Rafik Sangul had seen her.

  ‘I wonder how Sergeant Melik is getting on with Dr Sarkissian and his friends?’ İkmen said as he lit up yet another cigarette.

  Taking Balthazar Cohen out for a push in his wheelchair was, İkmen and Ayşe Farsakoğlu were learning, no quick or easy option. Without actually saying the words, Estelle Cohen had let them know that her husband was now incontinent. Toileting prior to any journey, however short, was essential, as was the dressing up of her husband in various devices designed to save his dignity whilst out in public.

  ‘I expect he’s all right,’ Ayşe replied. She was leaning against one of the heavy-stone walls that surrounded the Cohens’ garden, also smoking. Like İkmen, she really just wanted to get down to the Loyas’ house now and find out what was happening. But neither of them could go without Balthazar.

  ‘I don’t think you believe that any more than I do,’ İkmen said. ‘Krikor, even more so than our own Dr Arto, has got some very, very smart and intellectual friends. I can see poor İzzet just sitting about with his mouth open. And then, apparently, there’s their cousin Natasha too, coming from England.’

  ‘Why’s that significant?’

  ‘I don’t know her well,’ İkmen said, ‘but I do remember Natasha when she was a little girl and she was a dreadful flirt even then! Clever woman, like all her family, but totally ruthless with men. Likes them a bit rough

  ‘Like İzzet.’

  ‘Oh, he’d be just her type!’

  Ayşe shook her head, İzzet Melik wasn’t a bad man. He was clumsy and very much unreconstructed, but she also knew that beneath the moustache and the bluster and the sometimes outright misogyny, he was very thin-skinned. ‘I hope she doesn’t hurt him,’ she said softly.

  İkmen raised an eyebrow. She seemed to mean it.

  ‘I’m sorry! Holding everyone up!’ Balthazar, now sporting a rug over what was left of his legs, was being pushed by Estelle from the house into the garden.

  ‘It’s OK,’ İkmen said. ‘Things have to … happen … for you …’

  But before Estelle could get the chair over the doorstep there was a hammering on the great wooden door to the courtyard.

  ‘Oh, someone at the door!’ Estelle said impatiently. ‘What… ?’

  ‘Let me do it,’ İkmen said as he gently took the handles at the back of the chair from her. ‘You go and answer the door.’

  She let him do it, shaking her head with impatience at the thousand and one things she always seemed to have to do as she went.

  ‘Mrs Cohen! Mrs Cohen!’ There was a great hammering on the door. She didn’t recognise the voice. It was a woman, but… Estelle began to run as İkmen and Ayşe Farsakoğlu pushed and then finally lifted Balthazar’s chair over the doorstep.

  ‘There must be a knack to it,’ İkmen muttered.

  ‘No,’ Balthazar said. ‘Estelle is just strong. Always has been.’

  ‘Are you saying that I’m weak, Balthazar?’ İkmen teased.

  ‘No. I’m saying my wife is like an ox when it comes to strength. Who is that at the door? What do they want?’

  Looking up, İkmen saw a covered woman and a young man talking, in what looked like earnest tones, to Estelle in the courtyard.

  ‘That,’ Ayşe Farsakoğlu said after a moment, ‘is Rafik Sangul with, if I’m not mistaken, his mother, Ali Paksoy’s sister. I wonder what they want with Mrs Cohen?’

  ’”THE TIME HAS COME THE WALRUS SAID …” No. No, NOW IS NOT THE

  TIME TO SPEAK OF MANY THINGS. NOW IS THE TIME TO WRITE. WRITE.’

  But no one answered and the pen didn’t move. It had done a lot of moving about until now, but the conclusion that was essential just wouldn’t come.

  Looking around that small room now. ‘I HAVE FALLEN DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE.’ Echoing into nothing.

  ‘BUT IN THE RABBIT HOLE IS WHERE I HAVE BEEN ALL THE TIME.’

  ‘I HAVE NOT LIVED A LIFE IN ANYTHING ONE COULD CALL A “WONDER” LAND.’

  ‘ALICE’S ADVENTURES WERE FAR FROM BENIGN.’

  ’”OFF WITH HIS HEAD! OFF WITH HIS HEAD!’”

