Arabesk

Chapter 14

'Latife Emin does not limp, nor does she have one leg noticeably shorter than the other!'

'Ah, but have you really looked at her legs, Suleyman?' Ìkmen said. 'No, you have not!'

'Well, of course I haven't!' Suleyman cried as he flung himself wearily down behind his desk. ‘I have paid Latife Emin very little heed during the course of this affair. I mean, what would have been her motive?'

‘I don't know.' He sat down in front of Suleyman's desk and lit a cigarette. As he did so, his ulcer made small twinges of protest 'But that surely is something we must now find out'

'Oh, so I just drag Latife Emin back in here and parade her before Cengiz Temiz!'

'No.' Ìkmen sighed. 'Both you and I know that given the status of these people, we can't do that If they were nobody, then we could, but it is in the nature of all societies to have those on top and those on the bottom, and those on top get treated more gently.'

'So what do you suggest then?' Suleyman asked angrily. 'I pass this over to MIT on the pretext that because all the protagonists involved are Kurdish it might be political?' 'You wouldn't do that.'

Suleyman looked down at his hands and groaned. 'No, you're right'

'Let us try, if we can, to think laterally,' Ìkmen said in a slow, considered voice. 'Why don't you get the file out and let us review the evidence in the light of what happened today.'

Suleyman took the folder out of a drawer and laid it on his desk. 'Of course, you don't actually have to be here at all,' he said as he rubbed his tired eyes with his fingers.

'No, but I am and so… OK, Mrs Urfa was killed by the ingestion of cyanide-laced halva. What other forensic evidence do we have?'

Suleyman consulted the various documents in front of him with a grave expression on his face. 'We have. Cengiz Temiz's prints all over the body, plus some footprints that match his footwear…' He perused the information, frowning. 'Erol's prints on the table, the child's, Ruya's on kitchen equipment and her pen…' He looked up, frowning even more. 'Except that…'

'What?'

'Erol said that his wife didn't read or write and so why would she have a pen?'

'She could have used it for drawing,' Ìkmen opined,

'but I take your point Write that down, just in case.'

Suleyman took a sheet of paper from his desk and scribbled this seeming anomaly at the top of the page.

'So, as I understand it,' Ìkmen continued, 'Cengiz Temiz basically walked in on the murder scene.'

'According to Cengiz the door to the Urfas' apartment was open, he went in, saw both the devil woman and Ruya Urfa's body.'

'The devil woman ran when she saw him…'

'With, what we now know, was an unsteady gait'

'But why was the door open?' Ìkmen asked. 'I mean, the idea that the woman murdered Ruya with the door open, notwithstanding the fact that the world was currently watching football, is absurd.'

'Unless,' Suleyman said, 'she had gone back to get something she had forgotten.'

'True. But what?'

'Who knows?'

'How possible do you think it is that Cengiz Temiz murdered Ruya in order to procure a baby for Mina Arda? Really?' asked Ìkmen.

Suleyman smiled a little sadly. 'Even if one takes into account the fact that Cengiz has a previous conviction for immoral behaviour, I don't think he'd have the cognitive skills to kill in this way. That his "theft" of the baby was both opportunistic and philanthropic seems to me beyond doubt. I am quite in accord with Dr Halman there.'

– 'Right' Ìkmen paused for a few moments before carrying on, as if absorbing what had already been said. 'So let us assume that the devil woman does indeed exist' 'Right'

'She looks like Tansu Hanim, wears clothes like her, and Tansu, let's face it, has a very good motive.'

'Yes,' Suleyman said, 'except that Erol told me that even with Ruya dead, he would not and could not marry Tansu. He will, he says, marry another woman from his village. He wants more children.'

Ìkmen's eyes narrowed a little. 'Mmm. Indeed. Not one he is betrothed to, though. Must be quite some tight little community he comes from. Any idea where?'

'Out east¹ Suleyman replied. 'I could find but I suppose.'

'Yes, that might be a good idea.'

Ìkmen knew full well that Suleyman was far from convinced with regard to his theories about Erol Urfa's beliefs but this piece of information, which seemed to point towards a very closed and old-fashioned community life, only served to heighten his own interest But if Tansu knew about Erol – which, given the content of her songs, seemed to be so -she would also know that murdering Ruya Urfa would do her personally no good at all. 'Unless of course,' he said out loud, 'it is not Tansu who writes her songs but another member of her entourage.'

Suleyman, who had not been privy to Ìkmen's thoughts, looked confused. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean that if Tansu did write her own bitter songs, it indicates that she knows that Erol is a Yezidi.'

'Oh, not this again!'

Ìkmen held up a hand. 'No, hear me out' he said, 'please. If Tansu wrote those songs, it could be that she knew he was a member of the sect which would mean she would know she could never marry him. Motive gone. But if, as I feel, she is not a very literate woman, she could have got someone else to write her songs for her. Someone who, possibly, got to know about Eroi's origins.'

'Or someone who just has a particular liking for peacocks,' Suleyman said acidly.

'Well, yes, but-'

'What you're saying is,' Suleyman interrupted, 'if someone else wrote those songs, Tansu's motive still stands. But without a positive ID from Cengiz Temiz

'We arrive back at her oh so similar sister yet again.'

'Who has no obvious limp and no coherent motive that I can see,' Suleyman reminded him.

'Unless it was to free Erol for her sister. They are all awfully close, aren't they, the Emins? I mean, Tansu keeps them all in some style, doesn't she?'

