A Chemical Prison

by Barbara Nadel

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Private Investigators; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

A Chemical Prison is the triumphantly accomplished second thriller by award-winning author Barbara Nadel. Perfect for fans of Donna Leon and Jason Goodwin. 'Even better than Nadel's extraordinary first book... tightly organised... the dark, Byzantine plot springs organically from the tensions of race and class in Turkish society, which is treated with a depth and detail unusual in a crime novel' - Evening Standard Inspector Çetin Ikmen and forensic pathologist Arto Sarkissian have been friends since childhood, and their work together in Istanbul's criminal justice system has only served to cement their friendship. When they're both called to a flat to investigate the death of a twenty-year-old, there is no reason to think their relationship will alter. The case, however, is a strange one. Ikmen learns from the neighbours that they have never seen the man enter or leave the flat. The only visitor they're aware of is a solitary, well-dressed Armenian. Stranger still is that the limbs of the body are withered, and the victim seems to have been kept prisoner inside a gilded cage. What is it that's making Ikmen's old friend Arto, himself an Armenian, especially uncomfortable about the case? What readers are saying about A Chemical Prison : 'I cannot get enough of her well written stories and addictive characters ' ' The descriptions of the city and its disparate and cosmopolitan groups of inhabitants are fascinating, as are the historical insights into Ottoman history and habits' ' Gripping from start to finish'

Release date: April 26, 2012

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 452

Sample

The old woman looked sadly up at the open door and sighed. ‘Of course there was a time, Officer, when this was a usual thing. Not’ – she added rather sourly – ‘that you would remember.’

There wasn’t a lot that Sergeant Farsakoǧlu could add to that besides agreeing with the woman.

‘What with the tourists and now all these wretched infidels from across the Black Sea. When I was a young girl Turkey was for the Turks and one could leave one’s door open without worrying that you’d be robbed or murdered in your bed, but now …’

‘Yes, right, Mrs, er …’

‘Yalçin.’ She smiled. ‘My husband owns the grocer’s shop opposite.’

Both Sergeant Farsakoǧlu and her rather small, swarthy companion looked across the road at a tiny basement-level shop, the mean doorway of which was currently blocked by several large cases of Coca-Cola bottles.

‘So,’ the sergeant continued, turning back to the woman who was still smiling very proudly in the direction of her property, ‘do you happen to know who owns the house, Mrs Yalçin?’

‘An Armenian lives there. Lives alone. I don’t know his name though. Very polite and private he is, dresses very well. Next door might know his name, you could always try there.’

‘Yes, I may well do that.’

The house the two police officers and the elderly woman were talking about was one of those wooden nineteenth-century affairs that had, in recent years, become so popular with foreign tourists. Many of them, in response to this popularity, had been converted into what had become known as ‘Ottoman Mansion Hotels’, presumably so that foreigners could boast about having slept where the old aristocracy used to lay their heads. The fact that some of these houses had originally been built for quite ordinary citizens was not spoken of within foreign hearing. This particular building, and the one next door to it, which had already been converted into a hotel, was however rather special in that it had actually been built on to one of the side walls of the Topkapı Museum. Offering as it did both wooden quaintness and proximity to such exotic joys as the royal treasury and the imperial harem, it was rather strange that the owner had continued to maintain the house as a private residence. As Sergeant Farsakoǧlu’s companion, the redoubtable Constable Cohen, had been heard to mutter, ‘If I had this place I’d turn it into a hotel, retire to Bodrum, lie on the beach and do what I do best.’ And that was indeed the scale of income that such a place could attract, if put a little crudely.

‘And how long, to your knowledge, has the door been open like this, Mrs Yalçin?’

The old woman paused for a moment before replying. ‘Well, I noticed it first thing this morning, at about seven o’clock.’

Sergeant Farsakoǧlu looked at her watch. ‘It’s now six and so—’

‘Eleven hours,’ put in her colleague, ‘assuming that it was opened at that time. Which it may or may not have been.’

‘We’ll go in and have a look,’ said his superior, ‘just to make sure.’ Then, looking up at the lowering storm-blown clouds above, she added, ‘It’s not the sort of day to have your doors wide open.’

