continued. ‘Months of negotiation. Now, possibly, I can complete . . .’
‘Peter, this is our guest, Inspector İkmen from the İstanbul police,’ Wim said as he gently ushered the much slighter man into his living room. ‘I am afraid that he has some bad news about Yaşar.’
İkmen looked up into a small, grey face and began, ‘You are a friend—’
‘Mr Melly was at the carpet show on Monday night,’ the Dutchman explained a little nervously now, İkmen felt. ‘He is from the British Consulate.’
‘Mr Melly.’ İkmen rose and extended his hand, which the Englishman took in what could only be described as a cursory manner.
‘Yes?’
He remained standing even after İkmen and the Dutch couple had seated themselves once again. İkmen looked up into a pair of craggy-browed dark grey eyes. ‘I am afraid, Mr Melly, that Yaşar Uzun is dead,’ the policeman said. ‘And in answer to your question, Wim, we do have some grounds to suppose that the reason Mr Uzun’s car left the road was not purely accidental.’
‘Fuck.’ The Englishman dropped into the nearest empty chair and immediately lit a cigarette. ‘Shit.’
‘It’s a shock, isn’t it?’ Wim said in the English they were obviously now all using. ‘And you say it might not have been an accident, Inspector?’
‘You mean someone killed Yaşar?’ his wife, her brow furrowed in shock, interjected.
‘It would seem so,’ İkmen said as he looked at the Englishman who was visibly trembling.
‘But how? He . . .’
‘I can’t tell you any details at the moment, Mr Melly,’ İkmen interrupted. ‘However, if you had business which, from what you have said so far, would appear to be unfinished, with Mr Uzun, I will have to ask you a few questions. If you don’t mind, that is.’ One had to, İkmen knew, be very careful around diplomats. They could, if they wanted, just disappear back to their own countries in a very short space of time. Every policeman he had ever met, both Turkish and foreign, hated dealing with them. Holding on to a diplomat was, as one British policeman had once told him, like trying to grab on to water.
‘I don’t expect you to believe everything about this, Inspector,’ Peter Melly said as he put his coffee cup back down on the little occasional table Doris Klaassen had provided for him. ‘I’m not sure that I really truly believe it myself in the cold light of day.’
‘I’m listening,’ İkmen said, his fingers steepled reflectively underneath his chin.
The Englishman sighed. ‘It seems like I’ve been dealing with Yaşar Uzun for ever,’ he said. ‘But in reality I suppose it has to be at the most eight months. I adore carpets and I love history.’ He stopped in order to take a deep breath after which he said, ‘He, Yaşar, had a Lawrence carpet for me.’
İkmen frowned. ‘A Lawrence carpet?’
The Englishman and the Dutchman exchanged a look before the former turned back to İkmen once again and said, ‘I suppose I should have guessed it wouldn’t mean anything to you; as a Turk, I mean, I . . .’
‘Well, you are right in that regard, Mr Melly,’ İkmen said. ‘I’ve heard of kilims, just today of “village carpets”, but of Lawrence carpets, I am afraid I am totally ignorant.’
Peter Melly lit a cigarette. İkmen noticed it was a very smart Black Sobranie. ‘Lawrence, as in T. E. Lawrence, was a British military hero of the First World War,’ the Englishman said. ‘He, er, he fought with the Arabs against the Ottoman Empire in 1917 and 1918. We, um, we regard him as a hero . . .’
‘Lawrence of Arabia, yes,’ İkmen said with a smile. ‘I have seen the movie. Peter O’Toole and Omar Sharif. Yes, he was a heroic figure for you.’ He looked pointedly across at the Englishman. ‘The Ottoman Empire was by then a dying and corrupt administration. Some years later, as I am sure you are aware, Mr Melly, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk changed
‘Peter, this is our guest, Inspector İkmen from the İstanbul police,’ Wim said as he gently ushered the much slighter man into his living room. ‘I am afraid that he has some bad news about Yaşar.’
İkmen looked up into a small, grey face and began, ‘You are a friend—’
‘Mr Melly was at the carpet show on Monday night,’ the Dutchman explained a little nervously now, İkmen felt. ‘He is from the British Consulate.’
‘Mr Melly.’ İkmen rose and extended his hand, which the Englishman took in what could only be described as a cursory manner.
‘Yes?’
He remained standing even after İkmen and the Dutch couple had seated themselves once again. İkmen looked up into a pair of craggy-browed dark grey eyes. ‘I am afraid, Mr Melly, that Yaşar Uzun is dead,’ the policeman said. ‘And in answer to your question, Wim, we do have some grounds to suppose that the reason Mr Uzun’s car left the road was not purely accidental.’
‘Fuck.’ The Englishman dropped into the nearest empty chair and immediately lit a cigarette. ‘Shit.’
‘It’s a shock, isn’t it?’ Wim said in the English they were obviously now all using. ‘And you say it might not have been an accident, Inspector?’
‘You mean someone killed Yaşar?’ his wife, her brow furrowed in shock, interjected.
‘It would seem so,’ İkmen said as he looked at the Englishman who was visibly trembling.
‘But how? He . . .’
‘I can’t tell you any details at the moment, Mr Melly,’ İkmen interrupted. ‘However, if you had business which, from what you have said so far, would appear to be unfinished, with Mr Uzun, I will have to ask you a few questions. If you don’t mind, that is.’ One had to, İkmen knew, be very careful around diplomats. They could, if they wanted, just disappear back to their own countries in a very short space of time. Every policeman he had ever met, both Turkish and foreign, hated dealing with them. Holding on to a diplomat was, as one British policeman had once told him, like trying to grab on to water.
‘I don’t expect you to believe everything about this, Inspector,’ Peter Melly said as he put his coffee cup back down on the little occasional table Doris Klaassen had provided for him. ‘I’m not sure that I really truly believe it myself in the cold light of day.’
‘I’m listening,’ İkmen said, his fingers steepled reflectively underneath his chin.
The Englishman sighed. ‘It seems like I’ve been dealing with Yaşar Uzun for ever,’ he said. ‘But in reality I suppose it has to be at the most eight months. I adore carpets and I love history.’ He stopped in order to take a deep breath after which he said, ‘He, Yaşar, had a Lawrence carpet for me.’
İkmen frowned. ‘A Lawrence carpet?’
The Englishman and the Dutchman exchanged a look before the former turned back to İkmen once again and said, ‘I suppose I should have guessed it wouldn’t mean anything to you; as a Turk, I mean, I . . .’
‘Well, you are right in that regard, Mr Melly,’ İkmen said. ‘I’ve heard of kilims, just today of “village carpets”, but of Lawrence carpets, I am afraid I am totally ignorant.’
Peter Melly lit a cigarette. İkmen noticed it was a very smart Black Sobranie. ‘Lawrence, as in T. E. Lawrence, was a British military hero of the First World War,’ the Englishman said. ‘He, er, he fought with the Arabs against the Ottoman Empire in 1917 and 1918. We, um, we regard him as a hero . . .’
‘Lawrence of Arabia, yes,’ İkmen said with a smile. ‘I have seen the movie. Peter O’Toole and Omar Sharif. Yes, he was a heroic figure for you.’ He looked pointedly across at the Englishman. ‘The Ottoman Empire was by then a dying and corrupt administration. Some years later, as I am sure you are aware, Mr Melly, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk changed
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