until İkmen’s mobile phone began to ring.
Hassan Şeker, dressed in an elegantly cut suit and emanating expensive cologne, looked totally incongruous as he sat behind the old stained table in Interview Room 2. The poor light from the one inadequate bulb overhead made his immaculate appearance seem even more bizarre. Orhan Tepe knew that Şeker was in a different league from him. He is in the same category as Mehmet Süleyman, Tepe thought sourly. Back in Ottoman times, when Süleyman’s family had been aristocrats, Şeker’s had been the culinary artists who served such people. Patronised and flattered by their exalted customers, many confectioners, jewellers and other artisans had as a result become admired and wealthy themselves. Despite the passing of time and the declaration of the Turkish Republic in 1923, such people retained their wealth and reputations.
Tepe looked across at the confectioner again and scowled. Very like Süleyman, in fact, he thought – handsome, loved by women and rich . . . in comparison to him. His scowl deepened – which was not lost upon Hassan Şeker.
‘Is something bothering you, officer?’ he asked, his head held high with imperious indignation.
Tepe slid his glance across to the young constable who stood guarding the door. People were not generally so confident and up front in this type of setting and the constable looked uncomfortable.
‘I was just hoping that Inspector İkmen gets here soon, sir,’ Tepe replied. ‘It would be good if we could get this over with.’
‘I can only agree with that,’ Şeker said and he looked Tepe up and down with very obvious disdain.
And then the room became silent again until there was a knock at the door. The constable opened it immediately and İkmen entered. Hassan Şeker rose to his feet.
‘Ah, Inspector,’ he said. ‘It will be a trouble, I know, but if you could just put this stupid man right with regard to the grave error he has committed, I would be grateful.’
İkmen looked at Tepe before, smiling at Şeker, he sat down.
‘If you mean that Sergeant Tepe has made a mistake in bringing you here, sir, then I must take issue with that.’ İkmen lit up a cigarette. ‘Had you answered his questions—’
‘He and his underlings just marched into my place of business asking insulting questions!’
‘Sir, we have reason to believe that you may have been having a relationship with a girl we found dead earlier today.’
‘Yes, yes.’ He ran one hand through his hair, his head bowed. ‘He told me about Hatice and I am very sorry. It is most distressing. But as to my having a relationship with her—’
‘Oh, I agree,’ İkmen said, ‘that I may have overstated your connection with Hatice. From the information we have received it would seem that it stopped at just sex. If indeed it got that far. But you were seen touching her breasts, and she appeared to be comfortable with that.’
Şeker raised his head a little, his eyes furious. ‘And who says this?’
‘Sir, you must know that I cannot—’
‘Oh, but of course, I told your men the whereabouts of Ahmet Sılay, didn’t I?’ He laughed without mirth. ‘And you believe the word of a politically dubious alcoholic. Such observations are pure fantasy, the product of a mind obsessed with celluloid.’
‘Mr Sılay apart, there is a witness who can substantiate this notion who is not given to strong drink.’
‘Who?’ Şeker’s voice as well as his eyes were challenging, imperious. ‘Well?’
‘Mr Şeker, I am not at liberty to—’
‘But if I am to counter this accusation then I have to know who I am up against! This is a lie! I am fully aware that some of the people who work for me do not necessarily like me.’
In the face of İkmen’s stoic silence, Şeker sat down. As he did so, a thought appeared to occur to him. It was perhaps prompted by the gravity that was etched on İkmen’s features. ‘Unless, of course, it was your daughter,’ he
Hassan Şeker, dressed in an elegantly cut suit and emanating expensive cologne, looked totally incongruous as he sat behind the old stained table in Interview Room 2. The poor light from the one inadequate bulb overhead made his immaculate appearance seem even more bizarre. Orhan Tepe knew that Şeker was in a different league from him. He is in the same category as Mehmet Süleyman, Tepe thought sourly. Back in Ottoman times, when Süleyman’s family had been aristocrats, Şeker’s had been the culinary artists who served such people. Patronised and flattered by their exalted customers, many confectioners, jewellers and other artisans had as a result become admired and wealthy themselves. Despite the passing of time and the declaration of the Turkish Republic in 1923, such people retained their wealth and reputations.
Tepe looked across at the confectioner again and scowled. Very like Süleyman, in fact, he thought – handsome, loved by women and rich . . . in comparison to him. His scowl deepened – which was not lost upon Hassan Şeker.
‘Is something bothering you, officer?’ he asked, his head held high with imperious indignation.
Tepe slid his glance across to the young constable who stood guarding the door. People were not generally so confident and up front in this type of setting and the constable looked uncomfortable.
‘I was just hoping that Inspector İkmen gets here soon, sir,’ Tepe replied. ‘It would be good if we could get this over with.’
‘I can only agree with that,’ Şeker said and he looked Tepe up and down with very obvious disdain.
And then the room became silent again until there was a knock at the door. The constable opened it immediately and İkmen entered. Hassan Şeker rose to his feet.
‘Ah, Inspector,’ he said. ‘It will be a trouble, I know, but if you could just put this stupid man right with regard to the grave error he has committed, I would be grateful.’
İkmen looked at Tepe before, smiling at Şeker, he sat down.
‘If you mean that Sergeant Tepe has made a mistake in bringing you here, sir, then I must take issue with that.’ İkmen lit up a cigarette. ‘Had you answered his questions—’
‘He and his underlings just marched into my place of business asking insulting questions!’
‘Sir, we have reason to believe that you may have been having a relationship with a girl we found dead earlier today.’
‘Yes, yes.’ He ran one hand through his hair, his head bowed. ‘He told me about Hatice and I am very sorry. It is most distressing. But as to my having a relationship with her—’
‘Oh, I agree,’ İkmen said, ‘that I may have overstated your connection with Hatice. From the information we have received it would seem that it stopped at just sex. If indeed it got that far. But you were seen touching her breasts, and she appeared to be comfortable with that.’
Şeker raised his head a little, his eyes furious. ‘And who says this?’
‘Sir, you must know that I cannot—’
‘Oh, but of course, I told your men the whereabouts of Ahmet Sılay, didn’t I?’ He laughed without mirth. ‘And you believe the word of a politically dubious alcoholic. Such observations are pure fantasy, the product of a mind obsessed with celluloid.’
‘Mr Sılay apart, there is a witness who can substantiate this notion who is not given to strong drink.’
‘Who?’ Şeker’s voice as well as his eyes were challenging, imperious. ‘Well?’
‘Mr Şeker, I am not at liberty to—’
‘But if I am to counter this accusation then I have to know who I am up against! This is a lie! I am fully aware that some of the people who work for me do not necessarily like me.’
In the face of İkmen’s stoic silence, Şeker sat down. As he did so, a thought appeared to occur to him. It was perhaps prompted by the gravity that was etched on İkmen’s features. ‘Unless, of course, it was your daughter,’ he
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