The old woman smiled and, her duty as a citizen done, turned back and walked towards her shop.

The house, although wide and tall, comprising three storeys plus basement, was curiously dark. But then when your back wall is an ancient, windowless palace fortification, light can and does enter only via the casements that look out on to the street. This, together with the iron greyness of the darkening October sky outside, lent the rooms that the officers walked through a sombre and, by virtue of the shallowness of the property, extremely claustrophobic feeling. Indeed two armchairs and a settee completely filled the living area on the ground floor; it was almost impossible to manoeuvre around them.

As Sergeant Farsakoǧlu led the way out of the living room and into the kitchen, Cohen murmured, ‘I’d go out of my mind living in a place like this!’

On the face of it, the kitchen was really very well off with regard to equipment. There was a stove, large refrigerator, numerous cupboards and work surfaces upon one of which was even a very modern-looking blender. For some reason that Cohen assumed was to do with his superior being a woman, Sergeant Farsakoǧlu started looking through the cupboards and inside the fridge. Not that he paid her movements very much attention, transfixed as he was by the ‘Girls in Swimwear’ calendar for 1982 that hung over the sink.

‘Empty.’

Cohen barely registered what had been said. ‘Eh?’

‘The cupboards and the refrigerator are all empty.’

He turned to look at her. She was very attractive for a policewoman: tall and willowy and, when she chose to let it down across her shoulders, possessed of the most fantastic mane of chestnut-brown hair. Cohen replied whilst wrestling with a terrible desire to imagine her naked: ‘So?’

‘Well, normally,’ she said, ‘people who live in a house have some food around with which to feed themselves.’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe. Although if this man lives alone he could go out to eat.’

Sergeant Farsakoǧlu looked doubtful. ‘What, all the time? Even just for a glass of tea?’

‘Mmm. I see what you mean, but …’

‘But what?’

He smiled. ‘Men can be a little bit lazy, I suppose, when they’re on their own. Single men have, well, you know, other things on their minds.’

She gave him a look that informed Cohen more eloquently than words that now was perhaps the time to stop talking about what single men might or might not get up to, and start being a little serious about the job in hand.

Looking slightly puzzled, Sergeant Farsakoǧlu moved out of the kitchen and mounted the stairs. As he ascended behind her, Cohen childishly grinned at the prospect of entering various bedchambers with his lovely superior.

The first floor was taken up by two identical and, as far as those little individual touches that characterise people’s ‘own’ rooms was concerned, featureless bedrooms. They had beds, covered with matching yellow counterpanes, one chair each plus chests of drawers which Sergeant Farsakoǧlu soon established were as empty as the kitchen cupboards had been.

‘It’s almost as if the occupant has recently moved out,’ Sergeant Farsakoǧlu observed as she pulled one of the counterpanes aside to reveal a plain, uncovered mattress.

‘People do do runners sometimes,’ Cohen observed, ‘particularly when they’re behind with the rent.’

‘I don’t think that’s a possibility. Mrs Yalçin said that the Armenian who lives here wore nice clothes and was very polite, which doesn’t sound to me like the sort of person who would default on rent.’

Cohen shot her a rueful smile. ‘Anybody can default on rent, Sergeant, believe me.’

She smiled. ‘The fruits of your considerable life experience, Constable?’

‘Yes, well …’ Cohen cleared his throat in that obvious way people do when they want to change a subject. ‘Perhaps someone’s just been in here and stolen all of Mr Armenian’s personal stuff then, eh, Sergeant?’

‘Perhaps.’

She moved back towards the stairs once again. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s take a look up there. If we don’t find anything, we’ll do the basement before we leave.’

‘OK.’

Unlike the rest of the house, the entrance to the second storey was not accessed via a hall area; as the officers ascended, they found it obscured from their view by a door placed right at the top of the stairs. It was, so Sergeant Farsakoǧlu mused, almost as if this part of the house were separate from the rest of the building – like a self-contained apartment for a tenant or sub-lettee. In the context of an ordinary, working-class İstanbul dwelling such an arrangement was not unusual. Here, however, in this great, wide house clinging to the edge of the mighty Topkapı Palace, it seemed, for some reason she couldn’t logically fathom, odd. And in keeping with the sergeant’s weird feelings about it, the door, unlike that which may have belonged to a totally separate tenant, moved aside easily under the light pressure from her boot.

