‘Well, I will certainly do as you ask,’ Arto said and jotted a note to himself on the pad beside the telephone. ‘Do you want me to contact you in the morning?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Well,’ Arto said with a smile, ‘you’d better get out of this dreadful fog and back to your home then. These conditions give doctors far too much work, in my opinion.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor, I will bear that in mind,’ Suleyman said. ‘Goodnight to you.’

  ‘Goodnight, Inspector,’ Arto replied and replaced the receiver.

  So Suleyman wanted some of Berisha’s blood for comparison, did he? Although he was holding the video remote control, Arto didn’t press the ‘play’ button – not yet. Professional interest swinging in whether he wanted it to or not was a common occurrence in his life. A man with one kidney struggling for life in a car full of blood was a disturbing image – if indeed that was what had happened. If so, there would have to be glass, if in small quantities, present too. Now that he’d had a chance to examine the small shards properly, he’d noticed how very thin and brightly coloured they were. Almost pretty really, and definitely not the sort of material a murderer would jam into a dying man’s face. Unless, of course, the glass constituted a message of some kind. Like the message the Italian Mafia sent to the families of informants when they stuffed their dead mouths full of banknotes. It was interesting and also vaguely morbid to speculate on these issues – not unlike, Arto felt, creating aspects of a character for a novel. However, he was not destined to muse for long. The ringing of his doorbell, plus the knowledge that the housekeeper had gone to bed many hours before, forced Arto from his seat and out of the living room.

  Cringing against the sound of his own slippers slapping against the marble floor of the hall, Arto moved in a leisurely manner befitting a man of wide stature. Now that he was on this side of his enormous mansion, he could hear that the weather outside had taken a turn for the worse. Fog had apparently given way to driving rain. He switched the outside light on before unlocking and opening the door. For a moment he thought that the small, drenched Turk who stood on his doorstep was a rather alarming-looking beggar. That was until he saw first the smouldering cigarette in his right hand and then the familiar manic expression around the eyes.

  ‘What in the name of God are you doing here, Çetin?’ Arto asked as he pulled his friend into his house.

  ‘It’s a long story, Arto,’ the Turk replied. ‘It may well take me all night.’

  Chapter 9

  * * *

  Orhan Tepe was engaged in sorting through the considerable possessions of the late Rifat Berisha when he noticed a familiar pale face pass by the window in his office door. Using this as an excuse to do something other than marvel at the convoluted picture he was building up of the Albanian’s world – old railway tickets, expensive trainers, cheap aftershave, foreign artefacts – he left his desk and ran out into the corridor.

  ‘Çöktin!’ he called to the back of the other man’s drooping red head. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were ill!’

  Turning, a thin smile on his pale lips, İsak Çöktin walked slowly back towards Tepe, stopping occasionally along the way in order to cough.

  ‘I’ve returned,’ he said gasping somewhat over his words, ‘as much to visit the pharmacy and get some proper medicine as anything else.’

  ‘Haven’t you been taking aspirin?’

  ‘No, but I have been given a variety of drink and food designed many hundreds of years ago to alleviate symptoms such as these.’

  ‘Your mother,’ Tepe said with a knowing smile.

  ‘Yes,’ Çöktin replied, ‘wishing only a speedy recovery for her son.’

  ‘She makes you eat and drink Turkey’s past.’

  Çöktin’s smile encouraged Tepe to usher him into İkmen’s office. Had Tepe known that what Çöktin’s mother had given him was not a Turkish but a native – to the Çöktin family – Yezidi remedy, he might not have behaved in quite such a friendly fashion. Although ethnically Kurds, the Yezidis are not Muslims, they worship a version of a redeemed and restored Satan they call the Peacock Angel. In common parlance they are called the Devil Worshippers and Tepe, unlike his rather more enlightened superiors İkmen and Suleyman, would have been very disturbed to know that Çöktin was one of their number. Not that Çöktin ever spoke of his faith himself, even to İkmen and Suleyman. It was a known but unspoken fact that existed only between the three of them in a sort of silent agreement to maintain yet further silence.

