Mina rose quickly from her bed and stepped lightly across to the window. As she did so she looked back, briefly, to make sure that Mickey was still sleeping. She could just see his open mouth breathing heavily through the thick mat of his long grey hair. She opened the curtains, revealing the quiet early morning street beyond. She let her eyes rove searchingly across the shuttered old building opposite.
Mina herself couldn't remember when the old Ìskender Hamam, the public baths, had been open for business. For all of her life the owner, Madame Kleopatra, had been dying up in that top bedroom where Mina's mother had attended to her needs for the last fifteen years. It was said that Madame Kleopatra had once been part of that odd and rare phenomenon, a Graeco-Turkish marriage. But no one could remember her Turkish husband these days and the old Greek herself, now finally drifting senselessly along on the cloud of morphine her doctor gave her every evening, barely knew her own name. Not that Madame Kleopatra or even Mina's mother, Semra, were the objects of Mina's thoughts at that moment. It was the child that had her thoughts now, that little life that Semra guarded just as surely as she had once cared for Mina herself.
Though not ideal, this arrangement was better than if she had the child with her. Semra only had to attend to her barely conscious charge a couple of times a day, times during which she could take the child along too if the little one were restless or wakeful. Mina's work was of quite a different order. The last thing the usually European men whom Mickey pimped to her bed wanted was a child around while they exacted release from her body. Mickey didn't know about the child but then nor did anyone else in Mina's immediate vicinity, apart from her mother and, of course, poor old 'Fat Boy'.
Mina moved her gaze down the face of the building and into the street. A short, skinny figure caught her eye as she scanned for signs of early morning life. It was a policeman, a local, that Jewish cop who had sometimes visited her when she was younger. Though physically unpleasant he was not, she recalled, a bad man. Cohen, that was his name. He had quite amused her by translating dirty Turkish words into his native tongue, Ladino, the language of the Jews. That facility, plus his very obvious distrust of Mickey, had made her like him. She turned back from the window and looked again at the wasted form of the man in her bed. Mickey had first come to Turkey in the year of her birth, 1970, an English.boy on the hippy trail to India who had found Istanbul's drug scene to his liking and decided to stay. She didn't know exactly how old he had been then but she imagined it was around twenty. In the years that followed, Mickey had done lots of different things to enable him to pay for his drug habit; pimping for Mina was just the latest of these. The child would not fall in with Mickey's plans, except perhaps as something that could be sold in order to obtain drugs. He would hate it, were he to discover its existence.
But then Mickey knew nothing of what occurred in the Ìskender Hamam anyway. Though resident in Turkey for nearly thirty years, he still couldn't speak the language and therefore knew nothing about Semra or Madame Kleopatra or, more importantly, Madame Kleopatra's regular doses of morphine. So the child was safe, for now. In the future, however, things would have to alter. The child had changed everything now; for the better, to Mina's mind, although not yet as totally as she would have wanted. In order to be with the child she would, somehow, have to get rid of Mickey. How she might do this she didn't know. But an idea came to her later when she finally managed to slip out to see Semra and the child. Through a crack in Madame Kleopatra's door, Mina saw the smart Phanariote doctor use his big syringe to plunge the dying Madame Kleopatra into yet deeper painless euphoria. Mickey, too, when he was particularly bad, let others, as he put it, 'medicine' him. Sometimes he even let Mina do it.
The child pawed gently at Mina's small, empty breasts while the prostitute cooed lovingly, smiling into the little one's eyes.
Various fingerprints and some faint footprints had been found in Ruya and Erol Urfa's apartment. Some fingerprints no doubt belonged to one or other of the couple. Forensic were not yet able to say to whom each example belonged but they did know that there were four distinct types of print, only one of which represented that of a small child. Cengiz Temiz was, so far, the only person who had been obliged to supply prints for matching – with the exception, of course, of Erol Urfa. Suleyman was, as he told Dr Arto Sarkissian when he met him in his office at ten o'clock that morning, still keeping an open mind on the seemingly innocent Arabesk star.
