nearly killed his son. Berekiah Cohen, the son, was married to one of Çetin İ kmen’s daughters and the whole clan now lived across the Golden Horn in Balat, which had also once been a Jewish quarter. What Cohen would make of this latest outrage Ay ş e couldn’t imagine. He was old and sick and in all probability it would make him cry.
The victim, who wasn’t easy to spot in amongst the blood that stained and dripped from every piece of furniture that was still intact, was, the kap ı c ı had said, an Englishman. He was called Dr John Regan and he was, or had been, a middle-aged writer. The kap ı c ı hadn’t been able to get access to Regan’s apartment. He’d wanted to deliver the Englishman’s bottled water, but when he couldn’t rouse him, he’d used his duplicate key to let himself inside. What he’d found, just in the hall, had been enough to send him screaming into the street. A local uniform had responded to the incident, but then İ kmen had been called. He had in turn called Süleyman. Now they were both waiting for the pathologist to arrive.
As usual, Arto Sarkissian was not long in coming. As he entered the room, he said, ‘Good God.’
‘Yes,’ İ kmen said. ‘Like you, Arto, I thought I’d seen it all. Good morning.’
The Armenian blinked as if he was trying to wash something out of his eye. ‘I don’t know about “good”,’ he said. ‘So where’s my victim?’
İ kmen pointed to a blood-soaked bundle that lay on the floor in front of a small sofa.
The Armenian shook his head. ‘You know what this reminds me of?’
‘It reminds you of something?’
The doctor put his medical case down on the sofa and said, ‘I read a book, years ago, about the Jack the Ripper murders in London back in the nineteenth century. Jack was never caught, but his last victim looked like this. There was a photograph in the book. It was unrecognisable as a human being.’
They all looked at the thing on the floor, and Arto Sarkissian wondered where he was going to start.
Hande Genç was dead. Her mother and her sister were in her bedroom, washing her body. Her husband, Faruk, sat tense and alone in their living room, looking out of the window at the small and distant view his apartment had of the Bosphorus.
As stubborn as ever, Hande had endured her pain until the early hours of the morning, when, finally, she’d allowed her husband to call out her doctor. He had recommended immediate transfer to hospital, but Hande had always been determined to die at home. She’d asked him to give her more diamorphine, which, much to Faruk’s dismay, he had.
Faruk had known she was in the final hours of her life before the doctor arrived, and so he had begged her to tell him the truth about whether she had been involved in Leyla Ablak’s death. Not a day had gone by since Leyla’s murder without Hande taunting him about it. One day she and Leyla’s late husband had planned her death together; another time it had been Hande alone; and on other days still she denied even knowing that Faruk had been having an affair with Leyla. She was punishing him for being unfaithful to her, but as time had gone on and she had moved ever closer to death, Faruk had begun to panic. What if she died taking the truth with her? He needed to know whether his actions had, directly or indirectly, led to Leyla’s death. If they had, he didn’t know how he could ever atone. But he was desperate to find out so that he could at least try. Maybe Hande or the general or both of them had hired someone else to kill Leyla, and if that were the case, Faruk needed to find that out too. All he could do for Leyla now was help to discover her killer, and if Hande could give him a name, he could pass that on to the police.
The previous night had been one of horror for Faruk. First Hande had vomited blood, and although he’d pleaded with her to let him call the doctor at that point, she’d just rasped at him to clear it up and then whispered
The victim, who wasn’t easy to spot in amongst the blood that stained and dripped from every piece of furniture that was still intact, was, the kap ı c ı had said, an Englishman. He was called Dr John Regan and he was, or had been, a middle-aged writer. The kap ı c ı hadn’t been able to get access to Regan’s apartment. He’d wanted to deliver the Englishman’s bottled water, but when he couldn’t rouse him, he’d used his duplicate key to let himself inside. What he’d found, just in the hall, had been enough to send him screaming into the street. A local uniform had responded to the incident, but then İ kmen had been called. He had in turn called Süleyman. Now they were both waiting for the pathologist to arrive.
As usual, Arto Sarkissian was not long in coming. As he entered the room, he said, ‘Good God.’
‘Yes,’ İ kmen said. ‘Like you, Arto, I thought I’d seen it all. Good morning.’
The Armenian blinked as if he was trying to wash something out of his eye. ‘I don’t know about “good”,’ he said. ‘So where’s my victim?’
İ kmen pointed to a blood-soaked bundle that lay on the floor in front of a small sofa.
The Armenian shook his head. ‘You know what this reminds me of?’
‘It reminds you of something?’
The doctor put his medical case down on the sofa and said, ‘I read a book, years ago, about the Jack the Ripper murders in London back in the nineteenth century. Jack was never caught, but his last victim looked like this. There was a photograph in the book. It was unrecognisable as a human being.’
They all looked at the thing on the floor, and Arto Sarkissian wondered where he was going to start.
Hande Genç was dead. Her mother and her sister were in her bedroom, washing her body. Her husband, Faruk, sat tense and alone in their living room, looking out of the window at the small and distant view his apartment had of the Bosphorus.
As stubborn as ever, Hande had endured her pain until the early hours of the morning, when, finally, she’d allowed her husband to call out her doctor. He had recommended immediate transfer to hospital, but Hande had always been determined to die at home. She’d asked him to give her more diamorphine, which, much to Faruk’s dismay, he had.
Faruk had known she was in the final hours of her life before the doctor arrived, and so he had begged her to tell him the truth about whether she had been involved in Leyla Ablak’s death. Not a day had gone by since Leyla’s murder without Hande taunting him about it. One day she and Leyla’s late husband had planned her death together; another time it had been Hande alone; and on other days still she denied even knowing that Faruk had been having an affair with Leyla. She was punishing him for being unfaithful to her, but as time had gone on and she had moved ever closer to death, Faruk had begun to panic. What if she died taking the truth with her? He needed to know whether his actions had, directly or indirectly, led to Leyla’s death. If they had, he didn’t know how he could ever atone. But he was desperate to find out so that he could at least try. Maybe Hande or the general or both of them had hired someone else to kill Leyla, and if that were the case, Faruk needed to find that out too. All he could do for Leyla now was help to discover her killer, and if Hande could give him a name, he could pass that on to the police.
The previous night had been one of horror for Faruk. First Hande had vomited blood, and although he’d pleaded with her to let him call the doctor at that point, she’d just rasped at him to clear it up and then whispered
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