watched a grave-faced Çöktin begin to read, 'that our perpetrator has the blood of two people on their hands.'
A minute or so of silence followed as Çöktin took in what was intelligible to him from the report. Suleyman, for his part, stared out of the window and smoked. The pregnancy aside, Arto Sarkissian's report had brought to his attention something that, amid his involvement with all the people around this crime, had all but slipped his attention. What had actually killed Ruya Urfa had been poison. Cyanide. Not something that, thankfully, one came across every, day. He knew that it had industrial uses, although he didn't know what, but there had to be a limited number of places from which it could be purchased or stolen. And, given Çöktin's forcefully expressed opinions regarding the supposed innocence of Erol Urfa, it was probably not a bad a idea to give him the task of looking into this aspect. Besides, the disappearance of Urfa's only alibi for the night of the murder, Ali Mardin, had rather thrown the investigative emphasis back upon the singer. After all, there had to be more to Ali's absence than just simply an identity card violation. But, until the circulation of Mardin's description bore fruit there was no real way of telling.
'Mr Urfa will have to be told about this,' Çöktin said as he put the report back down onto Suleyman's desk. 'Do you want me to—'
'No. No, that's my job,' Suleyman answered with a sigh.
'Not pleasant'
'No. Although I suppose he will have Mr Aksoy to help him through.'
'Oh, er,' Çöktin stumbled, 'um, he's not actually at Aksoy's any more actually, sir.'
Suleyman frowned. 'Oh?'
'No, he's, er, rented another apartment in the same block. I think it's number 1/3.'
Suleyman leaned across his desk and eyed his colleague narrowly. 'And how do you know this, Çöktin?'
'Well, he phoned me actually.'
'I trust that was through the switchboard here,' Suleyman said sternly.
Çöktin laughed, nervously. 'Oh, but yes, of course!'
'I mean I would hate to think that you were giving out your mobile and private numbers.'
'No!'
'After all, with Ali Mardin no longer available for comment Mr Urfa has effectively lost his alibi for the time being.'
'Yes, but—'
'And research does suggest that the person most likely to have committed a homicide is frequently also the person who "discovers" the body. As I keep on telling you, Çöktin, Mr Urfa is still a suspect and is therefore not a suitable person for you to be seen consorting with.' He eyed Çöktin sharply. 'You will cease all contact with him from now on.' 'But, sir—'
Suleyman held up one silencing hand. 'This is not open to discussion!' Then with a sigh, he settled back into his chair once again. 'Besides, I have an important task for you right now.'
Çöktin did not answer but rather just looked up to indicate that he was paying attention.
'I would like you to go over to the Forensic Institute and gather some information for me about cyanide. With regard to people, we seem to be running around in circles to no good effect. Perhaps if we look at the substance used to kill Ruya Urfa we may have more luck. Perhaps the substance, or an individual's potential access to it, may help us to identify that person or people we really need to concentrate upon.'
Çöktin, somewhat calmer in demeanour now, took out his notebook and pen. 'Very well sir.'
'I know that cyanide is employed for industrial purposes, but I don't know what. That is point one. Point two, I need to know where it might be purchased, and point three, it would be useful to know whether it has any domestic uses. For instance, some poisons may be routinely employed to kill pests in the home. Some may even be used medicinally. I believe there is a type of rat poison that is also used as a blood-thinning agent'
Çöktin dutifully wrote all of this down and then looked up. 'So do you want me to go over now then, sir?'
"Hie sooner the better,' Suleyman said as he retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair. 'You might also see if they've made any progress with those rnink fibre samples from Tansu's coat It might be a bit early yet,
but...' '
'All right' Çöktin put his notebook and pen back into his pocket and stood up. 'So what are we doing with regard to Cengiz Temiz, sir?'
'I'm still hanging on to him, just,' Suleyman said. He picked his car keys up from his desk. 'Although Mr Avedykian is moving to bring him before a judge as soon as possible’
'Right'
'And if the judge decides that the evidence against Mr Temiz is outweighed by his lack of capacity then he will walk.' Suleyman shrugged. 'But the law must take its course.'
