those photographs has to be open to question. Not all of these covered country girls are as innocent in their heads as they would have their parents believe.’
İkmen, who knew his deputy to be a committed feminist, said, ‘I can’t believe you are defending the boy.’
‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘He may well be as guilty as hell. I mean, we all know about sexting, don’t we?’
The İstanbul police had dealt with several of these cases over the previous twelve months. Basically young, very naive girls were targeted by unscrupulous men and boys to either send them naked photographs of themselves, usually via their phones, or to ‘perform’ on short video clips for the pleasure of these males. It was a kind of blackmail. Either the girls did as they were told, or their conservative parents (and the parents of these girls were always conservative) would be told lies about them. Such lies, if the parents were so inclined, could lead to the girls being in mortal danger.
‘But I believe we need to be cautious,’ Ayşe continued. ‘This looks like an honour killing. But it might not be.’
‘We need to find Osman Yavuz,’ İkmen said. ‘We also need to find out who owns the petrol can we found at the Seyhans’ apartment.’
‘It wasn’t Gözde’s brother Lokman’s?’
‘He says not, and none of his prints were on it,’ İkmen said. ‘We can’t prove that it was or wasn’t Lokman’s can. That said, he works in a garage and so he had easier access to petrol than anyone else. And it was definitely petrol that was poured over Gözde and then set alight.’ İkmen frowned. ‘Somehow we need to build a biography of this cloistered girl’s life. Let’s start by seeing if we can dig up any gossip about her. Honour killings can sometimes have their genesis in whispers heard in the bazaar, can’t they?’
‘The word of a bitter old woman or a man the girl may already have rejected can sometimes cause families to kill or maim a child just to save face.’
‘Sadly, that is very true, Ayşe,’ İkmen said. ‘I want you out in Beşiktaş and over in Fatih where the family live now. See what you can pick up.’
‘Sir.’ She rose from her seat and began to put her jacket on.
‘And take Constable Yıldız with you to Fatih,’ İkmen said. ‘He has local knowledge.’
Gonca the gypsy made a lot of noise whenever they had sex. Her many children had either left home years before or were playing out somewhere in the street, and her neighbours knew exactly what she did and made no comment or trouble for her about it. Gonca consequently gave full voice to her feelings. But then Mehmet Süleyman loved that kind of spontaneity. His wife, long ago, had been just like that. When things had been right between them.
‘Oh!’ Gonca threw herself off him and lay back on her huge bed with a smile on her face. ‘You know,’ she said huskily, ‘you have a very good penis. One of the best! I should like to keep it under my pillow and bring it out when I want an orgasm.’
‘Just my penis?’ He was smiling. Such a statement was typical of Gonca. She was, after all, not just a gypsy, but a very outré gypsy artist. And artists were supposed to be weird.
‘Why would I want anything else?’ she said as she gave him a cigarette and then lit one for herself. ‘A whole man would drive me mad. Even you. But if I could just have your penis . . .’ She winked at him, then put her hand on the object of her desire and said, ‘Imagine how much fun I could have with it!’
He laughed. ‘You are impossible,’ he said as he gently ruffled her long black hair.
Her broad brown face broke into a hundred cracks and wrinkles as she smiled. ‘I am who I am,’ she said, and then she touched the side of his face very tenderly with one thick finger. ‘Maybe I would take the whole body if it was you. Maybe.’
‘And maybe cats will land on the moon,’ he said.
Gonca slipped her legs over the side of her bed and put
İkmen, who knew his deputy to be a committed feminist, said, ‘I can’t believe you are defending the boy.’
‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘He may well be as guilty as hell. I mean, we all know about sexting, don’t we?’
The İstanbul police had dealt with several of these cases over the previous twelve months. Basically young, very naive girls were targeted by unscrupulous men and boys to either send them naked photographs of themselves, usually via their phones, or to ‘perform’ on short video clips for the pleasure of these males. It was a kind of blackmail. Either the girls did as they were told, or their conservative parents (and the parents of these girls were always conservative) would be told lies about them. Such lies, if the parents were so inclined, could lead to the girls being in mortal danger.
‘But I believe we need to be cautious,’ Ayşe continued. ‘This looks like an honour killing. But it might not be.’
‘We need to find Osman Yavuz,’ İkmen said. ‘We also need to find out who owns the petrol can we found at the Seyhans’ apartment.’
‘It wasn’t Gözde’s brother Lokman’s?’
‘He says not, and none of his prints were on it,’ İkmen said. ‘We can’t prove that it was or wasn’t Lokman’s can. That said, he works in a garage and so he had easier access to petrol than anyone else. And it was definitely petrol that was poured over Gözde and then set alight.’ İkmen frowned. ‘Somehow we need to build a biography of this cloistered girl’s life. Let’s start by seeing if we can dig up any gossip about her. Honour killings can sometimes have their genesis in whispers heard in the bazaar, can’t they?’
‘The word of a bitter old woman or a man the girl may already have rejected can sometimes cause families to kill or maim a child just to save face.’
‘Sadly, that is very true, Ayşe,’ İkmen said. ‘I want you out in Beşiktaş and over in Fatih where the family live now. See what you can pick up.’
‘Sir.’ She rose from her seat and began to put her jacket on.
‘And take Constable Yıldız with you to Fatih,’ İkmen said. ‘He has local knowledge.’
Gonca the gypsy made a lot of noise whenever they had sex. Her many children had either left home years before or were playing out somewhere in the street, and her neighbours knew exactly what she did and made no comment or trouble for her about it. Gonca consequently gave full voice to her feelings. But then Mehmet Süleyman loved that kind of spontaneity. His wife, long ago, had been just like that. When things had been right between them.
‘Oh!’ Gonca threw herself off him and lay back on her huge bed with a smile on her face. ‘You know,’ she said huskily, ‘you have a very good penis. One of the best! I should like to keep it under my pillow and bring it out when I want an orgasm.’
‘Just my penis?’ He was smiling. Such a statement was typical of Gonca. She was, after all, not just a gypsy, but a very outré gypsy artist. And artists were supposed to be weird.
‘Why would I want anything else?’ she said as she gave him a cigarette and then lit one for herself. ‘A whole man would drive me mad. Even you. But if I could just have your penis . . .’ She winked at him, then put her hand on the object of her desire and said, ‘Imagine how much fun I could have with it!’
He laughed. ‘You are impossible,’ he said as he gently ruffled her long black hair.
Her broad brown face broke into a hundred cracks and wrinkles as she smiled. ‘I am who I am,’ she said, and then she touched the side of his face very tenderly with one thick finger. ‘Maybe I would take the whole body if it was you. Maybe.’
‘And maybe cats will land on the moon,’ he said.
Gonca slipped her legs over the side of her bed and put
Similar Books