'Yes. But if we assume that Latife did kill Ruya in order to free Erol for her sister, then she, at least, could not, following your reasoning, have written Tansu's songs. Assuming of cou rse, as I do not, that this Yezidi thing means anything at all.'

Ìkmen smiled. 'You know what this case is like, don't you, Mehmet?'

'A nightmare?' He shrugged. 'The one where I fail spectacularly and have to take a taxi-driving job?'

'No,' Ìkmen said as he removed a cigarette from his packet and placed it in his mouth. 'It is an arabesque.'

'Well, it's about those involved in Arabesk, yes.'

'No, not the music Arabesk, but the form,' Ìkmen said with a decided twinkle in his eye. 'Arabesque as in a complicated pattern of either form or calligraphy designed by the Arabs and then refined by our ancestors. Art without the human or animal form which, as we know, only Allah may create or destroy. You must know what I mean, surely!'

'Well, yes,' Suleyman said, 'although the connection did not occur to me until you mentioned it. Some arabesques are positively maze-like, aren't they?'

'It is said that the rooftops of Saa'na in the Yemen almost seem to move with the proliferation of fiendishly complex mazes.' A moment of silence passed between them and then he said, 'So what are you going to do about your maze then, Mehmet?'

But before Suleyman could answer, there was a knock at the door.

The familiar features of Ìsak Çöktin appeared within the office. 'I've written that report you wanted about the cyanide, sir’ he said as he placed a sheaf of papers onto Suleyman's desk. 'Thank you.'

'I did also ask Miss Latife Emin about their gardener’ Çöktin continued.

'Oh?' Suleyman said, looking up now with interest 'And?'

'Well, he's called Resat he does quite a few of the big gardens in and around Yeniköy’

Suleyman smiled. 'Including, I think we will find, that of a Mr and Mrs Ertiirk,' he said with some satisfaction. 'For if this Resat is indeed the same as Ertürk's man, then I know for a fact that he uses cyanide to kill their rats.'

'How do you know all this, Mehmet?' Ìkmen asked, really quite amazed at the younger man's sudden insights.

'It is a long story involving two deranged young women.'

'Oh?'

'Which I really don't have time to go into now.' As he spoke he shuffled once again through the file on his desk until he eventually found a small scrap of paper. He handed it to Çöktin. 'This is the telephone number of a Mr Kemal Ertürk’ he said, 'which I would like you to call in order to get hold of some details about where this Resat lives. I think we may need to speak to him very soon’

^Yes, sir.' Çöktin took the paper over to his desk and dialled the number on his telephone extension.

Until somebody answered Çöktin, neither Ìkmen nor Suleyman spoke. As soon as he got through, all that changed.

Lowering his voice in order not to disturb Çöktin's conversation, Ìkmen said to Suleyman, 'I have the feeling, or rather I gained the distinct impression downstairs, that Tansu Hanim knows who the culprit might be. She realised when she saw Cengiz do his limping impression.'

Suleyman sat and digested this until the click of a replaced telephone signalled the end of Çöktin's conversation.

'Resat lives in Besiktas 22/3 Misir Bahçe,' he said, looking at the piece of paper in his hand. 'Do you want me to go out there, sir?'

'No.' Suleyman leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. ‘I would like you and Tepe to perform some discreet observations regarding the comings and goings to and from Tansu Hanim's house.'

'Oh, but I thought that she-'

'Yes, Mickey Çöktin,' Ìkmen said with a smile, 'Tansu and all her retinue have indeed departed from this place, but we still have some doubts and so it would be as well for you and Tepe to remain vigilant'

'And I want to know everything,' Suleyman added sternly, 'including when Erol makes an appearance.'

'Oh, but that's not likely to happen now, sir,' Çöktin said before he had really thought his words through.

Suleyman frowned. 'Oh? And why not?'

Çöktin knew that his face was bright red. He also knew that he had to say something fast in order to save himself. If Suleyman suspected that he'd been talking to Erol, well, it didn't bear thinking about. 'Well, er, I thought it was common knowledge,' he said falteringly.

'Oh?' Suleyman reiterated suspiciously. 'And this knowledge comes from?'

'Oh, gossip in the bazaars, you know,' Çöktin said with a nervous laugh. 'Shall I go and get Tepe and-'

'If I find that you have been talking to Erol, you know that disciplinary procedure will follow, don't you?' Suleyman said gravely.

'Yes.'

Suleyman looked Çöktin deep in the eyes for just a second and then said, 'Off you go then.'

'Right.'And with that he left.

When Ìkmen could be certain that Çöktin was out of earshot he said, 'Do you believe him?'

'Not in the slightest.'

Ìkmen shook his head. 'It's a shame, he's a good man.'

'Who has changed considerably since being in contact with Erol Urfa.'

'Well, it could well be as I said,' Ìkmen expounded.

'They could well be brothers in religion. He's never been like this about any other Kurdish suspect.'

'Yes, well,' Suleyman rose to his feet and put his cigarette out in the ashtray. 'But now I must go out and speak to this Resat.'

'About his work and his cyanide?'

Suleyman smiled. 'Yes,' he said, 'and also about wasps. The Emins had a problem with wasps a little while back, I believe.'

'Mmm. And with Miss Latife, as Beikis told us, being so keen on gardening…’

'Oh, yes,' Suleyman said as he picked his car keys off his desk and put them in his pocket, 'she did say that, didn't she? Makes you wonder whether her interests extended to disposing of pests, doesn't it?'

