'You think you see me in Balat yesterday?'

"I thought ...' His voice died in his throat. 'He thought', what the hell did that mean? What the fuck was the value of his thoughts anyway? His spirit seemed to die in his breast, turn its back, surrender.

But unbelievably she turned her most beautiful smile full beam upon his face. The sudden change of expression robbed him of his breath.

'OK,' she said brightly. 'One quick drink. You tell me about it.'

He coughed. 'Right.' His voice sounded husky, nervous, smoke-dried.

She turned the rest of the shop lights off and locked the display cabinets. As they went through the front door, he turned and stole a furtive glance at her again. Her face was anxious and there were lines, deep and hard, from the corners of her mouth down to her chin.

The Sultan Pub, a peculiar mock-Tudor establishment opposite the Blue Mosque, was a strangely ideal place for a quiet talk. Its clientele, almost without exception Western European youth in transit, did not tend to linger. One or two stomach-churning local whiskies and then out was the usual form. The internal decor was pure Hollywood Salzburg: beams, cowbells, Alpine horns and pictures of blonde girls with plaits. Cool mountain streams and snow figured quite heavily too. The Southern Europeans' insatiable hunger for the cold.

Robert and Natalia sat down at the table affording the best view of the famous mosque and were quickly joined by the teenage waiter.

After they had ordered their drinks they sat in silence for a while. Robert, at least, was not anxious to open conversation. The drinks arrived quickly and he took a generous gulp from his glass. Natalia, her glass untouched, gazed blankly out of the window, her eyes riveted to the graceful dome of the mosque.

'I'm not accusing you of anything, you know.'

She didn't answer; she didn't react in any way. Self conscious, he took her hand. The waiter slouching arrogantly against the bar saw their hands join and smirked.

'I'm just confused, that's all. I was on my way home yesterday afternoon, not feeling a hundred per cent, and suddenly there you are. I go to say "hello", greet you, and you're gone!'

'Was not me.' Her tone was flat, matter of fact. Her earlier smile had disappeared long ago. It irked him. Of course it had been her! Who else had a face like that?

'Look, I know what I saw, Natalia. I'm not asking you to explain yourself. I just don't like mysteries. Whatever you were there for is your own business, I just ...' He paused. What he had to say was difficult. He couldn't accuse her of lying, but he was finding her denial very hard to reconcile with his own experience. Whatever that was. 'Look, it doesn't matter why you were there, I just want to know if you were there. I need to know whether I was seeing things or not. It's important - for me.'

She started to sip her drink. Her face was grave, but still - defiantly, he felt - unmoved.

He tried a slightly different tack. "I was afraid, when you didn't acknowledge me, that perhaps I had upset or offended you in some way.' He pressed her hand gently in his. 'You know how I feel about you. I couldn't bear it if something that I did wrong came between us.'

"I not you property.'

Her stilted pronunciation irritated him. He had an urge to correct her. It was not the first time. Her foreign 'otherness'

frequently grated. She could use it as a weapon, an excuse not to understand or be properly understood.

His voice had hardened. 'It's important.' He paused.

'Look, I'm not saying for a second that you were involved, but there was a murder in Balat yesterday.' She put her glass back down upon the table with a thud. "I have, because I was in the area at the time, already been interviewed by the police.'

He tried to look into her face, but she dropped her eyes.

'Police?'

'Yes.'

Her features had shifted position slightly, thin lines surrounded her mouth once more, the same lines that had marred her face earlier when they left the shop.

'The police came to the school this morning. They interviewed all of us. The scene of the murder's only a few streets away. As it happened, I was in the area at about the right time. I gave them a statement.'

She looked up, her eyelids snapping apart to reveal wide, deeply searching eyes. Her pale face, he fancied, was a shade whiter.

'What do you say in the statement?'

He lit a cigarette. 'That I was in the area near to where the murder was committed at four-thirty yesterday and that I saw and heard nothing unusual. I saw a woman-'

She jumped. 'The one you think was me?'

He paused. Now she was scared. He'd only seen her like this once before. In Balat. That same face. He shuddered. It was almost tempting to string her along, let her believe he'd told the police, see how she would react. But Robert knew that was not in his temperament. That was her trick.

'No, I didn't tell them about ... you.' Her face relaxed, just a fraction, but enough for him to notice. "I couldn't be a hundred per cent certain it was you and if it wasn't, I didn't want to make unnecessary trouble. The woman I told them about was standing in a doorway, she was old, I doubt very much whether she could harm anybody.'

"I could not hurt people!' She folded both her hands around his and gripped tightly. "I not there, Robert!'

She wanted him to believe her, which was precisely why he couldn't. He felt a sudden need to draw his hand away from her. He pulled his arm back sharply and her hands fell apart and rested limply on the top of the table. For the first time in their relationship he felt as if he was in control. He smelt her fear. It was an intoxicating experience.

"I want to believe you, Natalia, but, quite frankly, it's difficult. I can't very well call my own eyes liars.' He paused. That had been a stupid thing to say and she, as well as he, must know it. But he had to go on. "I know we've been seeing each other for some time, but I still don't really know you. I don't even know where you live, for God's sake!'

She looked down at the table again. Her hands, resting on the white linen cloth, trembled very slightly. It was mention of the police that had first rattled her. Right up until then she had been her usual cool, haughty self. Of course she had been in Balat! He had seen her. Her repeated denials were ridiculous! Was what she had been doing there so terrible?

He couldn't believe it. If she had been unfaithful, he would forgive her - probably - she knew that. And why was she so alarmed by police involvement in a crime that had nothing to do with either of them? Or did it?

