Harem Read Free

the shop door.
    ‘May it come easy,’ Selim Bey said as he watched Neşe step out into the sun-baked street beyond. From the near by Sea of Marmara the sound of a ship’s hooter echoed plaintively through the narrow streets of the battered Kumkapı district.
    The pastane was only a short way from where İkmen usually parked his car. And having received little beyond sulky denials from Hulya with regard to the movements of Hatice İpek, it made sense just to see whether the girls’ employer, whom he knew, could shed any light on the situation. Besides, averse though he normally was to food, İkmen possessed something of a passion for all things chocolate.
    As he entered via the elegant art nouveau doorway, İkmen cast his eyes across the creamy and sugary delights that filled the glass confectionery cabinet to his left. Numerous rich gateaux, profiteroles and croissants oozing with liquid chocolate vied for supremacy with local sweets. Syrup-drenched baklava, thick rice puddings and aşure, a sticky fruit and nut dessert packed with fat and calories. But İkmen’s thin frame could do with some extra bulk. And so in lieu of breakfast and because his wife was hundreds of kilometres away, İkmen ordered a cappuccino and a plate of profiteroles. Then he sat down, lit a cigarette and waited for his food and drink to arrive. Out in the street, curly-headed Ali, one of the local waiters, also known as ‘Maradona’ because of the facial resemblance, nodded a cheerful greeting.
    The coffee and profiteroles were eventually brought over to İkmen by Hassan, the proprietor of the pastane. A tall, slim man in his early thirties, Hassan had taken over the shop from his father, the formidable confectioner Kemal Bey, early the previous year. Hassan placed the pastries down with a small bow and then offered his hand to İkmen, inquiring after his health as he did so. İkmen gestured for Hassan to join him.
    ‘We don’t often have the pleasure of your company, Inspector,’ the younger man said as he called across to the woman at the counter to bring him a cup of Nescafé.
    ‘No,’ İkmen shrugged, ‘but my wife is away visiting her brother in Antalya. And seeing as a man must eat . . .’
    ‘Ah.’ Hassan smiled.
    ‘Not of course that being here isn’t a pleasure,’ İkmen added as he forked a large lump of profiterole into his mouth. ‘You and your father have always been the Picassos of chocolate and pastry, Hassan. It is an art that is as important as painting and sculpture, in my opinion.’
    ‘You’re very kind, Inspector.’
    ‘It’s nothing.’
    The policeman continued to eat in silence, his eyes at times half closed in appreciation. Shortly after Hassan’s Nescafé arrived, İkmen came to the point of his visit.
    ‘So is my daughter behaving herself?’ he asked. ‘And her friend Hatice?’
    ‘But of course.’ Hassan cleared his throat with a strange, almost feminine giggle. ‘The girls are very nice. The customers like them.’
    ‘Any particular customers?’ İkmen inquired.
    The confectioner’s face assumed a sudden grave expression. ‘You mean young men, Inspector?’
    ‘Amongst others.’
    Hassan leaned back in his chair, bathing his face in the strengthening morning sun. ‘Well, the girls are young and pretty,’ he said, ‘and so naturally the men do try to engage them in conversation from time to time. But nothing serious takes place, I can assure you, Inspector. I take care of my staff, particularly the women.’
    ‘But of course.’
    ‘And besides, as far as I am aware the only male those two ever show any interest in is old Ahmet Sılay.’
    İkmen raised his eyebrows. ‘Wasn’t there an actor of that name? Long ago?’
    ‘Yes, the very same.’ Hassan sipped his coffee before continuing. ‘He’s a regular but he has to be sixty at the very least. He’s a contemporary of Hikmet Sivas who, to be candid, he talks about at some length. As regards Hulya and Hatice, I don’t think