‘Miss Madrid has only ever had your best interests at heart, Murad,’ Süleyman said. ‘You don’t want to hurt her. Put the gun down and let’s talk.’
‘Why should I do that?’ He pushed the muzzle of the pistol still further into the old lady’s temple.
‘Because at the moment we have a situation that is not too serious,’ Süleyman said. ‘But if you pull that trigger, if you kill somebody . . .’
‘How do you know that I haven’t done that already?’ Murad said. ‘Have you thought about that? Have you wondered whether I may have killed someone else?’
Süleyman hadn’t wanted to even get near to any sort of discussion about Hamid İdiz, even though he thought that Murad might very well have killed him. Talk of İdiz would agitate the boy whichever way one looked at it. If he had killed him, he would be worried about what might happen to him now. If he hadn’t, then there could be more talk about ‘unbelievers’ and also no doubt about ‘sin’ and ‘perversion’ too.
‘Murad, this can be fixed,’ Süleyman said. ‘You are a very talented boy. This can all—’
‘With both my parents on the gear, my mother on the streets and absolutely no future? Who cares whether I can play the piano? I’m not like Ali Reza! I’m nobody!’ Murad’s face turned bright red. ‘There is only one way for me, and I have chosen that way.’
Süleyman looked at İzzet Melik, who was, he felt, thinking the same thing as he was. The boy was going to kill not Miss Madrid, but himself. In the ‘war’ that existed only in the twisted acts of violence that he glorified, Murad Emin was preparing himself to go to Paradise.
‘You know that it isn’t true, don’t you?’ Süleyman said.
‘What isn’t true?’
‘That people who kill themselves, for whatever reason, go straight to Paradise,’ he said. ‘It’s a lie.’
‘No it isn’t,’ the boy said without so much as a flicker of doubt.
‘Yes it is,’ Süleyman said. ‘Think about it. Why would we be created just to be destroyed? Why have earth at all if our time on it is not useful, philanthropic and joyful?’
This was not an argument that he’d just picked out of his head. It was something he had asked the extremists he had come across many times over the years. Their various replies were now summed up by Murad Emin.
‘Life is total obedience,’ he said. ‘Joy is a sin.’
Süleyman, at least, had just resigned himself to a long night of tension peppered with philosophical discussion, when he heard the sound of feet on the stairs up to the apartment behind him. He had called for uniformed back-up just before they went into the apartment, but he knew, or at least he hoped, that couldn’t be them. He had instructed them specifically to stay back until he told them otherwise. But footsteps there were, and although he wanted to look around to see who might be approaching, the fact that the boy had heard a noise he didn’t understand meant that Süleyman had to try and keep eye contact with him.
‘Who’s that?’ the boy asked. ‘Keep back! Keep back!’
Süleyman watched the old pistol push against Izabella Madrid’s head again. ‘It’s nothing, Murad, nothing at all!’
‘Yes it is!’ the boy said. His eyes were bright now, wide and bright and staring. He took the gun away from the old woman’s head and pointed it out in front. ‘Tell them to—’
‘Get back!’ Süleyman yelled. ‘Whoever you are, get back!’
‘Mehmet, I—’
The gun went off with such force that the boy completely lost his hold on it. It flew out of his hand, hit the floor and skidded to a halt beside İzzet Melik’s heavily shod feet.
The old woman screamed, Melik picked the gun up and Murad Emin collapsed in a fit of shuddering, screaming fury. Over at the door, Süleyman bent down to cradle Gonca the gypsy in his arms.
‘I came back,’ she said as she tried to staunch the blood that was pouring out of her abdomen, ‘to tell you that you are a bastard.’
Chapter 30
Saadet Seyhan finally got in to see Çetin İkmen just as news about the shooting in Balat was coming through. İkmen had taken a moment away from his so far fruitless interrogation of Cem Koç in order to find out what was happening. He had been very surprised to see Saadet, especially in company with her son Lokman. He had barely shut the door of the interview room when she said, ‘Çetin Bey, it was my husband, Cahit Seyhan. Kenan was right, Cahit killed Gözde!’
İkmen frowned. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Well, he didn’t actually kill Gözde himself,’ she said. ‘It was a sort of arrangement, you know, a . . . you know, a business thing . . .’
‘My mother believes, Inspector İkmen,’ Lokman Seyhan said, ‘that my father paid a man to kill my sister.’
‘Your mother believes?’
