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  Confused, Tepe just reiterated, ‘Supernatural?’

  ‘Yes,’ İkmen said as he opened the door to the corridor, ‘as in precognition, that sort of thing. But please, don’t mention it to Commissioner Ardıç, he hates that.’ And then with a smile he left.

  In spite of the difference in their height and the fact that Mehmet was handsomer than Murad, it was easy to see that the Süleyman brothers were closely related. The way they sat, slumped down against the wall of the hospital, their chins cupped in their long thin hands, made them resemble scolded children rather than middle-aged men.

  Murad had been with Mehmet for just over an hour like this, occasionally talking but more often than not passing the hot, thick night by smoking and taking drinks from his can of cola. His sister-in-law Zelfa’s labour had been going on for most of the day, so unlike Murad’s experience of impending fatherhood. His late wife, Elena, a sorely missed victim of the monstrous 1999 earthquake, had given him a daughter within two hours. But she had been young; even now she would only have been twenty-eight. The thought of that, coupled with the closeness of the heat, made Murad feel slightly sick and so he distracted himself by looking at Mehmet. The younger man’s face was quite white.

  Murad reached over and took one of his brother’s hands in his. ‘It isn’t exactly major surgery these days,’ he said with what he could muster of a smile. ‘And anyway, the doctor said he would give Zelfa another hour.’

  ‘Yes, but if she doesn’t have my son within an hour—’

  ‘Then they’ll perform a caesarean section,’ Murad replied, ‘as the doctor said. They do them every day, Mehmet. She will be fine. Inşallah.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  They sat in silence for a while, watching as ambulances and cars came and went, taking part in the twenty-four-hour soap opera that is hospital life. Birth, death, sickness, joy, grief and anger – Mehmet had seen it all since he had come to this place that would herald a turning point in his life. Things would never be the same. They certainly hadn’t been for Murad since little Edibe’s birth. Mehmet looked at his older and wiser brother and smiled.

  ‘So what did Mother and Father say when you told them?’ he asked.

  Murad smiled. ‘Father showed me the coin he has purchased for your son,’ he said, referring to the old Turkish custom of buying a gold coin for a new baby. ‘It’s one of the biggest I’ve ever seen. He told me it’s from the reign of Sultan Abdul Mecit.’

  Mehmet closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘But he can’t afford something like that, not with you paying half of his costs on the house and—’

  ‘Mehmet, he has to, you know that,’ Murad replied simply. ‘Like going to only the best restaurants and having his suits tailored for him, it’s what he does. It’s how he was raised.’

  Mehmet lifted his eyes up to heaven. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said sotto voce, ‘by the glittering waters of the Bosphorus, with precious carpets on every floor; with servants and nurses watching him walk his family of white Angora cats around the lush, green gardens.’

  ‘Something like that,’ Murad said and then both he and Mehmet laughed. Soon, very soon, they hoped, another little Süleyman would come into the world. Hopefully, with his practical Irish mother and hard-working father, Mehmet’s son would appreciate the kind, if anachronistic and unwise act his curious grandfather had performed on his behalf. Just an echo now of the princes his forebears had once been, Mehmet’s son would at least start his existence in old-fashioned regal style.

  The upstairs family parlour was mercifully empty. Apart from a couple of young students in the corner, it was just them. So they wouldn’t be seen, which was good. Sergeant Ayşe Farsakoǧlu nevertheless looked about her with large, doleful eyes. These little pideci, though clean and cheap, were so boring. Not that she didn’t like pide, that thick, flat bread topped with cheese or meat or eggs or almost anything you could want. Like Italian pizza, to which it is often compared, pide is not easily disliked. No, it wasn’t the food or even the dull, whining tunes from the radio in the corner that were bothering Farsakoǧlu.

  ‘I shall be thirty in three weeks,’ she said to the man sitting opposite her.

  Orhan Tepe looked up from his pide into a pair of eyes that shone with a heightened intensity. ‘Yes,’ he replied simply, ‘I know. We’re going out to eat in Tarabya.’

  ‘Where no one will know us,’ she said, her generous lips now tight around her words. ‘On my thirtieth birthday, I go out with my lover, not my husband – at my age! – and to a place where nobody knows us.’

  ‘Yes,’ he shrugged, ‘I’m married. It has to be that way for the moment.’

  ‘I want to go to the Four Seasons, Çatı or Rejans,’ she said, naming three of the city’s most expensive restaurants.

