Deep Waters by Barbara Nadel

a momentous event in his life. The only thing that could possibly top that would be the discovery of their brother Dhori’s body. Everyone knew that Rahman Berisha had killed him – only a Berisha could be so cowardly as to conceal a body, thereby halting, until now, the progress of gjakmaria . But that was probably all by the way now, Mehmet thought as he passed in front of the grim façade of the Imperial Ottoman Tombs. Now the Berishas had, or thought they had, good reason to take out another Vlora man. He wondered how long it would be before Rifat’s shirt hung in one of the upper windows of his parents’ apartment.
    As he weaved his way through the thick traffic choking Babıali Caddesi, Mehmet’s eyes were distracted by an attractive woman wearing a long, dark coat. Young and pretty, she was standing talking to a far larger and considerably older woman. But although his eyes were drawn by the sight of the girl, it was eventually the older woman that he actually stopped and looked at. And as recognition dawned, his anger increased, for as his mother had said, if anyone within the fellowship of ex-patriot Albanians was going to tell tales to the police, it would probably be this cousin of a policeman.
    Mehmet realised it would be unwise to take issue publicly with the unnatural Samsun Bajraktar on this busy street, but walking straight past her without a word was asking rather too much of his now mounting temper. And so he opted for a more subtle, if still satisfyingly vengeful approach. He moved up behind the transsexual and whispered in her ear.
    ‘I know you’ve given information about us to your kinsman in the police,’ he hissed as his victim started to turn round to face him, ‘so you rest uneasily in your filthy bed, you unnatural fuck!’
    Before Samsun Bajraktar could turn round to face him full on, Mehmet Vlora dived back into the crowds traversing Divan Yolu and was gone. It occurred to him later that it was just possible Samsun had not informed the police of anything. Perhaps they had, after all, been following Engelushjia Berisha. Either way, it didn’t much matter. Catamites like her deserved everything that was coming to them even if that did mean being in blood with the Bajraktar fis . Perhaps taking on a really powerful clan like them would be the making of the Vloras. After all, had not the Bajraktars seen off all their enemies many years ago with astonishing ferocity? Mehmet pulled his jacket tight round his thin frame and marched determinedly towards Sultan Ahmet Square.
    Working with the Berishas in a way that they would understand was, İkmen knew, the key to success with these people. And so, strange as it felt to be doing this, he kept an unwilling Engelushjia between himself and Tepe as he spoke to the parents. To them she was, he imagined, a police hostage of sorts.
    ‘So tell me about Rifat,’ he asked the grey-faced couple before him. ‘What kind of young man was he?’
    Rahman shrugged. ‘As usual.’
    ‘Meaning?’
    ‘He liked to enjoy himself.’ He looked up blankly. ‘You know?’
    ‘No,’ İkmen said wryly, ‘I don’t. That’s why I’m asking you.’
    In return for this retort he got back silence. Briefly he looked across at a somewhat tense Tepe before he decided to take a different approach.
    With what was usually a winning smile, he began, ‘OK, let’s get realistic about all this, shall we? I know that you are “in blood”, as you say, with the Vlora clan.’ He lifted a hand to silence Rahman Berisha whose mouth had suddenly filled with protest. ‘How we know this is not your concern, just as why and to what extent you are in blood with the Vloras is not mine. My only concern, sir, is to catch the person who killed your son. Now if that is a Vlora—’
    ‘Well, of course it is!’ Aliya burst out, only to be slapped hard across the face for her indiscretion by her husband.
    Tepe, instantly on his feet, was only prevented from intervening by one of