‘I have come around to the idea that she could be right,’ Lokman said. ‘Although I knew nothing about it at the time.’
‘My son knew nothing. Nothing!’ Saadet continued. She was tired and cold and hungry, but she was so elated to finally be in İkmen’s presence, finally able to get some justice for Gözde, that she was almost in tears. ‘But I did. I knew what evil that husband of mine would do! May Allah forgive me!’
‘Do you know who this man was?’ İkmen asked. ‘The one your husband employed to kill your daughter?’
‘If you mean do I know his name, then I don’t,’ she said. ‘But I did see him once, Çetin Bey. I cannot and will not ever forget his face.’
‘Well if you could give us a description . . .’ He also thought it might be a very good idea to get Saadet Seyhan to have a look at Cem Koç. ‘Mrs Seyhan, there is another—’
Ayşe came through the door without knocking.
‘Sergeant . . .’
‘Sir, may I speak to you?’ she said. She looked upset. ‘It’s urgent.’
İkmen excused himself to the Seyhans and went outside into the corridor. ‘What is it?’ he asked her. ‘What has happened?’
‘That shooting in Balat,’ Ayşe said. ‘Inspector Süleyman and Sergeant Melik were there!’
İkmen felt sick, but he put a calming hand on Ayşe’s shoulder and said, ‘Are they OK?’
‘I don’t know!’ Then she broke down. She liked İzzet Melik a lot and would miss him badly if he were to die. But for Süleyman to die was impossible for her to contemplate. Long, long ago they had been lovers, and she still had a lot of feelings for him.
İkmen took her gently over to the side of the corridor, out of the way of the increasing human traffic. ‘Ayşe, you must try to be calm,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you know.’
‘But I don’t . . . they . . .’
‘Tell me anything you know about the incident,’ İkmen said. ‘Anything.’
She took a deep breath to calm herself as much as she could and said, ‘All I know is . . . a woman has definitely been shot. I . . . Officers have taken her to the Jewish Hospital in Balat.’
‘Officers?’
‘I don’t know which officers,’ she said. ‘No one seems to know! No one knows if anyone apart from the woman has been hurt.’ And then her calm façade broke down again and she cried.
‘Ali Reza?’ Light from the many spotlights in the kitchen ceiling illuminated the boy dressed for the street and carrying a rucksack. He looked round at his mother, who stood in the kitchen doorway, blocking his exit. Sleep-sodden, her hair tangled into what looked like a nest on the top of her head, Mrs Zafir said, ‘What are you doing? It’s the middle of the night.’
‘I thought I might go out for a walk,’ Ali Reza said.
‘In the dark!’
‘Why not? It’s not raining.’
She walked forward and grabbed hold of his rucksack. He tried to stop her, but his mother was too quick for him.
‘Don’t!’
She unzipped the bag and looked inside. There were a lot of clothes, as well as Ali Reza’s asthma inhaler and also his passport. Mrs Zafir pulled that out of the bag and held it up for him to see. ‘What’s this for?’
Ali Reza looked down at the floor and said, ‘It’s my passport.’
‘I know
what
it is,’ she said. ‘What I want to know is
why
.’
The boy shrugged. He had been planning to get some food and drink for the journey, but that was probably out of the question now.
Mrs Zafir looked closely at her son. ‘Was it the police? Did they upset you coming here and asking questions?’
Well of course it was the police! They were the whole reason he was going. But he wasn’t going to tell her that. ‘No.’
‘Because I know you’ve been very upset and unsettled since Hamid Bey died,’ she said. ‘But Ali Reza you still have the competition to think about. That’s very important to you.’
‘I wasn’t going to leave or . . .’
‘Then why the passport?’ his mother said as she once again held the document aloft. ‘Ali Reza, I’m your mother, you must tell me the truth. I’m not going to move from here until you do.’
And that was, Ali Reza felt, a shame. Because what would have to happen next was not what he wanted to happen. He loved his mother, but she wouldn’t budge, so there was going to be no choice. No choice at all.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you.’ He smiled. Then, knowing exactly what her reply would be, he said, ‘Can I have some hot chocolate, please?’
She sighed with what he knew was relief. She felt she’d cracked him. ‘Mummy’s special? Of course,’ she said. His mother did make the absolute best hot chocolate in the world. He’d miss that. For a moment he thought that maybe he ought to let her make it for him one last time, but then he decided against it. She went over to the refrigerator and leaned inside to get the milk. Ali Reza picked up the heavy chopping board that was on the preparation island beside him and brought it down on her head with all his force. Mrs Zafir dropped to the ground without a murmur just as the boy’s father entered the kitchen to find out why his wife hadn’t come back to bed.