  And then the conclusion came - pen scratching furiously over paper - and with it, finally, a smile, even some laughter. ‘No MORE QUESTIONS. NOT ONE.’

  Then stand up, climb on to the chair, hope to God that the explanation given was sufficient, and jump out into freedom. At last. That was the plan.

  Chapter 16

  Red on its own or red with black - of course - were the colours that met their weary eyes when they finally made it to their seats.

  ‘I’m so glad I insisted we leave early,’ Krikor Sarkissian said as he allowed his body to drop wearily into his seat. Then, turning to his cousin Natasha, he added, ‘That journey, you know, should have taken no longer than an hour!’

  ‘The police shut one of the access roads,’ Hatice Arslan said. ‘How senseless is that!’

  ‘Do you know why one of the roads was shut?’ her husband asked a very silent İzzet Melik.

  ‘How would he know?’ Hatice snapped at her husband. ‘He doesn’t work for the traffic division. Krikor told us. Don’t you ever listen? God! Stuffed in that car for hours on end! My hair has gone flat, like old string!’

  Krikor Sarkissian was embarrassed. It had taken him two and a half hours to get his party to the stadium and what should have been fun was turning into an orgy of frayed tempers. ‘Sorry.’

  They all, of course, muttered that it wasn’t his fault; the roads were jam-packed with fans and the police, for reasons known only to them, had decided to close one of the access routes. If anything, the group ire was directed at İzzet Melik - all except that of Natasha Sarkissian. Hugging one of his arms as she had started to do as soon as they entered the stadium, she whispered, ‘Don’t take any notice!’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Oh look!’ Momentarily she let go of İzzet’s arm and pointed across the vast green centre of the stadium towards the great ranks of seats opposite. ‘Isn’t that Diego Maradona? Over there in that box?’

  Krikor, squinting over the top of his glasses, looked in the direction in which she was pointing and said, ‘Oh, yes. Yes, it is! My goodness, but he’s lost weight! Last time I saw him on television he looked like a football.’

  ‘I think you’ll find Maradona is commentating for the Spanish TV network,’ Abdullah Ceylan said with the sort of sobriety of tone people expect from a lawyer.

  ‘Oh.’

  Natasha hugged herself still closer into İzzet’s side and said, ‘Isn’t it exciting! I’m so excited now I’m here! Watching this match with you, a policeman!’

  Aware of the fact that Hatice Arslan, at least, was looking at what Natasha was doing with some distaste, İzzet tried to put a little mental distance between himself and Natasha. ‘I am still going to support Milano, you know,’ he said.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t fancy her. He did. But if he picked up on her very obvious signals and even began to reciprocate, that could spell trouble. Dr Arto Sarkissian was his superior and would not, İzzet felt, be very pleased at the idea of a nobody like him coming on to his cousin. What Mehmet Süleyman would think, and maybe even do about such a breach of etiquette, he didn’t like to imagine.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t possibly respect a man who changed his footballing allegiances, even if it was for me,’ Natasha said, pouting puckered, amused lips as she did so. ‘Football is important.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Opposite, there was a great band of red, waving scarves, as the fans swayed and sang what Natasha, for one, recognised as ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. Liverpool supporters had been allocated approximately two thirds of the tickets to the Olimpiyat Stadium - the strength of their voices made their numbers sound far greater even than that. As soon as the elaborate opening ceremony was over and most of the players had crossed themselves, the two captains went to the centre of the pitch with the referee. It was time to see who was going to have the honour of kicking off.

  * * *

  ‘I didn’t mean for you to get involved!’ Handan Sangul said as she took a glass of tea from Estelle Cohen’s hand. ‘I - we - Rafik and me, we only came to see Mrs Cohen. For advice. Because Mr Cohen was a policeman, in the past.’

  ‘But Sergeant Farsakoğlu and myself happened to be here,’ İkmen said. ‘And Mrs Sangul, whichever way you look at it, you would have been obliged to come to us at some point. What your son has told us could be very important.’