'But if Urfa did kill his wife that doesn't answer the question about the whereabouts of his child,' Sarkissian pointed out.
Suleyman, whose face, the doctor observed, was rather more tired and drawn than was usual even for him, lit a cigarette before answering. 'He could have taken her to some friends, some of his own sort from the east. Everybody in the country was watching the football that night so nobody would have noticed.'
'But he's a nice-looking boy and although his poor wife was quite a plain little thing, well…' He paused in order to rub a hand roughly across his sweating forehead. To kill her in order to be able to marry that Tansu creature is-'
'Mad, or the act of a man who is unbelievably ambitious.'
Sarkissian smiled. 'Now if we were talking about his manager I would say that either or both of those things could apply. But Urfa himself?' He shrugged. 'I don't know. He doesn't strike me as either even if there is, oh, I don't know, something about him I cannot quite place.'. 'Something not quite right?' 'Yes.'
– 'I have the same feeling myself.' Suleyman flicked the end of his cigarette into what Aito Sarkissian instantly recognised as one of Çetin Ìkmen's ashtrays. 'But then there's an awful lot not right with Cengiz Temiz too.' The Down's. Suleyman nodded.
Through the frosted glass in the door of Suleyman's office they both observed the vague smudges that were a senior officer of both their acquaintance and an unknown woman offering her body and her jewellery to him. Suleyman and Sarkissian did what they knew Çetin Ìkmen would not have done, and ignored it
'Has he spoken yet or is it still just rote denial?'
'As soon as I walked into the room he flung himself under the table,' Suleyman replied. 'I don't think I've ever seen a person in such a state of terror.
He drools, he gibbers, he stutters that he didn't Mil anyone… But how he could possibly know that Ruya Urfa was dead before Erol had even arrived at the apartments is a mystery. His parents and one of the other neighbours maintain he was well away from the apartment when they heard Erol scream. The door to the apartment was shut, according to Urfa, and so it wasn't as if Cengiz could have spotted the body from the hall.'
'He usually went out through the fire escape anyway according to his parents,' the doctor pointed out.
'Yes.' Suleyman sat down behind his now rather messy desk and ran his fingers through his hair. 'He denies what he should not know, his parents were absent at the time of the murder and he's terrified beyond belief. Whether he did it or not, I've no idea. But I'm certain he has some knowledge of the events surrounding the death. It's just getting at what they might be. And until forensic come across with something I am temporarily at a loss.' Glancing briefly at his one dust-grimed window he said, 'I just hope that when they do call, it's to my mobile. The switchboard's been jammed since dawn with press calls, Erol's more demented fans and various unhappy individuals who claim to have the child. The latter, of course, require action by uniform and I must get out of here myself in the near future – if I can get around the TRT pack who appear to be constructing gecekondu accommodation in the car park.'
With a smile, Arto Sarkissian rested his considerable behind on the edge of Suleyman's desk. 'You probably need to speak to Zelfa Halman with regard to Cengiz Temiz.'
'I've mentioned him to her,' Suleyman said in the kind of automatic fashion he knew he should avoid. For was it not just one step from talking about mentioning things to stating where that mentioning occurred? 'She advised rather more intervention with the parents at this stage, until forensic come up, or not, with something. I have instructed Çöktin to meet them when they arrive, no doubt accompanied by Mr Avedykian, later this morning.'
'They've already gone to the top for their lawyer then?'