'Not everybody thinks like you, you know,' Çöktin said. 'I mean you could just beat whatever it is Temiz knows out of him. People do.'
'Yes, I know.' Suleyman looked down at the floor. 'And I almost did that once. But Inspector Ìkmen stopped me, luckily. Had I done so all the reasons why I joined the force would have disappeared.'
'Yes, but with so many others—'
'We can only influence our own practice and try to lead by example!' He ground his cigarette out in the ashtray and then, nervously, lit another. 'I can't do anything about what may or may not happen when other officers arrest a person. I can't do anything about our anti-terrorism measures.' He lowered his voice. 'All I know is that if people sigh with relief when I arrest them, like they do when Ìkmen puts his hands on their necks, I am getting somewhere, if slowly. And I know that you being who and what you are, share the same goals. Policing in this country has changed and is changing for the better. I know that!' 'Yes, sir.'
Suleyman walked towards the door. 'I will extend your condolences to Mr Urfa,' he said. 'I will do so in Turkish. Do I make myself clear?'
Çöktin sighed and then smiled weakly. 'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'
The two men walked out together into the hubbub of the busy corridor.
Ìkmen replaced the telephone receiver on its cradle and then walked into the kitchen. Fatma, who had just finished doing the washing up with the help of fourteen-year-old Hulya, was taking her apron off as her husband entered the room. Hulya, upon seeing her father, rolled her eyes heavenwards and left without a word.
'What's the matter with her?' Ìkmen said, watching the youngster stomp out of the kitchen.
'She's part of Bulent's gang.' Fatma lowered herself gently down beside her husband. 'When you've got as many children as we have, they take sides.' Seeing the crestfallen look on Ìkmen's face she rubbed her ringers affectionately in his hair. 'Don't worry, she hates Sinan and Cicek, too.'
'Oh, well, that's comforting!'
'Basically it works out that the teenagers are against the rest of us,' Fatma said.
'Or rather their hormones are,' Ìkmen answered grimly.
Fatma stood up and walked across the room to put the kettle on the stove. 'Well, you know what I've always said about that, don't you, Çetin?'
Ìkmen pulled an unpleasant face. 'If we married them off like good Muslim boys and girls .-..'
'But you just wouldn't have it, would you! No!' In her stride now, Fatma flung one exasperated hand up in the air. 'No, you had to fill their heads with ideas! You—'
'This is so hypocritical, it makes me want to vomit!' It wasn't often that he really yelled, but whenever he did, it brought her up short Not that Fatma was afraid of her husband. Not once in the thirty years of their marriage had he so much as raised a hand to her. It was just that certain subjects, she knew, could set him off on long diatribes that while they lasted, seemed to have no end. She also knew that he was far from well and that the last thing he needed right now was a fight.
'Çetin
'We married for no other reason than that we were in love! No religious involvement, no family pressure like poor Suleyman had to endure! Love, Fatma!' He looked her hard in the eyes until, eventually, she turned away. 'And if you want to deny our children the choice of real love then go ahead, but you won't get my support! Not even against B
ulent!'
Strangely, she thought, for him, Ìkmen stopped there and just looked down furiously at the table. It wasn't until she saw that one of his hands was clutching at his stomach that she realised that he was in pain. As a veteran of these scenes and of his pain Fatma knew that to comfort him now would only attract a furious rebuff. And so as he fought to disguise the sound of his laboured breathing, she stood over the kettle and changed the subject.
'So who called on the telephone then, Çetin?'
He didn't answer immediately, pausing first to light a cigarette.
'It was Father Yiannis,' he gasped, 'from the Aya Triyada Kilisesi. He's invited me to Madame Kleopatra's funeral.'
'Will you go?'
'Yes. She was good to my mother. I owe her respect.'
Fatma watched as the kettle started to steam very lightly. 'And the other body?' she asked. 'Murad Aga? What of him?'
Ìkmen sighed. 'I don't know,' he said. 'What's left of him is still at the lab. Who's to know?'
