Tansu was very much in Çetin Ìkmen's thoughts too at that moment. Once again he had been listening to both her songs and those of Erol Urfa. And though it had to be said that in the case of the latter, there was nothing unusual in the lyrics, those supposedly written by Tansu were another matter. He looked down at the pad upon which he had jotted the words and frowned. Surely these references to the beloved object as 'my peacock', 'hated, adored peacock', 'peacock of my heart' and 'resplendent bird of blue and green' could not be coincidental? Loving, killing, dying for the peacock . . . Excessive, like her overblown affection for Erol, but at the same time, if Erol or even Tansu were of the Yezidi faith, surely unwise also. As Dr Halman had said, people just didn't understand them and, as the X in the space for religion on their identity cards proved, things people did not understand they frequently chose to both fear and despise. Not that Erol, or even the strangely knowledgeable Çöktin, had Xs on their cards. But then perhaps Ìkmen was just seeing devil worshippers everywhere now in the early, lonely watches of the night It would not be the first time he had seen the shadow of something that did not, conventionally, exist Ìkmen smiled at the thought and then put his pad down on the floor, the word 'conventional' resounding loudly in his brain.
'Conventionally' all this musing on songs and slightly off-key occurrences was a total waste of time. There was no evidence for any of this and besides, even if Erol Urfa did belong to some sort of odd sect, that didn't necessarily have any bearing upon his wife's death. No. However, just the inkling that there might be a secret of some sort here bothered Ìkmen. He didn't like secrets. Secrets could cause damage or even, in his own case, an unhealthy curiosity now over forty years old. But were the unknown circumstances surrounding his mother's death on the same level as wondering whether people might or might not belong to a minority religion? Yes and no.
If someone, as yet unknown, had killed because of it then it was even more important than his own personal demons.
As the night ravelled up around them, black and thick with closed-in heat, those who saw, in their waking or sleeping dreams, the body of Ruya Urfa lying small and alone in the mortuary stopped for a pause where real sleep should be. All waiting for the unrefreshing and already exhausting dawn.
Chapter 11
When Suleyman entered his office the following morning, he found Arto Sarkissian's full report on the corpse of Ruya Urfa on his desk. Although not personally wounding as Zelfa Halman's statement regarding the treatment of Cengiz Temiz had been, it did, nevertheless, make grim reading. Poisoned, as they already knew, by cyanide, Ruya Urfa had been in the early stages of pregnancy when she died. Although her husband was certainly unaware of this, whether Ruya herself knew of her condition could only be guessed at. Her husband, Suleyman recognised, would have to be made aware of this fact He also knew that he would have to be the one to tell him. He put the report to one side with a sigh just as Çöktin first knocked and then entered his office.
'Good morning, sir,' the younger man said as he slipped lightly into the chair in front of Suleyman's desk
"The report on Ruya Urfa,' Suleyman said as he retrieved the paper and then pushed it across at his deputy. 'Some would say,' he continued as he
watched a grave-faced Çöktin begin to read, 'that our perpetrator has the blood of two people on their hands.'
A minute or so of silence followed as Çöktin took in what was intelligible to him from the report. Suleyman, for his part, stared out of the window and smoked. The pregnancy aside, Arto Sarkissian's report had brought to his attention something that, amid his involvement with all the people around this crime, had all but slipped his attention. What had actually killed Ruya Urfa had been poison. Cyanide. Not something that, thankfully, one came across every, day. He knew that it had industrial uses, although he didn't know what, but there had to be a limited number of places from which it could be purchased or stolen. And, given Çöktin's forcefully expressed opinions regarding the supposed innocence of Erol Urfa, it was probably not a bad a idea to give him the task of looking into this aspect. Besides, the disappearance of Urfa's only alibi for the night of the murder, Ali Mardin, had rather thrown the investigative emphasis back upon the singer. After all, there had to be more to Ali's absence than just simply an identity card violation. But, until the circulation of Mardin's description bore fruit there was no real way of telling.
'Mr Urfa will have to be told about this,' Çöktin said as he put the report back down onto Suleyman's desk. 'Do you want me to—'
'No. No, that's my job,' Suleyman answered with a sigh.
'Not pleasant'
'No. Although I suppose he will have Mr Aksoy to help him through.'