Strangely, for Tansu, she had been very quiet during the journey back to Yeniköy. Yilmaz had thought that even with the lawyer in the car she might still rail at him. But she did not Perhaps she had come to terms now with the fact that Erol had deserted her -or maybe her interview with the police had been so horrendous it had robbed her of speech. He still felt bad about having been the cause of her ordeal in the police station. The Emins had always been staunch and faithful to each other – until now – and he had no doubt that at some point recriminations would follow. But for the moment he just sat back and enjoyed the fading of the fierce sunlight and the coming of the slightly cooler evening breezes. The Bosphorus was, he thought, probably at its most beautiful at this time of day, when its blues and whites were just touched by the gentle coppery tones of sunset If only he still had little Belkis to share such moments with, but there.

Latife and Ferhat Göktepe strode into the hall to. meet a tense-looking Galip.

Still silent,.Tansu then entered the house, followed by Yilmaz and, until the singer dismissed him, Adnan Öz.

'You can go back to your office now, Adnan,' she said as she mounted the steps to her front door. ‘I need to be. alone with my family.'

'Ah, but-'

'I will call you when I need you!' she said commandingly and turned on her heel and entered the house.

Yilmaz shrugged at the rather taken aback lawyer and followed his sister who, now in the hall, was saying something very similar to Ferhat Göktepe.

'But Tansu, my darling,' the manager was saying, 'if you do need anything, anything at all, you must call me.'

'Yes, yes.' Distractedly, or so it seemed to Yilmaz, she patted her manager on the arm and gave him a small smile. 'But please go now, Ferhat,I need to be alone to

'Yes, of course, my soul,' he said as he kissed both her hands several times over. 'I do understand, I-'

'Ferhat, please!'

'I'm going! I'm going!' Which he did, blowing kisses to his most lucrative star as he went

Tansu, followed by Yilmaz, walked into the large, pale living room where Galip and Latife were waiting for them.

Tansu crossed the room in order to get herself a drink, then moved back to the door which she slammed on the outside world with some vigour.

Although Suleyman hadn't formally dismissed Ìkmen, he had not asked him to accompany him to Besiktas. So, try as he might, it was difficult for Ìkmen to carve a role for himself in the current round of activity. And besides, there was still Fatma to contend with; she would be furious at his breaking doctors' orders. There was also Madame Kleopatra Polycarpou's funeral tomorrow morning. Somehow he would have to try and persuade his angry wife or even one of his moody daughters to press his best suit for the occasion. Unlike Cohen, who was also due to attend, he did not have the luxury of still being in uniform.

As he made his way down to the reception area, Ìkmen once again pondered why Madame might have killed her husband, the eunuch. Sexual jealousy, surely, could not have come into it, and marital violence, another favourite when it came to homicide, was unlikely. Murad Aga, to his recollection, had always seemed to be completely under Madame's control. He always looked as if he adored her. Perhaps the motive was monetary. It was a thought, seeing as people always said that the hamam did in fact belong originally to Madame's husband who they now knew was none other than Murad Aga. Still, with all the protagonists in that little saga now well and truly dead, Ìkmen's thoughts upon this were more along the lines of interested speculation rather than active inquiry. And anyway, more pressing concerns were afoot now. His other cigarette packet, which he hadn't given to Cengiz Temiz, was completely empty – a situation that needed urgent attention.

At the front desk, however, something much more interesting from the point of view of the current case confronted Ìkmen. Erol Urfa, complete with baby Merih in a car seat plus someone who looked like an attendant drunk, was talking anxiously to the duty officer who was, in this case, Kaya.

'So how long is Inspector Suleyman likely to be?' Erol was asking as Ìkmen approached the scene.

'I have no idea, sir,' Kaya replied. 'Perhaps you would like to wait'

With the aid of a slightly disgusted sniff at the swathes of cigarette smoke that were emanating from a cloth-capped individual who was also waiting for somebody or other, Erol said, 'Well, I'd rather not really. Not with the baby…'

'Quite right' the drunk at his shoulder agreed somewhat volubly. 'Not one of your better ideas, my dear Erol.'

'I'd really rather you were quiet now, Ibrahim,' the singer said, turning, rather sharply on his companion.

As he drew level with the party, Ìkmen briefly made eye contact with Kaya before he said, 'Is there anything I can do for you, sir?'

For a moment, Erol Urfa looked at Ìkmen with a puzzled expression on his face. It made the inspector feel as if he were some strange type of fauna the singer had not previously encountered.

At length, Erol said, 'Who are you?'

'My name is Inspector Ìkmen. I work with Inspector Suleyman.' Ìkmen smiled. 'You are, of course, Erol Urfa, are you not?'

'Yes.'

Ìkmen offered his hand which Erol took.

'Is there anything I can help you with?'

'Well, I was really hoping to speak to Inspector Suleyman,' Erol said as he looked down at the baby who appeared to be stirring.

Ìkmen sighed. 'Well, he's likely to be some time. You are welcome to wait in my office if you wish.'

'Oh, I don't think we want to do that, do we, Erol?' the drunk said unsteadily. ‘I mean…'

'Well, you don't have to stay if you don't want to, Ibrahim,' Erol said, turning to the man with a taut expression on his face. 'But I would rather-'

'You know you're committing fucking professional suicide, don't you!' the man said loudly. 'In my-'

'And I think that you've had far too much to drink to be in a place like this,' Ìkmen said as he took hold of the man's arm and started to move him towards the door.

