unnatural behaviour,' and then raising his arms heavenwards in a gesture of supplication, he added, 'if it please Him.’
His friend sighed heavily as he watched the rapidly retreating back of the young man and then said softly, 'I think his punishment, by the look of him, has already come to pass.'
Living with others, however kind and tolerant those others might be, is never easy. Ever since he'd separated from his wife the previous year, the newly promoted Inspector Suleyman had been renting a room from one of his more lowly colleagues, Constable Cohen. Although completely different in nearly all respects, including age, religion, class and values, Suleyman and Cohen had first become friends when the former was still in uniform. And in spite of Suleyman's rapid rise to inspector, they had remained close. Indeed when the younger man had first left his wife, Cohen had permitted him to stay rent-free to allow, as he put it, 'the bastard lawyers to screw your bank account'.
Loud, colourful and kind, Cohen and his wife Estelle included the elegant and cultured Suleyman in all their pursuits both familial and religious. As well as being expertly catered for by them with regard to his own Muslim calendar, Suleyman had been included in celebrations to mark Passover and Chanukah. He had also attended a vast and, as it turned out, ill-fated meal to mark the return of the Cohens' eldest son, Yusuf, from his tour of conscript duty in the eastern provinces. Wounded in places the eye could never see, this young man's bizarre behaviour at that dinner had been just the start of what turned out to be a very rapid descent into psychiatric instability. When Yusuf was finally admitted to an institution, Suleyman, as well as the Cohens themselves, had felt sad but relieved.
However, to say that Suleyman had experienced a quiet life since Yusuf's departure would be erroneous. As well as having to endure the sound of Estelle's frequent rages at the endless sexual faithlessness of her husband, there were the neighbours to take account of too. Cohen's apartment, though large, was not situated in the best part of Istanbul. Karakoy, which is that district that runs from the eastern end of the Galata Bridge up the hill of the same name to Istiklal Caddesi, is not for the faint-hearted. Though dotted with many fine old buildings, some of Genoese and Armenian origin, plus the now lovingly restored Neve Shalom Synagogue, Karakoy also possesses its share of tatty apartment buildings. The one the Cohens had moved into twenty-six years previously was the one they still lived in now. Not once in all those years had the place been so much as painted, let alone properly decorated. With the notable exceptions of one new television and an even more erratic plumbing system, nothing much had changed in all that time, at least not for the better anyway. The locals had always been dubious but in the last ten years they had become, to use a Cohenism, far more 'serious’. Despite the very best efforts of the city authorities, now run by the traditional Refah party, to flush such elements out, the old ways died hard. Indeed, in this case, they actually prospered. And, although the cheap dancing girls, petty thieves and even the legal brothels had gone away, they had been replaced mainly by full-on, streetwalking prostitutes and drug dealers. The very loud and very young girl who lived in the apartment next door and who routinely woke Suleyman in the middle of the night with her harsh laugh and passion-filled screams was quite openly a cocaine addict. That she knowingly lived next door to two police officers did not restrict her behaviour in any way. It had about as much effect upon her as it did upon her enormous pimp who liked to laugh out loud at Cohen's diminutive figure. That the criminal had access to far more sophisticated and greater numbers of weapons than the law man had much to do with this casual disdain. The effect upon Suleyman of all this was to make him angry and, despite his feelings for Cohen, very anxious to leave as soon as his finances permitted. Sleeplessness of the order he was experiencing now was neither healthy nor good for his new, far more responsible position in life.