Suleyman shrugged. 'It is their right And if they are rich enough to buyAvedykian, well…'
A pause hung between the two men for a while as they both recalled their previous dealings with Sevan Avedykian. Principal among these was the moment only ten months before, when Ìkmen aided by Suleyman had been obliged to tell Avedykian that his son, Avram, had been murdered by his psychopathic lover, Muhammed Ersoy. Suleyman could still vividly recall the stony silence that had accompanied the greying of Sevan Avedykian's face, as well as the hysterical screaming that had signalled Mrs Avedykian's knowledge of the facts. Arto Sarkissian had once been a friend to Avram and as a fellow Armenian had visited frequently, for a while, after that. But not recently. For as Sevan Avedykian's sorrow had grown, so his silences had hardened. Every fibre of his body shouted to Sarkissian that he should have alerted the father to the son's activities many years before. And perhaps Sarkissian should have done just that. He had, after all, known about Avram's obsession with Ersoy for many years. True, he didn't realise quite how dangerous the fabulous Ersoy was until it was too late. Not that Avedykian would have listened then any more than he did now. And so, after just one abortive attempt to explain his involvement in Avram's past, Sarkissian had walked out of the Avedykian house for what he hoped was the last time. That had now been three months ago.
After looking down briefly at his pocket diary, Suleyman broke the silence. 'I've learned who Erol Urfa claims to have been with on the night of the murder. Çöktin told me.'
'Oh?'
'Yes. Ali Mardin; he owns a small pansiyon on Yerebatan Caddesi. Like Urfa he is a…'
'He's Kurdish,' the doctor assisted. 'Don't you think you should take Çöktin with you, in that case?'
'No. I think it might be better if I impress upon Mr Mardin the seriousness of what has happened alone. I want to cut through as much clan loyalty as I can. These people need to know that only two things are of importance to me – the safe return of Merih Urfa and the apprehension of Ruya's killer. I don't care what values these people adhere to or what they consider their origins to be.'
'How very modern’ Arto Sarkissian said with more than a hint of irony in his voice. 'I wish you luck although I do have some anxieties. I mean, you are dealing with people -Erol, Aksoy, Tansu and now possibly Mardin – who know how to keep secrets very effectively. After all, Ruya and Merih were, until yesterday, nonexistent people’
'Yes. Strange’ Suleyman's eyes glazed over as he considered this point 'I would have thought that Aksoy would have wanted to exploit the fact that Erol honoured his village betrothal. Man of principal marries little country girl. After all, most of his fans are of a certain class…'
Sarkissian laughed. 'Oh, you terrible snob!' he said. 'But yes, I suppose they are mostly peasants. It does rather depend upon what Aksoy had in mind for Erol though. And his affair with Tansu was frequently headline news. That woman is so volatile she ensures whoever she is with is never out of the public eye’
'And if the public are fascinated by a person, they will buy their tapes, CDs or whatever.'
The doctor bowed in agreement. 'Precisely.'
'How horribly cynical.'
'That's business.'
There was a knock at the door. In response to Suleyman's call to enter, a smart, if rather nondescript young man, entered the office. Tipped as Suleyman's replacement, Ìkmen's new sergeant, Orhan Tepe was one of those men who always looked cheerful, whatever the occasion. And now was no exception.
'What is it, Tepe?' Suleyman said, only briefly looking away from the doctor.
'We've got some people downstairs who claim they killed Ruya Urfa. They say they've got to see you, sir.'
Suleyman groaned. 'Crazies.'
'Well, yes, but, er, not obviously so, sir,' said Tepe. 'Not mad old women in rags or men who think they're Adnan Menderes.'
'Oh,' the doctor said with a smile, 'unusual crazies, eh?'
'Well, if you call two teenage girls wearing chadors unusual then, yes, they are, sir.' Turning back to Suleyman, he said, 'Shall you be coming to see them, Inspector, or shall I just get their parents to collect them?'
I am an addict for the sorrow that you bring I embrace the knife's edge of your disdain I am lost I am gone I am dead
Until your sweet return into my life happens once again.
As he looked at what he had just written, Çetin Ìkmen shook his head in disbelief. 'You know’ he said calling out to Fatma over the top of the tape he had been transcribing, 'I think the state should give the Ministry of Culture some sort of award for attempting to get this dross banned back in the eighties.'
