A Dead Man in Istanbul by Michael Pearce

Author:Michael Pearce
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2009-09-01T04:00:00+00:00

Seymour told the terjiman about the attack on Mohammed. Mukhtar listened with great attention.

‘There could be no question of possible identification, could there?’ he said. ‘Could he have seen someone? On the beach, perhaps?’

‘We’ve asked him this, and he’s said no. And the kaimakam made enquiries –’

‘Ah,’ said Mukhtar, ‘but I’ve been back since. I went to Abidé. I wanted to talk to the small boys who appeared on the beach afterwards. Well, I found them, and two of them said they had seen someone.’

He looked at Seymour.

‘A woman,’ he said.

‘A woman?’

‘Yes. At first I thought that that was just a figment of Cunningham’s romantic imagination, part of the beguiling story that he had been putting around. But the two boys were definite. They had seen a woman. She was climbing up from the beach. They thought that perhaps she had been looking for driftwood.’

‘Woman?’ said Seymour. He told Mukhtar about the enquiries he had been making.

‘Fruitless,’ he said. ‘This is the first confirmed indication that there was one.’

‘I checked at the village nearby,’ Mukhtar said, ‘the one the children came from. It is some way inland. The women there deny it. They would, of course. But I think they were speaking the truth. No one from the village, they said. Another village, then? But the nearest one is some way away and they were adamant that if someone had come, they would have known.’

He shrugged.

‘My enquiries were thorough,’ he said, ‘but perhaps, in the light of what you say about the attack on the boatman, I should make them again.’

‘There is another thing,’ said Seymour. ‘What about this Bebek who was mentioned?’

The terjiman was silent.

‘That is difficult,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Bebek is a very important person. He is high up at court. One does not go to him and ask questions just like that. Not if one is . . .’ he smiled a little ruefully, ‘just a simple terjiman. I could, of course, approach my superiors. But they . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I will have to think about it.’

This was probably as far as he could go. Seymour sensed layers of, probably bureaucratic, complexity. But he could see that Mukhtar was thinking about it and he thought he had detected in him a considerable determination. The terjiman, he thought, would not let go.

Well, Seymour had done what they had asked him to; and now, as the afternoon wore on into evening, he could give his mind to more important things.

Like meeting Felicity.

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