'Hey! Erol is my-'

'Erol and the baby will be quite safe with me,' Ìkmen said to him firmly as he propelled him forwards. 'You just go and sleep it off somewhere, yes?'

'I'll wait for you in the car, Erol!' he said over Ìkmen's shoulder. 'Don't say anything stupid, will you?'

'I'm sure he won't,' Ìkmen said with a smile.

The man, now out in the street, wobbled off in several different directions before finally settling upon a chosen course.

As Ìkmen returned from the doorway, Erol said, 'He means well.'

Tm sure he does.' Ìkmen said, bent down to smile at the waking baby. 'Come on, let's get you to my office.'

He led the way across the reception area and up the two flights of stairs to the offices. As they mounted the second flight the sound of Ìkmen's coughing was augmented by small whimpers from Merih.

'I think she probably needs a feed,' Erol said.

'Uh,' Ìkmen replied, the grunt being the only noise his congested lungs could manage at this point

At the top of the second flight, while Ìkmen gasped painfully for air, Dr Ìrfan Akkale closed the door to the corridor behind him and made to descend the stairs. Until he saw Ìkmen. Peering closely into the inspector's greenish-white face, he said, 'What are you doing here, Ìkmen? If you have a coronary here when you should be at home, I take no responsibility.'

'Yes, Dr…' Ìkmen gasped.

'You're a very silly man!' And then with a brief 'Good evening' to Erol Urfa, Akkale descended the stairs.

When they finally arrived at Ìkmen's office, Erol asked, 'So are you sick then, Inspector?'

Ìkmen breathed in deeply and replied on this exhalation, 'I have a stomach ulcer, but it doesn't really bother me.'

Erol placed Merih's seat on one of the chairs in front of Ìkmen's desk and then riffled in the bag on his shoulder until he located a bottle of milk. Merih took the drink he offered to her greedily.

'You didn't look terribly well just now,' Erol said, feeding the child while looking at Ìkmen. 'If you will forgive me saying so.'

Ìkmen smiled. 'I just have a few problems with stairs sometimes,' he said as he shuffled various large piles of paper around on his filthy, beloved desk. He had missed all of this sorely – the disorder, the smell, the thrill of the chase…

With a sigh of contentment, he flung himself down into the depths of his battered leather chair and watched the young man feed the baby across the top of a mountain of files. It wasn't that he suddenly came to the realisation that the combination of children and work constituted his own personal paradise, the sights and smells around him were just a reaffirmation of what he personally was about And that felt good. Now if he just had a cigarette or two…

'So, was there anything in particular you wanted to see Inspector Suleyman about?' Ìkmen said as he threw his feet up onto his desk.

Erol sighed. 'Yes. But…'

'Oh, you don't have to tell me,' Ìkmen said in tones of one who really couldn't care less. 'I was just as you can imagine, a bit curious about the statement that man who was with you made.'

'You mean Ibrahim, my manager?'

'If that was the rather inebriated gentleman…'

'Yes.'

Ìkmen shrugged. 'It was what he said about professional suicide. Sort of piqued my interest. But no matter.'

They sat in silence for a while, the gentle sound of the baby's feeding interrupted only by the distant strains of Arabesk music from the street below. But there was a tension around Erol Urfa that Ìkmen felt signalled both a reluctance and at the same time an urgent desire to talk. At length, the policeman felt that the time had come to break the silence.

'So, if you don't mind my asking,' Ìkmen said’ 'did your late wife and Tansu Hanim ever meet?' 'Yes, once, at a party.' ‘Oh?'

'It was about a year ago,' he said, looking, Ìkmen felt, very sadly at his now motherless child, 'although to be honest they hardly spoke. But then they wouldn't would they?'

Ìkmen smiled. 'I suppose not'

'Although Latife, Tansu's sister, was very kind to Ruya, I must say. She sat and talked to her for quite some time. Ruya was very… very awkward in company.' He smiled once again at his child and made small cooing noises to her.

'Did Tansu or her sister ever see your wife again?'

'No. From then on Ruya was alone except when I was with her.'

That was the country way, Ìkmen thought recalling all those little towns he had visited as a young man, towns out east that were, to all intents and purposes, entirely populated by men drinking tea and smoking cigarettes. Which reminded him…

Both the personal appearance and home of Mr Resat Soylu came as no surprise to Suleyman. At around fifty, Soylu was a flat-capped, heavy-smoking brown nut of a peasant. And although he would probably have liked a little more material wealth out of life, the three-room apartment he shared with his veiled wife and severe-looking daughter was both clean and comfortable. Indeed, with the exception of the vast array of plants growing in old oil cans on the balcony and the hugely ornate chandelier in the living room, it was not unlike Cohen's place.

Once the preliminaries of assuring Mr Soylu that he was not actually in any kind of trouble were over, the peasant called for tea and sat Suleyman down upon the only proper chair in the room. This was directly underneath the chandelier which, the gardener told the policeman with some pride, had come all the way from Munich. When the tea arrived and Mrs Soylu had once again made herself scarce, Suleyman started to question her husband.

'I understand you garden for quite a few families in Yeniköy,' he said, 'including Mr and Mrs Ertiirk and the Emins.'

'I do have that honour, yes,' the peasant replied. 'Allah, in his goodness, has always favoured my poor hands with sufficient work.'

A little embarrassed by this effusive outpouring of religious largesse, Suleyman took a sip from his tea glass and said, 'Good.'