  The little boy who was their waiter for the evening came over and took away Tepe’s empty Coca-Cola glass. He might also have been trying to listen in on their now rather fraught conversation, but if he was, neither of them noticed.

  As the boy left, Tepe leaned towards his mistress and said, ‘You know I can’t afford to take you to places like those at this time. We have to go to places I can afford.’

  ‘Like this place!’ she said, her face now quite red with rising anger and genuine upset.

  ‘It’s just an ordinary pideci . . .’

  ‘Yes, exactly!’ She stared deeply into his eyes. ‘And after here we will go over to your brother’s empty apartment where I’ll—’

  ‘Keep your voice down!’ He looked around nervously, but to his relief the students and the waiter had gone now.

  ‘I want more from my life, Orhan,’ she continued. ‘I deserve it. You deserve it. A proper, comfortable place for us to relax, nice clothes, good food, some certainty that we have a future together.’

  ‘Which I have told you we will have!’ Tepe, his voice still a whisper, snapped. ‘I’m working on it. I think about it every day. Eventually—’

  ‘Eventually, if you don’t do something soon, I may leave you to the timid caresses of your frigid wife and—’

  ‘Go and attempt to seduce Mehmet Süleyman again?’ He looked at her with both desire and disgust. Somehow the lingering obsession she still retained for her ex-lover Süleyman excited him. It always had. From the start he’d envied Süleyman, but the thought that he now had what the far more cultured and aristocratic officer no longer had made him feel superior. Ayşe Farsakoǧlu was both a beautiful woman and an uninhibited lover – Süleyman had to miss her. After all, what did he have now? A sharp-tongued old hag of a wife, monstrously fat in her pregnancy. Orhan smiled. Ayşe, however, did not.

  ‘The only time I think about Mehmet Süleyman,’ she said icily, ‘is when I consider all the smart places he could have taken me. Places you and I must go to, unless of course you want Aysel to find out.’

  With the speed of a viper, he snatched her wrist across the table. ‘Don’t even think about blackmailing me!’

  ‘I’m not blackmailing you, I’m promising you I will do this!’ she replied, her face set hard and determined against the pain inflicted by his hands. ‘I want better than this, Orhan. I’m nearly thirty. I want us to have things. I want you! I want to be your wife. I’ll do anything I have to to make that happen!’

  For a moment they sat like that, their hands joined as if arm-wrestling across the table. And although afraid of what he knew she could do and say, Orhan Tepe was also excited by how Ayşe was at this moment. When she was like this, determined and manipulative, she was also very sexy. In his mind he replayed old scenes of her kneeling on the floor in front of him, taking him into her mouth as he pushed and raked at her head with his fingernails. He felt his penis stiffen.

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ he said thickly.

  She pulled her wrist out of his slackening grasp and stood up.

  Orhan took her to the apartment his brother used on the rare occasions he visited from Ankara. There he first re-enacted the scene he had imagined earlier and then, later, he laid he
r down on his brother’s bed and entered her hard in the way his wife, Aysel, hated. Almost as soon as he had come inside her, he wanted her again. He couldn’t get enough. Only afterwards did he give thought to how he was going to continue this. Yes, he did want to give her all the things, the good times, that she wanted. If he did that he knew she would become even more accommodating, more open to sexual experimentation. But he couldn’t do that right now and it made him angry. A woman like Ayşe needed more than just vague promises to keep her interested and out of the way of his wife. If only he didn’t have to spend all his money on his family. The thought of it threw a temporary cloud across his features – until, that is, she mounted him again, making all thought disappear. Orhan Tepe gladly embraced the oblivion.

  They hadn’t planned a stopover in Amsterdam, but when Hikmet heard that the connection to İstanbul was delayed by at least three hours, he decided that both he and Kaycee needed a break. And since money was no object, he first changed their flights and then booked them into the exclusive floating Boatel. There they made love, drank several bottles of champagne and watched the sun set over the city. It was idyllic and they were both very content until Kaycee, who was completely relaxed, fell asleep, leaving her husband alone to frown at and then turn away from his reflection in the mirror on the wall. That his wife didn’t have a clue why they were really going back to the place of his birth didn’t please him. With Kaycee he had hoped, old as he was, to make a new start. But in his heart Hikmet knew, had always known, that that wasn’t going to be possible. He turned on his mobile telephone and called his brother Vedat.

  When Vedat answered, Hikmet announced himself and then said, ‘There’s been a change of plan.’