At first, and quite reasonably in a room in which the blinds were drawn, neither of the officers could see anything beyond their own shadows falling across the edge of the dark brown carpet beneath their feet. Cohen moved rather closer to Farsakoǧlu than he knew she would like but then moments of tension like this gave him all sorts of excuses. He cleared his throat before whispering, ‘If he’s asleep in here and we wake him up …’

‘Hello?’ Farsakoǧlu said in a loud, authoritative voice as she simultaneously switched on the large chandelier that hung over the equally large bed. Cohen was for a moment quite lost in admiration for her forcefulness until he saw the figure facing away from them on the top of the bedclothes.

‘Sir?’ she said, again with some forcefulness, enough at least to rouse a sleeping person.

Not of course that this person did rouse from his sleep. And as the smell from the soiling of his trousers finally reached their nostrils the two officers knew that he wasn’t going to react to any of their entreaties – ever.

Çetin İkmen was not a patient man. He could have hung around for the waiter to come and give him another drink of his choice but quite frankly he really couldn’t be bothered. So, grabbing hold of what he hoped was the brandy decanter, he poured a nice healthy draught into his glass and then drank with obvious pleasure. Had he not been at the home of his very best friend, Arto Sarkissian, he would have acted with more propriety – or at least that was what he told himself as he hurled a massive gulp down his throat. It felt good too, the warm, comforting taste of alcohol. The drink and the cigarette he was holding in his other hand also had the advantage of giving him something to do, which he needed very badly for, as well as feeling hideously uncomfortable in the unaccustomed dinner jacket he was wearing, he also felt very out of place amongst Arto’s other guests.

Çetin and Arto had been friends since they were small boys. They both came from intelligent and intellectually curious families and as children the two of them had shared their play and their thoughts in equal measure. As adults that state of affairs had not really changed except for their respective professions. Arto, like his elder brother Krikor, had opted for a career in medicine and had for the past twenty years been working for the police as a criminal pathologist. Çetin too worked for the police, but in the far less well-paid arena of detective in the homicide division. That the two frequently met over what was left of somebody’s unwanted wife or inconvenient father gave them, in common with others who work in rather morbid professions, cause for some very cruel and grim humour.

Outside of work, however, the two could not have been more different. With nine children, a wife and an ageing father to support, Çetin lived the life of a struggling working-class Turk, albeit an educated one. His home was a crowded, reeking apartment in Sultan Ahmet, an area of the city that not only boasted most of the famous İstanbul monuments but also a large shifting population of backpackers, drug dealers, pimps and illegal immigrants. The thing that he drove – he rarely called it a car for it hardly warranted the term – was the same article he had driven since just after the birth of his third child. It was all in startling contrast to the opulence around him now. Arto, his rotund and jolly little Armenian friend, had not only done very well for himself professionally, he had married well too, which was why Çetin was now standing in this vast floodlit palace on the shore of the Bosphorus. Seeing his host’s wife, he raised his glass to her in greeting. He received a frosty smile from the lovely Maryam Sarkissian in reply. Not wishing to address the fact that she, he knew full well, couldn’t stand his skinny scruffy Turkishness, Çetin chose to believe that her latest bout of plastic surgery was preventing her from welcoming him properly.

‘Are you enjoying yourself or are you actually drowning your sorrows?’

Çetin turned around and found himself facing his friend. ‘You want me to be honest?’

Arto smiled. ‘As ever.’

‘Well, this jacket isn’t really me, is it?’

‘No, but …’

‘And …’ Çetin sighed heavily. ‘Look, Arto, I don’t really fit in with this lot, do I? Maryam’s just given me a look that said it all.’

‘Oh, you should know not to pay any attention to Maryam,’ Arto laughed, ‘and besides, whatever you may think of the people here, they are all working for the project just like we are.’

Çetin looked down at the floor, apparently shamed by his friend’s words. ‘Yes, I know.’

‘In order to get anything like this on track we need to get hold of money and that’s what these people have. In abundance.’