  ‘Do you have a fever?’ Tepe asked as he rummaged in the top drawer of his desk.

  ‘Yes,’ Çöktin replied, dragging forward a chair and sitting in front of Tepe’s desk. His eye caught on some of Rifat Berisha’s possessions scattered there. ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘I’ve got aspirin, which will bring your temperature down,’ a still very medically minded, Tepe said, ‘or there’s some stuff in sachets which is supposed to be specially for influenza. Tell me which you would prefer.’ Holding the medication aloft, he assumed a grave expression as he offered it to the other man.

  ‘Just some aspirin will be fine for now,’ Çöktin said with a smile. ‘So what is all of this stuff on your desk?’

  Tepe poured some water out of one of his drinking bottles into a glass and handed it and the tablets to Çöktin before replying.

  ‘It belongs to an Albanian we found dead in the road down in Eminönü,’ he said. ‘Twenty-five years old, name of Rifat Berisha. Whoever killed him cut his throat literally from ear to ear.’

  After swallowing the water and the tablets, Çöktin thanked Tepe before advancing the idea that perhaps Rifat had died a gangster’s death.

  Now sitting down opposite his colleague, Tepe said, ‘It’s possible, yes, and in fact we have discovered that Rifat’s family are currently feuding with another family of Albanians. However, there are complications.’

  ‘Complications?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tepe picked up several small items from the top of a pile of papers on the left side of his desk and passed them to Çöktin. ‘Look at these, will you, and tell me what you think.’

  ‘If it will help.’ Çöktin took hold of the items and then coughed heavily once again.

  As he sifted through what turned out to be a stack of picture postcards and some rather unusual tickets, Çöktin listened to Tepe’s account of how Rifat’s body had been discovered, how Dr Sarkissian had found that the young man had recently undergone kidney removal, and the difficulties both he and İkmen had faced when questioning the Berisha and Vlora clans.

  Çöktin looked up. ‘So why do postcards of London complicate things? I don’t understand.’

  ‘There’s a possibility that Rifat had his kidney removed abroad,’ Tepe said as he offered his colleague a cigarette and then lit it for him.

  ‘And so?’

  ‘And so we have pictures of London.’

  ‘You only need to check the visas in this man’s passport,’ Çöktin said as he let yet more smoke irritate his bronchioli.

  Tepe sighed. ‘His passport is missing. His parents, although acknowledging that their son sometimes went away for several weeks at a time – womanising, the father reckoned – claim to know nothing about any foreign trips.’

  ‘So check with the British Consulate.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then at least you’ll know whether the man actually went to that country or just received postcards as a present,’ Çöktin said with a smile.

  ‘True.’

  ‘And anyway, as far as I can see, we don’t know whether the removal of this man’s kidney has any bearing on his death.’

  In the small silence that followed, Çöktin picked up the unfamiliar tickets and frowned. ‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘these are English tickets, or at least they are written in that language.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Tepe.

  Pointing at some words on the small orange-edged card, Çöktin said, ‘Yes. Look, here it says Kensington – that’s in London.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Oh, Kensington is most certainly in London,’ a deeper and far more sonorous voice replied.

  Both younger men turned to look at Suleyman who had just entered the room.

  ‘Sir.’

  Holding his hand out to Çöktin, Suleyman took the ticket from him and looked at it.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘this is certainly from England. It is, I think you’ll find, a ticket for the London metro.’

  In spite of the fact that all of his children who still attended school or were due to work that day had gone to their various places of study or employment, Çetin İkmen’s apartment still echoed to the sound of more than one voice. As he moved wearily across the threshold, İkmen thought at first that perhaps Fatma was watching television. It was only when he entered the living room and saw his wife sitting about as far away as she could get from someone who looked like a life-stained, and far taller, version of Marlene Dietrich that he realised Samsun was still with them.

  ‘Oh, and who might this be?’ Fatma said as she caught sight of her husband drooping in the doorway. ‘Could it be that mysterious stranger I occasionally encounter in the kitchen?’

