İkmen’s thin arms, which came out quickly to prevent his officer from doing something unwise.
‘Now,’ he said tersely, ‘I suggest we all calm down. Hitting—’
‘The woman spoke out of turn!’ Rahman Berisha fumed.
‘Look, Mr Berisha,’ İkmen snapped as he motioned Tepe to take his seat once again, ‘my job involves finding the truth about why people die unnaturally. Unless the Vloras did indeed kill your son, then I have no interest in them beyond establishing where they all were on the night of Rifat’s death. They may or may not have killed him but until I have proof that they did I must look at every aspect of your son’s life plus the forensic evidence as supplied by our laboratory.’ Raising his hands to count out the various points he was making, İkmen continued, ‘I need to know who his friends were, what his job was, whether there were any women in his life, what his health was like, what he liked to wear, eat, drink, do. Whoever killed your son nearly severed his head from his shoulders, Mr Berisha. This person is vicious and extremely dangerous. Now, are you going to help me catch him or am I going to have to avenge Rifat’s death all on my own?’
By the time İkmen, Tepe and the other officers İkmen had drafted in to catalogue and remove all of Rifat’s personal possessions finally left the Berishas’ apartment, night had fallen. As the two men stepped out into the street, they both placed cigarettes in their mouths, which Tepe, watching İkmen rub his ungloved hands briskly together, lit. It was, the younger man observed, going to be a bitter night, a notion İkmen interpreted as an expression of his desire to get home.
‘We’ll sort through Rifat’s stuff tomorrow,’ İkmen said. He switched his mobile telephone back on again. ‘You get on home now, Orhan.’
Tepe smiled. ‘Thank you, sir. Quite a result getting Mr Berisha to allow us access to his son’s possessions, wasn’t it? Do you think he knows about your being, sort of, partly Albanian?’
‘Who knows?’ İkmen said with a dismissive shrug. ‘I—’ A beeping sound from his mobile indicated that he had a new message. He pressed various buttons to retrieve it. ‘If you could just wait while I see what this is . . .’
‘Yes, of course,’ Tepe said as he watched İkmen put his ear to the telephone and listen.
It was quite a long message and from what Tepe could hear of it, it sounded like a woman. A rather shrill, if not hysterical woman. As the message progressed, İkmen’s face became grave. When it finally ended, he clicked the phone back to receive mode and sighed. The harsh light from the streetlamp across the road emphasised the depressions under his eyes and cheekbones.
‘That was my eldest daughter,’ he said after a pause. ‘Apparently she met my cousin Samsun Bajraktar when she was out shopping earlier today.’
‘Oh?’
‘And at the junction of Babıali Caddesi and Divan Yolu, as Çiçek and my cousin stopped to gossip, a small middle-aged man, speaking Albanian, first accused Samsun of being an informant and then threatened her. He was, so Samsun says, Mehmet Vlora. My cousin is apparently at my apartment now, distraught to the point of collapse, according to my daughter.’
‘Oh, sir, I—’
‘In trying to prevent an escalation of this blood feud, it would appear I have made matters very much worse.’ İkmen started to walk towards the end of the street where his car was parked. ‘I have implicated my own family.’
‘You did what you thought was right,’ Tepe said as he followed after him. ‘You knew that the Berishas would go after the Vloras in the wake of Rifat’s death. You also knew, as I do, that they didn’t necessarily kill him and that until the truth about his death is established—’
‘I think that the only way round this problem is for me to go and see Angeliki Vlora,’ İkmen said gloomily, cutting across Tepe’s loyal speech. ‘I need to eliminate
‘Now,’ he said tersely, ‘I suggest we all calm down. Hitting—’
‘The woman spoke out of turn!’ Rahman Berisha fumed.
‘Look, Mr Berisha,’ İkmen snapped as he motioned Tepe to take his seat once again, ‘my job involves finding the truth about why people die unnaturally. Unless the Vloras did indeed kill your son, then I have no interest in them beyond establishing where they all were on the night of Rifat’s death. They may or may not have killed him but until I have proof that they did I must look at every aspect of your son’s life plus the forensic evidence as supplied by our laboratory.’ Raising his hands to count out the various points he was making, İkmen continued, ‘I need to know who his friends were, what his job was, whether there were any women in his life, what his health was like, what he liked to wear, eat, drink, do. Whoever killed your son nearly severed his head from his shoulders, Mr Berisha. This person is vicious and extremely dangerous. Now, are you going to help me catch him or am I going to have to avenge Rifat’s death all on my own?’
By the time İkmen, Tepe and the other officers İkmen had drafted in to catalogue and remove all of Rifat’s personal possessions finally left the Berishas’ apartment, night had fallen. As the two men stepped out into the street, they both placed cigarettes in their mouths, which Tepe, watching İkmen rub his ungloved hands briskly together, lit. It was, the younger man observed, going to be a bitter night, a notion İkmen interpreted as an expression of his desire to get home.
‘We’ll sort through Rifat’s stuff tomorrow,’ İkmen said. He switched his mobile telephone back on again. ‘You get on home now, Orhan.’
Tepe smiled. ‘Thank you, sir. Quite a result getting Mr Berisha to allow us access to his son’s possessions, wasn’t it? Do you think he knows about your being, sort of, partly Albanian?’
‘Who knows?’ İkmen said with a dismissive shrug. ‘I—’ A beeping sound from his mobile indicated that he had a new message. He pressed various buttons to retrieve it. ‘If you could just wait while I see what this is . . .’
‘Yes, of course,’ Tepe said as he watched İkmen put his ear to the telephone and listen.
It was quite a long message and from what Tepe could hear of it, it sounded like a woman. A rather shrill, if not hysterical woman. As the message progressed, İkmen’s face became grave. When it finally ended, he clicked the phone back to receive mode and sighed. The harsh light from the streetlamp across the road emphasised the depressions under his eyes and cheekbones.
‘That was my eldest daughter,’ he said after a pause. ‘Apparently she met my cousin Samsun Bajraktar when she was out shopping earlier today.’
‘Oh?’
‘And at the junction of Babıali Caddesi and Divan Yolu, as Çiçek and my cousin stopped to gossip, a small middle-aged man, speaking Albanian, first accused Samsun of being an informant and then threatened her. He was, so Samsun says, Mehmet Vlora. My cousin is apparently at my apartment now, distraught to the point of collapse, according to my daughter.’
‘Oh, sir, I—’
‘In trying to prevent an escalation of this blood feud, it would appear I have made matters very much worse.’ İkmen started to walk towards the end of the street where his car was parked. ‘I have implicated my own family.’
‘You did what you thought was right,’ Tepe said as he followed after him. ‘You knew that the Berishas would go after the Vloras in the wake of Rifat’s death. You also knew, as I do, that they didn’t necessarily kill him and that until the truth about his death is established—’
‘I think that the only way round this problem is for me to go and see Angeliki Vlora,’ İkmen said gloomily, cutting across Tepe’s loyal speech. ‘I need to eliminate
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