  ‘But this is urgent,’ Vedat replied, his voice heavy with what sounded like anxiety.

  ‘Yes, I know and I’m sorry,’ Hikmet said. ‘But the flight was delayed and I needed to rest. This has all been most . . . worrying. I’m not young any more, Vedat, I don’t know whether I can—’

  ‘So when will you be here?’ his brother asked, displaying more impatience than sympathy in his voice.

  ‘Our flight will get in at three fifteen tomorrow afternoon. Inşallah it will be on time.’

  ‘I’ll be there to meet you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Hikmet rubbed his hands up and down his tired features. ‘I’m so looking forward to seeing you, Vedat, you and our beloved Hale.’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was a strange, cold response which made Hikmet frown. He hadn’t seen either his brother or his sister Hale since well before his marriage to Kaycee. Putting aside the fact that he effectively bankrolled them, the three of them were, or had been, very close and loving siblings. But then perhaps Vedat blamed him for what had happened. He was, after all, living with it, enmeshed in a way that Hikmet had chosen to ignore for some time. They’d hurt Vedat . . .

  As he muttered a distant farewell to his brother, Hikmet Sivas shuddered. Today he was in Amsterdam, tomorrow he would be in İstanbul. Only Allah knew what would happen then, what was already written.

  Hikmet Sivas, film star and millionaire, lay down beside his sleeping wife and closed his eyes.

  Chapter 6

  * * *

  It was always difficult to tell when İkmen was particularly tired or strained. His usual look was, by anyone else’s standards, one of crumpled disaffection. Close association with the man had, however, taught Orhan Tepe that a particularly manic light in İkmen’s eyes was the key to how much rest he had managed to get. Today, given that İkmen’s eyes were both very watery and a little crazy, it would seem that he had slept even less than Tepe himself. But then Tepe had been pleasuring himself with Ayşe Farsakoǧlu, while İkmen had the look of a man who had been involved in much grimmer tasks.

  ‘Hatice İpek was both raped and buggered prior to her death,’ İkmen said without any preamble as soon as Tepe entered the office. ‘Her pubic area was cut up, probably with a razor.’

  ‘Indeed.’ It was said coldly and, strangely to İkmen, without judgement.

  ‘She wasn’t a virgin before she was attacked,’ İkmen continued, ‘but I don’t feel that is relevant given the nature of her injuries. She was cut and bruised. She resisted. That’s rape. It’s a crime; whoever did it to her will be punished.’

  ‘So what was the cause of death then, sir?’ Tepe asked as he sat down behind his desk and looked across at İkmen’s long, grey face.

  ‘I don’t know,’ İkmen replied. ‘Dr Sarkissian has yet to discover that. In the meantime we need to find out just who was having sex with this girl. He or they could be our perpetrator. Hatice admitted nothing to my daughter, who as we know made her own observations and came to her own conclusions; but Hatice’s mother is still convinced of her chastity. And then there is Mr Şeker.’ He smiled unpleasantly.

  ‘We let him go,’ Tepe said, lighting what for him was his first cigarette of the day.

  ‘Yes,’ İkmen responded, ‘we did. And if the stories told by my daughter and Mr Sılay did not concur so well and were not also such interesting addendums to Hatice’s “ruined” state, I would probably give Şeker the benefit of the doubt. But Hatice was not a virgin and my daughter is perfectly convinced about her observations. Şeker touched her and she liked it. She was a beautiful girl and he’s a good-looking man.’

  ‘Just because he had her doesn’t mean that he killed her.’

  ‘True, but I would like to know the facts of this anyway,’ İkmen said. ‘I let him off last night, but that was then and this is now.’ He lit a cigarette and then leaned wearily on his elbows. ‘Take a couple of men and apply some pressure to Mr Şeker. Convince him that the humiliation of supplying a semen sample can be avoided provided he does the right thing. Be pleasant.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Tepe stood up.

  ‘Oh, and while you’re out you might also bend your mind to the issue of what Hatice was wearing when she died.’

  ‘It was some sort of long gown, wasn’t it, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’ İkmen frowned. ‘Dr Sarkissian is of the opinion that, as well as looking archaic, it is also in reality quite old. I feel it is unlikely that a modern girl like Hatice would choose such a garment herself, so the dress could point towards some sort of preference for such clothing in her assailant.’

  ‘So you think that whoever raped her dressed her first? Like that?’