  ‘Highly amusing, Fatma,’ İkmen countered with first a scowl and then an apologetic smile. ‘I’m really sorry I didn’t ring you.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right.’ Fatma rose to her feet, tightening the scarf round her head as she moved. ‘After all, I’ve not been bored without you. As well as the usual thousand problems presented by our children, plus the fact that Squeaky has died, Samsun here has been wanting to speak to you for most of the night, haven’t you?’

  ‘Well, er . . .’ the rapidly reddening transsexual began.

  ‘But now that you are here, Çetin,’ Fatma told her husband, ‘you can, I am sure, be of assistance.’ Moving past İkmen towards the hall, she added, ‘For myself, I have hamster shopping and a hundred other things to do.’

  ‘May it come easy,’ İkmen said, quoting the standard formula appropriate to his wife’s activities.

  An annoyed grunting noise was all that İkmen received by way of a reply – that and the sound of the front door slamming.

  ‘I’m ever so sorry, Çetin,’ Samsun said as she took a tissue out of her pocket and dabbed her mascara smeared eyes. ‘If I’d been able to contact Abdurrahman . . .’

  ‘Oh, it’s my fault for being out all night,’ İkmen said. He flopped down onto the sofa beside Samsun. ‘I should have rung Fatma. But,’ he shrugged, ‘I was otherwise engaged and absorbed.’

  ‘With?’ Samsun asked, her natural curiosity, especially with regard to anything salacious, piqued.

  Laughing, İkmen lit a cigarette before replying. ‘With nobody you’d find particularly interesting, Samsun.’

  ‘Oh, not a . . .’

  ‘No, not another woman. I have quite enough trouble with the one I’ve got.’ He descended into silence for a few moments as he smoked in a very committed and concentrated fashion. And although Samsun wanted to raise some of her fears regarding both Mehmet Vlora and the seemingly elusive Abdurrahman, she did not feel that this was appropriate at the moment. Çetin İkmen looked too distracted and even upset to listen to her problems. His own, if his face was anything to go by, were far more serious than hers.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, touching the side of his face in order to get his attention. ‘Do you need me to read your cards?’

  ‘No.’ He smiled. ‘No, but thank you anyway.’

  ‘But?’

  İkmen sighed before he started. Samsun, he knew of old, would not stop questioning him until she got some answers – not that even an entire night spent first at the cemetery and then with Arto Sarkissian had provided any. Angeliki Vlora’s story still nagged away at him, unsubstantiated and unresolved. Perhaps he should tackle Samsun about what she could remember of Ayşe İkmen’s death – if he could find the will or the energy to do so.

  ‘I went to sit at Mother’s grave,’ he said at length. ‘I needed to sort my thoughts out.’

  ‘In the middle of the night?’ Samsun’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Weren’t you scared?’

  ‘Well, of course I was!’ İkmen exploded. ‘I’m half Albanian, I see ghosts everywhere!’

  ‘Çetin!’

  He turned towards her, his face serious. ‘Look, Samsun,’ he said, ‘I am not best pleased with your people right now. Yesterday I met the Vlora family matriarch, Angeliki.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Angeliki told me that my mother was murdered in an act of gjakmaria.’

  ‘Auntie Ayşe died of a heart attack. We all know that, Çetin.’

  ‘Do we?’ Puffing heavily on the dying butt of his cigarette, İkmen quickly lit another to take its place. ‘I’m not so sure. I will have to raise that event with my brother, which I really don’t want to do.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we’ve never spoken of it. Because as the older brother he bore the brunt of it, which has scarred him. And different though my brother is from me, he’s a good man and I don’t want to hurt him.’

  ‘Then why don’t you just forget about it?’ Samsun said lightly as she opened her handbag to look for her cigarettes. ‘The Vloras are, as anyone will tell you, liars and thieves.’

  ‘Angeliki said that she knew my mother.’

