'It's about Marilyn Monroe,' Latife said as she walked over to him and gently took the tome from his hands. She smiled. 'It's in English.'
'Oh.' Until he had registered a heavy footfall Erol had, for a moment, thought it was Tansu. Now, although his heart was still beating very loudly, he felt waves of relief break across him. 'I didn't know ...'
'Oh, I don't speak it very well,' Latife said with a laugh behind her voice. 'I've never had lessons. I learned only from the radio.' Then looking up sharply she said, 'Do you know of Marilyn Monroe, Erol?'
He shrugged. 'No. She's very beautiful, if that is her on the cover.'
'Yes, she was,' Latife said. 'But that was taken many years ago. She's dead now.'
'Oh.' Quite why Latife hadn't yet said anything about the large bag at Eroi's feet or the sleeping form of Merih, dressed for the street and already in her car seat, he didn't know. But he felt, knowing Latife, that she soon would.
Looking, Erol imagined, into a past of which he could not even conceive, Latife said, 'Marilyn was an American film star. She was beautiful, successful, every man wanted her, but all she ever wanted was to be taken seriously.' Latife placed the book back down upon the table. 'She was, you know, a very intelligent woman, hungry for knowledge. It was her passion. Are you planning on leaving my sister, Erol?'
It came suddenly, but as no surprise. Latife was, if nothing else, 'observant'.
'Yes,' he said, his head now slightly bowed. 'I have to. It's not right that I stay with my child at the house of a single woman. It is disrespectful to Ruya and not good for Merih.'
'Tansu is going to be very hurt.'
'I know. And I want her to understand that I do still care for her. It's just that, at the moment, we cannot be together.'
Latife sat down on one of the dining chairs and looked across at the sleeping baby. 'So perhaps when you've taken Ruya home .. .'
'I will visit, as always,' he said as he stooped down to pick up his bag. 'But as for anything else, I don't know. If you would tell Tansu I'll telephone her tonight'
'Of course.'
He heaved the bag up onto his shoulder and then picked up the car seat Merih was still soundly asleep and as Erol looked down at her he couldn't help smiling. Despite everything, if he had her he still had hope.
Latife walked with Erol out to his car and helped him load the luggage onto the back seat They kissed each other lightly on the cheek and then Latife, with a wave, walked back into the house. Erol turned the ignition and then began punching a number into his mobile telephone. Latife watched him with a smile on her face.
'The trouble, you know, with doctors,' Ìkmen said as he placed his now empty tea glass down on Suleyman's desk, 'is that they never know anything for certain. Oh, they have ideas, theories and thoughts and when one is either almost or completely dead, they can tell you what the problem might be. But as for actually making a judgement on a living being...' He paused in order to rap his knuckles on the desk. 'Are you with me, Mehmet?'
'Oh.' Suleyman looked up from the paper he had been reading so intently and smiled. 'What were you saying?'
'I asked Dr Akkale about the possibility of Merih Urfa having an allergy to chicken and beans. If you remember, her father was very forceful on this point in his television broadcast. I mean the child is very young and I wondered how or even if this might be known.'
'And?'
'And Akkale could neither confirm nor deny it The child possessed no obvious rashes or wheals but then if she hadn't had any chicken or beans she wouldn't have any. But Akkale also said that given the child's age she would in all likelihood be on a milk-only diet anyway. I mean, I take his point that a person may be allergic to almost anything, but in one so young. . .'
Suleyman rubbed the sides of his face with his hands and frowned. 'Um, I know I may be a little slow here,' he said, 'but why are you taking such an interest in this?'
'Oh, it's just something old Kostas Katsoulis happened to say when we were at Madame Kleopatra's, about the dietary mores of one of the eastern sects.'
'Oh?'
'The Yezidis forbid the eating of chicken. I don't know why. I know nothing about them beyond the chicken thing and the fact that they revere Shaitan.'
'You think that Urfa might be one of them?'
Ìkmen shrugged. 'I don't know.'
Suleyman turned to his computer and spent a few seconds typing in what Ìkmen imagined was some relevant data. As various pieces of information flashed up onto the screen, Suleyman leaned back and lit a cigarette. Then after some moments' scanning, he sighed and said, 'Well, his identity card quite plainly gives his religion as Muslim.'
