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  ‘Of course you will be able to marry again,’ his mother continued as she poured out more tea for herself and her son. ‘Women will be falling over themselves—’

  ‘I’m still married at the moment.’

  ‘Yes, but not for long,’ Nur said with conviction. ‘Get a divorce as soon as you can, Mehmet. I’ll speak to Mr Bayar for you today.’

  ‘When I need a lawyer I’ll speak to one of my own choosing myself!’ Mehmet, incensed, rose to his feet. ‘I may be living at home for the time being, Mother, but I’m not a child! I’m nearly forty!’

  ‘I still do everything for your father,’ Nur responded nastily. ‘What makes you think you’re not like him?’

  ‘Nothing, Mother.’ Mehmet picked his cigarettes and lighter up off the table and put them into his jacket pocket. ‘We’re both useless!’

  He then walked quickly out of the dining room before he said something even more inflammatory. Living back with his brother, Murad, and even his father, wasn’t really that bad, but his mother was and always had been intolerable. He’d only been separated from his wife for a matter of days before he returned to his parents’ house. But Nur had been on to him immediately: suggesting the names of women he might like to take out on a date, prattling on about how some people these days found their partners on the Internet. As if she knew anything about it!

  How could he, in his position, even think about dating? He couldn’t even think about sex at the moment. Not that he had been thinking about sex. Ever since the possibility of his being HIV-positive had become apparent to him, sex had been relegated to the status of things other people did. Sex was something that he came across sometimes during the course of an investigation.

  Gülay Arat, so Dr Sarkissian had told him last night, had had sex prior to her death. Or rather, she’d had something, maybe not a penis, he thought, inside her vagina. Something large. What kind of brutal and sterile act was that? Where was the pleasure in using an inanimate thing on a woman? Sex, surely, was about two people connecting, flesh to flesh, achieving pleasure together. He loved the feeling of his skin melting into the skin of a woman. But then not everyone got their kicks in the same way. Perhaps whoever had put something inside Gülay got off on fucking women with dildos or whatever. Playing with sex ‘toys’ wasn’t, after all, that unusual. What was more worrying was just when this person had done this. Naked on a steep hillside, Gülay Arat had either plunged a knife into her own chest or been killed by someone as yet unknown. Had that been before or after the person who’d been moving the thing inside her had achieved orgasm? Or had that happened at the moment of her death?

  ‘I’m here for another two weeks and so I may as well help you get things moving.’

  Hulya looked up at her husband and shrugged.

  ‘If you’re sure, Uncle Jak,’ Berekiah said. ‘You don’t come home often. You must have better things to do.’

  ‘You mean like listening to your father’s list of complaints?’ Jak sighed. ‘Something we can all do without. True, I’ve got a bit of business here, but I’d like to help you kids get started.’

  ‘It’s very good of you, Mr Cohen.’

  ‘Jak, please,’ he said as he smiled broadly at Hulya, ‘we’re family.’ Then, taking his mobile phone out of his pocket, he continued, ‘Right, so I think if we get some people in to clear the garden first, that’ll give the builders more space to put things when they come to do the structural stuff. Let me just go outside and see if I can roughly estimate the square meterage of the plot.’

  He bounded out through the hole that was the kitchen door and disappeared into the bramble-and-bindweed-choked garden. Hulya and Berekiah looked at each other and then at the total chaos around them. As if defeated by the sheer scale of the problem that was his and Hulya’s house, Berekiah sat down on the rickety floorboards and put his head in his hands.

  ‘It was very nice of your uncle to give us this house,’ Hulya said – the tone of her voice seeming to intimate that she was trying to convince herself of that fact.

  ‘Yes,’ Berekiah answered through his fingers.

  ‘It will be perfect for a family.’

  Berekiah raised his head from his hands and looked around again. ‘For a family the size of yours, yes,’ he said, ‘but for us? I’ll be an old man by the time we’ll have finished paying for all the work this place needs. And, anyway, I thought we were only going to have two children.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She walked around, idly touching old, dust-covered pieces of furniture as she went. ‘Your uncle seems very keen to help us.’

  ‘Yes, but we can’t let Uncle Jak pay for much more. It isn’t right to take advantage and, anyway, Dad would go mad if he knew.’

