of sight.
‘I took no little girls back with me,’ Sılay continued as he lit a thin cigar and then sucked appreciatively on it. ‘I just collected my money, slept in my father’s house for one night – you can ask his nurse if you want an independent witness – and then I came home here in the morning.’
‘So as far as Hatice and Hulya are concerned . . .’
‘The girls told me they wanted to become actresses and I amused them with my stories. Nothing happened. I never invited them here nor met them anywhere outside the pastane.’
Tepe felt fairly certain that he was telling the truth. Once a rebellious and socially conscious young rich boy, Sılay had never achieved the fame that he craved and so he took to drink, dining out on boasts about a man he had worked with only briefly. He was a sad, broken character whose love for and knowledge of cinema was all that he retained of the handsome youngster in the baggy suit.
Tepe lit up a cigarette of his own. ‘So if you didn’t have an inappropriate relationship with either of these girls, do you know of anyone who might have done? Men who might have attempted to entice the girls back with them, using their ambitions to tempt them?’
Ahmet Sılay sighed. ‘Hulya’s father, I know, is big in the police. Everyone knew, it annoyed her. Men, young and old, kept their distance.’
‘And Hatice?’
He took a swig from his glass and again wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘Well that, I think, might have been another matter.’
‘What do you mean?’ Tepe asked.
‘I mean that if you want to know about Hatice and men you might begin by asking Hassan Bey.’
‘The proprietor of the pastane?’
‘Yes. Unlike his father, who is a man of both learning and principle, Hassan Bey believes I am only a harmless old drunk wedded to stories of my youth. But I have eyes in my head and I know what it looks like when a man squeezes a girl’s breast and she likes it.’
Chapter 5
----
Although it was obvious that the girl had been sexually assaulted in both her vagina and her anus, and had lost blood from both, that was not what had killed her. She had lacerations to the pubic area and some deep bruising but the cause of Hatice İpek’s death was elusive.
Not that pathologist Arto Sarkissian was giving up. There was still far more information that could be gleaned via further observation of the corpse as well as tests to be performed on tissue samples. But it was late now and he was tired. He would return to Hatice again in the morning. She wasn’t, after all, going anywhere. The Armenian’s large features broke into a smile as he thought about this grim little joke – the sort of dark observation that he and his friend Çetin İkmen frequently exchanged. Çetin was probably right at this moment still trying to comfort his daughter whose friend Arto’s charge had once been.
Poor little girl. Whoever the man or men were who had assaulted her, they had been brutal. Surprisingly Hatice had not been a virgin before the attack, a detail upon which Arto passed no judgement even though many, he knew, would condemn the girl for that. As far as he was concerned, it was hardly relevant. Hatice had been subjected to sexual violence, the perpetrators of which were obviously both dangerous and without conscience. It was something that Çetin needed to know so that he could act upon it – and soon. Sex crimes did not, fortunately, happen every day, but when they did the assailants had to be caught quickly. With nearly thirty years’ experience behind him as well as, rather more recently, close contact with Mehmet Süleyman’s wife, the psychiatrist Zelfa Halman, Arto knew that sexual brutality tended to escalate. And if what he had seen of Hatice’s injuries was anything to go by, this man or men were already well down that particular road. Whether or not they had killed her, they had abused her body in almost every orifice. Next time who knew where their depraved
‘I took no little girls back with me,’ Sılay continued as he lit a thin cigar and then sucked appreciatively on it. ‘I just collected my money, slept in my father’s house for one night – you can ask his nurse if you want an independent witness – and then I came home here in the morning.’
‘So as far as Hatice and Hulya are concerned . . .’
‘The girls told me they wanted to become actresses and I amused them with my stories. Nothing happened. I never invited them here nor met them anywhere outside the pastane.’
Tepe felt fairly certain that he was telling the truth. Once a rebellious and socially conscious young rich boy, Sılay had never achieved the fame that he craved and so he took to drink, dining out on boasts about a man he had worked with only briefly. He was a sad, broken character whose love for and knowledge of cinema was all that he retained of the handsome youngster in the baggy suit.
Tepe lit up a cigarette of his own. ‘So if you didn’t have an inappropriate relationship with either of these girls, do you know of anyone who might have done? Men who might have attempted to entice the girls back with them, using their ambitions to tempt them?’
Ahmet Sılay sighed. ‘Hulya’s father, I know, is big in the police. Everyone knew, it annoyed her. Men, young and old, kept their distance.’
‘And Hatice?’
He took a swig from his glass and again wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘Well that, I think, might have been another matter.’
‘What do you mean?’ Tepe asked.
‘I mean that if you want to know about Hatice and men you might begin by asking Hassan Bey.’
‘The proprietor of the pastane?’
‘Yes. Unlike his father, who is a man of both learning and principle, Hassan Bey believes I am only a harmless old drunk wedded to stories of my youth. But I have eyes in my head and I know what it looks like when a man squeezes a girl’s breast and she likes it.’
Chapter 5
----
Although it was obvious that the girl had been sexually assaulted in both her vagina and her anus, and had lost blood from both, that was not what had killed her. She had lacerations to the pubic area and some deep bruising but the cause of Hatice İpek’s death was elusive.
Not that pathologist Arto Sarkissian was giving up. There was still far more information that could be gleaned via further observation of the corpse as well as tests to be performed on tissue samples. But it was late now and he was tired. He would return to Hatice again in the morning. She wasn’t, after all, going anywhere. The Armenian’s large features broke into a smile as he thought about this grim little joke – the sort of dark observation that he and his friend Çetin İkmen frequently exchanged. Çetin was probably right at this moment still trying to comfort his daughter whose friend Arto’s charge had once been.
Poor little girl. Whoever the man or men were who had assaulted her, they had been brutal. Surprisingly Hatice had not been a virgin before the attack, a detail upon which Arto passed no judgement even though many, he knew, would condemn the girl for that. As far as he was concerned, it was hardly relevant. Hatice had been subjected to sexual violence, the perpetrators of which were obviously both dangerous and without conscience. It was something that Çetin needed to know so that he could act upon it – and soon. Sex crimes did not, fortunately, happen every day, but when they did the assailants had to be caught quickly. With nearly thirty years’ experience behind him as well as, rather more recently, close contact with Mehmet Süleyman’s wife, the psychiatrist Zelfa Halman, Arto knew that sexual brutality tended to escalate. And if what he had seen of Hatice’s injuries was anything to go by, this man or men were already well down that particular road. Whether or not they had killed her, they had abused her body in almost every orifice. Next time who knew where their depraved
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