Once Dr Zafir had managed to wrestle his son to the ground and disarm and disable him, he checked his wife’s neck for any sign of a pulse. But there was nothing.
News travels fast in small, tight-knit communities. As soon as Gonca’s brothers and father knew what had happened, gypsies came from all over to wait outside the Jewish Hospital in Balat. They neither cried nor spoke but just stood in a large, silent group, waiting. Gonca was not their most moral or noble sister but she was a famous woman and a generous member of their community. Only her father and three of her brothers were allowed inside while the doctors performed the operation that could save her life.
İzzet Melik, whose job it was now to stay at the hospital and monitor the situation, introduced himself to Gonca’s family. Her brother Şukru, at least, already knew who he was.
‘You work with Inspector Süleyman,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ İzzet did not expand upon that and neither did the gypsy. ‘This is an excellent hospital. Your sister is in very good hands.’
‘The Jews are good at medicine,’ Gonca’s ancient walnut-coloured father said.
İzzet did not respond.
‘What I want to know,’ Şukru said from beneath his thick, lowering brows, ‘is what my sister was doing when she got shot.’ He looked up at İzzet Melik and asked, ‘Do you know?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’
He didn’t, not really. As far as he was concerned, Süleyman had managed to dismiss Gonca long before they arrived at Izabella Madrid’s apartment. How the gypsy had got past the squad cars that had pulled up shortly after he and Süleyman had got there, İzzet didn’t know. She must have hidden on the stairs somewhere to wait for Süleyman. But then surely she must have heard what was going on in the apartment?
‘You will have to speak to your sister,’ İzzet said, ‘When,
inşallah
, she recovers.’
‘Where is Inspector Süleyman?’
İzzet was far from comfortable with all this and was rather pleased when a young nurse asked them if they would all move out of the corridor outside the operating theatre and into the waiting room. But Şukru persisted. As they walked into the waiting room he said to İzzet, ‘Well?’
İzzet kept his gaze down. He said, ‘Inspector Süleyman has arrested the person who shot your sister. He is obliged to question that individual now.’
‘Not be with the woman he sleeps with?’
‘Şukru!’ The old man put a hand on his son’s arm and said something to him in their own language. Şukru instantly lowered his head and sat down. Gonca’s father went over to İzzet and said, ‘I know where my daughter was shot. The old Jewish teacher’s place. How is Miss Madrid?’
‘Unhurt,’ İzzet said. He was much happier talking to the old man than to any of the brothers, especially Şukru. He had no desire to discuss his superior’s private life. If he was honest, he was completely sick of hearing about Süleyman’s romantic associations.
‘Good.’
‘The doctors here checked her out and she was OK,’ İzzet said. ‘She’ll be at the station now. We have to try and find out why the person who shot your daughter was threatening Miss Madrid.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘We’re not sure,’ İzzet said. ‘But the assailant will be questioned and we will find that out.’ He added, ‘As for your daughter, sir, I believe she was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. We have no reason to believe that she knew or had any involvement with the assailant.’
He had been trying to reassure the old man, but the gypsy didn’t look very comforted when he said, ‘You know my grandson, my daughter’s youngest boy, says that his mother was arguing with Inspector Süleyman outside the Church of St Mary of the Mongols. She pursued him down the hill towards Miss Madrid’s place.’
That was exactly what had happened, exactly what young Rambo must have seen.
‘Do you know why they were arguing, Sergeant?’
‘No, I don’t,’ İzzet said. In a different and softer way, the old man was asking the same questions as his son. He was not going to get an answer either. ‘You’ll have to ask your daughter,’ he added again, ‘when,
inşallah
, she comes through the surgery.’
Murad Emin refused to say a word. His father, barely conscious admittedly, sat by his side, and Süleyman was assisted by an officer from the Juvenile Police Directorate. But the boy was choosing to be completely dumb and it was driving Süleyman mad. If Gonca were to die, he wanted to know why; he had a right to that, as did her family! But because Murad was legally a minor, he would not be pressed to speak until he came up before one of the psychologists over at the directorate’s headquarters in Üsküdar. While arrangements for transportation across the Bosphorus were looked into, Süleyman went to speak to Izabella Madrid.