Arabesk

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.'

'Mmm.'

'And anyway,' she continued, 'quite how you think this peacock business might help Mehmet, I really don't know.'

Ìkmen took a sip from his glass. 'Fatma,' he said, 'have you ever heard of the Yezidis?'

Ìkmen watched with horror as his wife's eyes hardened. 'They that dance in the dark and then couple with each other? The sons and daughters of Shaitan?' She spat, admittedly in the direction of the sink, Ìkmen noted, though she missed it. 'In§allah we will never meet their like in this city.'

'Oh? Why is that?'

'Because, as I just said, they worship Shaitan! Even for someone like you, surely the dangers of actually worshipping evil must be clear!'

'There are some who think they are simply misunderstood, that the Ye-'

'Do not say that name in my house again!' Fatma roared as she clutched her blue boncuk to her neck. 'As if I haven't suffered enough with your addiction to malevolent characters! Soothsayers, beggars, weavers of wicked tales – and you make it quite plain that you still live with the ghost of your witch mother!'

'Fatma

But she was up now and across the other side of the room from him, wiping dishes that were already spotlessly clean.

'No,' she said, 'I don't want to talk about this any more!'