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  'Has relations with that blonde,' the other replied in hushed, scandalised tones. 'Allah will punish such unnatural behaviour,' and then raising his arms heavenwards in a gesture of supplication, he added, 'if it please Him.’

  His friend sighed heavily as he watched the rapidly retreating back of the young man and then said softly, 'I think his punishment, by the look of him, has already come to pass.'

  Living with others, however kind and tolerant those others might be, is never easy. Ever since he'd separated from his wife the previous year, the newly promoted Inspector Suleyman had been renting a room from one of his more lowly colleagues, Constable Cohen. Although completely different in nearly all respects, including age, religion, class and values, Suleyman and Cohen had first become friends when the former was still in uniform. And in spite of Suleyman's rapid rise to inspector, they had remained close. Indeed when the younger man had first left his wife, Cohen had permitted him to stay rent-free to allow, as he put it, 'the bastard lawyers to screw your bank account'.

  Loud, colourful and kind, Cohen and his wife Estelle included the elegant and cultured Suleyman in all their pursuits both familial and religious. As well as being expertly catered for by them with regard to his own Muslim calendar, Suleyman had been included in celebrations to mark Passover and Chanukah. He had also attended a vast and, as it turned out, ill-fated meal to mark the return of the Cohens' eldest son, Yusuf, from his tour of conscript duty in the eastern provinces. Wounded in places the eye could never see, this young man's bizarre behaviour at that dinner had been just the start of what turned out to be a very rapid descent into psychiatric instability. When Yusuf was finally admitted to an institution, Suleyman, as well as the Cohens themselves, had felt sad but relieved.

  However, to say that Suleyman had experienced a quiet life since Yusuf's departure would be erroneous. As well as having to endure the sound of Estelle's frequent rages at the endless sexual faithlessness of her husband, there were the neighbours to take account of too. Cohen's apartment, though large, was not situated in the best part of Istanbul. Karaköy, which is that district that runs from the eastern end of the Galata Bridge up the hill of the same name to Ìstiklal Caddesi, is not for the faint-hearted. Though dotted with many fine old buildings, some of Genoese and Armenian origin, plus the now lovingly restored Neve Shalom Synagogue, Karaköy also possesses its share of tatty apartment buildings. The one the Cohens had moved into twenty-six years previously was the one they still lived in now. Not once in all those years had the place been so much as painted, let alone properly decorated. With the notable exceptions of one new television and an even more erratic plumbing system, nothing much had changed in all that time, at least not for the better anyway. The locals had always been dubious but in the last ten years they had become, to use a Cohenism, far more 'serious’. Despite the very best efforts of the city authorities, now run by the traditional Refah party, to flush such elements out, the old ways died hard. Indeed, in this case, they actually prospered. And, although the cheap dancing girls, petty thieves and even the legal brothels had gone away, they had been replaced mainly by full-on, streetwalking prostitutes and drug dealers. The very loud and very young girl who lived in the apartment next door and who routinely woke Suleyman in the middle of the night with her harsh laugh and passion-filled screams was quite openly a cocaine addict. That she knowingly lived next door to two police officers did not restrict her behaviour in any way. It had about as much effect upon her as it did upon her enormous pimp who liked to laugh out loud at Cohen's diminutive figure. That the criminal had access to far more sophisticated and greater numbers of weapons than the law man had much to do with this casual disdain. The effect upon Suleyman of all this was to make him angry and, despite his feelings for Cohen, very anxious to leave as soon as his finances permitted. Sleeplessness of the order he was experiencing now was neither healthy nor good for his new, far more responsible position in life.

  Until almost exactly four weeks previously, Mehmet Suleyman had been a sergeant working for the city's leading homicide detective, Çetin Ìkmen. Although happy in his work, Suleyman was both ambitious and, especially since his separation from his wife Zuleika, extremely needy where money was concerned. So at the end of the previous year, 1998, he had put in for promotion. Supported by Ìkmen he had, after not too long a wait (given the gargantuan bureaucracy of the Turkish police establishment), achieved the promotion he desired and had hoped to work beside his old boss for quite some time before being let loose on his own initiative. But then Ìkmen, who had, as far as Suleyman was concerned, always complained of stomach pains, had suddenly become very ill indeed. Initially admitted to hospital, Ìkmen had been diagnosed with multiple duodenal ulcers. Although he would need surgery at some time in the future, for the moment he was prescribed medication, dietary restrictions and rest Just thinking about this regime made Suleyman's handsome features resolve into a wry smile. The 'old man' was almost as passionately attached to the notion of eating irregularly (and then only junk) as he was to his beloved brandy and cigarettes, his twin, if second-league, obsessions. His first was his work. According to the inspector's eldest son, Sinan, to whom Suleyman had spoken the previous evening, Ìkmen was not only plotting to get hold of alcohol at every possible opportunity but was also going a little mad from his enforced idleness.

