry, Mother ...'

'Do you want to be single and lonely for the rest of your life?'

'No. Look-'

'Well, you're behaving as if that is exactly what you do want. I can't understand you! Your cousin will make an excellent wife-'

'Mother!' He took his car keys out of his pocket again and rattled them in front of her face. 'Not now. I have to go!'

'Oh well, if your job is more important ...' Nur turned quickly on her heel and then marched, straight-backed, into the house.

Suleyman sighed and then, pushing himself away from the side of the car, walked around to the driver's side.

'Could I speak to Mr Smits, please?'

'Who is calling?'

'It's Inspector ikmen.'

The butler paused, although only briefly, before replying, 'I am afraid that Mr Smits has already gone out for the day, sir.'

'Oh.'

'Can I take a message, or ...'

'No, no, that's all right. I'll ring back later. Thank you.'

'Thank you, sir.'

Wilkinson replaced the receiver in its cradle and turned to face his master. 'That was Inspector ikmen, sir. I hope I-'

'Yes, yes,' Smits replied, 'you did absolutely the right thing.' For just a moment he fiddled with a pair of tiny calfskin gloves and then put them, with some determination, on his hands. 'And now I really am going out, Wilkinson,'

he said. 'I may be some time.'

As he turned to leave the butler noticed that his face was white.

Suleyman hardly noticed what his fellow road-users were doing as he sat within the grip of heavy traffic along the coast road. Consequently, he was subject to several furious horn-beepings as those behind him attempted to gain those vital extra few metres. Not that such behaviour, on this occasion, bothered him unduly. His mind was far too occupied with replaying the recent altercation with his mother for it to be troubled by a little irate traffic.

When one is facing what amounts to in all but name an arranged marriage, most other aspects of one's life pale into insignificance. Not, of course, that Mehmet Suleyman had anyone else but himself to blame for his current situation. The match, which was with his first cousin Zuleika, had been both suggested and set up by his mother and his aunt. Theoretically, at least, he could have said 'no' to this at any time, and considering the fact that the whole idea of his cousin appalled him, it would have been in his own interests to do just that.

But, in practice, like a lot of things, it wasn't that simple.

What Nur Suleyman wanted, she tended to get. Both Suleyman and his father had always let her have her own way. The only exception to this rule was his elder brother, Murad, who despite wild protestations from Nur had married a Greek. That he was now, as far as Nur was concerned, a non-person within the family group was quite chilling and, furthermore, demanded the kind of rebelliousness Mehmet Suleyman knew he didn't possess.

As a member of the once ruling classes, albeit one with neither money nor social position, Suleyman was aware that he had certain duties and to marry well was one of these. To either deny or attempt to circumvent such a duty went against everything he had been trained to be.

That it was making him unhappy was simply a price he had always suspected he would one day have to pay.

Obsessed as he was with these morbid and uncomfortable thoughts he hardly noticed the passing scenery as he battled his way towards the centre of the city. This condition only held, however, until he was obliged to stop the car to allow a large limousine to exit from between a pair of tall iron gates. Not that the place itself was instantly familiar - there were many such large entrances to old mansions along this stretch of road - but Smits's drawn little face in the back of the limousine was unmistakable.

It was a terrible thought. Robert had first noticed it growing towards the end of the last lesson. It had started slowly at first, but then, suddenly and unaccountably, it had accelerated, weaving its way into his brain like a maggot.

He'd been appalled, but it lodged there looking at him.