Mr Soylu, pleased that Suleyman appeared to approve of him, did what a lot of peasant men do and sank back into a state of contented, straight-faced silence. With a small string of plastic worry beads in his hands, he could just as easily have been sitting beneath a tree in Cyprus or in the corner of a coffee house in distant Erzurum.

'I understand,' Suleyman eventually offered as he sought to penetrate the clamorous stillness around his host, 'that you poisoned some rats for Mr and Mrs Ertürk. Is that correct?'

'Yes.'

The wife, all knotted and draped scarves, put in a brief appearance until the slow lizard-like gaze of her husband caused her to flee to another part of the property.

'Could you tell me then, Mr Soylu,' Suleyman persisted, 'what sort of poison you used for this purpose?'

'Cyanide.'

He might just as well have been talking about tea, ayran or some other totally innocuous substance for all the emotion that showed, or rather failed to show, on Resat Soylu's flat, brown face.

'And you obtained this very dangerous substance from where?'

For the first time the peasant smiled, large fissures appearing around his eyes and down his cheeks, like those great, dry cracks left behind by earthquakes. 'From my brother in Germany,' he said and then, amazingly, elaborated, 'like my chandelier. Germany is a great bazaar of all good things. I have never been, but my brother has lived there for ten years now.' Shaking his head against the sheer wonder of the thing, he added, 'He drives a BMW and has a German wife. Not that her people will speak to my brother.'

'Indeed.' For Suleyman, a one-word answer seemed the safest course of action at this point. Turks had been going to work in Germany for many years, and for many years had consequently come home with quality consumer goods and, occasionally, blonde-haired wives or husbands. These Europeans, although they did not always look down on their Turkish spouses themselves, usually possessed families who did that for them – people who found the Turks both primitive and backward. Suleyman's argument that the Ottomans were taking baths and writing courtly poetry when the ancestors of so many 'Hermans' and 'Dieters' were mere excrement-encrusted vassals of the Holy Roman Empire was far too vehement for the current situation, not to mention totally inaccessible to the likes of Mr Soylu.

'And your brother obtained the substance from where?' Suleyman asked, hoping to rouse Mr Soylu from his Bavarian ecstasy.

'He works at a steel plant,' Soylu said, adding proudly, 'in the Ruhr Valley. He brought it back with him because I asked him to. German cyanide kills far more pests than ours.'

'Right' Not wishing to continue with this theme of German superiority, Suleyman said, 'So does it work for other pests too?'

'I've used it for wasps, to kill their nests.' 'Was it you who killed the nest at the Emin property?'

Soylu smiled. 'Yes. That was a huge one. But I got it Tansu Hanim was very grateful.'

Suleyman took another sip from his tea glass and then placed it on the small table beside him. 'So when you eliminate these pests,' he said, 'do you ever have any poison left over at the end of the process?'

'Yes.'

'What happens to it? Do you bring it back here with you?'

Soylu smiled again and then got up and walked out into his kitchen. During the silence that wafted in in his wake, Suleyman regarded the posters of Rhineland castles that adorned every wall with a jaundiced eye. If these people would only take a little interest in their own noble past, perhaps they might be able to free themselves from, what to him, appeared to be the most awful cultural servitude.

When he returned, Soylu was carrying a large glass container that looked like something in which one might brew beer. It contained a darkish yellow liquid.

'I have all I need here,' he said as he held the vessel aloft for Suleyman to see.

The policeman walked over to the man and, taking the cork out of the top of the bottle, sniffed at the liquid inside. Bitter almonds, unmistakable.

'I take it' he said as he replaced the stopper firmly in the neck, 'that you don't carry this with you to and from your various jobs.'

'No. I decant it into smaller bottles. Raki are the best'

Suleyman went back to his seat while Mr Soylu put enough cyanide down on the floor to kill most of the inhabitants of that district.

'So when you've killed the rats or wasps' nest or whatever, if there is any poison left over…'.

'I leave it there,' Soylu said simply. 'All my people have greenhouses. I leave it there.'

'In old raki bottles.'

'Yes.'

Suleyman rolled his eyes to heaven in disbelief. 'Doesn't it worry you that someone might mistake it for drink?'

Soylu shrugged. ‘I hide it well and at the Emin house it is clearly marked what it is.'

A frown creased Suleyman's brow. 'Only at the Emin house? Why only there?'

Although he was obviously not terribly bothered about what he said next, Soylu exhibited just a little shame when he lowered his eyes briefly to the ground. 'I can't read or write so Miss Emin writes the labels for me. None of my other employers take as much interest in the garden as she does.'

Suleyman felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he asked his next question. "This is, I take it, Miss Latife Emin and not her sister Tansu?'

Soylu grinned. 'Yes,' he said, 'she just loves to tend the plants and trees, you know. A proper country girl.'

Suleyman felt the gravity of expression that overtook his face as he asked, 'And is cyanide at the Emin house now?'

'Oh, yes. Enough to kill another nest if need be. They do have a lot of problems with wasps and so that's quite possible.' He lit a cigarette and then threw the dead match down beside the bottle of cyanide. 'Just not worth bringing it back here when I've got all this lot anyway, is it?' he said as he patted the side of the sinister receptacle.

Suleyman watched, fascinated, as the gnarled peasant stroked his gently lapping personal lake of death.

Orhan Tepe, whilst not having anything against his colleague, Ìsak Çöktin, was not exactly his best friend either. And although the man was pleasant enough to pass the time of day with, being incarcerated in a hot car with him was not easy. As the sun began to set over the distant fortress of Rumeli Kavagi and both men started to contemplate a long night together, conversation finally came to a standstill.