'Oh, er,' Çöktin stumbled, 'um, he's not actually at Aksoy's any more actually, sir.'
Suleyman frowned. 'Oh?'
'No, he's, er, rented another apartment in the same block. I think it's number 1/3.'
Suleyman leaned across his desk and eyed his colleague narrowly. 'And how do you know this, Çöktin?'
'Well, he phoned me actually.'
'I trust that was through the switchboard here,' Suleyman said sternly.
Çöktin laughed, nervously. 'Oh, but yes, of course!'
'I mean I would hate to think that you were giving out your mobile and private numbers.'
'No!'
'After all, with Ali Mardin no longer available for comment Mr Urfa has effectively lost his alibi for the time being.'
'Yes, but—'
'And research does suggest that the person most likely to have committed a homicide is frequently also the person who "discovers" the body. As I keep on telling you, Çöktin, Mr Urfa is still a suspect and is therefore not a suitable person for you to be seen consorting with.' He eyed Çöktin sharply. 'You will cease all contact with him from now on.' 'But, sir—'
Suleyman held up one silencing hand. 'This is not open to discussion!' Then with a sigh, he settled back into his chair once again. 'Besides, I have an important task for you right now.'
Çöktin did not answer but rather just looked up to indicate that he was paying attention.
'I would like you to go over to the Forensic Institute and gather some information for me about cyanide. With regard to people, we seem to be running around in circles to no good effect. Perhaps if we look at the substance used to kill Ruya Urfa we may have more luck. Perhaps the substance, or an individual's potential access to it, may help us to identify that person or people we really need to concentrate upon.'
Çöktin, somewhat calmer in demeanour now, took out his notebook and pen. 'Very well sir.'
'I know that cyanide is employed for industrial purposes, but I don't know what. That is point one. Point two, I need to know where it might be purchased, and point three, it would be useful to know whether it has any domestic uses. For instance, some poisons may be routinely employed to kill pests in the home. Some may even be used medicinally. I believe there is a type of rat poison that is also used as a blood-thinning agent'
Çöktin dutifully wrote all of this down and then looked up. 'So do you want me to go over now then, sir?'
"Hie sooner the better,' Suleyman said as he retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair. 'You might also see if they've made any progress with those rnink fibre samples from Tansu's coat It might be a bit early yet,
but...'
'
'All right' Çöktin put his notebook and pen back into his pocket and stood up. 'So what are we doing with regard to Cengiz Temiz, sir?'
'I'm still hanging on to him, just,' Suleyman said. He picked his car keys up from his desk. 'Although Mr Avedykian is moving to bring him before a judge as soon as possible’
'Right'
'And if the judge decides that the evidence against Mr Temiz is outweighed by his lack of capacity then he will walk.' Suleyman shrugged. 'But the law must take its course.'
'Not everybody thinks like you, you know,' Çöktin said. 'I mean you could just beat whatever it is Temiz knows out of him. People do.'
'Yes, I know.' Suleyman looked down at the floor. 'And I almost did that once. But Inspector Ìkmen stopped me, luckily. Had I done so all the reasons why I joined the force would have disappeared.'
'Yes, but with so many others—'
'We can only influence our own practice and try to lead by example!' He ground his cigarette out in the ashtray and then, nervously, lit another. 'I can't do anything about what may or may not happen when other officers arrest a person. I can't do anything about our anti-terrorism measures.' He lowered his voice. 'All I know is that if people sigh with relief when I arrest them, like they do when Ìkmen puts his hands on their necks, I am getting somewhere, if slowly. And I know that you being who and what you are, share the same goals. Policing in this country has changed and is changing for the better. I know that!' 'Yes, sir.'
Suleyman walked towards the door. 'I will extend your condolences to Mr Urfa,' he said. 'I will do so in Turkish. Do I make myself clear?'
Çöktin sighed and then smiled weakly. 'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'
The two men walked out together into the hubbub of the busy corridor.
Ìkmen replaced the telephone receiver on its cradle and then walked into the kitchen. Fatma, who had just finished doing the washing up with the help of fourteen-year-old Hulya, was taking her apron off as her husband entered the room. Hulya, upon seeing her father, rolled her eyes heavenwards and left without a word.
