Dead of Night by Barbara Nadel Page B

only on the conference.
    ‘But we don’t stop them using,’ Süleyman said. ‘We ignore what they do.’
    ‘Yes, but as a last resort, to force an informant to give us what we want, we can threaten to prosecute,’ İkmen said.
    ‘Of course!’
    İkmen frowned. ‘You say that,’ he said, ‘but what Diaz is proposing is a more co-operative and yet at the same time more business-orientated
     relationship. Trust and money are the keys. The addict is an employee; we, the police, facilitate his habit, but we get a
     return on our investment in the form of reliable intelligence. Our addicts trust us, they may even like us, and also we provide
     them with very badly needed money. Everyone is happy.’
    This time it was Süleyman’s turn to frown. ‘And yet isn’t there adanger here of overstepping the line?’ he said. ‘If we make friends with addicts, if we, as you say, actively facilitate their
     habits, then aren’t we laying ourselves open to charges of collusion? Could we not be manipulated by those we seek to use?’
    ‘Those are very real risks, as Diaz outlined,’ İkmen said. ‘But if the payoff is a closer view of criminal gangs, increased
     rates of solution in murder cases, more access to the criminal classes, then that is a price that might be worth paying. It
     appears to be a model that Diaz has some belief in, as well as some evidence of small-scale success.’
    ‘But this city still appears to me to be out of control!’
    İkmen threw his cigarette butt down on the ground and then lit up another smoke. ‘They’re taking small steps,’ he said. ‘Diaz
     I believe works like this. I don’t know if many of his officers follow suit. I think that most of them use the Zero Tolerance
     approach. But then even they seem to be behind these community projects, which are unconventional but which seem to be having
     some effect in Detroit.’
    ‘Mmm.’ Süleyman pulled a face. ‘But Çetin, this place is like Tarlabaşı, don’t you think? Falling down, full of users, thieves
     and madmen.’
    İkmen smiled. His friend could be so precious at times! ‘The other day you thought that Detroit was like Ümraniye used to
     be,’ he said. ‘Which is it?’
    ‘Oh, you know what I mean!’ Süleyman threw a hand petulantly into the air. ‘It’s like any broken-down İstanbul district. It’s
     shabby and full of jobless people, criminal gangs, drugs . . .’
    ‘Who are all fascinating individuals who often need help,’ İkmen said. He had most definitely joined the police to protect
     his city and help his people. In some ways it was all about him as well, and his need to understand desperate or divergent
     behaviour, working on the ‘why’ behind the crime. Süleyman, on the other hand, had, he felt, other motivations. True, he wanted
     to protect the city, but he didn’t always seem as interested as İkmen was in the reasons behind people’sactions. There were times, İkmen felt, when policing for Süleyman – the guns, the danger, the women – was just one big adrenalin
     rush. But he didn’t say anything about that to him, and once they’d finished their latest cigarettes, the two men went back
     into the building to have lunch.
    Miller, smirking, told Diaz that he would invite him in but his place was in a bit of a state. That was putting it mildly.
     Behind the old man’s head, all Diaz could see was a yellow-lit chaos. Apparently random pieces of furniture were stacked up
     everywhere, refugees, in all likelihood, from the now collapsed tower on the east side of the building. In that regard, as
     well as in so many others, the Windmill was not unlike the Royden Holmes place, where, apparently, his officers were still
     searching for that missing bullet.
    ‘I have to be downtown as soon as I’ve finished here,’ Diaz said. Snow had entered under Miller’s front door and was covering
     the old man’s sagging slippers.
    ‘You bring my gun, did you? My paperwork?’
    Diaz didn’t