  Suleyman put his tired head in his hands and yawned. Although there were other experienced detectives in the homicide division with whom he could, theoretically, discuss the more troubling aspects of his new position in life, he knew that they saw him as a dangerous rival - people like old Yalcin who openly mocked Suleyman's aristocratic background while at the same time telling others to 'watch out' for the younger man's keen intelligence. You didn't get this sort of thing from Ìkmen who, better than the lot of them put together, would have gladly backed his protege in any argument with old guard types - and enjoyed it

  It was in these silent, between-shift moments that Suleyman missed Ìkmen the most The old man had always come in early and had always been there when Suleyman arrived, alert and ready for at least a short discussion of any lingering woes the younger man may have carried with him from the previous day. But, sick or well, the relationship between Ìkmen and himself was due to alter, at least in the working environment. Now Suleyman was responsible not only for his own security and actions but for that of his new sergeant too. Ìsak ‘Çöktin, at twenty-five, resembled in some ways the youthful enthusiast that Suleyman himself had once been. Although some had seen his assignment to Suleyman's command as a subtle snub to the stylish aristocrat, Suleyman himself did not view it in that light Whether or not ‘Çöktin was a 'mountain Turk', that bland euphemism for those of Kurdish descent, as some of the older and more conservative elements whispered he was, did not concern Suleyman. ‘Çöktin had been born and brought up in Istanbul, in admittedly one of the more downmarket districts. And though his tousled red hair did point towards blood that was not entirely Turkish, his record as an officer was impeccable. That Ìkmen personally liked him a lot was also a plus, Ìkmen, who by his own admission was the son of an Albanian soothsayer, possessed an almost unfailing sixth sense when it came to judging people's characters. And 'Mickey', as he had dubbed ‘Çöktin because of his almost uncanny resemblance to the scruffy American film star Mickey Rourke, was 'all right'. Just how 'all right' ‘Çöktin was, Suleyman wasn't to learn until he picked up the telephone which now buzzed harshly at his tired ears.

  'Suleyman,' he drawled by way of introduction.

  'Inspector, it's ‘Çöktin,' a voice barely capable of containing its excitement replied.

  Suleyman sat up just a little bit straighter. 'Where are you? What's going on?'

  'I'm at the Ìzzet Pasa Apartments on Ìstiklal Caddesi.' Then pausing briefly to take a large, nerve-calming breath, he added, 'I'm with Erol Urfa, or at least I was until—'

  'From your tone’ Suleyman interrupted, 'I take it we are talking about the Erol Urfa?'
/>   'The Arabesk star, yes, sir.' With even greater excitement he added, 'Actually in the next room from where I'm standing now, actually, sir.'

  'Really? Why?'

  Silence greeted Suleyman's inquiry and so he couched his question in rather more overt terms. 'Why are you there with Mr Urfa is what I'm trying to get at, Çöktin.'

  'Oh, well, because he says his wife has been murdered, sir.'

  Suleyman, as if shocked by a current of electricity, stood up. 'What!'

  'Yes, here in his apartment. The body's in the kitchen.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Well, without jeopardising the integrity of the site more than I had to, I did check and anyway it was quite obvious—'

  'No! No!' Suleyman put his hand up to his head and held what was now a lightly perspiring brow. 'What I mean is, are you sure that the woman is his wife?'

  'So he says.'

  Suleyman sighed, speaking again on the outgoing breath. 'OK,' he said, 'I'll be with you as soon as I can. Keep Mr Urfa away from the site so that the doctor and forensic don't have to deal with too much conflicting information.'

  'OK.'

  Then just before Suleyman replaced the receiver, a thought occurred to him which rather graphically made him suddenly aware of just how inexperienced he was. 'Oh, and ‘Çöktin, er . . .'

  'Yes, sir?'

  'What leads you, apart from Mr Urfa's opinion, to deduce that this lady has been murdered?'