'It was just a thought,' Ìkmen said.
'Mmm.'
They sat in silence for a few moments as Ìkmen lit up yet again and Suleyman attempted to tear his eyes away from Dr Halman's report which was lying right in front of him on the desk. As far as he could tell; she had not so far been complimentary about his treatment of Cengiz Temiz. But then he had not expected her to be.
'Before I go’ Ìkmen said, 'and not wishing to interfere with your investigation, may I just ask a question about Tansu Hanim?'
Although Suleyman replied in the affirmative, his brow was wrinkled with doubt. 'You may, though I don't know whether I will be able to answer or even if I should.'
'Can she read?'
'I should imagine so, yes.'
Ìkmen shook his head as if trying to loosen a more cogent question from his brain. 'No, I mean really read, Turkish that is. With understanding or even enjoyment?'
'I honestly don't know’ Suleyman said. 'When I went to the house, there were no books around the place as far as I could see. Why?'
'Well, I've been listening to her music' At this point Ìkmen and Suleyman exchanged a look.
'Just out of academic interest, you understand,' Ìkmen continued and then warming to his subject he said, 'And, guided by my dear wife, I have discovered that Tansu specialises in two types of song - the depressed, morbid variety and the venomous, bitter sort.'
‘I thought they were all morbid,' Suleyman replied with a shrug. 'But do go on. What is your point?'
'My point is,' Ìkmen said, 'that she sings the venomous stuff in exactly the same way as the depressed sort She talks of murder and mayhem with the same sad little smile on her lips and the same downbeat tone as she uses when she speaks of sadness and loss. If you really listen to it, it's totally inappropriate.'
'So?'
'So, my dear Mehmet, if as we are led to believe by the cassette sleeves, those songs of a homicidal nature were actually penned by Tansu, why does she not interpret them correctly? It's almost as if she doesn't really understand the words.'
Suleyman put his cigarette out in the ashtray and then cleared his throat It was both interesting and opportune that Ìkmen should bring up the subject of Tansu Hanim now, but not because of anything to do with her songs. What he wanted to know was whether the description Cengiz Temiz had given him of the 'devil woman' was consistent with Tansu's appearance - if indeed the testimony of a frightened and damaged man, who had not, it had to be faced, recognised Tansu as his nemesis from a photograph, could be relied upon. He also needed to discover whether or not Tansu possessed a blonde mink. As Çöktin had whispered to him during his interview with Cengiz Temiz, hairs from just such a fur had been found on both Temiz's clothes and those of Ruya Urfa. What a strange garment, he could not help thinking, to be wearing at the height of the summer. But then they, the Arabesk people as a group, were given to excessive and often inappropriate dress, he knew. And Tansu, undeniably, had very good motive.
At that moment, Ìsak Çöktin knocked and entered the room.
'Oh, Inspector Ìkmen,' he said as he noticed his superior's guest, 'it's good to see you.'
'Hello, Mickey Çöktin,' Ìkmen replied with a smile. 'I see the inspector here is keeping you busy.'
'Yes.' He dragged a chair over from underneath the window and sat down. 'I hear you spent some time over at the Ìskender Hamam, sir. Are you well enough?'
'I find that when I work I begin to feel better,' then turning back to Suleyman he said, 'Oh, and we did find a body, you know.'
'Oh.' Suleyman was sitting forward now. It was good to talk to Ìkmen but he did really need to get on. There were places he had to go.
'Yes,' Ìkmen replied as he, heedless of his fellows, launched into a story. 'Madame's husband, according to Kostas Katsoulis. He was in fact the man I always thought was her servant, the eunuch Murad Aga.'
Caught, despite himself, by the word, Suleyman said, 'Eunuch? But I thought they all died out years ago.'
'Oh, no,' Ìkmen said. 'I knew one in the sixties. Imran Aga. He was very black and monstrously fat'
'Eunuch's still serve their purposes in some Arab countries,' Çöktin put in.
'Do they?' Ìkmen said. 'Where?'
For just a moment Çöktin appeared a little flustered. 'Well’ he said, his pale skin turning slightly pink, 'I don't actually know where.'
'Ah.' From the look on Ìkmen's face none of Çöktin's discomfort had eluded him as it had the obviously distracted Suleyman. 'But to marry one is very queer, is it not?' he continued. 'I mean what can have been the pleasure . . .'
