that he desired her, Ayşe wondered whether he had either followed her or engineered this coincidental
meeting in some way. But when she went over to him, he seemed genuinely shocked to find her there.
‘I was reading some of the old arrest notes and statements on Ali Kuban,’ she said as she sat down opposite him. ‘I understand
why we need to know about him now. But you can’t carry that around in your head all the time and feel OK, can you?’
‘So you came for a beer.’ İzzet smiled.
‘I live with my brother, and he wouldn’t approve,’ Ayşe said.
‘He’s religious, your brother?’
‘No, just protective of his sister,’ she replied.
İzzet knew better than to ask her anything more. Family life was, to some extent, private or ‘walled’, as it had been in Turkish
society since time immemorial.
‘Ali Kuban is probably too old to be a problem to women now, Ihope,’ İzzet said. ‘I understand the last few years of his incarceration have been tough for him. He had cancer back in 2006,
which weakened him considerably. Now he’s sick again.’
‘Didn’t kill him last time,’ Ayşe said.
‘Maybe it wasn’t his time. Or maybe he got lucky and had a good doctor.’
‘Inspector İkmen told me just before he left that he remembered Kuban,’ Ayşe said. ‘He was very young at the time, the inspector,
but he said that when Kuban was caught, a great wave of relief broke across the city.’
‘It must have done,’ İzzet said. ‘He’d terrorised Edirnekapı for eighteen months. His behaviour was escalating – little girls,
old women.’ He frowned. ‘To be honest with you, Sergeant Farsakoğlu, it isn’t Kuban as such that worries me now he’s out.
It’s . . . well, it seems he achieved something of a legendary aura or status with certain people during his time in prison. Those
of a misogynistic type; boys aroused by too much internet porn, too much information.’ He laughed. ‘Listen to me! Complaining
about the age of information as if I can do anything about it! Like an old man!’
But Ayşe agreed with him. High-profile offenders like Kuban, and even more sensationally like Mehmet Ali Ağca, the man who
had tried to kill Pope John Paul II back in 1979, attracted both those who wished to follow in their footsteps and sometimes
also those who wished to love or even marry them. The idea of someone copying Kuban’s crimes, possibly in a bid to attract
his attention, did not bear thinking about. And so İzzet changed the subject. ‘Would you like to have some food here?’ he
asked, his voice just wavering a little as he did so. He did not, after all, want her to confuse his offer with some sort
of date. He didn’t want to scare her. ‘It’s quite good, the food here.’
Ali, Ayşe’s brother, was, she knew, dining with a client. If she went home, it would only be her and a bowl of the soup she’d
made and put in the fridge. İzzet wasn’t bad company, even if he did havefeelings she would rather he didn’t have for her. But even with that as a consideration, what did she have to lose? She’d
seen several very nice plates of food come out of the Kaktus kitchen since they’d been there. ‘OK,’ she said after a moment.
‘That would be nice.’
İzzet Melik beamed.
There were shades of Elvis Goins’ death that hung around the murder of Aaron Spencer. Both kids had been shot, both of them
young, both in Brush Park. In both cases no one had seen or heard anything, and so the likelihood of any justice coming along
for Aaron Spencer was slim, as it had been, for different reasons, for Elvis Goins.
Back in the seventies, when Elvis had died, there had been people apart from Grant T. Miller living in the area, and so it
was possible that someone could, even now, claim to know who had killed him. But Aaron Spencer had almost certainly been alone
up there outside the Royden Holmes House. That part of the district, with the exception of
meeting in some way. But when she went over to him, he seemed genuinely shocked to find her there.
‘I was reading some of the old arrest notes and statements on Ali Kuban,’ she said as she sat down opposite him. ‘I understand
why we need to know about him now. But you can’t carry that around in your head all the time and feel OK, can you?’
‘So you came for a beer.’ İzzet smiled.
‘I live with my brother, and he wouldn’t approve,’ Ayşe said.
‘He’s religious, your brother?’
‘No, just protective of his sister,’ she replied.
İzzet knew better than to ask her anything more. Family life was, to some extent, private or ‘walled’, as it had been in Turkish
society since time immemorial.
‘Ali Kuban is probably too old to be a problem to women now, Ihope,’ İzzet said. ‘I understand the last few years of his incarceration have been tough for him. He had cancer back in 2006,
which weakened him considerably. Now he’s sick again.’
‘Didn’t kill him last time,’ Ayşe said.
‘Maybe it wasn’t his time. Or maybe he got lucky and had a good doctor.’
‘Inspector İkmen told me just before he left that he remembered Kuban,’ Ayşe said. ‘He was very young at the time, the inspector,
but he said that when Kuban was caught, a great wave of relief broke across the city.’
‘It must have done,’ İzzet said. ‘He’d terrorised Edirnekapı for eighteen months. His behaviour was escalating – little girls,
old women.’ He frowned. ‘To be honest with you, Sergeant Farsakoğlu, it isn’t Kuban as such that worries me now he’s out.
It’s . . . well, it seems he achieved something of a legendary aura or status with certain people during his time in prison. Those
of a misogynistic type; boys aroused by too much internet porn, too much information.’ He laughed. ‘Listen to me! Complaining
about the age of information as if I can do anything about it! Like an old man!’
But Ayşe agreed with him. High-profile offenders like Kuban, and even more sensationally like Mehmet Ali Ağca, the man who
had tried to kill Pope John Paul II back in 1979, attracted both those who wished to follow in their footsteps and sometimes
also those who wished to love or even marry them. The idea of someone copying Kuban’s crimes, possibly in a bid to attract
his attention, did not bear thinking about. And so İzzet changed the subject. ‘Would you like to have some food here?’ he
asked, his voice just wavering a little as he did so. He did not, after all, want her to confuse his offer with some sort
of date. He didn’t want to scare her. ‘It’s quite good, the food here.’
Ali, Ayşe’s brother, was, she knew, dining with a client. If she went home, it would only be her and a bowl of the soup she’d
made and put in the fridge. İzzet wasn’t bad company, even if he did havefeelings she would rather he didn’t have for her. But even with that as a consideration, what did she have to lose? She’d
seen several very nice plates of food come out of the Kaktus kitchen since they’d been there. ‘OK,’ she said after a moment.
‘That would be nice.’
İzzet Melik beamed.
There were shades of Elvis Goins’ death that hung around the murder of Aaron Spencer. Both kids had been shot, both of them
young, both in Brush Park. In both cases no one had seen or heard anything, and so the likelihood of any justice coming along
for Aaron Spencer was slim, as it had been, for different reasons, for Elvis Goins.
Back in the seventies, when Elvis had died, there had been people apart from Grant T. Miller living in the area, and so it
was possible that someone could, even now, claim to know who had killed him. But Aaron Spencer had almost certainly been alone
up there outside the Royden Holmes House. That part of the district, with the exception of
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