skate punks are, to me, anyway, indistinguishable from Goths. We know that Gülay was a Goth at one time, don’t we, and so her interest in Brain Damage, the Brain Dead newsgroup, is understandable.’
Probably like, Süleyman recalled, his ex-wife’s stepdaughter. He couldn’t remember her name, but he did recall that Zuleika had been very pleased that the girl was shedding her black weeds for a more ‘normal’ image.
‘I’m going to look at all these sites in more detail,’ Çöktin continued, ‘although I am inclined to think that Brain Damage is where I should be concentrating my efforts. The sheer volume of her involvement could be significant and there are certainly allusions to death and violence on there.’
‘Do you think that whoever runs this newsgroup or maybe someone who is significant within it could be manipulating these young people?’
Çöktin shrugged. ‘It’s possible. There have, as you know, sir, been some accounts of forces abroad intercepting paedophiles who have been what they call “grooming” children for sex over the Internet. I need to spend more time on it and I need to get to grips with the boy’s computer in order to make a comparison.’
‘To see whether they did similar things on their computers?’
‘Yes. Similar games, newsgroups, things like that.’
‘You know a lot about these things, don’t you, İsak?’ Süleyman said as he regarded his deputy with a frown. ‘Do you belong to any of these groups yourself? I ask only out of academic interest.’
Çöktin felt all the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Hoping that his rather delicate pale skin hadn’t reddened he said, ‘Yes, I do a little bit of posting.’
Süleyman smiled. ‘What topics do you discuss, İsak?’
‘Music, films, you know,’ Çöktin forced himself to return a smile.
‘Ah,’ Süleyman laughed, ‘music for young people, I expect, eh, İsak? This African stuff I sometimes hear in Beyoğlu.’
‘Something like that, yes, sir,’ the younger man replied. And then he looked down at the screen and pretended to get absorbed into his work once again.
C HAPTER 5
İkmen had told his daughter not to worry unduly about the obscene graffiti on the wall of the Church of the Panaghia Mouchliotissa.
‘It’s probably the work of bored kids,’ he’d said when she had, amid some embarrassment, described it to him. But Hulya hadn’t been satisfied that he really understood what she’d described and so İkmen, if reluctantly, given the current heat wave, had gone over to Fener to see for himself. It had been an interesting trip that had resulted in a further excursion to Beyoğlu.
Simurg bookshop, which is on Hasnan Galip Sokaği, is actually two shops side by side. Both are owned by the same person and they stock a wide selection of books and sheet music, both new and old. It’s a laid-back sort of a place, and one can browse Simurg’s stock for hours if required, provided one is prepared to shift the shop’s numerous sleeping cats from their literary beds. As both a book and cat lover, İkmen had a lot of time for Simurg and its regular clientele of argumentative old intellectuals – men not unlike his late father. Not that he had come for that unique Simurg ambience on this occasion. He’d come specifically to see Max, and Max always came into Simurg at around 6 p.m.
İkmen, who had positioned himself by the main entrance, which was currently being guarded by a barely sentient Angora, was looking at a copy of Wuthering Heights in English when Max appeared.
‘Hello, Max.’
İkmen spoke in English and also quite loudly. Up there in the clouds where Max existed, those on the ground could be difficult to hear.
The tall, slim man in the doorway looked down and smiled. Max, though of indeterminate years, was, İkmen knew, about his own age. He’d always had grey hair, ever since İkmen had first met him in the 1970s. Quintessentially English, Max was nevertheless a much darker man
Probably like, Süleyman recalled, his ex-wife’s stepdaughter. He couldn’t remember her name, but he did recall that Zuleika had been very pleased that the girl was shedding her black weeds for a more ‘normal’ image.
‘I’m going to look at all these sites in more detail,’ Çöktin continued, ‘although I am inclined to think that Brain Damage is where I should be concentrating my efforts. The sheer volume of her involvement could be significant and there are certainly allusions to death and violence on there.’
‘Do you think that whoever runs this newsgroup or maybe someone who is significant within it could be manipulating these young people?’
Çöktin shrugged. ‘It’s possible. There have, as you know, sir, been some accounts of forces abroad intercepting paedophiles who have been what they call “grooming” children for sex over the Internet. I need to spend more time on it and I need to get to grips with the boy’s computer in order to make a comparison.’
‘To see whether they did similar things on their computers?’
‘Yes. Similar games, newsgroups, things like that.’
‘You know a lot about these things, don’t you, İsak?’ Süleyman said as he regarded his deputy with a frown. ‘Do you belong to any of these groups yourself? I ask only out of academic interest.’
Çöktin felt all the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Hoping that his rather delicate pale skin hadn’t reddened he said, ‘Yes, I do a little bit of posting.’
Süleyman smiled. ‘What topics do you discuss, İsak?’
‘Music, films, you know,’ Çöktin forced himself to return a smile.
‘Ah,’ Süleyman laughed, ‘music for young people, I expect, eh, İsak? This African stuff I sometimes hear in Beyoğlu.’
‘Something like that, yes, sir,’ the younger man replied. And then he looked down at the screen and pretended to get absorbed into his work once again.
C HAPTER 5
İkmen had told his daughter not to worry unduly about the obscene graffiti on the wall of the Church of the Panaghia Mouchliotissa.
‘It’s probably the work of bored kids,’ he’d said when she had, amid some embarrassment, described it to him. But Hulya hadn’t been satisfied that he really understood what she’d described and so İkmen, if reluctantly, given the current heat wave, had gone over to Fener to see for himself. It had been an interesting trip that had resulted in a further excursion to Beyoğlu.
Simurg bookshop, which is on Hasnan Galip Sokaği, is actually two shops side by side. Both are owned by the same person and they stock a wide selection of books and sheet music, both new and old. It’s a laid-back sort of a place, and one can browse Simurg’s stock for hours if required, provided one is prepared to shift the shop’s numerous sleeping cats from their literary beds. As both a book and cat lover, İkmen had a lot of time for Simurg and its regular clientele of argumentative old intellectuals – men not unlike his late father. Not that he had come for that unique Simurg ambience on this occasion. He’d come specifically to see Max, and Max always came into Simurg at around 6 p.m.
İkmen, who had positioned himself by the main entrance, which was currently being guarded by a barely sentient Angora, was looking at a copy of Wuthering Heights in English when Max appeared.
‘Hello, Max.’
İkmen spoke in English and also quite loudly. Up there in the clouds where Max existed, those on the ground could be difficult to hear.
The tall, slim man in the doorway looked down and smiled. Max, though of indeterminate years, was, İkmen knew, about his own age. He’d always had grey hair, ever since İkmen had first met him in the 1970s. Quintessentially English, Max was nevertheless a much darker man
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