  ‘Your dad was quite keen for Jak to pay for our wedding.’

  ‘Only because it was his only way of saving face,’ Berekiah said. ‘Çetin Bey was going to do everything. Dad would have been totally dishonoured. Not only is his son marrying a Muslim whether he likes it or not but he’s too poor to pay for the bridegroom’s suit! How would that have looked? He had to call Jak.’

  Hulya bent down to look into a low cupboard. ‘And now Uncle Jak has bought us a house . . .’

  ‘He’s bought us what is left of a house, yes,’ Berekiah said as he rose quickly to his feet. ‘I know you love the eccentricity of the place, Hulya, but it has been empty for years. Some really big, and expensive pieces of work will have to be done before we can move in.’

  ‘I know.’ She shut the cupboard door and then walked over to what had once been the kitchen fireplace.

  ‘We may have to live with Mum and Dad for some time.’ He followed her and placed his hands on her waist. ‘Which means that we’ll have to take every opportunity to be away from them that we can,’ one of his hands moved up to her breasts, ‘like coming up here, at night . . .’

  ‘Berekiah!’

  His other hand slid inside her skirt. ‘I just keep on and on thinking about it, Hulya!’ he whispered. ‘How beautiful it was! If only Jak . . .’

  After one quick look over her shoulder, Hulya took Berekiah by the arm and led him into what looked like an old larder or storeroom. ‘Come on!’

  He didn’t protest then or when, a few moments later, she pulled him towards her.

  ‘Oh, Hulya!’

  She took his tongue in her mouth. Her hands began to move down his chest.

  ‘Hulya dear, could you get a glass of— Oh . . .’

  The two young people looked back into the room where Jak was standing together with a heavily bearded monk.

  ‘Ah.’ Berekiah whipped his hands away from his wife as if scalded.

  ‘Brother, er, Constantine here has had a rather nasty shock,’ Jak said.

  ‘Desecration!’ the monk said in a trembling voice. ‘At the church!’

  Hulya went to him and placed her hands on his shoulders. ‘That’s terrible,’ she said.

  ‘It’s evil!’ the monk whispered harshly. ‘Godless!’

  Jak, Berekiah and Hulya all looked at each other as the monk descended into tears.

  It was the shock more than anything else that caused Sırma Karaca to burst into tears. She hadn’t been close to Gülay Arat for some while. In fact the last time they had spoken properly, which was a good six months before, the two girls had fallen out. In retrospect, like a lot of things, their disagreement looked stupid to Sırma now.

  ‘She said that she couldn’t possibly go around with me any more because of my clothes,’ she said as she rested her head against her mother’s shoulder. ‘She said she found them childish and embarrassing.’

  Her mother reached across the coffee table to get her daughter a tissue.

  ‘But she used to wear this stuff too,’ Sırma said, holding up metres of thin black dress for her mother to see. ‘She used to come with us to Atlas Pasaj. It was Gülay who first went there.’

  ‘Yes, but Gülay . . . moved on . . .’

  ‘You mean “grew up”!’ Sırma turned her black, s
mudged eyes furiously on to her mother’s face. ‘Why don’t you say it, Mum? It’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Sırma!’

  ‘The way you worry about me is stupid!’ Sırma said petulantly. ‘I like going to Atlas Pasaj. My life would be nothing without the friends I’ve got there. And I like how I dress too.’

  ‘Yes, darling, but in this heat . . .’

  ‘You’d like me to wear pretty, summery dresses?’ Sırma pulled away from her mother and scowled. ‘I don’t do that.’

  Her mother smiled sadly. ‘Oh, but Sırma, black is so depressing.’

  Sırma wiped the tears away from her eyes with one of her long, cobweb-style cuffs and stood up. ‘Right, and you’re so worried about my depression, aren’t you? But the way I am hasn’t got anything to do with that. I like how I am, I’m happy like this! And anyway, I’m taking Prozac so I’m not going to kill myself, am I?’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘No, it’s Gülay who’s dead, isn’t it? Gülay, who left the scene for a much more grown-up life and pretty dresses.’

  ‘Sırma, I know you’re upset about Gülay.’

