being, of course, that English Maud and her sister-in-law ran an illegal brothel. This was the third one İkmen had heard of so far – the other two, at the far end of the village, employed Bulgarian and Lithuanian women respectively.
‘I would have noticed a pretty blonde girl with pink boots, even then,’ Nazlı Kahraman said.
‘She was rather distinctive,’ İkmen replied. Especially to him. Alison with her long blond hair, her almost always laughing face and her huge army boots – the ones she had dyed pink ‘to be different’.
‘There isn’t a lot of personal beauty around here,’ Nazlı said. ‘Maybe it’s because so much of the loveliness exists within the landscape.’ Her eyes twinkled almost naughtily. ‘But then as most people marry their cousins that might have something to do with it too.’
‘Nazlı Hanım . . .’
‘You have, I know, heard a few things about my family, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I know that this Alison must have been important to you at some time. But I also know that what has happened here recently with this body out in the Valley of the Saints exercises your mind too. Haldun Alkaya has told everyone that Aysu was murdered. Shot, I believe. But anyway, to return to my family . . . My father was an intelligent man who, unlike most of the human detritus here, understood the dangers of in-breeding. You know that one of the reasons why he married Aysu Alkaya was because he knew that our family were not in any way related to theirs. The girl was lovely, intelligent, and there was nothing nasty, as far as Father could tell, lurking back in her ancestry.’ She smiled unpleasantly. ‘You know the carpet dealer, Ümit Özal? His parents were cousins. They had four children’ – she counted them off on her fingers – ‘Ümit, who is mad and sleeps with his kilims; Yaşar, who has a hare-lip; Ali, who suffers from fits; and the daughter who, Allah have mercy upon her, divorced her husband in Germany and now lives with a Dutchman in Amsterdam.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Inbreeding and bad blood,’ Nazlı declared, ‘that’s what it is! There are so few families that are untainted by it. You either marry out or you choose the family with great care – like my father.’
İkmen picked up the tea glass which the distressingly shabby servant girl had given him and took a sip of the hot, amber liquid. Although dark now, it wasn’t cold in Nazlı Kahraman’s courtyard. In fact, surrounded by the many olive oil tins now used as plant pots, and looking down at the twinkling lights from the village below, was not an unpleasant way to spend an evening – even if Nazlı Kahraman’s opinions were arrogant and bigoted. Of course, some in-breeding was inevitable in a small and once-isolated village. But not on the scale Nazlı or the young jandarma seemed to think it was. At least İkmen hoped that was the case.
‘So did your father know that Aysu was sweet on Kemalettin Senar?’ İkmen asked. ‘I mean before . . .’
‘Oh, he knew,’ Nazlı Hanım replied. ‘But once he’d identified the girl as suitable, he also knew that Kemalettin Senar couldn’t possibly be any sort of threat.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he paid Kemalettin’s mother to make a big fuss about the girl’s dowry.’
‘I thought that the Alkayas were poor?’ İkmen said with a frown.
‘Oh, they were, are,’ Nazlı Hanım said. ‘But if Nalan Senar were not such a greedy woman, it would have been enough. After all, the Senars have some money but they are no one. They say that their blood is pure and untainted by all the ills that afflict so many other families here, but that is nonsense. Nalan’s father was a raving lunatic.’ She tutted her tongue and sucked on her teeth. ‘And look at Kemalettin . . .’
‘I thought that he was mentally damaged, on account of Aysu,’ İkmen said.
Nazlı shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ And then rapidly changing the subject she said, ‘I suppose
‘I would have noticed a pretty blonde girl with pink boots, even then,’ Nazlı Kahraman said.
‘She was rather distinctive,’ İkmen replied. Especially to him. Alison with her long blond hair, her almost always laughing face and her huge army boots – the ones she had dyed pink ‘to be different’.
‘There isn’t a lot of personal beauty around here,’ Nazlı said. ‘Maybe it’s because so much of the loveliness exists within the landscape.’ Her eyes twinkled almost naughtily. ‘But then as most people marry their cousins that might have something to do with it too.’
‘Nazlı Hanım . . .’
‘You have, I know, heard a few things about my family, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I know that this Alison must have been important to you at some time. But I also know that what has happened here recently with this body out in the Valley of the Saints exercises your mind too. Haldun Alkaya has told everyone that Aysu was murdered. Shot, I believe. But anyway, to return to my family . . . My father was an intelligent man who, unlike most of the human detritus here, understood the dangers of in-breeding. You know that one of the reasons why he married Aysu Alkaya was because he knew that our family were not in any way related to theirs. The girl was lovely, intelligent, and there was nothing nasty, as far as Father could tell, lurking back in her ancestry.’ She smiled unpleasantly. ‘You know the carpet dealer, Ümit Özal? His parents were cousins. They had four children’ – she counted them off on her fingers – ‘Ümit, who is mad and sleeps with his kilims; Yaşar, who has a hare-lip; Ali, who suffers from fits; and the daughter who, Allah have mercy upon her, divorced her husband in Germany and now lives with a Dutchman in Amsterdam.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Inbreeding and bad blood,’ Nazlı declared, ‘that’s what it is! There are so few families that are untainted by it. You either marry out or you choose the family with great care – like my father.’
İkmen picked up the tea glass which the distressingly shabby servant girl had given him and took a sip of the hot, amber liquid. Although dark now, it wasn’t cold in Nazlı Kahraman’s courtyard. In fact, surrounded by the many olive oil tins now used as plant pots, and looking down at the twinkling lights from the village below, was not an unpleasant way to spend an evening – even if Nazlı Kahraman’s opinions were arrogant and bigoted. Of course, some in-breeding was inevitable in a small and once-isolated village. But not on the scale Nazlı or the young jandarma seemed to think it was. At least İkmen hoped that was the case.
‘So did your father know that Aysu was sweet on Kemalettin Senar?’ İkmen asked. ‘I mean before . . .’
‘Oh, he knew,’ Nazlı Hanım replied. ‘But once he’d identified the girl as suitable, he also knew that Kemalettin Senar couldn’t possibly be any sort of threat.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he paid Kemalettin’s mother to make a big fuss about the girl’s dowry.’
‘I thought that the Alkayas were poor?’ İkmen said with a frown.
‘Oh, they were, are,’ Nazlı Hanım said. ‘But if Nalan Senar were not such a greedy woman, it would have been enough. After all, the Senars have some money but they are no one. They say that their blood is pure and untainted by all the ills that afflict so many other families here, but that is nonsense. Nalan’s father was a raving lunatic.’ She tutted her tongue and sucked on her teeth. ‘And look at Kemalettin . . .’
‘I thought that he was mentally damaged, on account of Aysu,’ İkmen said.
Nazlı shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ And then rapidly changing the subject she said, ‘I suppose
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