said. ‘In which case I may as well, I suppose, confess to this whether I did it or not.’
İkmen sighed. This was not a place he had wanted to go to with this interview. But when Tepe had telephoned him about Şeker, he had had to ask Hulya about her employer and Hatice.
‘Sir, telling the truth might help,’ İkmen said. ‘Touching a girl’s breast or having consenting relations with her is not a crime. We are not accusing you of harming her, we simply need to know who her contacts were. And because you must have been one of the last people to see her alive—’
‘When she finished her work she left with your daughter.’
‘And you didn’t see her again that night?’
‘No. I went home to my wife as I always do. I have never done anything with or to that girl. If some people mistake my natural friendliness for something else then that is their problem, not mine.’ And then he sank back into his chair as if temporarily deflated.
İkmen put his cigarette out and lit another. ‘Well, you may be right,’ he said. ‘It is possible some misunderstanding . . .’
‘Thank you!’
‘However, I stand by my officers’ actions. We were, sir, bound to follow up such an accusation.’
‘Well, of course.’ Şeker’s features had softened considerably now. Although not exactly smiling, he appeared more relaxed. It was at this point that İkmen pleasantly called a halt to the proceedings and allowed Hassan Şeker to go.
As soon as they heard the confectioner’s footsteps disappear down the corridor outside, Tepe turned to his superior and said, ‘Do you believe him, sir?’
‘No.’ İkmen frowned. ‘It’s his word against Ahmet Sılay’s and Hulya’s. I know that my daughter, at least, doesn’t lie. She’s seen that man with his hands all over Hatice. And besides, even if I didn’t know that I would still call Hassan Şeker a liar.’
‘Why?’
İkmen smiled. ‘Oh, just because, Tepe. Feelings that I have about people. Call it something supernatural, for want of a more appropriate term.’ He stood up and made ready to leave the room.
Confused, Tepe just reiterated, ‘Supernatural?’
‘Yes,’ İkmen said as he opened the door to the corridor, ‘as in precognition, that sort of thing. But please, don’t mention it to Commissioner Ardıç, he hates that.’ And then with a smile he left.
In spite of the difference in their height and the fact that Mehmet was handsomer than Murad, it was easy to see that the Süleyman brothers were closely related. The way they sat, slumped down against the wall of the hospital, their chins cupped in their long thin hands, made them resemble scolded children rather than middle-aged men.
Murad had been with Mehmet for just over an hour like this, occasionally talking but more often than not passing the hot, thick night by smoking and taking drinks from his can of cola. His sister-in-law Zelfa’s labour had been going on for most of the day, so unlike Murad’s experience of impending fatherhood. His late wife, Elena, a sorely missed victim of the monstrous 1999 earthquake, had given him a daughter within two hours. But she had been young; even now she would only have been twenty-eight. The thought of that, coupled with the closeness of the heat, made Murad feel slightly sick and so he distracted himself by looking at Mehmet. The younger man’s face was quite white.
Murad reached over and took one of his brother’s hands in his. ‘It isn’t exactly major surgery these days,’ he said with what he could muster of a smile. ‘And anyway, the doctor said he would give Zelfa another hour.’
‘Yes, but if she doesn’t have my son within an hour—’
‘Then they’ll perform a caesarean section,’ Murad replied, ‘as the doctor said. They do them every day, Mehmet. She will be fine. Inşallah.’
‘Mmm.’
They sat in silence for a while, watching as ambulances and cars came and went, taking part in the twenty-four-hour soap opera that is
İkmen sighed. This was not a place he had wanted to go to with this interview. But when Tepe had telephoned him about Şeker, he had had to ask Hulya about her employer and Hatice.
‘Sir, telling the truth might help,’ İkmen said. ‘Touching a girl’s breast or having consenting relations with her is not a crime. We are not accusing you of harming her, we simply need to know who her contacts were. And because you must have been one of the last people to see her alive—’
‘When she finished her work she left with your daughter.’
‘And you didn’t see her again that night?’
‘No. I went home to my wife as I always do. I have never done anything with or to that girl. If some people mistake my natural friendliness for something else then that is their problem, not mine.’ And then he sank back into his chair as if temporarily deflated.
İkmen put his cigarette out and lit another. ‘Well, you may be right,’ he said. ‘It is possible some misunderstanding . . .’
‘Thank you!’
‘However, I stand by my officers’ actions. We were, sir, bound to follow up such an accusation.’
‘Well, of course.’ Şeker’s features had softened considerably now. Although not exactly smiling, he appeared more relaxed. It was at this point that İkmen pleasantly called a halt to the proceedings and allowed Hassan Şeker to go.
As soon as they heard the confectioner’s footsteps disappear down the corridor outside, Tepe turned to his superior and said, ‘Do you believe him, sir?’
‘No.’ İkmen frowned. ‘It’s his word against Ahmet Sılay’s and Hulya’s. I know that my daughter, at least, doesn’t lie. She’s seen that man with his hands all over Hatice. And besides, even if I didn’t know that I would still call Hassan Şeker a liar.’
‘Why?’
İkmen smiled. ‘Oh, just because, Tepe. Feelings that I have about people. Call it something supernatural, for want of a more appropriate term.’ He stood up and made ready to leave the room.
Confused, Tepe just reiterated, ‘Supernatural?’
‘Yes,’ İkmen said as he opened the door to the corridor, ‘as in precognition, that sort of thing. But please, don’t mention it to Commissioner Ardıç, he hates that.’ And then with a smile he left.
In spite of the difference in their height and the fact that Mehmet was handsomer than Murad, it was easy to see that the Süleyman brothers were closely related. The way they sat, slumped down against the wall of the hospital, their chins cupped in their long thin hands, made them resemble scolded children rather than middle-aged men.
Murad had been with Mehmet for just over an hour like this, occasionally talking but more often than not passing the hot, thick night by smoking and taking drinks from his can of cola. His sister-in-law Zelfa’s labour had been going on for most of the day, so unlike Murad’s experience of impending fatherhood. His late wife, Elena, a sorely missed victim of the monstrous 1999 earthquake, had given him a daughter within two hours. But she had been young; even now she would only have been twenty-eight. The thought of that, coupled with the closeness of the heat, made Murad feel slightly sick and so he distracted himself by looking at Mehmet. The younger man’s face was quite white.
Murad reached over and took one of his brother’s hands in his. ‘It isn’t exactly major surgery these days,’ he said with what he could muster of a smile. ‘And anyway, the doctor said he would give Zelfa another hour.’
‘Yes, but if she doesn’t have my son within an hour—’
‘Then they’ll perform a caesarean section,’ Murad replied, ‘as the doctor said. They do them every day, Mehmet. She will be fine. Inşallah.’
‘Mmm.’
They sat in silence for a while, watching as ambulances and cars came and went, taking part in the twenty-four-hour soap opera that is
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