  The girl suddenly lost all of her fight and began to cry once again. Her mother stood up and hugged her.

  ‘I really used to like Gülay a lot you know, Mum,’ the girl said miserably. ‘Tanzer, Defne, Hüseyin and me – we’ve never been the same since Gülay went away.’

  ‘I know.’

  But then as quickly as her misery had started, so it finished, giving way to the flashing anger she had exhibited before.

  ‘If anyone’s to blame for Gülay’s death it’s her parents!’ she snapped.

  ‘Sırma!’

  The girl pushed her mother away with a theatrical shrug and then threw herself back down on to the plush sofa she had been reclining upon when her mother came to tell her about her friend’s death. As the thin black material settled about her, Sırma said, ‘She had to get away from them. That’s why she was here so often. They never had time for her.’

  Her mother first reached for a cigarette and then sat down beside her daughter, a grave expression on her face.

  ‘Sırma, you shouldn’t say such things about Gülay’s parents.’

  ‘Why not?’ Sırma sneered. ‘It’s the truth. Mrs Arat is always drunk and Mr Arat is a gangster.’

  ‘Sssh!’ her mother hissed. ‘We—’

  ‘Dad says he’s a gangster and he doesn’t care who hears him!’ Sırma retorted in response to her mother’s fearful reaction. ‘He has sex with young girls. Gülay told me. He even used to come into her bedroom . . .’

  ‘Sırma!’ Nervously her mother first lit her cigarette and then wiped away the sweat that had gathered at her hairline. ‘Sırma, you really shouldn’t throw around accusations like that about people.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s true!’

  ‘Maybe.’ She took a moment to draw a calming breath before continuing, ‘But if you only heard this from Gülay—’

  ‘Of course I only heard it from Gülay! Her dad wasn’t likely to tell me, was he? Or her stupid drunk mum.’

  ‘No, but I think that out of respect for Gülay’s memory you should keep that to yourself, Sırma,’ her mother said sternly. ‘The Arats are very influential people and I don’t think it would be wise to make such accusations against them.’

  ‘I’m only telling you,’ Sırma said sulkily, ‘so what does it matter?’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t. But don’t tell anyone else, will you, Sırma?’

  The girl, looking down at her black varnished fingernails, shrugged.

  ‘Sırma?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No what?’

  Sırma rose from the sofa and began to walk wearily out of the room. ‘No, I won’t say anything to anyone else,’ she said. ‘Not that anyone’s going to ask me anything about it anyway . . .’

  Who would want to? According to Gülay, no one had ever been interested in the way her father made her feel before. Apart from Sırma she had once told her grandmother about it, but she’d just hit her and told her not to tell lies. Her mother, or so Gülay had told Sırma, knew what her father was like. But then so long as there was alcohol in the house, she didn’t care about much else.

  And people think I’m weird, Sırma thought as she slumped her way back up to her bedroom.

  Mehmet Süleyman had just returned to his office when he received the call from Arto Sarkissian. As ever these days he hadn’t actually eaten very much, but he’d enjoyed the company. His cousin Tayyar, who had been his lunch ‘date’, was a very amusing man who had spent much of his life travelling the world with little more than his wits for company. He was also very well acquainted with another of their cousins, Süleyman’s ex-wife, Zuleika. Odd that both seeing and talking about Zuleika had occurred in less than a week. Sometimes months could pass without even a hint of her existence.

  İsak Çöktin was still staring at the screen of Gülay Arat’s computer when Süleyman arrived. The younger man was fascinated by machines of all types and hadn’t so much as moved to get a drink since first thing that morning. However, the doctor’s call quickly distracted Süleyman from his deputy’s absorbed countenance.

  ‘The Arat girl was penetrated by something with a sharp or rough edge to it,’ the doctor said once he had completed the usual social niceties. ‘Quite large. I think from what I’ve seen it was probably made of metal.’

  Süleyman frowned. ‘A metal what?’

  ‘Something long and phallic, I can’t really say any more than that,’ the doctor replied. ‘The rough or sharp edge could have been either an accident of manufacture or a deliberate flaw designed to evoke pain – I can’t say unless I can see the item. I do, however, know that the girl was a virgin prior to the assault.’