It was impossible to deduce from Çöktin's fixed, blank expression anything of what he was thinking but Tepe's far more mobile face eloquently illustrated the strains and boredom inherent in long stretches of observation. Quite often such work would, once those being observed began to move, involve some sort of action on the part of the officers looking on. Pursuit of those moving on was quite common, as was the investigation of the property recently vacated. But not this time. The task at hand was merely to watch, take note and call in any outside activity or unusual occurrence within the property. To say that it was dull was an understatement After all, a person can only look at an old Ottoman gateway and ugly house beyond for so long.

'So what's Tansu Hanim actually like, then?' Tepe asked, for want of anything more interesting to say.

Çöktin, his eyes still fixed on the gateway, shrugged. 'I don't know.'

'Well, you met her, didn't you?'

'Yes.'

A little aggravated by his partner's short and uninterested answers, Tepe said, somewhat aggressively, 'And so?'

Turning briefly to look at the dark, annoyed man at his side, Çöktin replied, 'So she's a middle-aged woman who has a young lover, what do you want me to say?'

'It's said she's got a bad temper, that she's controlling.'

‘I met her only briefly,' Çöktin said. 'What would I know?'

Çöktin's tone, which was decidedly sulky, finally got to Tepe, who raised his voice. 'I don't know why you're so hostile about it!'

'I'm not hostile!' Çöktin said as he turned a very hostile face on his colleague. I'm as tired and bored as you are! Plus, considering the fact we've allowed Tansu Hanim to go because we have no reason to detain her, I don't actually see the point of all this.'

'But if Suleyman ordered it-'

'He ordered it under the direction of Ìkmen and we all know,' he said, his face resolving into a scowl, 'what he's like.'

Tepe frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean he goes off onto his own private missions.'

'Which frequently prove to be very valuable. And if I do eventually get to work with him I will feel very honoured.' Tepe eyed Çöktin closely. 'Anyway, I thought you liked him, I thought you got on well.'

'I do like him.' He lit a cigarette and then puffed hard on it for a few moments. 'I just don't always understand what he's thinking.'

Tepe laughed. 'That's the whole point,' he said. 'He's an enigma. He likes it that way, it's part of his legend.'

'I find it unnerving,' Çöktin said with an almost visible shudder.

'If you have something to hide then it probably is,' Tepe replied, unwittingly bringing to a close any discussion of that particular topic.

Çöktin cleared his throat as he watched several lights come on at the front of the Emin house. It had been a long day for all of the residents and he wondered, in view of recent events, whether Erol had now rushed to Tansu's side. That he loved her was evident. But whether or not he would now break his vow to keep some, distance between them was not clear. Çöktin could not see Erol's car, though it might be parked at the back of the property.

'So do you have any ideas about who might have killed the Urfa woman?' Tepe said as he turned the air conditioning up a notch.

'No. Do you?'

Tepe shrugged. 'I'd still put money on Tansu.'

Çöktin turned to look at his colleague. 'Why?'

'Female rivalry. In my opinion, most women will content themselves with just one man.' He smiled. "They're not like us. I mean men lived very happily with harems for centuries. It was the women who fought and plotted against each other. They don't like sharing and they don't usually, have the wit to look elsewhere.'

'If they do we call them sluts.'

'Which they are.' He stopped speaking to peer closely at the long driveway that led to Tansu's house. 'Is that some movement down by that garage or…'

Çöktin, too, looked in the direction indicated and then tipped his head slightly backwards to signify his assent. 'Yes.'

'You can't see who it is, can you?'

At the distance they were from the scene it was almost impossible to identify people as anything more than just blobs. 'No. Except that there are two of them.'

'The car looks like a…' Tepe considered just what exactly the low-slung, bright red sports model might be for a few seconds before he said, 'a Ferrari, I think.'

‘Mmm.'

As the two officers watched, someone switched the car lights on and, moments later, the vehicle started moving forward.

'Well, someone's going somewhere,' Tepe said as he put his own lights on and turned the key in the ignition.

Çöktin, who was watching the approaching vehicle intently now, observed that even for a high-performance model, the Ferrari was being driven by someone who was obviously in a hurry. Even with the motor of their own car ticking over beneath them, both the officers could clearly hear the loud roar of its highly tuned engine. By the expression on his face, Tepe, at least, showed that he was very impressed.

The vehicle pulled up, very sharply, in front of the large main gates’ Leaving the engine running and the door open, a figure emerged from the driver's side. It was quite clearly a woman.

'Tansu,' Tepe said in response to the sight of white-blonde hair and a voluminous fur coat. It was not an assessment Çöktin could easily argue with.

Frantically, as if pressed for time to an almost unbearable extent, the woman fumbled with the padlock on the gates until she managed to free it from the wrought iron that surrounded it Then, pushing the gates open just enough to allow the car to pass through, she ran back to the Ferrari, taking the padlock with her. A terrible gunning sound was heard as she revved the engine-hard. And as the brake was released the vehicle shot forward towards the road.

'You'll have to really move to keep up with that thing,' Çöktin said to Tepe as the latter put the car into gear and took the handbrake off.

‘I hope that wasn't a criticism of my driving.'

'I wouldn't dare!' Çöktin said, acknowledging the intimate relationship that exists between the Turkish male and his car.

Tepe's foot had just pushed down hard onto the accelerator pedal when the sickening crunch that brought the Ferrari's progress to a halt occurred. The vehicle it appeared to have just rammed was a lorry, the driver of which was already out of his cab and yelling loudly.

