Galata Bridge his shirt was drenched with sweat. He paused for a moment by the bridge, looking down into the water and at the array of ships, and gathering his breath.
Seymour liked docks. He had spent all his life within a mile of the London docks. Even when he had been posted to the Special Branch he had continued to work in that area, where his skill at languages helped him with the immigrants who abounded there. He came from an immigrant family himself, back a little way. His grandfather had come from Poland, his mother from Hungary. They had landed in the docks and then, like so many other immigrant families, had stayed.
Seymour had grown up there among the many languages of the East End and had very early developed an ear for them. So good an ear, in fact, that the police interpreter had noticed it and began to take him round with him. This in turn had led to the police noticing him and eventually to his joining the police. He had become known as ‘the languages man’ and so when the Foreign Office had asked for someone with knowledge of foreign languages his name had been the one that was put forward.
But it wasn’t just the languages. His upbringing had given him a sense of the people and lives behind the languages. That sense was missing here; but now, as he went about on foot, hearing the talk and seeing the people, he began to capture it a little. The Arabic and Turkish he could not understand, although he was beginning to grasp them a little. But there were other languages in the streets, too, Italian and German and French, and these he had no difficulty with. For all the differences, this part of Istanbul was not actually that different from the East End.
He found his way through to the theatre, stopping in the park to listen to the music, turning aside for a leisurely cup of coffee in one of the candlelit coffee houses. Although it was dark now, the evening was pleasantly warm. The people were relaxed. He began to feel comfortable and at home.
He didn’t want to arrive too early at the theatre. He had arranged to meet Lalagé after the performance. He would take her out for a meal in one of the restaurants nearby.
There seemed to be quite a crowd in the street outside the theatre. There were people in uniforms. There seemed to have been an accident of some sort.
A carriage was standing by the side door. It was different from the other carriages he had seen, more box-like and without seats. Some men were opening the back of the carriage. It fell down into a flap. The men reached inside and pulled out a stretcher.
A senior-looking man in a fez came out of the theatre and stood for a moment talking to the stretcher-bearers. Then he stood aside to let them go in. His eye, just at that moment, caught Seymour’s.
‘Why, Mr Seymour!’ he said. ‘What brings you here?’
It was Mukhtar, the terjiman from Gelibolu.
Seymour pushed his way through towards him.
‘I was meeting someone,’ he said. ‘One of the actresses.’
The terjiman’s eyebrows went up.
‘Actresses?’ he said.
‘Players,’ amended Seymour. He didn’t want to get the theatre into trouble.
‘Really?’ said Mukhtar. He beckoned Seymour towards him and they went in. He led Seymour along a corridor and up some stairs.
They went into a room. A woman was lying on a bed, her head turned away.
‘Not this one?’ said the terjiman.
Chapter Four
‘Yes,’ said Seymour.
The terjiman nodded.
‘I shall ask you some questions, please,’ he said. ‘One moment!’
The stretcher-bearers came in. They looked at the terjiman enquiringly. He made a gesture of assent and they lifted the body on to the stretcher. As they were going out, they nearly collided with a tall, thin man in a dark suit and fez who came bustling in through the door. He bent over the stretcher.
‘Do you want me to go with it?’ he asked Mukhtar.
‘Please, Mr Demeyrel. It’s best if you get on with it as quickly as you can. The heat,’ he explained to
Seymour liked docks. He had spent all his life within a mile of the London docks. Even when he had been posted to the Special Branch he had continued to work in that area, where his skill at languages helped him with the immigrants who abounded there. He came from an immigrant family himself, back a little way. His grandfather had come from Poland, his mother from Hungary. They had landed in the docks and then, like so many other immigrant families, had stayed.
Seymour had grown up there among the many languages of the East End and had very early developed an ear for them. So good an ear, in fact, that the police interpreter had noticed it and began to take him round with him. This in turn had led to the police noticing him and eventually to his joining the police. He had become known as ‘the languages man’ and so when the Foreign Office had asked for someone with knowledge of foreign languages his name had been the one that was put forward.
But it wasn’t just the languages. His upbringing had given him a sense of the people and lives behind the languages. That sense was missing here; but now, as he went about on foot, hearing the talk and seeing the people, he began to capture it a little. The Arabic and Turkish he could not understand, although he was beginning to grasp them a little. But there were other languages in the streets, too, Italian and German and French, and these he had no difficulty with. For all the differences, this part of Istanbul was not actually that different from the East End.
He found his way through to the theatre, stopping in the park to listen to the music, turning aside for a leisurely cup of coffee in one of the candlelit coffee houses. Although it was dark now, the evening was pleasantly warm. The people were relaxed. He began to feel comfortable and at home.
He didn’t want to arrive too early at the theatre. He had arranged to meet Lalagé after the performance. He would take her out for a meal in one of the restaurants nearby.
There seemed to be quite a crowd in the street outside the theatre. There were people in uniforms. There seemed to have been an accident of some sort.
A carriage was standing by the side door. It was different from the other carriages he had seen, more box-like and without seats. Some men were opening the back of the carriage. It fell down into a flap. The men reached inside and pulled out a stretcher.
A senior-looking man in a fez came out of the theatre and stood for a moment talking to the stretcher-bearers. Then he stood aside to let them go in. His eye, just at that moment, caught Seymour’s.
‘Why, Mr Seymour!’ he said. ‘What brings you here?’
It was Mukhtar, the terjiman from Gelibolu.
Seymour pushed his way through towards him.
‘I was meeting someone,’ he said. ‘One of the actresses.’
The terjiman’s eyebrows went up.
‘Actresses?’ he said.
‘Players,’ amended Seymour. He didn’t want to get the theatre into trouble.
‘Really?’ said Mukhtar. He beckoned Seymour towards him and they went in. He led Seymour along a corridor and up some stairs.
They went into a room. A woman was lying on a bed, her head turned away.
‘Not this one?’ said the terjiman.
Chapter Four
‘Yes,’ said Seymour.
The terjiman nodded.
‘I shall ask you some questions, please,’ he said. ‘One moment!’
The stretcher-bearers came in. They looked at the terjiman enquiringly. He made a gesture of assent and they lifted the body on to the stretcher. As they were going out, they nearly collided with a tall, thin man in a dark suit and fez who came bustling in through the door. He bent over the stretcher.
‘Do you want me to go with it?’ he asked Mukhtar.
‘Please, Mr Demeyrel. It’s best if you get on with it as quickly as you can. The heat,’ he explained to
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