'That's Tansu at her best!' his wife answered as she walked over to the stereo and made to turn up the volume. 'She sings of universal emotions, Çetin; of love and loss and-'
'Don't touch that dial!' he shouted. 'In fact, turn it down, will you? Makes me want to jump into a bottle of brandy and stay there. I don't think I can stand any more ungrarnmatical sorrow-filled insults to my intelligence.'
'All right, all right!' Fatma said as she laid the towel she had been using across the back of a chair and then turned the music down to almost silence.
'No wonder the suicide rate in dumps like Sivas keeps on going up. They listen to this stuff all the time out there. Being in the country is bad enough but with this going on day and night… I'd be slitting my throat within hours.'
Fatma, already wearied by the younger children, who were on vacation, and the housework, sat down beside her husband. 'Oh, you've been listening to Arabesk all your life without noticing,' she said. 'People play it everywhere. I play it I like it'
'You,' he replied, touching just the end of her nose with stern affection, 'should know better.'
'It's romantic.' She shrugged. "The stars themselves are romantic. Women like such things. Even Cicek will sing along to Arabesk at times, when she's not listening to those Western musicians. We are Turks, we like to imagine ourselves involved in grand passions like the singers. And then we like to have a good cry.'
'A rather sweeping generalisation there, Fatma,' her husband said with not a little amusement in his voice, 'confounded, of course, by people like myself who want to vomit when we hear it.'
'Oh, that's just you!'
'And Suleyman and Arto. I can't really even see Commissioner Ardiç. getting damp around the eyes just because some spoilt old plastic-surgery victim has been cast aside by a lover who is young enough to be her son. I may be wrong, but… It's just all "Oh, I can't live without you", "I think I want to die"; it's so unremittingly morbid! It's helpless too, which I don't like. I mean, have you seen that photograph of Tansu on the front page of Hurriyet?’
'No. I haven't really had time for reading.'
He reached over to the table and grabbed hold of one of the newspapers stacked behind a heap of ironing.
'Look at this,' he said as he spread the paper across his wife's knees. A large photograph of an anguished Tansu howling into a white-and-silver lace handkerchief screamed off the page. 'Poor Mrs Urfa lies dead on a slab, her baby, who is described but not shown, is missing and what do we get? A photograph of some adulterous old has-been who reckons that her poor Erol is so badly traumatised their love will never be as it was ever again. It's sick!'
'I agree we should see a photograph of the baby. If members of the public are to look for her they need that.' Fatma's face was set with the seriousness of the subject 'But people do like this romance thing with Tansu and Erol. I myself find it disgusting because he's so young. I would hate it if one of our sons became involved with an older woman. But bad as they are, Allah has punished them now and it is not for us to judge.'
Ìkmen, whose opinion of religion of whatever type placed such phenomena somewhere between folk tales and the astrology columns in newspapers, rolled his eyes with impatience.
'And also,' Fatma continued, 'you have to remember that Tansu, anyway, is not always helpless.'
'Oh, I know that, 'Ìkmen blustered on a laugh. 'She's reputed to have the most volcanic temper, be totally selfish-'
'No, I mean in her music,' Fatma said. 'There are some songs where the words are resentful rather than sad. They're often songs about her lover being stolen by another woman. They're really quite, well, I suppose you'd call them sort of tough.'
'A bit masculine, you mean?'
'No, her tone is much the same as in the others. But in songs like "I Want None of You" or "Hate Is My Only Friend" the words are very strong, very… ‘ She thought hard to find the right words, 'very sort of bitter, I suppose you'd say.'
'Expressing the collective frustrations of the lahmacun-eating classes?'
'Those are your words, not mine,' she said as she rose and picked up her towel once again. 'Anyway, I have things to wash. I haven't got time to sit about with you. Oh, and you might have a word with Bulent whenever he decides to come in.'
Ìkmen looked up and frowned.'Why?'