However, there was as yet no sign of life from inside the buckled Ferrari.

Ìkmen smoked three cigarettes one after the other on his way back to his office from {he cigarette kiosk. Some people, like Erol, didn't much like a lot of smoke around their small infants and so he had to make sure he had a big hit before going back in with him. He also felt that he needed to fortify himself a little too. There were some questions, or rather points, he wanted to put to young Urfa that were not going to prove easy, especially if Suleyman, whom Erol seemed now to trust on some level, had not yet returned.

When Ìkmen re-entered the station it was evident that Suleyman was still absent. He went into his office and saw that the child was asleep and the man was standing at the window, apparently watching the sun set. The sinuous strains of the evening call to prayer started to spin their slim tendrils towards the station and its occupants.

Ìkmen sat down at his desk and watched as the younger man looked at the descending crescent of the setting sun.

'I take it you're not a religious man, Mr Urfa,' Ìkmen said.

'No.' He neither moved nor acknowledged in any other way that he was paying anything more than cursory attention to what Ìkmen was saying.

'Like me,' the policeman said with a smile. 'It may indeed say Muslim against religion on my identity card but that is only for the sake of form.'

Slowly, Erol Urfa turned just a little-so that he was at an oblique angle to the policeman, Ìkmen noted with, interest that although he could now talk more easily to him, he could still not see Urfa's eyes.

'So what are you then, really, Inspector?' the singer asked.

'Oh, I'm absolutely nothing with regard to religion,' Ìkmen said. 'But I do accept that others have beliefs and I don't much care what they are provided they don't commit offences in the name of their faith. You can worship Allah or a tree or even a large bird with very bright, tail feathers, it's all the same to me.'

Whether Erol Urfa experienced fear or relief or shock during the frozen moment that then passed between the two men, Ìkmen would never know. Outwardly impassive, it was only his words that gave any indication that he had both heard and understood the. meaning of what had just been said to him.

'How did you know?' he asked, still looking out of the window, still seemingly listening to the exhortations of the numerous muezzins of the countless imperial and other mosques of old Stambul.

'Chicken and beans are such unusual things for such a young child to be noticeably allergic to,' Ìkmen said. 'I suppose that for a man of faith like yourself, you had to take the risk. But then you were coming to commit "professional suicide", to use your manager's words, with Inspector Suleyman, weren't you?'

'Yes. When I heard that Tansu was no longer here I did briefly reconsider, but…'

'What bearing does Miss Emin have upon this?’ Ìkmen said with a frown.

He just managed to make out a sad smile on Erol Urfa's lips. 'I only married Ruya because of the needs of my religion. We never marry outside. And so if Tansu did kill her I am partly to blame for that I wanted two women and that is wrong.'

'Did Tansu know about your religion?'

Erol shrugged. 'I don't know. I never told her myself.'

'And yet the words of some of her songs…'

'Yes,' he turned now to face Ìkmen who noticed that his eyes were wet with tears. 'The peacocks, the bitterness towards them… I have asked her about that, albeit obliquely. She's always said she liked that image. That's all.'

'Did she actually write those songs?' Ìkmen asked.

'She says she did. She is credited with them.'

'And yet if she did, and deduced the reason for your concern, then surely she would have enough knowledge to realise that you could never marry any woman who is not Yezidi – assuming of course that she is not'

'No. She is Kurdish, but not…' He bit his bottom lip thoughtfully and then moved across the room towards Ìkmen's desk.

Ìkmen sighed. 'So who else, apart from your manager, knows about your religion? Here in the city, that is.'

Erol sat down in the chair opposite Ìkmen's desk. 'I only told Ibrahim today’ he said. 'But there is also my friend Ali Mardin and…' The curtailment of his speech was quite sudden, but also quite deliberate.

Ìkmen rubbed his chin and considered carefully before he spoke next. 'Ìsak Çöktin,' he looked across at Erol at this point, 'risked his career by continuing to see you when Inspector Suleyman had specifically instructed him not to, which might lead me to certain conclusions.'

'I have nothing to say on that matter.'

Although Ìkmen did think about pressing this point, he decided in the end that it probably wasn't worth the aggravation. After all, Erol's refusal to discuss Çöktin told him everything he needed to know about the matter.

'Anyway,' he said at length, 'interesting though your revelation has been, you do know that if Tansu Hanim is guilty of murder, it will not make the slightest difference to her fate.'

'She is still under suspicion then? Even though you have let her go?'

'Yes. We still have doubts which, I imagine, you share.' Ìkmen smiled. 'Otherwise why would you have so wanted to tell Inspector Suleyman your secret? A secret you know could damage you and little Merih in so many ways.'

Erol bowed his head, as if he were bending under the weight of some awful, crushing presence. He took a deep breath and then let it out on a sigh. 'You will, of course, report the falsified information on my identity card.'

'Oh, I only deal with homicide, sir,' Ìkmen said and attempted to ape normality by shuffling papers across his desk. 'Anything political is quite beyond me.'

'But you will report this to others who…'

Ìkmen smiled. 'I tend not to take too much notice of information I receive that doesn't actually impact upon the case I am working on. I am reliably informed that, contrary to popular belief, your people don't actually dance naked around the bodies of Muslim virgins, so I have no problem with you. In a sense you are no different from me. I've got Muslim on my ID card and that is a blatant lie. So there's little to choose between us, is there?'

