Kaya at the time. It took him some hours to come to the conclusion he reached and Kaya’s condition had deteriorated before he did anything. You don’t send a dangerous psychopath out of incarceration unless you’re very certain that something is really wrong.’
‘What about the prison doctor?’
‘He was interviewed only hours after Kaya’s escape,’ İkmen said. ‘The officer who interviewed him reported that he smelt of alcohol, although whether or not he had examined Kaya whilst drunk isn’t known. He says he didn’t recommend immediate transfer to the hospital. Kaya had raised blood pressure but in the doctor’s opinion he was more likely to be having a panic attack than anything else.’
‘So how did Kaya come to get a transfer to the Cerrahpaşa?’ Arto asked.
‘The governor says that his guards recommended it,’ İkmen replied. ‘They claimed, he says, that Kaya was breathing with difficulty and had turned an alarming shade of grey. The governor duly went to see Kaya and found him as he had been described. He then called the Cerrahpaşa to request an ECG and asked the guards to prepare the prisoner for transfer.’
‘That’s his version of the story,’ Arto said.
‘Without Yusuf Kaya himself and with the only surviving prison guard still in a coma, there can only be one version at this time,’ İkmen said. ‘I’ve looked at telephone calls into and out of the prison, both landline and mobile – I’ve found nothing in the least bit suspicious.’
‘And so you question absent nurses and speculate about chimerical cleaners,’ Arto said. ‘By the way, DNA samples gathered from the scarf said to belong to one İsak Mardin came up with no matches to anyone known to us.’
İkmen sighed. ‘Oh, joy,’ he said gloomily.
The doctor cleared his throat. ‘So Mehmet Süleyman is out east in pursuit of Yusuf Kaya.’
‘He’s in Gaziantep at the moment,’ İkmen replied. ‘Kaya was picked up on a security camera at a patisserie down there.’
‘What happens if Yusuf Kaya isn’t in Gaziantep?’
İkmen shook his head wearily. ‘Then my friend will have to go to his home city of Mardin.’
‘Oh, yes, of course, I remember now,’ Arto said. ‘A real eastern boy, Yusuf Kaya.’ They sat in silence for a moment and then he said, ‘You know, I’ve an old friend in Mardin, a Syrian. Seraphim Yunun he’s called. He’s a monk at the monastery of St Sobo, which is just outside the city.’
İkmen, who had never heard of Seraphim Yunun, said, ‘How did you get to know him?’
‘Oh, Christian circles, you know,’ the Armenian said breezily. Not that he was religious in any way, as far as İkmen was aware. But unlike the policeman, who was nominally a Muslim, Arto was nominally a Christian, and in a country that was over ninety per cent Muslim, like Turkey, the minorities did tend to know one another.
‘Nice man, Seraphim,’ the Armenian continued. ‘I wonder, if Mehmet Süleyman does go to Mardin, whether I should put him in touch? I mean, I don’t want to labour the point, but one cannot encounter too many friendly faces in such an outlandish place.’
‘Call him on his mobile.’
‘Mm.’ Arto frowned. ‘I might just do that,’ he said. ‘My recollection of accommodation in Mardin, admittedly some years ago now, is not a pleasant one. I imagine that much has changed in twenty-odd years, but if Inspector Süleyman does find himself in need of a clean bed and intelligent company, he could do worse than stay at the monastery of St Sobo.’
‘Police!’
Less than a second later, and without further warning, a constable smashed in the front door of the brothel with a pickaxe. Inside, women screamed while the deeper voices of their erstwhile customers howled in fury. Armed police, both plainclothed and in uniform, pushed their way into the building shouting, ‘Stay where you are!’ Taner and Süleyman, bringing up the rear, arrived inside when the raid was all but
‘What about the prison doctor?’
‘He was interviewed only hours after Kaya’s escape,’ İkmen said. ‘The officer who interviewed him reported that he smelt of alcohol, although whether or not he had examined Kaya whilst drunk isn’t known. He says he didn’t recommend immediate transfer to the hospital. Kaya had raised blood pressure but in the doctor’s opinion he was more likely to be having a panic attack than anything else.’
‘So how did Kaya come to get a transfer to the Cerrahpaşa?’ Arto asked.
‘The governor says that his guards recommended it,’ İkmen replied. ‘They claimed, he says, that Kaya was breathing with difficulty and had turned an alarming shade of grey. The governor duly went to see Kaya and found him as he had been described. He then called the Cerrahpaşa to request an ECG and asked the guards to prepare the prisoner for transfer.’
‘That’s his version of the story,’ Arto said.
‘Without Yusuf Kaya himself and with the only surviving prison guard still in a coma, there can only be one version at this time,’ İkmen said. ‘I’ve looked at telephone calls into and out of the prison, both landline and mobile – I’ve found nothing in the least bit suspicious.’
‘And so you question absent nurses and speculate about chimerical cleaners,’ Arto said. ‘By the way, DNA samples gathered from the scarf said to belong to one İsak Mardin came up with no matches to anyone known to us.’
İkmen sighed. ‘Oh, joy,’ he said gloomily.
The doctor cleared his throat. ‘So Mehmet Süleyman is out east in pursuit of Yusuf Kaya.’
‘He’s in Gaziantep at the moment,’ İkmen replied. ‘Kaya was picked up on a security camera at a patisserie down there.’
‘What happens if Yusuf Kaya isn’t in Gaziantep?’
İkmen shook his head wearily. ‘Then my friend will have to go to his home city of Mardin.’
‘Oh, yes, of course, I remember now,’ Arto said. ‘A real eastern boy, Yusuf Kaya.’ They sat in silence for a moment and then he said, ‘You know, I’ve an old friend in Mardin, a Syrian. Seraphim Yunun he’s called. He’s a monk at the monastery of St Sobo, which is just outside the city.’
İkmen, who had never heard of Seraphim Yunun, said, ‘How did you get to know him?’
‘Oh, Christian circles, you know,’ the Armenian said breezily. Not that he was religious in any way, as far as İkmen was aware. But unlike the policeman, who was nominally a Muslim, Arto was nominally a Christian, and in a country that was over ninety per cent Muslim, like Turkey, the minorities did tend to know one another.
‘Nice man, Seraphim,’ the Armenian continued. ‘I wonder, if Mehmet Süleyman does go to Mardin, whether I should put him in touch? I mean, I don’t want to labour the point, but one cannot encounter too many friendly faces in such an outlandish place.’
‘Call him on his mobile.’
‘Mm.’ Arto frowned. ‘I might just do that,’ he said. ‘My recollection of accommodation in Mardin, admittedly some years ago now, is not a pleasant one. I imagine that much has changed in twenty-odd years, but if Inspector Süleyman does find himself in need of a clean bed and intelligent company, he could do worse than stay at the monastery of St Sobo.’
‘Police!’
Less than a second later, and without further warning, a constable smashed in the front door of the brothel with a pickaxe. Inside, women screamed while the deeper voices of their erstwhile customers howled in fury. Armed police, both plainclothed and in uniform, pushed their way into the building shouting, ‘Stay where you are!’ Taner and Süleyman, bringing up the rear, arrived inside when the raid was all but
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