Until almost exactly four weeks previously, Mehmet Suleyman had been a sergeant working for the city's leading homicide detective, Cetin Ikmen. Although happy in his work, Suleyman was both ambitious and, especially since his separation from his wife Zuleika, extremely needy where money was concerned. So at the end of the previous year, 1998, he had put in for promotion. Supported by Ikmen he had, after not too long a wait (given the gargantuan bureaucracy of the Turkish police establishment), achieved the promotion he desired and had hoped to work beside his old boss for quite some time before being let loose on his own initiative. But then Ikmen, who had, as far as Suleyman was concerned, always complained of stomach pains, had suddenly become very ill indeed. Initially admitted to hospital, Ikmen had been diagnosed with multiple duodenal ulcers. Although he would need surgery at some time in the future, for the moment he was prescribed medication, dietary restrictions and rest Just thinking about this regime made Suleyman's handsome features resolve into a wry smile. The 'old man' was almost as passionately attached to the notion of eating irregularly (and then only junk) as he was to his beloved brandy and cigarettes, his twin, if second-league, obsessions. His first was his work. According to the inspector's eldest son, Sinan, to whom Suleyman had spoken the previous evening, Ikmen was not only plotting to get hold of alcohol at every possible opportunity but was also going a little mad from his enforced idleness.
Suleyman put his tired head in his hands and yawned. Although there were other experienced detectives in the homicide division with whom he could, theoretically, discuss the more troubling aspects of his new position in life, he knew that they saw him as a dangerous rival – people like old Yalcin who openly mocked Suleyman's aristocratic background while at the same time telling others to 'watch out' for the younger man's keen intelligence. You didn't get this sort of thing from Ikmen who, better than the lot of them put together, would have gladly backed his protege in any argument with old guard types – and enjoyed it
It was in these silent, between-shift moments that Suleyman missed Ikmen the most The old man had always come in early and had always been there when Suleyman arrived, alert and ready for at least a short discussion of any lingering woes the younger man may have carried with him from the previous day. But, sick or well, the relationship between Ikmen and himself was due to alter, at least in the working environment. Now Suleyman was responsible not only for his own security and actions but for that of his new sergeant too. Isak ‘Coktin, at twenty- five, resembled in some ways the youthful enthusiast that Suleyman himself had once been. Although some had seen his assignment to Suleyman's command as a subtle snub to the stylish aristocrat, Suleyman himself did not view it in that light Whether or not ‘Coktin was a 'mountain Turk', that bland euphemism for those of Kurdish descent, as some of the older and more conservative elements whispered he was, did not concern Suleyman. ‘Coktin had been born and brought up in Istanbul, in admittedly one of the more downmarket districts. And though his tousled red hair did point towards blood that was not entirely Turkish, his record as an officer was impeccable. That Ikmen personally liked him a lot was also a plus, Ikmen, who by his own admission was the son of an Albanian soothsayer, possessed an almost unfailing sixth sense when it came to judging people's characters. And 'Mickey', as he had dubbed ‘Coktin because of his almost uncanny resemblance to the scruffy American film star Mickey Rourke, was 'all right'. Just how 'all right' ‘Coktin was, Suleyman wasn't to learn until he picked up the telephone which now buzzed harshly at his tired ears.
'Suleyman,' he drawled by way of introduction.
'Inspector, it's ‘Coktin,' a voice barely capable of containing its excitement replied.
Suleyman sat up just a little bit straighter. 'Where are you? What's going on?'
'I'm at the Izzet Pasa Apartments on Istiklal Caddesi.' Then pausing briefly to take a large, nerve-calming breath, he added, 'I'm with Erol Urfa, or at least I was until-'
'From your tone’ Suleyman interrupted, 'I take it we are talking about
'The Arabesk star, yes, sir.' With even greater excitement he added, 'Actually in the next room from where I'm standing now, actually, sir.'
'Really? Why?'
Silence greeted Suleyman's inquiry and so he couched his question in rather more overt terms. 'Why are you there with Mr Urfa is what I'm trying to get at, Coktin.'
'Oh, well, because he says his wife has been murdered, sir.'
Suleyman, as if shocked by a current of electricity, stood up. 'What!'
'Yes, here in his apartment. The body's in the kitchen.'
'Are you sure?'
'Well, without jeopardising the integrity of the site more than I had to, I did check and anyway it was quite obvious-'
'No! No!' Suleyman put his hand up to his head and held what was now a lightly perspiring brow. 'What I mean is, are you sure that the woman is his wife?'
'So he says.'
Suleyman sighed, speaking again on the outgoing breath. 'OK,' he said, 'I'll be with you as soon as I can. Keep