'He's lost his job.'
'At the Pudding Shop?' Ìkmen's face took on a thunderous look. 'Why this time?'
'He turned up drunk,' Fatma said with more than a little edge to her voice. 'I think you should speak to him, don't you?'
'I've never been drunk at work!' he roared as he followed Fatma's retreating figure with his eyes. 'I used to take a drink, but only what I could handle: I was never drunk! What was the boy thinking, I mean-'
'He doesn't care, Çetin,' Fatma called out from the kitchen. 'As long as he's having fun he doesn't care.'
'Well, I'll just have to make him care then, won't I? If he's wobbling around in public he could get arrested even!'
'I think that may be the object of the exercise, actually.' Fatma put her head round the door of the kitchen and sighed. 'I mean, what better way to get back at you, eh?'
'But why would he want to get back at me? Am I not a good father? Do I not listen to his ghastly adolescent ravings without complaint? Have I not always had a stable job in order to provide for my-'
'I think that's the problem.'
For a moment he just sat and stared at her, his mouth open and a little dry. 'You mean the job?'
'Well, it's a bit sort of with the establishment, isn't it? He's young. It's what they do, Q!etin.'
'Is it indeed?'
'Yes, and you're going to have to be very calm when you tell him off or he'll do it all the more. I don't know how you're going to achieve this, Çetin, but you're going to have to be very "modern" indeed.'
And then she was gone, leaving her husband even more desperate for a drink than he had been before.
Although they gave the outward appearance of being devout Muslims, Deniz and Gulsum Ertürk were in fact obsessed with only one thing – sex. That they didn't realise this was a tribute both to their youth and to the fact that the twins had been raised with only scant education in that area. All they knew was that ever since they had seen Erol Urfa for the first time three years before, they had been in love. They'd been fourteen when Erol's plaintive tones had entered their lives and ever since that moment he had dominated their every waking moment.
As much as they loved Erol, the sisters hated Tansu. One of their favourite games was to ascribe all her successes, both personal and professional, to witchcraft Deniz had once heard that some people in the far east of the country worshipped Shaitan and she had taken it into her head that Tansu might be one of them. These people, it was said, always avoided blue, a colour that Tansu with her shades of dramatic red, black and white seemed to shun.
The death of Erol’s wife had, however, taken the twins to a new dimension. Now, as they sat silently looking at the stern inspector across the table from them, was their finest moment as fans of Erol Urfa.
'We could stand it no longer, you see’ Gulsum said as she nervously twisted one edge of her chador between her fingers. 'Erol is special, he deserves so much better than just a peasant girl’
'And so you killed her,' Suleyman said, noting the fine, cultured accent of the two young women. A lot of high-born girls had taken to the veil in recent years. In some cases it was a form of rebellion against Westernised, materialistic parents. But they still, he reflected with grim amusement, retained all of their prejudices against 'peasants'.
'She was no good for him… She didn't love him,' Deniz added as she leaned across her sister's chest
'So how did you kill her then?' Suleyman asked.
For just a few seconds the sisters exchanged a glance and then Deniz said, 'We poisoned her.' 'With?'
'With the stuff that Resat uses to kill the rats,' Gulsum said, enthusiastically adding, 'It contains cyanide.'
Suleyman frowned. Although the press had reported that Mrs Urfa had been poisoned, the substance involved had not been named. This could just be a coincidence, however. 'And who is Resat?'
'He is our father's servant. He tends the garden. Rats come up from the water sometimes and so he kills them.' Deniz gave her sister a slow, sly smile. 'But we used it for another purpose.'
'And the child.' Suleyman leaned forward the better to see into their sweetly deranged and identical eyes. 'What did you do with Erol Urfa's child?'
Gulsum looked at Deniz and then stared blankly back at Suleyman. Then she tipped her head just lightly towards her sister and smiled.