'What's the matter with her?' Ìkmen said, watching the youngster stomp out of the kitchen.
'She's part of Bulent's gang.' Fatma lowered herself gently down beside her husband. 'When you've got as many children as we have, they take sides.' Seeing the crestfallen look on Ìkmen's face she rubbed her ringers affectionately in his hair. 'Don't worry, she hates Sinan and Cicek, too.'
'Oh, well, that's comforting!'
'Basically it works out that the teenagers are against the rest of us,' Fatma said.
'Or rather their hormones are,' Ìkmen answered grimly.
Fatma stood up and walked across the room to put the kettle on the stove. 'Well, you know what I've always said about that, don't you, Çetin?'
Ìkmen pulled an unpleasant face. 'If we married them off like good Muslim boys and girls .-..'
'But you just wouldn't have it, would you! No!' In her stride now, Fatma flung one exasperated hand up in the air. 'No, you had to fill their heads with ideas! You—'
'This is so hypocritical, it makes me want to vomit!' It wasn't often that he really yelled, but whenever he did, it brought her up short Not that Fatma was afraid of her husband. Not once in the thirty years of their marriage had he so much as raised a hand to her. It was just that certain subjects, she knew, could set him off on long diatribes that while they lasted, seemed to have no end. She also knew that he was far from well and that the last thing he needed right now was a fight.
'Çetin
'We married for no other reason than that we were in love! No religious involvement, no family pressure like poor Suleyman had to endure! Love, Fatma!' He looked her hard in the eyes until, eventually, she turned away. 'And if you want to deny our children the choice of real love then go ahead, but you won't get my support! Not even against Bulent!'
Strangely, she thought, for him, Ìkmen stopped there and just looked down furiously at the table. It wasn't until she saw that one of his hands was clutching at his stomach that she realised that he was in pain. As a veteran of these scenes and of his pain Fatma knew that to comfort him now would only attract a furious rebuff. And so as he fought to disguise the sound of his laboured breathing, she stood over the kettle and changed the subject.
'So who called on the telephone then, Çetin?'
He didn't answer immediately, pausing first to light a cigarette.
'It was Father Yiannis,' he gasped, 'from the Aya Triyada Kilisesi. He's invited me to Madame Kleopatra's funeral.'
'Will you go?'
'Yes. She was good to my mother. I owe her respect.'
Fatma watched as the kettle started to steam very lightly. 'And the other body?' she asked. 'Murad Aga? What of him?'
Ìkmen sighed. 'I don't know,' he said. 'What's left of him is still at the lab. Who's to know?'
Still gently rubbing his stomach, Ìkmen got up from his chair and walked across the kitchen to open the window. As he walked back to his chair he muttered, 'Too hot,' by way of explanation.
Fatma took two tulip glasses out of one of her cupboards and retrieved a box of apple tea granules from another. 'You came to bed very late last night, Çetin,' she said. 'Was something bothering you?'
'I was thinking about those songs of Tansu Hamm's, the bitter ones. Do you know how many times she refers to the beloved as a peacock in those?'
'No.' Fatma spooned granules into each glass.
'Sixteen. And considering that that type of song doesn't represent the bulk of her output, that is a lot.'
'Yes. But then peacocks are beautiful birds. The male being far more lovely than the female.' Fatma poured boiling water onto the granules and then stirred the mixture. 'And as a symbol for Tansu and Erol it's quite good really. I mean he is quite stunningly attractive and she is, well. . .' She smiled. 'Anyway, why are you thinking about this, Çetin?'
'Well, Ruya Urfa's murderer is still at large—'
'Which is, I believe, Mehmet's case and not yours,' Fatma said as she placed the two glasses down on the table and then sat beside Ìkmen.
'Yes
'Yes.' She pursed her hps in a half smile and took one of his hands in hers. 'I know you're bored, but.
'I don't want him to miss anything, Fatma,' Ìkmen said, suddenly becoming excited. 'I want him to succeed! He's a good man. We don't have that many. He deserves to succeed!'
'Yes, of course he does, but that is not for you to decide, Cretin. If Allah is merciful, then Mehmet will succeed, if not. . .' She shrugged. 'But you must let him go and meet his own fate.'