Still gently rubbing his stomach, Ìkmen got up from his chair and walked across the kitchen to open the window. As he walked back to his chair he muttered, 'Too hot,' by way of explanation.
Fatma took two tulip glasses out of one of her cupboards and retrieved a box of apple tea granules from another. 'You came to bed very late last night, Çetin,' she said. 'Was something bothering you?'
'I was thinking about those songs of Tansu Hamm's, the bitter ones. Do you know how many times she refers to the beloved as a peacock in those?'
'No.' Fatma spooned granules into each glass.
'Sixteen. And considering that that type of song doesn't represent the bulk of her output, that is a lot.'
'Yes. But then peacocks are beautiful birds. The male being far more lovely than the female.' Fatma poured boiling water onto the granules and then stirred the mixture. 'And as a symbol for Tansu and Erol it's quite good really. I mean he is quite stunningly attractive and she is, well. . .' She smiled. 'Anyway, why are you thinking about this, Çetin?'
'Well, Ruya Urfa's murderer is still at large—'
'Which is, I believe, Mehmet's case and not yours,' Fatma said as she placed the two glasses down on the table and then sat beside Ìkmen.
'Yes
'Yes.' She pursed her hps in a half smile and took one of his hands in hers. 'I know you're bored, but.
'I don't want him to miss anything, Fatma,' Ìkmen said, suddenly becoming excited. 'I want him to succeed! He's a good man. We don't have that many. He deserves to succeed!'
'Yes, of course he does, but that is not for you to decide, Cretin. If Allah is merciful, then Mehmet will succeed, if not. . .' She shrugged. 'But you must let him go and meet his own fate.'
'Mmm.'
'And anyway,' she continued, 'quite how you think this peacock business might help Mehmet, I really don't know.'
Ìkmen took a sip from his glass. 'Fatma,' he said, 'have you ever heard of the Yezidis?'
Ìkmen watched with horror as his wife's eyes hardened. 'They that dance in the dark and then couple with each other? The sons and daughters of Shaitan?' She spat, admittedly in the direction of the sink, Ìkmen noted, though she missed it. 'In§allah we will never meet their like in this city.'
'Oh? Why is that?'
'Because, as I just said, they worship Shaitan! Even for someone like you, surely the dangers of actually worshipping evil must be clear!'
'There are some who think they are simply misunderstood, that the Ye—'
'Do not say that name in my house again!' Fatma roared as she clutched her blue boncuk to her neck. 'As if I haven't suffered enough with your addiction to malevolent characters! Soothsayers, beggars, weavers of wicked tales - and you make it quite plain that you still live with the ghost of your witch mother!'
'Fatma
But she was up now and across the other side of the room from him, wiping dishes that were already spotlessly clean.
'No,' she said, 'I don't want to talk about this any more!'
Ìkmen sighed. Although horrified by even the slightest hint of anything supernatural, Fatma was deeply superstitious in that particularly vehement way that only religious ladies were. Like the time he. had, foolishly, told her about how his mother had always smiled at the new moon to ensure good fortune for the month to come, she was now once again on her guard against the forces of evil. Soon, he knew, she would revert to calling him 'witch's child' again and he would become weary of her ignorance. Not that Fatma was stupid, quite the reverse. She was an intelligent woman - except in this one respect.
But no matter. He had other things to do and, when he returned, she would, as ever, have cooled down again. He knew he would never convince her of Dr Halman's and possibly his own view of these people as merely misunderstood. But if he kept quiet about it when he came home again Fatma would be herself with him.
Not that he could resist just one last comment before he left. 'So I won't bring any Yezidis home for a meal then?' he said as he moved quickly out of his seat and over to the door.
'Get out!' Fatma said as she attempted to both shout and spit at the same time.
Sevan Avedykian took in another deep breath and men started again. 'Look, Cengiz,' he said, 'it's like this. Tomorrow you and I will go to see the judge who will make a decision about whether or not the police can keep you here.'
'I didn't kill Mrs Ruya! Not me!'
'Yes, Cengiz, I know that'
'The devil woman killed her, she did!'