One cursory glance around was enough to convince Çetin of that. There was a lot of money in that room, or at least the possessors of a lot of money. Industrialists, well-heeled professionals, old and venerable families – they were all here and, what was more, they were all very eager to get their cheque books out in support of this initiative that had first been put forward by Arto’s brother Krikor. Drug addiction, or rather the fight against drug addiction, was, especially in view of the threat from AIDS plus the influx of some very dubious organisations from the former eastern bloc countries, becoming a grave cause for concern amongst certain sectors of İstanbul society. The police, as represented here by Çetin İkmen, were noticing that more and more crimes were related to narcotic abuse, and doctors like Krikor Sarkissian, who had been involved with such problems for some time, had decided to take a lead in trying to address the problem. A first step was to try and secure funds for a dedicated advice and information centre at the heart of the ‘trade’, the districts of Sultan Ahmet and Beyazıt. And that was why Çetin, Arto, Krikor and all these smart folk were here now.

‘Arto! At last!’

Both Arto and Çetin turned in response to this rather strident cry and found themselves looking at a tall, extremely attractive man in, Çetin quickly reckoned, his late thirties.

‘Avram!’

Quickly, but with much affection, Arto hugged and kissed this man and then, smiling, introduced him to his old friend.

‘Çetin, this is Dr Avram Avedykian, a most avid and enthusiastic supporter of my brother’s project. Avram, this is my oldest and best friend, Inspector Çetin İkmen.’

The two men shook hands.

‘Inspector İkmen as in police, isn’t it?’ the doctor said.

‘Yes, sir,’ Çetin replied in his best speaking-to-those-outside-my-usual-sphere-of-influence voice, ‘we have, as you can imagine a vested interest in—’

‘You don’t have to call anybody here sir, Çetin,’ Arto put in before his friend’s awkwardness became a problem. ‘We are all here for the same reason, all trying to help.’

‘Oh. Right. Yes.’

Chastised, Çetin then looked down at the floor. It was a movement that even he found childish. Had it not been for the appearance of another man at Dr Avedykian’s side the moment could have been embarrassing, but this man, possibly just slightly older than the doctor, was so arrestingly handsome that even a red-blooded heterosexual like Arto was quite lost in admiration.

Moving forward to greet this newcomer, he said, ‘And you are?’

‘Oh,’ said Dr Avedykian, suddenly also aware of this man’s presence, ‘this is my best friend actually, Arto.’ He moved the man forward to include him in the group and made his introductions. ‘Dr Arto Sarkissian, this is Mr Muhammed Ersoy.’

The name was familiar to Arto. ‘Oh, yes, Avram talks of you frequently, Mr Ersoy, and my brother Krikor has, of course, mentioned your name to me. You’re very interested in his work, I believe?’

‘Yes.’ Muhammed Ersoy shook hands with his host in a casual, almost off-hand manner and then turned almost immediately to Çetin. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing that you are a member of our fine body of police officers.’

It was said in such a way as to imply a mockery of that force. Luckily, Çetin, who was accustomed to this sort of reception, rose only mildly to the bait. ‘Yes, I am,’ he said, ‘but like yourself, Mr Ersoy, I am here tonight to support Krikor’s initiative rather than talk about what I do.’

‘Quite.’

A rather frosty silence followed which was only brought to a close by a change of topic on Arto’s part. ‘So,’ he said, addressing the two newcomers, ‘I hope that you gentlemen are going to be generous after my brother’s speech tonight.’

‘You can count on us,’ confirmed Dr Avedykian lightly.

‘Quite,’ said his companion, still, for some reason, looking at Çetin.

It was at this point that an annoying beeping sound was heard. In response to this the two doctors and Mr Ersoy checked their jacket pockets and removed a varied selection of mobile telephones. As a man they all checked their machines muttering short phrases such as ‘Not me’, ‘Not mine’, and ‘No’. Then they all looked around to see who might be in receipt of a message – until Arto, with a heavy I-am-so-accustomed-to-this sigh, reached inside Çetin’s jacket pocket and removed the offending article for him.

As he pressed the ‘receive’ button and then handed the instrument back to his friend, he said, ‘I do wish you’d get to grips with this thing, Çetin. It’s not that difficult.’