'There is more to marriage than just sex’ Çöktin said, his head bowed now.
'Yes, Mr Urfa said as much when I spoke to him.' Suleyman rose to his feet. 'But for now we must—'
Çöktin's mobile telephone which was currently residing in his pocket bleeped loudly. 'Oh, sorry, sir’ he apologised to Suleyman as he pressed the receive button. 'Hello?'
'Make it quick, Cdktin’ Suleyman said sternly and moved around the side of his desk towards Ìkmen.
'My cue to leave, I suppose’ Ìkmen said as he cast half an eye in Çöktin's direction.
Suleyman shrugged. 'Sorry, but now that Çöktin is here, we must progress.'
'Of course.'
After just a brief embrace, Suleyman led his guest towards the door of his office and opened it for him.
'I hope I'll see you very soon’ he said as he placed one slightly shy hand on Ìkmen's shoulder.
'Oh, you will’ and then leaning in close to Suleyman, Ìkmen, still with half an eye on the quietly talking Çöktin, added, 'You do know that he's not speaking Turkish into that phone, don't you?'
Suleyman turned his head to listen and caught the guttural edge of Kurdish tones.
Chapter 10
By the time he reached Haydarpasa railway station, Ali Mardin had convinced himself that he was simply going home for a social visit That this was patently not the case had been graphically demonstrated by the action of gently slipping his identity card over the side of the ferry that had taken him to the Asian train station. There was, he knew, nothing usual about the wilful destruction of official documents. But what choice had he had? If the police had seen it they would have hauled him in for sure. Once in their unforgiving clutches he would, he knew, roll out the whole saga, which, although not exactly criminal, was not going to help his friend. When he got home there were many things he would have to tell Erol's parents - and Ruya's.
But for now, in the twenty minutes before the train arrived, Ali Mardin had other concerns. It was unlikely he would be able to get home without being asked to show his identity card. Soldiers or police or gendarmes could demand to see it and grave consequences could follow upon not producing it. What he needed, therefore, was a lot of luck both in procuring a replacement and in not being too closely looked at if subsequently required to produce it. Getting hold of one was not going to be easy, however. The tall, smart businessmen, distracted by their mobile telephones and portable computers, were probably the easiest targets but they bore so little resemblance to a short, rather scruffy peasant that those viewing such a card would have to be insane to detect any resemblance. Another peasant would be better. But peasants were cautious, as was Ali himself; they kept their possessions close. And Ali Mardin, though no saint, was no thief either.
Perhaps in the closer confines of the train he would have more opportunity. Ah bit his bottom lip nervously as a small group of heavily-armed policemen passed by. He would have to do something quickly. He knew that he could not help looking shifty. Very soon someone would stop him and demand to see his documents. Ah wiped the sweat from his brow on the cuff of his sleeve and then looked around him once again. If only someone would leave a bag or a jacket for just a moment. . .
As the departure for Ankara was announced over the tannoy, nothing immediately presented itself. He had a choice. To get onto the train and take his chances there or continue to scan for possible victims here. How could one know which was the right course of action to take? The policemen were getting onto the train, he could see them What he could also see was that the station was emptying wholesale into the Ankara Express. Opportunities were disappearing by the second. He had to act and fast
Dodging from foot to indecisive foot, Ali wavered for a few seconds - until he saw some of his fellow passengers were looking at him. Ah, well. He moved, head down, towards the barrier. Someone, somewhere had once said that with movement came freedom. Ali Mardin hoped against hope that this was the case.
Ever since he had received that phone call in Suleyman's office, Ìsak Çöktin had been unusually preoccupied. He had assured the inspector that the call was of no great import but Suleyman wasn't convinced. He didn't like secrets and that included telephone calls he couldn't understand and unauthorised appearances at the homes of suspects. This latter, as he had discussed with Ìkmen earlier, had to be tackled. The few kilometres that separated the car from Tansu Hanim's home would, he felt, give him an opportunity to broach the subject
'I was quite surprised to see that you were still with Mr Urfa when we found his daughter,' he said as he edged slowly into the appropriate traffic lane.
'He was very distressed after the broadcast' Çöktin replied, somewhat baldly, Suleyman thought