  'The smell of bitter almonds,' ‘Çöktin said with the simple clarity of one who knows he need elaborate no further.

  Chapter 2

  The man who had really rather frightened Ìsak Çöktin when he first saw him running up to and screaming 'Help me!' at the kiosk where he was buying cigarettes was now sitting as silently as stone on what was probably his bed. Dr Sarkossian, although a pathologist by profession, was always mindful of the pain the living frequently experienced in the presence of the dead and had, in order to alleviate Mr Urfa's hysteria, administered ten milligrams of something Çöktin could not remember to the traumatised man. Known simply as 'Erol' to his millions of dedicated fans, Urfa looked in reality rather older than his reported twenty-five years and, probably unsurprisingly, less handsome than his publicity photographs. Not, of course, that those wolves from the press and television stations would be fazed by Erol's uncharacteristically haggard looks when they did, probably sooner rather than later, set up camp outside the scene of this tragedy. Big stars equalled big headlines, especially when they involved not only murder but also a juicy secret. Erol Urfa, known to his most passionate devotees as 'The Sad Nightingale', had shot to fame four years earlier via his rendition of the extremely sentimental song of the same name. Originating as he had from some tiny, obscure village in the east, fame had very quickly overwhelmed Erol who had, according to those who cared about Arabesk, made some very bizarre decisions. The most notable of these was his much publicised affair with the veteran Arabesk star, Tansu Hamm. Although as blonde, if not more so, than Madonna at her sleaziest, and notwithstanding millions of liras' worth of plastic surgery, Tansu had to be, by old Inspector Ìkmen's reckoning, at least the same age as he was. So even saying she was fifty was being kind.

  Of course to someone of Çöktin's age, such a strange course of action had to have reasons that had nothing to do with love. There were numerous possibilities. When he first came to the city, Erol had been fresh and lacking in credibility. The vastly experienced Tansu would have given him that as well as enhancing her own flagging career with his vibrant and youthful presence. What that presence did for her bedtime activities was also quite easy to see as well. And with managers and agents, if the press were to be believed, involved in every aspect of the lives of the rich and famous, who could even begin to guess what influence they were also exerting upon this pair? Not that Erol and Tansu's relationship was in any sense a secret. Pictures of them holding hands, kissing or just shopping appeared almost weekly in most of the newspapers. What was a secret, however, and a big one, was the existence of the girl now lying dead in Urfa's kitchen. If the woman who looked, even in death, like a peasant girl of no more than sixteen was indeed Erol's wife then firstly, why had he kept her a secret and secondly, why had he married her after the beginning of his affair with Tansu? 'Sergeant Çöktin?'

  He turned round quickly at the sound of his name and found himself facing a police photographer. 'Yes?'

  'Inspector Suleyman wants you.'

  With a brief nod of acknowledgement, Çöktin glanced just once more at the motionless Erol Urfa before moving off in the direction of the kitchen.

  Although for some the mere appearance of men within a kitchen is incongruous, the two that Çöktin found himself facing as he entered looked far more comfortable in that setting than the dead woman at their feet must have done when she was alive. Although not nearly as elegant as the younger, slimmer Suleyman, Dr Arto Sarkissian possessed the same sort of casual grace and wore similar, if larger, designer suits. Both blended very easily with the clinically beautiful, all-metal German kitchen. The girl, in her multi-coloured, multi-layered, heavily headscarfed ensemble, looked like little more than a bundle of rags.

  'Well, Çöktin,' the Armenian said with his customary, almost unfathomable jollity, 'you were right, I believe, about the substance involved.'

  'Cyanide?'

  'A distinctive bitter almonds smell plus the livid appearance of the hypostasis would seem to suggest death by oxygen starvation. Carbon monoxide can cause the same effect in the skin but not the bitter almond aroma. A most excellent preliminary deduction on your part. Well done.'

  ‘Thank you, sir.'

  Then, turning to Suleyman once again, the doctor continued, 'I will of course have to test in order to confirm my findings, but I think it is only a formality. There are some interesting deposits in Mrs Urfa's mouth which suggest she may have ingested the substance in food, but we'll see.'

  'Could she have done it herself?' Suleyman asked as he looked down at the dead woman with more, or so Çöktin thought, than a little distaste.

  The doctor briefly sucked his bottom lip before answering. 'Mmm. Suicide. Could always be, of course, but with, so far, no note to that effect I can't be certain. There is a pen, as you can see, on the table, but . . . Once the forensics are completed I'll be in more of a position to say. However . . .'