The look of smug amusement that this elicited from Arto’s other companions was not lost on Çetin. He made a mental note of their reactions for a later date as he turned away and spoke into the machine: ‘İkmen.’

Leaving his friend to get on with whatever conversation he was having on the telephone, Arto motioned one of the waiters over in order to offer his companions more drinks.

‘Çetin does unfortunately get calls at odd times,’ he explained, ‘as do I and probably yourselves too.’

‘We are all busy men these days,’ agreed Dr Avram, ‘which, in our case, is odd when you consider that we probably have more doctors than ever before.’

Muhammed Ersoy took a champagne flute from the waiter’s tray and smiled. ‘Ah yes, my dear Avram, but don’t you also have oh so many more patients too?’

‘Oh, well …’

‘Now that those we have always considered to be the traditional “poor” can have things like televisions, mobile telephones and other instruments of information and communication they are far more aware of what doctors can and cannot offer them. Whereas in the past some nebulous ache would be ignored, now they repair to the doctor just in case that ache may be cancer or heart trouble or of the other ills they have seen mentioned on the television.’

Arto viewed his new acquaintance keenly. ‘Do I detect that you feel there is something wrong with that, Mr Ersoy?’

‘Indeed I do.’ It was said with an arrogance which seemed to embarrass his best friend, who turned away and busied himself looking at some of the other guests. ‘Had we, or rather people like us, not planted such ideas in their heads then they would hardly have formulated them for themselves and—’

‘I’m sorry, Arto, I’ve got to go.’

It took a few moments for Çetin’s words to register with his friend. ‘Eh?’

‘I’ve got to go, Arto,’ Çetin reiterated, ‘right now.’

‘Oh, is it, er …?’

‘Yes.’ With some difficulty Çetin folded his mobile phone away and replaced it in his pocket. ‘In fact I could actually do with you.’

‘Right.’ Arto sighed and then squared his shoulders. ‘Right, yes, of course. I’m sure Krikor can manage without me. I’ll just … er …’ He pointed in the direction of his brother and made off towards him.

‘Something come up?’ Muhammed Ersoy asked as he and Çetin stood alone, the latter rather tensely shuffling his feet against the pile of the carpet.

‘Yes, sir,’ Çetin replied absent-mindedly.

‘Might I ask …?’

‘No, I’m afraid you can’t. We have our rules as I am sure do you in your work.’

Muhammed Ersoy shrugged. ‘Ah, but I don’t work, Inspector.’

‘Then perhaps we should leave it at that then, sir?’ Çetin observed. He saw that Arto was threading his way back towards him and he moved forward to join his friend.

While the doctor attended to his part of the investigation, namely the corpse upon the bed, Inspector İkmen and Sergeant Farsakoǧlu looked around at the living quarters of the deceased. A cursory examination seemed to confirm the sergeant’s earlier contention that this part of the house was a separate apartment. The main room contained the bed, a chair, various cupboards and bureaux plus a television; two smaller rooms led off from it. These were a rather opulent bathroom and a small, almost cupboard-like place that contained a refrigerator, a small sink and a work surface bearing an electric kettle.

As was his custom, İkmen made straight for the fridge, one of his great fascinations at moments like this being with what his victim liked to eat. But as he went to pull the handle towards him, Sergeant Farsakoǧlu pre-empted his curiosity.

‘It’s quite empty, sir, I’ve looked,’ she said. ‘Like the kitchen downstairs. Not a crumb in there.’

İkmen raised one eyebrow. ‘And yet someone obviously lived here.’

‘Yes,’ the sergeant replied. ‘An Armenian gentleman, according to the grocers opposite. Although from the description we’ve had it seems unlikely that he is our corpse.’

İkmen moved out of the kitchen and back into the main bedroom area again. ‘No?’

‘No. The man the old grocer described was middle-aged and very smart. You could not,’ – she moved her head in the direction of the bed – ‘describe what lies there as either of those things.’

‘You could, however,’ the doctor put in from the side of the bed, ‘describe our friend here as a user of hard drugs.’

‘Really?’

