Arabesk

'Cengiz,' he said leaning forward in order to show the man his fingers, 'do you remember when one of the officers downstairs asked you to put your fingers in ink and then press them down onto paper? It made finger marks or prints.'

'Mmm.' It was a grunt without any accompanying movements. Suleyman assumed that it meant Cengiz understood.

'Well,' he said, 'what we do is, we look at your prints and the prints of some other people and we try to match them with finger marks our forensic people collect at the scene of the crime.'

Nothing. Suleyman looked across at Coktin who, for some reason, was smiling at Cengiz Temiz. When Suleyman cleared his throat, the younger officer changed his expression.

'Now it seems,' Suleyman continued, 'that your fingerprints match some of those at the scene of Mrs Urfa's murder. Not that you are alone in this. We've also found prints from Mr Urfa, baby Merih, and Mrs Urfa's prints on lots of things including kitchen equipment and her pen. The problem we have with you is that only your prints have been found on Mrs Urfa's body. Forensic have found your marks on the lady's spectacles and on a gold bangle round her wrist. Do you know what I'm saying here, Cengiz, or-'

'Didn't hurt Mrs Ruya! Didn't do it!'

'Didn't do what, Cengiz?' Suleyman insisted. 'What didn't you do?'

Once again the silence rolled in across the terrified wastes of Cengiz Temiz's face.

'Look, Cengiz,' Coktin put in, 'if you didn't hurt Mrs Ruya or if what happened was an accident then you don't have to be frightened, do you?'

'When people die people get hung.'

'Not now. People do go to prison but… Look, Cengiz, if you didn't kill Mrs Ruya then just tell us when you touched her and-'

'She was cold after…'

'She was cold after what, Cengiz?' Suleyman asked, feeling his heart racing with the anticipation of one who knows he might be on the verge of a breakthrough. 'After…'

'Must go to the toilet now.'

'Yes, all right, but first-'

'Now.'

Coktin, who was much less excited about what Cengiz might be about to say than Suleyman, said, ‘I think you ought to let him go now, sir.'

'Yes, in a-'

'Now!' Cengiz's face was really quite contorted. As he grimaced and gummed his way through a succession of expressions, Suleyman, who had not noticed this need in his prisoner before, lost valuable seconds in argument.

'This urgency is really very sudden, Cengiz,' he said, 'in view of what we have been talking about.'

'I think it's all part of his condition, whatever it is,' Coktin whispered into Suleyman's ear. 'I think you'd better let him go.'

'Yes, but-'

It was then that the sound of running water accompanied by deep, humiliated sobs were heard coming from Cengiz's large sad frame. Although unable to understand the more subtle aspects of life's diversity, he did know that in this horrible, dirty little room with policemen firing questions at him he was once again in trouble that would cause him pain. And this time, he knew, they would not just send him home when they had finished their questions. This time they were going to keep him.

Tansu stood on the very edge of the cliff, her eyes streaming with tears. Then with a flick of her proud head she turned to the man wearing some sort of foreign uniform who stood beside her and spat, 'I would rather die than be your woman!'

And with that she, or rather a stuntwoman, launched herself into the deep blue abyss below.

'Singers should never act,' Cetin Ikmen said as he lit a new cigarette from the butt of his last smoke. 'Elvis Presley stands as a warning to us all.'

'Oh, I enjoyed his films,' Fatma said as she passed briefly in front of the screen herding a reluctant child towards the bathroom.

'None of us is perfect,' her husband muttered as he watched a picture of a group of young army conscripts flash up on the screen. Erol Urfa performing his duty for the Republic.

'You know, Fatma,' he called out over both the sound of the television and the running water from the bathroom, 'if I wanted to know when Tansu Hanim was born or where Erol Urfa comes from I wouldn't have the faintest idea from this programme.'

'She's a little shy about her age,' Fatma yelled back. 'It's why she chooses to change what Allah has given her.'

'The plastic surgery?'

'Yes.' With dripping hands she re-entered the living room and stood for a moment, her hands on her hips. 'Have you seen Bulent yet?'

Ikmen's face darkened. 'Only from the balcony.'

Fatma raised her eyes towards heaven. Then changing the subject once again she said, 'Did I hear you say that Kleopatra Polycarpou is finally dying?'

'You shouldn't listen when I'm on the telephone,' Ikmen said with an expression of what could have been mock sternness on his face.

Fatma, who was accustomed to such looks, simply carried on, 'But is she or-'

'Yes, it would seem so,' Ikmen said with a sigh as he watched a piece of film showing Tansu and Erol on the beach at Bodrum. 'Cohen went to say goodbye.'

'And phoned you up to tell you?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Because there is a problem with…' Suddenly realising what he was being drawn into, he stopped, looked at Fatma and said, 'And you know Kleopatra Polycarpou how, Fatma?'

'Oh, I've never known her myself, Cretin;' she said with a smile. ‘I know of her because I've heard you speak of her and because Mrs Onat kept house for her for a while before she took on that,' she sniffed as if she had a bad smell under her nose, 'that woman.'

Ikmen frowned. 'Nothing was ever proven against Semra Arda.'

'Only because that girl was dead by the time she got to hospital!'

'Well, nobody else came forward to say she'd been doing abortions on them too!' Ikmen said with some heat in his voice. 'If there's no proof there's no case!'

'Unless it's pol-'

'I don't want to even begin to talk about areas of law enforcement that I do not,understand!' he shouted. ‘I deal with straight criminal homicide, Fatma, as well you know. I don't do political stuff. I do what happens when some greedy son decides to put rat poison into his father's Ayran. Along the way some of my suspects are actually exonerated, one of those being Semra Arda.' He held up one finger to silence Fatma and then said, 'Who is, by the way, not a subject you or Sibel Onat or anyone else should be discussing in terms of guilt!'

Before Fatma could answer, a child's voice floated in from the bathroom. 'Mummy!'

'I don't know how that child gets so filthy!' Fatma said as she turned to move away, her rising temper now moving in a different direction. 'She's like a boy, that one!'

'Which one?' Ikmen asked.

'Gul,' she answered, and then added spitefully, 'You should learn the children's names sometime, Cetin!'

Before she left the room, she stopped briefly to listen to a very mournful song that seemed to be wrenching itself painfully from Tansu's unnaturally white throat.

'So which one is this, then?' Ikmen asked, tipping his head towards the television set. 'Seeing as you are some sort of expert on this stuff.'

''Hate is My Only Friend'. One of the bitter ones I told you about,' Fatma replied and then with a toss of her head she added, 'I can sympathise with this sometimes.'

And then she was gone, leaving only her husband's scowl in her wake.