'The baby wasn't there,' Deniz said with the kind of direct confidence not popularly associated with the wearing of the veil. It was a confidence Suleyman recognised as one to which a person can only be born.
'So how do you account for the baby going missing?'
'How should we know?' Deniz replied haughtily. 'We only killed the peasant woman, we would never have hurt the baby.'
'Not Erol’s,' her sister put in. 'He wrote "The Long Road to Your Heart" which means so much to me. He is a true and great artist and we would not even think of destroying such a genius's child.'
'You do know’ Suleyman said, leaning back in his chair and then lighting a cigarette, 'that Mr Urfa is from peasant stock himself? Unlike you girls he has always had to work rather than spend his time musing upon impossible imaginary romances.'
Gulsum, outraged, looked across at her sister.
'How dare you speak like that to us!' Deniz blustered at Suleyman. 'We came here in good faith to confess to a crime and not only do we not get to see Erol to apologise to him but we are subjected to your rudeness too.'
'We're not afraid of the police, you know,' Gulsum added. 'Our father knows three judges-'
'And your father is where right now?'
Gulsum looked down at the floor and murmured, 'He's with Mummy in New York.'
'Leaving you two alone? I can't believe that,' Suleyman said, knowing that however virtuous a girl might be or however modern her parents, Turkish adults rarely left a woman's honour to chance.
'Our brother Kemal takes care of us,' Deniz said sulkily and then waving her hand in front of her face she added, 'Do you have to smoke!'
Suleyman replied with a face as straight as his back. 'Yes, I do. Now, I think that I should perhaps call Kemal before we go any further.'
Deniz sniffed. 'He's at his work now.'
'And anyway he won't come,' Gulsiim said. 'He finds us tiresome.'
Suleyman could appreciate Kemal's point of view.
'His opinion of you is immaterial.' Suleyman rose from his seat and then motioned forward the female officer who had been standing at the back of the room. 'You have admitted to a very serious crime about which you appear to have some knowledge.'
'That's because we did it, you silly man!' Deniz said haughtily. 'And as soon as we see Erol we will tell him why and make him understand.'
The female officer was now beside Suleyman. They exchanged a brief, knowing glance.
'Well, I'm afraid that seeing Mr Urfa at this stage is out of the question,' Suleyman said gravely. 'Victims do not usually see suspects until the case comes to trial.'
'But-'
'Officer Kavur here will take you down to the cells.'
'The cells?' Deniz shrieked.
'You will have to be detained, Miss Ertürk,' Suleymari said and inclined his head to Gulsiim. 'And your sister too. I must investigate your claims and see if they have substance. In the meantime, I cannot have you on the streets if you are indeed murderers. You must see that’
'But can't we just see Erol for a little while when we're in the cells?' Gulsum pleaded. Officer Kavur placed one hand heavily upon her shoulder. 'Don't you dare touch me!'
'Officer Kavur and myself may do what we like,' Suleyman said as he took Deniz gently by the arm. 'We may even use handcuffs if the need arises.'
'But we're just-'
'Young girls, yes,' he said, releasing his grip on Deniz and then smiling. 'And if you go quietly now with Officer Kavur and my constable outside, I will call your brother and perhaps then we will be able to sort this thing out.'
'But Erol, can't we-'
'Just go,' he said, as Kavur waved the two girls forward in front of her. 'Please.'
As the door shut gently behind the policewoman and the girls, Suleyman sat back down. That the girls had named cyanide was spooky, but nothing else in their story fitted the facts. Suleyman put his head in his hands and wondered how many more such scenarios involving Erol's fans he would have to endure.
Even though fully twelve hours had passed since the police had left her home, Semahat Temiz was still shaking with indignation. They had explained why they were removing three large sacks full of Cengiz's belongings but the careless way they had bundled them up was inexcusable. All his shoes had gone, plus his jackets and most of the contents of the washing basket. Some books and magazines had been taken too. Semahat knew nothing about these and said so to the police.