He looked at her sad, down-turned face, her soft rounded shoulders. Oh God, but of course, that touch! The thin, wasted bone that had slipped through his fingers like an oiled fish. It didn't make any sense. And why on earth would a beautiful young girl like Natalia murder some penniless old alkie? Robert inwardly chided himself. Now he really was wandering into the realms of fantasy!

She raised her head, and, to his surprise, she smiled.

'Look, Robert, I tell you the truth about Balat, I not there, but ...' She shrugged helplessly, a little nervous laugh accompanying the gesture. "I understand what you say. We very close now and you know little of my life.

Perhaps time to change that. You maybe come to my home, meet my family ...'

Her words caught him off guard. An invitation to her home was the last thing he had expected. It was quite obviously a ploy to distract him from the issue. Christ, it must have been her! And yet an invitation to her home ...

Greed, the kind of selfish, thoughtless longing that makes all lovers occasionally act against their better judgement, possessed him. Ever since he had realised that he was in love with Natalia, Robert had harboured secret and long-term ambitions for this relationship. The failure of his previous marriage had all but destroyed any confidence he may have had with women. To a certain extent Natalia, simply by not leaving him, had given him back some of that confidence.

Although educated, Robert was simplistic in his thinking when it came to his personal life. He didn't want to be single any more. And if Natalia wasn't the right woman, then who was? There was nobody else! Meeting her family was surely a significant 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 lira? When? How?'

'Stuffed underneath the mattress of his bed, according to Demir.' He looked at his watch and indicated that perhaps they should start moving towards the Rabbi's house.

As he walked, ikmen took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit up. "I wonder where somebody like Meyer got hold of money like that? Money, and by that I mean their own money, is not something alcoholics usually have any of.'

'Well, I have no answers for you on that one, sir.

All Demir said was that he had found a lot of money which, on the face of it, seems to have belonged to Meyer.'

ikmen drew hard on his cigarette and sighed. 'So. The mystery deepens, eh, Suleyman?'

'It would appear to be moving in that direction, sir.'

Rabbi Yitzak imon was only first generation Balat. It was unusual for one of the local clerics to be foreign but then his appointment only reflected the rather more recent, albeit small, influx of Ashkenazi Jews into the area since the beginning of the century. Apart from and yet embedded within the, to him, more dark and mysterious Sephardi majority, SJmon had grown up amongst these shy, insular people with their strange language and oriental customs. His very 'otherness' had actually assisted his understanding of them. Lonely and unpopular as a child, he had watched, listened, observed the ebb and flow, identified tensions. It was all very objective. They weren't his people, he could watch through eyes unclouded by dynastic rivalry or ancient territorial right.

Until he came into contact with other children who originated from Europe in the 1950s, imon had simply been known as 'that Polish boy'. The words themselves hadn't hurt but the lack of playmates had frequently depressed him. It had all seemed so unfair. He had, after all, been born in the district.

But the bitterness he had felt as a child had receded.

Once he had elevated himself to the exalted position of rabbi to his small flock of foreigners they had developed a sneaking respect for him - as he had for them. Maddening and unintelligible as they could be, imon had to admit that any community that could achieve and maintain a civilised relationship with the host nation for five hundred years was only to be admired. The Turks, though grudgingly at times, respected them too.

He had always hoped that that situation would remain unchanged. The recent death of Leonid Meyer had, however, shaken him. It had shaken the whole district. Nothing was said but there were signs that people were afraid.

Suddenly, the streets were empty after dark and the locksmith had more work than his one small shop could cope with.

The only consolation was that the police had managed to play down the racist element. Consequently the press hadn't, as yet, really gone for that angle. The last thing Balat '( needed were gangs of morbid sightseers and unhinged fascist sympathisers. The only visitors the district had attracted so far were the police themselves and a mercifully low-key ; appearance from the Israeli Consul.

He looked at his watch. The police were due at his door at : any minute. He cleared a pile of books and papers from one ; of the chairs in front of his desk and put them on the floor.

His office was hideously untidy, but as long as his guests had somewhere comfortable to sit the interview would not be too unpleasant. The silver samovar over in the corner bubbled gently. He could offer them tea as well. However distressing the subject under discussion, provided you had a glass of tea in your hands there was a feeling, SJmon felt, that civilisation was not too irredeemably distant.

He heard a knock on his door followed by the sound of someone clearing their throat. imon walked down the hallway and pulled back the long iron bolt that secured the I entrance to his home.

Two men stood on his doorstep: one short, swarthy, about his own age; the other younger, tall and very smart.

The older man spoke. 'Rabbi imon?' It was the same deep, dry voice that had spoken to him over the telephone the previous day.

'You must be Inspector ikmen.' He smiled.

'Yes.' ikmen tilted his head in the direction of the younger man. 'This is Sergeant Suleyman.'

imon acknowledged Suleyman's presence with a slight bow of the head and then ushered the two men into his office.

'Please sit down, gentlemen,' he said and moved across the room towards the samovar. 'Would you like some tea?'

As he sat, ikmen caught sight of the ornate silver samovar in the corner. It brought a smile to his face. Old charcoal-burning ones, like the Rabbi's, had become rare in post-teabag istanbul. 'What a wonderful old samovar!' The Rabbi turned to look at him. 'This?'

'Yes,' said ikmen. 'Takes me right back to my childhood.

Our whole house revolved around one of those things. My mother was always fiddling with it, topping it up with water, putting on fresh charcoal. The hub of old Turkish life.' He stood up and went to have a closer look at it. The samovar hissed very slightly and the Rabbi turned to the policeman and chuckled.

'Remember that sound, Inspector?'

"I do. It's a good sound.'

They smiled at each other, enjoying the moment of a shared childhood memory. Sometimes it was difficult for ikmen to remember that he had once been young.

Twenty-five years of heavy responsibility had taken their toll. And yet it had not seemed like a long time. He even wondered sometimes how he had got to be so old so quickly.