'You know, where I come from policemen are not like you.'

'Are they not?' Ìkmen said. 'Some would say that was a good thing.'

'Not me,' the singer said with an intense look at the policeman. 'I would say that you are one of the most decent men I have ever had the good fortune to meet'

Although Ìkmen was not one to be easily embarrassed, he did now feel more than a little awkward and so he just grunted his thanks while turning his attention, and his eyes, to the mess on his desk once again. Before Erol could become any more effusive in his praise, there was a knock at the office door. 'Come!'

The door opened to reveal Suleyman with a rather excited light in his eyes. Somewhat incongruously, to Ìkmen's way of thinking, he was holding a large jar of dark yellow liquid.

'Oh, Çetin, I saw the light on and, er,' as his eyes lit upon Erol Urfa, he looked surprised. 'Oh, Mr Urfa, I…'

'Mr Urfa came to give you some information he thinks might be pertinent,' Ìkmen said as he spared a brief thought for the pleasure he was going to get out of telling Suleyman that he had been right about the singer.

'Ah.

'I have actually spoken to Inspector Ìkmen,' Erol said, then turning to Ìkmen he asked, 'Do I have to go through it all again with Inspector Suleyman?'

'No,' Ìkmen replied. 'I will tell him and as I've said, if this proves to have no bearing on the case…'

Suleyman's mobile telephone started playing the latest tune he had chosen for it, the beginning of Beethoven's Fifth. Still in the dark about what had been happening between Ìkmen and Erol Urfa, Suleyman put the jar down on the floor and turned aside to answer his phone.

After a brief glance at the sleeping Merih, Erol rose from his seat 'I had better get my child home now,' he said, 'if that's all right with you, Inspector Ìkmen.'

'I have no problem with that,' Ìkmen said with a smile even though his attention was now distracted by the sound of what appeared to be an urgent conversation between Suleyman and somebody.

Erol picked the baby up and prepared to leave.

'All right,' Suleyman said into the telephone, 'I'll meet you there. Let me know as soon as you know. Yes. Yes.'

As Erol moved towards the door, Suleyman held up one hand to stop him.

'Right,' he said into the phone and then, 'OK.' He pressed the end button and put the telephone back into his pocket.

'What's the problem?' Ìkmen asked as he looked at Suleyman gravely considering the face of Erol Urfa.

'While there is no need to panic,' Suleyman said, 'I do have to tell you that Tansu Hanim and her sister have been involved in a minor road traffic accident.'

Erol's face lightened serveral shades, Ìkmen moved quickly forward to take the baby from the singer's arms.

'Neither lady is noticeably injured, but they should both be taken to hospital for observation and treatment for shock.'

'I must go to her.'

'I don't think that would be a particularly good idea at the moment,' Suleyman said. 'As I told you, Mr Urfa, she is not hurt The best thing you can do is go home. We can, if you wish, arrange for Miss Emin's family to call you. Do you have your car?'

'Yes, he does,' Ìkmen put in, remembering the intoxicated manager who said he would wait for Erol in the vehicle, 'although it might be an idea, under the circumstances, if we provide a driver for Mr Urfa.'

Suleyman agreed that given Erol's state of mind, a police driver might be prudent And so, after a few telephone calls to significant others, the shaken singer and his child were eventually led out of the office and ' into the care of a uniformed driver.

As soon as he had gone, Suleyman placed the jar of liquid on his desk and said, 'Resat's cyanide,' by way of explanation.

Ìkmen raised one eyebrow and then, changing the subject said, 'Any idea where Tansu and her sister were going?'

'No.' Suleyman took his car keys out of his pocket and looked up expectantly at Ìkmen. 'Coming?'

'Why? It's only road traffic-'

'Yes, but with a twist,' Suleyman said as he started to move towards the office door. 'Tepe said that just after the car impacted with the other vehicle, he and Çöktin ran over to help. As they approached, he clearly saw and heard Tansu shout "Run" to her sister.'

'So?'

'Well, Latife Emin tried to do what Tansu told her but, according to Tepe, her limp was too pronounced to allow her to move very quickly.'

Ìkmen shrugged. 'But if she'd just been injured…'

'Oh, I agree entirely,' his colleague assented as he held the office door open for the older man, 'but until we go and check it out we won't know, will we?'

'So which hospital have they been taken to?' Ìkmen asked.

Suleyman sighed. 'Tepe says that at the moment both women are refusing medical treatment.'

'Indeed. So what can we do?'

'Well, I'm just going to speak to my men.'

'Mmm.' Ìkmen, motionless beneath the door frame, put his fingers to his lips in a gesture of thoughtfulness. 'But they should have medical attention, really.'

'Oh, yes, I agree, but-'

'No, I mean that they should really have medical attention, Mehmet,' Ìkmen said with a twinkle in his eye. 'As in we should perhaps take it to them.'

Suleyman frowned.

'Look, if we take a doctor with us,' Ìkmen explained, 'she has the perfect excuse to look at Miss Latife's legs unshod.'

'She?'

'Well, psychiatrists do have to study anatomy before they specialise, don't they?' Ìkmen moved out into the corridor. 'And anyway, Dr Halman might be very useful should things prove a little bizarre.'

'Yes, but-'

'Just get your phone out and give her a call,' Ìkmen said gently. 'The number's programmed in so it's not as if you've got to make an effort, is it?'

As Ìkmen tripped lightly to the top of the stairs, Suleyman pressed a button and then listened for the ringing tone. His face was taut and strained.