  ‘According to my daughter, Hatice was going to dance for some nice men who had promised to introduce her to show business. Now as you and I both know, girls who “dance” for “nice” men don’t generally do it wearing a great deal of clothing, much less hugely elaborate gowns. No.’ İkmen leaned back in his chair and blew a long stream of smoke up at the ceiling. ‘I’ve given it some thought and have come to believe that the people who did this are probably not the type we might be accustomed to in cases such as this.’

  ‘Oh.’

  It was a simple word, signifying little, and it irritated İkmen mightily. Tepe hadn’t understood and so he just made a noise to convey the fact. So unlike Süleyman who had always questioned, commented and formed opinions. But then as İkmen knew only too well, Süleyman was not just better educated than Tepe, he was also far more adept at keeping his mind away from his private life during working hours. At times like this, İkmen missed him badly. Still, at least with Mr Şeker it was unlikely that Tepe could do much harm even if he did spend all of his time thinking about Ayşe Farsakoǧlu. Hassan Şeker may very well have robbed young Hatice of her virginity, but he was not, İkmen felt, a serious contender for either the assault upon the girl or her murder. After all, both Hulya and Ahmet Sılay had said that Hatice liked it when Hassan made advances to her. The man or men who had dressed Hatice in that gown had had to fight her, hurt and damage her to get what they wanted.

  İkmen sent Tepe about his business and briefly moved his thoughts away from poor dead Hatice. In the early hours of that morning, Zelfa Halman Süleyman had given birth to a son – a very large and he
althy boy, according to his old partner’s friend Balthazar Cohen. Crippled as a result of the 1999 earthquake, the former Constable Cohen now busied himself almost exclusively with following the lives and adventures of his friends. Always a gossip, Cohen gathered and passed on information in a far more efficient way than most media, with the exception, maybe, of the internet. He hosted frequent gatherings at his Karaköy apartment and had a variety of telephones, one of which he had used to call İkmen about the Süleyman child at five o’clock that morning.

  The baby, so Cohen told İkmen, was to be called Yusuf İzzeddin. It was, apparently, the name of some noble ancestor. It had, again according to Cohen, pleased Mehmet’s father who was reputed to be giving the child the largest, thickest gold coin in the entire city. İkmen smiled. How very Ottoman it all was. The child with the name of a noble, princely relatives bringing gold . . . He, too, would have to arrange for some sort of, certainly inferior, gold coinage to be bought for the child. Mehmet was his friend as well as his colleague and anyway, money or no money, Fatma would be scandalised if he didn’t buy something.

  That would have to come later. In the meantime it was important that he add to his knowledge about Hatice İpek, which meant talking, more formally than before, to her mother.

  This was the second time that the police had visited the pastane. On both occasions they had come to see Hassan and, although Suzan Şeker tried to convince herself that she must have misheard, she could distinctly remember the name of Hatice İpek featuring in that first conversation between her husband and the sergeant. Hatice. Suzan frowned at the memory of her. She had been a nice girl, popular with the customers and good at her job – perfect, in fact, had she not been giving herself to Hassan. Suzan had only seen them once, but it was enough. Through a crack in the office door she’d watched as her husband took the girl’s breasts into his hands and kissed them. Hatice’s gasp of pleasure haunted her still.

  But now the girl was dead and, somehow, the police had come to know about Hassan’s connection with her – at least Suzan assumed that they had. To question a mere employer three times, once at the police station, was surely unusual. Now her husband was alone in his office with the sergeant. Two uniformed officers sat outside, drinking her coffee and, no doubt, listening to the occasionally raised voices from inside the office, waiting. To deploy such numbers for, on this occasion, such a long time, seemed pointless unless they were going to arrest Hassan. And yet Suzan, in spite of everything, was convinced that he was innocent. Of course the fact that he was her husband, the father of her children and the man that despite everything she loved, did inform her feelings. But there was something else as well and that was that Hassan, for all his faults, was just not a violent man. He hated violence. One of the reasons they were not nearly as rich as people thought they should be was because Hassan so hated violence. His father, Kemal, had been of a different order. When he was in charge of the business he had stood up to people like the three men who had just now entered and seated themselves by the front door. Suzan quickly finished cleaning some ashtrays and then approached the newcomers with a grave face. The men, all bright open shirts and nasty jewellery, smirked as she approached them. She was going to enjoy telling them just who was currently out of sight behind the partition in front of her husband’s office.