  ‘All Albanians ultimately know each other,’ Samsun said with a dismissive wave of her now lit cigarette. ‘They bitch, lie to and curse each other. It’s another way of getting at you, Çetin. They know that you’ll have to investigate them in relation to this Berisha thing. They suspect, as Mehmet Vlora so eloquently told me, that I told you about that particular feud. They don’t like it. Mehmet in particular, I should imagine, is probably worried in case you discover his drug-dealing activities.’

  His interest diverted temporarily by this snippet of information, İkmen said, ‘He deals? What?’

  Samsun shrugged. ‘Whatever you want, or so it’s said. Not, of course, that you heard that from me.’

  ‘No.’ İkmen smiled and then instantly frowned once again. ‘I’ve asked Arto Sarkissian to look amongst what is left of his father’s papers.’

  Looking genuinely perplexed now, Samsun said, ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Vahan Sarkissian came out to confirm that Mother was dead. And because I have never been able to find anything at all relating to her death amongst my father’s possessions.’

  ‘Except everybody’s certainty that your mother died of a heart attack,’ Samsun said with not a little irony in her voice. ‘And besides, as I think I’ve told you before, Çetin, the Bajraktar have not been in blood with anyone since we left Albania. And even if we had been, Auntie Ayşe would not have been killed.’

  ‘Why? Because she was female?’

  ‘Yes, and as such she did not come, as men do, from the Tree of Blood.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Look,’ Samsun said, ‘according to tradition, men are descended from the Tree of Blood and women from the Tree of Milk. This means that only the killing of men can result in blood feud. Angeliki Vlora would know this – she would also know that you, as a Turk, would not know this and would therefore take her story at face value. The Vloras set out to frighten and disturb all of us and in that they have been most successful.’ She smiled. ‘I for one will pray that evidence may be found to connect them to the death of Rifat Berisha, whether they are guilty or not.’

  ‘Which reminds me,’ İkmen said as he looked down anxiously at his watch, ‘I have an appointment with Mehmet and the others at nine.’

  Samsun frowned. ‘The Vlora boys made an appointment to see you?’

  ‘No.’ He rose to his feet, stretching hard as he did so. ‘I told Angeliki that if they didn’t turn up at nine, I’d have them arrested. I was a little resentful about what she had told me regarding Mother at the time.’

  ‘Oh, well done!’

  İkmen, who was only now beginning to feel the full effects of a night without sleep, yawned. ‘I can give you a lift, Samsun.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I suppose I’d better get out of here before Fatma returns, hadn’t I?’

  İkmen just smiled.

  Rising to her considerable feet, Samsun replaced her cigarettes in her handbag and pulled her thin pink cardigan up onto her shoulders.

  ‘I guess the only way I’ll find out where or with whom Abdurrahman has spent the night is to go home,’ she said mournfully.

  ‘You think Abdurrahman might be seeing someone else?’ İkmen asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Samsun replied with a shrug. ‘But if he is I’ll kick the shit out of him – that is, of course, after I’ve thrown his mobile telephone down the toilet and fed pizza into the video recorder. I’ve had all night to think about this stuff and anyway, as an Albanian, could I do any less?’

  İkmen, laughing, opened the door leading into the hall. ‘I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation for his behaviour,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

  Once out of the apartment and down in the cold street again, İkmen’s face resumed its previous troubled expression. Samsun, shrouded against the winter in full-length red fake fur, sashayed along behind him until they reached İkmen’s ‘new’ car, a 1981 Mercedes.

  İkmen suddenly turned to face her. ‘I suppose someone else who would know would be Uncle Ahmet.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Know the truth about how Mother died.’

  Samsun’s breath clouded the cold air as she said in exasperation, ‘Çetin, how can my father know about something there is nothing to know about? Don’t you think he would have told me if there were?’

  İkmen, turning the key in his car door, sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Look, I think I might walk home,’ she said abruptly. ‘After all, we can’t have one of our senior police officers party to an act of domestic violence, can we?’

  He smiled. ‘Don’t be too vicious, will you?’ he said as he climbed into the car. ‘Remember how expensive lawyers are in this city. Let that guide your actions. And keep away from places frequented by the Vlora brothers, for the time being at least.’ And then with a smile he drove off.