  ‘What about the timing of the assault with regard to time of death?’

  ‘You mean was she assaulted before or after death?’ Arto cleared his throat. ‘Certainly before and maybe for a short while afterwards.’

  ‘So at the point of death this “thing” operated by someone could have been inside her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about the notion that she took her own life?’

  ‘Almost impossible,’ the doctor replied, ‘now I’ve had a proper chance to look at her. The angle of the incision is all wrong for self-infliction. I think we must assume that unlawful killing has occurred.’

  So she’d been murdered. ‘Right. Thank you, Doctor.’ And then looking over briefly at Çöktin, he said, ‘Gülay Arat was murdered.’

  ‘Ah.’

  So involved was the sergeant in that computer he was barely breathing, let alone taking in what Süleyman was saying.

  So when he’d finished his conversation with the doctor, Süleyman went to see what Çöktin was doing with the dead girl’s computer. Looking at the screen, he watched as his deputy flicked through what looked like snippets of conversation. Much of it was, or appeared to be, incredibly inane.

  ‘What’s this, Çöktin?’ he asked as he braced his hands against the back of the younger man’s chair.

  ‘Gülay Arat belonged to three newsgroups,’ Çöktin said. ‘She had an incredible involvement in one and less interest, but still quite a bit, in the other two.’

  ‘Newsgroups?’

  Çöktin looked up at Süleyman and smiled. ‘Discussion groups, sir.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘This one is for fans of Brain Dead.’

  ‘That’s a band, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They’re a skate punk outfit, quite heavy and doomy.’

  Süleyman drew a tired hand across his features. ‘“Quite heavy and doomy”?’ he repeated. ‘“Skate punk”? What are you talking about, İsak?’

  ‘It’s a youth thing, sir. Metal music, you know.’ And then seeing the look of incomprehension on his superior’s face he added, ‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t really understand it either. I’m too old.’

  ‘Well, if you’re too old, I don’t know what that
makes me,’ Süleyman said darkly as he continued to peer at the screen. ‘Are you sure this is actually about this band, İsak? Look there.’ He pointed. ‘Whoever that is is talking about kaymak.’

  ‘Oh, they go off the point all the time,’ Çöktin said, ‘just like real conversations.’

  ‘Yes, but kaymak!’

  Çöktin looked up again at his now outraged superior. ‘Why not?’ he shrugged. ‘In real conversations we talk about food. Kaymak is food. I like it with figs myself. Newsgroups like this are, in effect, little neighbourhoods. People converse, make friends, sometimes they even argue.’

  ‘And you say that the girl was involved in several of these groups.’

  ‘Yes, this one and another one dedicated to another skate punk band, Rashit. Then there’s this other thing which calls itself “Theodora’s Closet”.’

  ‘What’s that about?’

  ‘I’ve only just glanced at it so far,’ Çöktin said, ‘but from what I can gather it’s about the Byzantine Empire. Aya Sofya, the Kariye – but mainly about, as you’d imagine from the title, the Empress Theodora.’

  Süleyman put his hand in his pocket and removed his cigarettes. ‘So Miss Arat had intellectual as well as normal teenage interests. Cigarette?’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Çöktin took a cigarette from Süleyman’s packet and lit up. ‘I don’t think, from what I’ve seen of it, that Theodora’s Closet is exactly intellectual. It’s rather gossipy and a bit camp, actually. I should imagine that quite a lot of gay men post to that site, although I don’t suppose young Gülay Arat realised it.’

  ‘Mmm . . .’ Süleyman, cigarette in hand, returned to his desk. ‘What about these other “music” sites?’

  ‘The one she posted to most frequently, Brain Damage, is typical of the skate punk movement.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Dark, depressing and without hope,’ Çöktin replied. ‘İstanbul skate punks are, to me, anyway, indistinguishable from Goths. We know that Gülay was a Goth at one time, don’t we, and so her interest in Brain Damage, the Brain Dead newsgroup, is understandable.’

  Probably like, Süleyman recalled, his ex-wife’s stepdaughter. He couldn’t remember her name, but he did recall that Zuleika had been very pleased that the girl was shedding her black weeds for a more ‘normal’ image.