  'Yes?'

  'I have my own thoughts. Strange as it may seem in a world characterised by the Internet and remote guidance weapons systems, we could have a good old-fashioned poisoning on our hands.'

  Suleyman smiled. 'I wasn't aware that that method had gone out of style.'

  'Oh, it hasn't. As you and I both know, Inspector, people are regularly despatched via overdoses of drugs both prescribed and illicit But real, honest-to-God poisons are unusual. With the exception of weedkiller, actual poisons rarely turn up in our line of work - ask Çetin Ìkmen if you don't believe me.'

  Çöktin, who had been listening very attentively to all this, bent down and looked searchingly into the woman's horrified open eyes. When alive, he imagined she must have looked something like his own mother when she married his father. Child brides both, certainly in his mother's case, from some little village so insignificant it barely boasted a name.

  'When women are poisoned,' the doctor continued, 'I subconsciously, I must say, see the shadow of the harem.'

  Suleyman gave Sarkissian one of his almost obscenely perfect smiles. 'You are, I take it, theorising that a woman may have perpetrated this act?'

  'Oh no,' Sarkissian replied, waving his hands dismissively in front of his face. 'I am just a doctor, not a theorist. That is your job, my dear Suleyman.'

  'But?'

  'But,' he was smiling again now, obviously pleased to give vent to his thoughts however off kilter they might be, 'our Mr Urfa is extremely popular with women. I thought, as I expect you did too, that he was solely involved with the lovely Tansu Hanim. And if I am shocked that he has this little wife the
n perhaps others were surprised also. Surprised and envious maybe. Not that my silly, florid mind is totally obsessed by old harem tales of women slipping poisons into the sherbet of their rivals, you understand...'

  'But it is a most unexpected turn of events nevertheless,' Suleyman concluded.

  'Talk!'

  All three men turned to face the source of the harsh, rather common voice that came from the man now slumped against the doorway of the kitchen.

  'While you talk you do nothing about my Merih’ Urfa growled, pushing roughly against the hand of a young constable who was now, too late, attempting to restrain him.

  Moving forward in order to protect the gaze of his live patient from the face of his deceased charge, Arto Sarkissian put one friendly hand out towards the famous singer in a gesture of concern. 'Now—'

  'Merih,' the man repeated the name, his voice now clearly exhibiting that deliberate but slurred quality of the unhappily sedated.

  'No, Ruya,' the doctor corrected, 'or that was what I thought you said your wife's name was.'

  'Yes, Ruya, my wife, she was, is. . .' Urfa slumped forward a little, his head dropping towards the doctor's shoulder in a movement of despair. 'And Merih ...'

  Suddenly and for no reason that he could logically fathom, Suleyman was possessed by a shiver of apprehension. The sort of feeling Ìkmen had always told him he must learn to trust 'Who is Merih, Mr Urfa?' he asked. 'If Ruya was your wife, then Merih is . . . ?'

  Looking past the doctor's shoulder, directly at the body of his wife, Urfa whispered, 'She is our daughter. She is just ten weeks old.'

  'But. . .'

  Then, his eyes filling and finally overflowing with tears, Urfa choked, 'She was with her mother. She was always with her mother! But now she has gone. I see her nowhere.' And with that his eyes turned up inside his head as he lost consciousness.

  In retrospect, a pink, open-necked shirt was not as respectful an ensemble as he would have liked for the occasion, but then when one is in a hurry one does not always think of such things. And Ibrahim Aksoy had been in a tearing hurry as soon as he had put the phone down on the luminous Tansu Hanim less than half an hour before. When, so the star had told him, she had earlier that morning attempted to contact Erol Urfa at his Ìstiklal Caddesi apartment, she had been answered not by her beloved but by a very curt man who had informed her that Mr Urfa was currently 'indisposed'. Quite who this person was, why he was in Erol's apartment and what this 'indisposition' might consist of was not disclosed. But Tansu had been worried enough to contact the only person she knew she could really trust vis-a-vis Erol, his manager Ibrahim Aksoy. As, effectively, the owner of the young superstar, Aksoy would either maximise publicity for his charge's indisposition, if that were appropriate, or cover it up in as diplomatic a fashion as possible. Either way he would sort it, just as Tansu's own manager had, over the years, dealt with such indispositions of hers -her jealous lovers, her plastic surgery operations, all those abortions.