'The devil woman you have, as yet failed to identify,' Avedykian said as he lit up one of his large cigars. And by God he needed it! So far, although it was evident to everyone concerned that Cengiz could not in any way have plotted to murder Ruya Urfa, the circumstances surrounding his abduction of the baby Merih were still confused. According to Cengiz, when he had walked out of his apartment and into the hall, the door to the Urfa's apartment had been ajar. Thinking that perhaps his friends were coming out of the apartment Cengiz had pushed the door open, which was when he had seen this supposedly 'devilish' blonde woman wearing a fur coat. Probably shocked at seeing him there she had then, in Cengiz's words, snarled at him, before disappearing out of the apartment and down the stairs. It was only then, when Cengiz went into the Urfas' kitchen, that he discovered the body of Ruya on the floor. He had not seen the devil woman with the body at any time. After trying in vain to revive Ruya, Cengiz then apparently heard the baby cry and went to her in her room. Still traumatised by the sight of the devil woman, Cengiz decided to take the baby to a place of safety, which to him was not a police station or a hospital but the arms of a prostitute with whom he was infatuated.
A fantastic story and one which, Sevan Avedykian would argue, someone like Cengiz could not have made up. However, there were still significant problems, not the least of which were Cengiz’ s fingerprints all over the body and the whole question of whether the devil woman actually existed. And even if she did, Avedykian could not help thinking, she had to be most profoundly stupid to leave a front door open while she was committing a murder. Giving little Merih Urfa over to a woman who, by Cengiz's own admission, lived with a drug addict did Avedykian's client no favours either. It was just a mercy that whoever had killed Ruya had not interfered with her sexually. With Cengiz's admittedly very old conviction for indecent behaviour, that would have been evidence which could, potentially, have buried him.
As Cengiz sat slumped, apparently looking at spots on the floor, Sevan Avedykian turned to Dr Halman's psychiatric evaluation document As he reached for this he purposefully pushed to one side, her letter of complaint regarding Cengiz's treatment in custody. Although well-written and almost certainly true, it did flag up the Irish woman's lack of knowledge of the more subtle workings of the judiciary. To antagonise the police at this stage would not be a good idea. That could be addressed later when or if his client's innocence was proven. For now the psychiatric assessment was much more pertinent With a mental age of just seven, Cengiz would, accordin
g to Dr Halman, see the world as fundamentally concrete and absolute and would be influenced less by inference, as in the adult world, and more by how things looked or seemed. In addition he would only be able to classify objects or people with a single attribute at a time. This meant, Avedykian deduced, that asking Cengiz for more details about the devil woman, beyond those already supplied, would be a waste of time. So discovering whether she was young or old, short or tall was going to be difficult. Unless the right question were asked, whatever that might be, or the right photograph shown, no progress could be made. Add to this the idea that Cengiz was also what Halman called egocentric and the picture clouded still further. Basically, Cengiz could see the world only in his own terms. If his concept of a devilish person did not concord with that of the rest of humanity, then tough. So the police could, in theory, be looking for Cengiz's individual concept of this woman and not a real person at all - if Avedykian understood this correctly.
With a sigh he put the document down and looked at his client again. Defending this man was not going to be easy. But then Mr and Mrs Temiz had not signed over vast swathes of their fortune to him to make his life easy. And besides, as he attempted to catch Cengiz's sad eyes with his own, he had to admit that he did feel pity for the man. Damaged and frightened, Cengiz had already experienced more ill fortune in his relatively young life than most. Although very different to his own son, the amount of misery in Cengiz's life was not-dissimilar to that in poor Avram's. Like Cengiz, Avram had lived much of his short life in a state of fear and he, too, had been misunderstood on so many levels.
Avedykian patted his client's hand and told him to have courage. Cengiz just stared back, his eyes glassy, his mouth drooling.
'Look, Suleyman,' Ìkmen said, reverting in his agitation to his old form of address, 'all I'm saying is that I don't want you to miss anything!'
'Which involves my having to believe that we are surrounded by devil worshippers?' Suleyman threw himself petulantly down into his chair. 'I wasn't aware that I'd suddenly stumbled into a scene from TheExorcist?’
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