On the plus side, however, was the fact that she trusted Sevan Avedykian implicitly. Kenan had originally protested that the lawyer's rates were extortionate. But as Semahat had told him, after she had engaged Avedykian, if you wanted the best, you had to pay for it. After all, not every lawyer would head straight for a police station as soon as a client was in custody. But Sevan Avedykian had. He'd got very little out of either the sergeant who had apprehended Cengiz or the man Semahat now thought of as 'the big boss', Commissioner Ardig. Avedykian had however seen Cengiz.
"The main problem is that he won't speak,' he told the parents as the three of them entered the police station. After signing in at the reception desk, he went on, 'He won't either confirm or deny their accusations. It makes them,' he flicked his head at a small knot of uniformed officers, 'very suspicious.'
'But if he's done nothing to be ashamed of then there is no need for speech,' Semahat protested.
'I take it as given that Cengiz is innocent,' Avedykian said with a thin smile, 'but to be honest, madam, we must look at this logically. Both you and your husband were out, on the night of the murder, you sir, at the inonii Stadium watching the football. Cengiz was home alone and so the only evidence the police may rely upon with regard to his movements are his own testimony and forensic evidence. Nobody else in the apartments saw him that night-'
'Well, precisely! And if that ghastly little impresario or whatever he is had not had that so-called conversation with my son then we would not be here now! You would have thought the ridiculous man would have realised that Cengiz is as he is and discounted his words.'
'Mr Aksoy may well have done, but the police cannot.' Avedykian lit up a large Cuban cigar. 'The calculated use of cyanide in a sweet plus the clever timing of the event does however work in our favour.'
'How?' Kenan, his eyes red from lack of sleep, temporarily rose from his stupor.
'Well, Cengiz couldn't possibly have planned such a thing!' his wife exploded.
'Unless his actions came about by chance,' the lawyer added, 'although what his motive might have been I cannot imagine. But we must wait now for the forensic evidence to be assessed and for the pathologist to finish his work.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well…' This was not easy. Avedykian knew that Kenan and Semahat Temiz never spoke of the time, twenty years before, when Cengiz had been arrested for exposing himself to a young girl. 'Although time and mode of death have been established, the pathologist must now look for other evidence – injuries, signs of, er, abuse, er.
Painfully aware of what her lawyer was attempting to say, Semahat changed the subject. 'So who are we seeing now then, Mr Avedykian?'
'Sergeant Çöktin is coming to meet us. He will ask you some questions you are not obliged to answer.'
'Will we be able to see our son?' Kenan asked.
Sevan Avedykian sighed. 'That I don't know,' he said.
'I mean, they could have beaten him or anything,' Kenan went on, tears filling his eyes. 'You know how it can be.'
Avedykian had opened his mouth to tactfully respond when a red-haired man appeared in front of them and said, 'I think you'll find your son is all right, sir.'
'How can you be sure?'
'Your son, Mr Temiz,' Çöktin said, 'is the responsibility of the investigating officer, Inspector Suleyman. If anything were to happen to Cengiz he would personally rip the offender apart.' He smiled.
'He sounds,' Kenan remarked, 'like quite a violent man.'
'He did have lovely manners,' his wife recalled, with just a tinge of affection.
'If violent,' said Kenan drily.
Çöktin smiled. 'The inspector is both the perfect gentleman and a very frightening person too.' With an evil grin he added, 'His kindness frightens me to death.'
Avedykian sniffed a little contemptuously at all of this Suleyman talk. When Avram had been killed he had seen rather more of the haughty Ottoman than he liked. But he turned his mind away from that now, focusing his attention on the present. Though so much shorter than Cdktin, the lawyer looked down his nose at the officer and asked, 'So I take it we can now see Mr Temiz, Sergeant?'
'Yes, Mr Avedykian.' With a sweeping gesture he pointed to a badly stained door at the end of the corridor. 'Shall we go, madam, sir, Mr Avedykian?'