Belshazzar's Daughter Read Online Free

essential part of him. Giving up would mean painful withdrawal symptoms. He moved, blinking painfully, into the kitchen.
    As he passed the sink he caught sight of himself in the small, cracked mirror above the draining board. Lit from behind by the merciless neon from the living room, his face stared back, an education in shadows, pits, lines and, where his cheeks should have been, deep skull-like depressions.
    Although the force could never be described as boring, it did little for a person’s looks. Stress, erratic hours, long meetings in smoke-filled rooms, dead bodies …
    He opened the door of the battered cupboard beneath the sink and took, from a long line of identical bottles, an unopened one. The English, he recalled from his language lessons at college, considered the dog to be man’s best friend. But Cetin disagreed. Brandy was, in his opinion, far superior. It helped him think, gave his ulcer something to do, meant he could cope with the inhumanity of his chosen field of police work. Murder. How and why had he got into that? He had never got used to it, inured to the ugliness of its consequences. But then perhaps that was the reason in itself. If he ever did he would quit.
    He put his bottle on the kitchen table and scribbled a short note to Fatma on the back of an envelope. She wouldn’t be pleased. She’d never really got used to the job, or the drinking. He thought of her angry fat cheeks in the morning, her pudgy hand screwing his note up into a ball and hurling it petulantly down on to the floor. It wasn’t fair. A devout Muslim wife and mother saddled for all eternity with a drunken, largely absent policeman. But it wasn’t all bad. Cetin picked up his bottle again and smiled.
    There were eight Ikmen children - so far - with another due in a few weeks’ time. Philosophical differences aside, this was a good marriage, characterised by both love and passion.
    He checked his pockets for cigarettes, lighter and car keys, and made his way quietly towards the front door of the apartment. He looked around at the dim, dingy corridor and listened for the gentle breathing of his sleeping children. The unpleasant thought occurred to him that he would not be standing thus in his own home for many hours to come.
     
    When he reached the third floor of the building he found Suleyman waiting for him at the top of the stairs. Tall and slim, his face looked drawn in the watery light of the single bulb above the stairwell. His eyes, large and sensual, looked even bigger now, widened by shock, stilled by the lateness of the hour. He tried a smile as Ikmen mounted the top step and drew level with him, but it was an effort which resulted in only a slight movement of his mouth.
    ‘Where is it then?’ ikmen gasped. Fifty cigarettes a day did little to enhance his stairclimbing abilities. He took the wrapper off the top of the brandy bottle and tossed it away.
    ‘The one at the end, sir.’ Suleyman pointed to the third door down. ‘Dr Sarkissian’s still in there.’
    ikmen uncorked his bottle and took a large fiery swig from its neck. When he had finished he wiped the top with his sleeve and offered the liquor to Suleyman. His deputy shook his head, ikmen smiled. ‘Damned religious maniac!’
    They walked in silence along the balcony. The immediate neighbours, like most of the other inhabitants of the block, were awake, nervously awaiting developments, clustered around doorways in their night-clothes. As they reached the second door a small, middle-aged man in a dressing gown came out to meet them. Suleyman turned to his boss.
    ‘Ah, Inspector, this is Mr Abrahams, the deceased’s neighbour.’
    ikmen stretched out his hand in greeting. The small man took it warmly and bowed slightly over his outstretched arm. ‘Mr Abrahams,’ Suleyman continued, ‘this is Inspector ikmen. Perhaps you could tell him what you told me.’
    ‘Of course.’ The little Jew smiled sadly. Looking into the Abrahams’ doorway ikmen