  Ayşe Farsakoğlu handed Handan Sangul a tissue with which to dry her eyes. The last few minutes had been very emotional for the shoe seller’s sister. Rafik, whilst cutting out football pictures from newspapers, had come upon the photograph of a face that he recognised. It was the woman he’d seen his Uncle Ali with down in the basement of the shop. He didn’t know when he’d seen her exactly, just that it had been a Monday because that was his day off. He’d gone off to be with his friends as he usually did on a Monday, but then he’d gone back towards the end of the afternoon to pick up the new shoes he’d bought for himself from his uncle the previous Saturday.

  ‘We were going to go out, Adrian and me,’ the boy had told İkmen. ‘So I went back to get my new trainers. The shop was shut, which was unusual, but I didn’t think much of it. Sometimes, on a Monday, Uncle Ali does shut up because he is alone - to eat or count stock or whatever. I let myself in, heard some voices down in the cellar. Uncle Ali was with this woman, doing, having … well, you know … Her eyes were closed and … they didn’t see me, either of them. I’d never seen Uncle Ali like that before! I… I left, without the shoes, quietly. I told no one until I told Mum just now. My uncle has a temper and I try not to upset him. Me seeing that would upset him, I think - not that I’ve ever seen him do that before. I wouldn’t have told even my mum if this woman, this Emine, hadn’t been in the paper.’

  İkmen had been tempted to really crack into the boy about how important it was to read parts of the newspapers that were not just concerned with sport, but he restrained himself. In a country where entire newspapers were dedicated just to football he knew that he was swimming against the tide. With regard to his own viewing of the latest ‘big match’ he knew that that was probably now well and truly on the back burner. Mr Paksoy would have to be spoken to at the very least.

  ‘Mrs Sanguis he said, ‘is your brother at home now, do you know?’

  ‘In the flat above the shop? No,’ she said, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Uncle Ali isn’t watching the game,’ Rafik said. ‘He doesn’t like football and he doesn’t have a TV. When Mum and I came past, the shop was shut and everything was quiet. He could be out - or in the basement. He might be counting stock on…’ He looked down at the floor, obviously disturbed by his recent memory. ‘I don’t know if it was the 9th when I saw that lady with him, Inspector,’ he said. ‘It could have been the week before.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ İkmen said. ‘You saw your uncle with a woman who is missing and we need to talk to him about it.’

  ‘Oh God! Oh God!’ Handan Sangul said. ‘What on earth is Ali going to say when he knows it was Rafik who told you? He pays our rent; my son and I will be out on the street!’

  Estelle Cohen, who had been sitting next to Handan all the time, said, ‘My dear, I’m sure that this is all perfectly innocent. Your brother is a good man. And if he can indeed account for his time with this lady, I’m sure that the inspector will explain to him why you did what you did. He will understand.’

  Rafik, who wasn’t so sure, but who also desperately wanted to get back to Adnan’s house and the football, cleared his throat.

  ‘The boy wants to get back to watching his football,’ Balthazar Cohen said in a tone which suggested his own disappointment at not getting his own short trip out.

  ‘If you, Mrs Sangul, will accompany us,’ İkmen said, ‘then Rafik, provided he gives us his shop keys, can go back to his friend.’

  Ayşe Farsakoğlu looked at him doubtfully. This was very much against accepted procedure.

  İkmen, well aware of what his deputy was thinking, turned to the boy and said, ‘Rafik, I’ll let you go provided you don’t tell your friends anything about your uncle or what we’ve discussed here.’

  ‘When I left I told Adnan that I’d forgotten something at home,’ Rafik said. ‘I won’t say a thing.’ His face, alive with eagerness, almost shone in what was now the gathering dusk. ‘I’ll keep my mobile phone switched on so you can talk to me if you want to. I don’t mind if you ring during the match.’

  İkmen smiled. ‘Well, that will be helpful, Rafik,’ he said.

  The boy stood up to go, but İkmen made him sit down for just a little bit longer. ‘Just one more thing,’ he said. ‘You know that your uncle has a friend called Mr Loya, Edmondo Loya?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know if Mr Loya has ever been out to help your uncle clean his Fiat? Your grandfather’s car?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ Rafik said and then, jumping again to his feet, ‘Can I go?’

