There was one group, however, that Suleyman was anxious to interview. Semra Arda, her daughter Mina and the English pimp all needed to be formally interrogated. The two women wept continually while the man just shook soundlessly within his handcuffs: Suleyman hoped their states were transitory although, logically, he knew it was unlikely. As soon as Cohen had appeared at the hamam and inquired after the baby, Semra had broken down and admitted that the child in her care was Urfa's. When Mina had been arrested she had denied this. There was a lot to sort out, and that was without the problems now being presented to him by both Cohen and an irate Zelfa Halman.
'We can't leave Madame to die alone,' Cohen said as he leaned tiredly against Suleyman's desk.
'Well, you'd better try to find out who her doctor is and get him over there,' and then dragging his hands wearily down his face Suleyman said, 'Why she isn't in hospital is beyond me.'
'But I don't know who her doctor-'
'Well, ask Semra Arda, she should know! Or perhaps even Inspector Ikmen! He seems to know everything there is to know about everything!'
'Oh, right.'
'Go!' And then turning to the fuming woman in the corner, Suleyman snapped, 'And? Yes?'
As soon as the door had slammed behind Cohen, Zelfa Halman started. 'What do you think you are doing with Cengiz Temiz?'
'What?' Either through tiredness or genuine forgetful-ness Suleyman was suddenly and completely confused.
'Cengiz Temiz?' She moved towards him, her cigarette held before her like a weapon. 'You know, the man with Down's syndrome you put into the care of three characters straight out of a Lovecraft short story.'
'Eh?'
'When I arrived less than an hour ago he was hysterical, swimming around in his own piss and had mutilated himself! God knows how long he'd been like that. I strongly suspect that those cretins you had charged with his care only called me when they smelt his blood!'
'Dr Halman-'
'I'm telling you now that if the Temiz family make a complaint, I will support them.' She rudely pointed her cigarette at his face. 'I expected better of you, Inspector! You and Ikmen are usually more compassionate than what generally passes for policemen in this bloody country.'
'Upholding prisoners' complaints is your right, Doctor,' he said. 'In Ireland-'
'Where people are frequently bombed and shot,' he looked up at her face which was now white with fury. 'Yes? You were saying?'
The switch from Turkish to English was sudden and ferocious. 'Don't even begin to tell me about the country of my birth, Mehmet! Don't even breathe about things you don't understand! There is about as much similarity between yourselves and our Garda as there is between a rock and my arse!'
'Then perhaps, Dr Halman,' he said, joining her in the English language, 'you should return to practise in the country of your mother.'
'Don't think I don't want to!'
He turned aside to retrieve a stack of files from the floor. 'If that is what you want, that is what you must do.'
As a thick, resentful silence enveloped the room, Suleyman opened the top file and made some attempt to get beyond the first sentence. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as she paced angrily up and down in front of his desk. Then suddenly and explosively, once again, she said, 'So do you want me to go or-'
'My personal feelings are irrelevant,' he answered, slipping easily back into his native tongue. 'If you are professionally frustrated here…'
'So you'll not ask me to stay for any other reason then?'
Anxious that those outside should not be privy to an exchange that had now taken on a personal edge, Suleyman returned to English again. 'If you wait for me to beg, you will wait a long time.' Turning aside to pick up his cigarettes he added, 'If you fail to understand then speak to your father.'
'Oh, I understand all about Turkish male pride all right!' she said as her eyes unbidden began to water. 'It fucking stinks!'
He stood up quickly, towering above what was now the shrunken figure of his opponent 'I have no more time for this,' he said. 'I have people to interview. If you wish to draft a report on Cengiz Temiz and leave it on my desk I will attend to it as soon as I can.'
'So I'll not be seeing you at the house for a while then?'
'That decision is entirely in your hands,' he said and then, turning sharply, he put his hand on the door handle and turned it.
It may have been an optical illusion but Zelfa Halman did think that she saw just a little wetness around his eyes as he moved away. But as he opened the door onto the babbling hordes outside, she flung the word 'Bastard!' at him anyway.
Those beyond the door suddenly became very quiet
Cetin Ikmen switched the telephone off and then flung it carelessly onto the floor.
'What's going on?' Fatma said as she kicked the sheets back over to his side of the bed and turned her sleepy face up to his. 'Is it Bulent?'
'No. Go back to sleep.' He kissed her lightly on the lips and then swung his legs over the side of the bed. As he sat up, he felt his head swim with tiredness.
'get in…'
'I have to go out,' he said as he shakily placed a cigarette in his mouth and lit up.
Fatma opened her large brown eyes and blinked. 'Why? You're not working.'
He breathed the smoke deeply and then almost instantly clutched at his stomach. 'Someone needs me.'
'But you're not well!' She sat up, suddenly and shatteringly awake. 'Anyway, who needs you so much Cetin? At this hour?'
As he clipped his watch onto his wrist, Ikmen sighed. 'Madame Kleopatra. It's a long story, but basically Suleyman has left her in the hamam to die alone.'
'But Mehmet wouldn't-'
'Yes, but Cohen says that he has. Dr Katsoulis is on his way but he's having to come from his home in Anadolu Kavagi. Madame is an institution, she should not die with only her nightmares for company.'
'Why should she have nightmares? She was, I thought, always a good woman.'
Ikmen stood up and stretched, cigarette in mouth. 'When Halil and I were little, Mother used to take us to the Iskender Hamam. It was a long way for us but Madame even then had something of a reputation. Like most women, Mother would take food, all the clothes and potions we needed for the day and,' he smiled, 'her cards. Madame lay great store by my mother's predictions.'
'So she's a witchcraft friend, is she?' Fatma said with a scowl. Despite having been married to Cretin for nearly thirty years, Fatma still did not approve of her late mother-in-law. That she had been Albanian lent her a strange 'otherness' that was forgivable. Her practiced the so-called black arts was less acceptable.
Her husband, dressing hurriedly now in the half-light from the street lamp outside, ignored Fatma's disdain, as was his custom. 'Then when Mother died, Madame played a different type of card game with my father,' he said. 'Madame, Mimi Sarkissian and Timur would play for hours for just a few kuru§ -until Madame took to her deathbed.'
'Was her husband still alive then?'
Ikmen knotted his tie and shrugged. 'I don't know. Arto's father had died which was why Mimi used to come.' He sighed. 'I can't believe Mimi died so quickly after Timur. When Madame goes, that whole way of life will have disappeared.'
With a grunt of pain as her back creaked, Fatma hauled herself across the bed and then kneeled up to help her husband with his tie. 'You're a good man, Cetin Ikmen,' she said, her hps a little tight around this admission.
When she had finished arranging his tie, Ikmen bent down to kiss his wife again. ‘I am an old sinner, as well you know,' he said with a smile. And then flinging his jacket across his shoulders he crept quietly towards the bedroom door.