  ‘We all used to go out in that car years ago,’ Handan Sangul said. ‘Father let Ali drive and he would take a lot of us out from time to time. Myself, Garbis the Armenian, girlfriends the boys had, and Edmondo, too.’

  ‘But you haven’t seen Mr Loya at your brother’s garage in recent years?’

  ‘No. But then I’m not always with him when he goes to the car.’ ‘I… can I go now or… ?’

  ‘Inspector, will you let the boy go back to his football!’ Balthazar said. ‘It’s important!’

  İkmen looked up into Rafik’s pleading eyes and then said, ‘Off you go.’

  ‘Thank you!’

  There had been a moment, when he’d first shown his mother Emine Aksu’s picture in the paper when Rafik had thought he’d never get back to see the match. He thought at one point that he might have to confront Uncle Ali himself. But happily that was now all in the past and he was going back to Adnan’s. As he ran past the pretty young woman just walking in to the Cohens’ garden from the street, he whooped with delight.

  Hulya İkmen Cohen frowned when she saw the speeding Rafik and, looking across the garden at her father, she said, ‘Dad? What is going on?’

  ‘Your father, my friend, has just ruined my evening,’ her father-in-law, Balthazar Cohen said, miserably.

  Kick-off for the Liverpool versus AC Milan match was scheduled for 8.45 p.m. But ever since 8 p.m. the city had been visibly and audibly calming down. At 8.15, most of those due in to the stadium were inside and everyone else was either watching the action at home or in drinking establishments - both those that served alcohol and those that did not. By 8.30, only real oddities were still on the streets. That Çetin İkmen, Ayşe Farsakoğlu and Handan Sangul didn’t consider themselves odd was neither here nor there, but as they walked through the streets of Balat towards the shoe shop, people in homes around and about looked upon them with incomprehension.

  The same was true when Mehmet Süleyman arrived at the Loyas’ house accompanied by a visibly reluctant Constable Yildiz. He had desperately wanted to watch the match. But he was also on duty and Süleyman had insisted.

  ‘Come back when the match has finished,’ one of the Loyas’ neighbours said as he hung out of the window of his apartment. ‘As I told that policewoman hours ago, Maurice is at the stadium.’

  ‘And Edmondo?’ Süleyman called up to the man.

  ‘God knows!’

  ‘You’ve not seen him come out?’

  ‘That policewoman banged on the door fit to waken the dead!’ the neighbour said. ‘But there was no reply. I’ve not seen him go out, but that doesn’t mean much. Weird man, creeping around, always has done. World of his own, that one!’

  He then shut the window again and returned to the blaring television in his living room.

  After what he considered to be a decent pause, Constable Yildiz said, ‘Sir, it seems we’re not going to have a lot of success looking for this man tonight.’

  ‘On the contrary, Constable,’ Süleyman replied. ‘With the streets as empty as they are, this is the perfect time to move around easily.’ ‘Well…’

  ‘And we will need to check and see whether in fact Mr Loya has returned to his home.’ Süleyman pointed the young man towards the front door. ‘You knock, I’ll go around the back.’

  The fact that he was smiling when he said it only made Hikmet Yildiz all the more irritated.

  Up at Paksoy’s shoe shop, Handan Sarigul was opening the front door.

  ‘Ali?’ she called as she went inside. ‘Brother?’

  Both she and İkmen had knocked on the door for quite some time before the policeman suggested that she use her key.

  The body of the shop was quite empty. Sad little pairs of plastic shoes sat on the shelves like gloomy reminders of a previous time. Handan Sangul shook her head. She didn’t often come into the shop these days. ‘It’s only when Rafik orders some new trainers that anything remotely stylish comes into this shop. My brother lost heart long ago.’ And then she shouted up the stairs that led up from the office at the back to the apartment above, ‘Ali!’

  İkmen, who was a little behind the shoe maker’s sister, turned to Ayşe Farsakoğlu and said, ‘Are you armed?’

  She was used to this. Whenever a potentially violent situation was in the offing he always asked her. It was, she knew, because although he was wearing a gun, he was not. It wasn’t loaded. If, İkmen always asserted, he couldn’t talk his way out of trouble, he probably deserved to be shot. Ayşe, however, was another matter, in his mind, and he insisted that she was always ready to protect herself.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Good.’