Holding up a limp arm so that his colleagues could see it, Arto Sarkissian pointed to a number of small scars and sores on the inside of the forearm. ‘These marks are scars left by repeated injections with a hypodermic syringe. They are typical of the damage habitual drug users inflict upon themselves. Untrained or desperate for their fix, they shove needles into any vein they can find. Needles, furthermore, that are not always clean, hence the sores.’

Farsakoǧlu let her eyes drift slowly around what, with its expensive chandelier and very clean, tasteful furniture, was an extremely nice apartment. ‘Users don’t generally live in places like this, do they?’

İkmen frowned. ‘Don’t be so sure. Addicts, like anybody else, can surprise you. Just because a man shoves heroin in his arm on a regular basis doesn’t mean to say he necessarily lives in a slum. And besides, we don’t yet know that this man did live here, do we?’

‘No.’

‘Perhaps when Cohen gets back from questioning the hotelier next door we’ll know a bit more.’

While the doctor silently continued his investigations, İkmen walked over to the chest of drawers nearest to the door. He’d noticed its incongruity as soon as he came in. Although he had only really passed through the rooms lower down in the building, he had taken note of Farsakoǧlu’s observation that the house was almost totally without character. She had said that it ‘lacked personal touches’, a rather more typically ‘womanly’ observation from her than he was accustomed to, but he trusted her instinct nevertheless. And that was why the items on top of the chest of drawers appeared so startlingly strange: little crystal figures, about fifty of them, all arranged in neat rows across the top of the chest; animals, domestic items, little people, tiny houses, palaces, mosques. Each in its own way a dazzling work of art and, making up a collection of such magnitude, probably worth quite a lot of money too. A little evidence, so İkmen mused, in support of the idea that the victim had not actually resided in this house. Small, portable and expensive things like these crystal figures rarely survived around the heavy and committed drug user. But then …

‘Until I’ve done some tests I won’t know for sure what killed him,’ Arto Sarkissian said, thoughtlessly wiping his hands on the lapel of his dinner jacket, ‘but I’d say it’s pretty certain that it wasn’t the drugs.’

İkmen strode over to the side of the bed. ‘No?’ he questioned, looking into the face of what had once been a really quite nice-looking young man.

Gently but firmly, the doctor pushed the young man’s head to one side, revealing to İkmen’s gaze a dark purple and red line around the base of the throat. ‘I would say that he was strangled, possibly by ligature,’ he said, ‘which, if I am right, opens the door quite neatly to some very foul play indeed.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Get the place dusted, Çetin,’ the doctor continued. ‘I think that Farsakoǧlu was quite right to have you called out here tonight.’

‘I had a bad feeling,’ the sergeant put in, looking over the shoulders of the two men at the sad little body on the bed. ‘Not very old, is he?’

‘Probably about twenty, I should think.’

İkmen looked across at his friend and sighed. ‘But he’d been a user for some time, hadn’t he?’

‘Oh, yes. Some of those marks on his arms are old and, if I’m right, he’s probably got some more on his legs and maybe in his groin too. The longer they’ve been using, the more their veins start to collapse, which means that they have to go in search of sites in all sorts of improbable places. Very squalid.’

‘And just the sort of information your brother would like to make a little more public.’

‘Yes, on the basis that if those who are contemplating the habit knew about its more disgusting aspects, it might make them think twice. After all, who wants to die like this? Murdered probably for a couple of grams of heroin and left reeking in your own shit?’

İkmen allowed himself a grim little smile. ‘Perhaps we should have brought some of your brother’s prospective sponsors out here to have a look?’

Arto Sarkissian pulled a comically shocked face. ‘Oh, I don’t think so, Inspector!’

‘Bit too real, you think?’

‘Absolutely.’

The door to the apartment opened to admit Constable Cohen. İkmen greeted him with a nod of the head. ‘Anything?’

Cohen shrugged. ‘Not a lot. Mr Draz, the hotel owner next door, knew even less than the grocer about the man who lives here. He described him as middle-aged and quiet. Keeps himself to himself. Didn’t know how long he’s been here but Mr Draz has owned the hotel for five years and our man was here when he came. Didn’t know whether he was Armenian or not though.’

The doctor smiled. ‘If a man has an expensive suit everybody usually assumes that he’s either Armenian or Jewish, isn’t that right, Cohen?’

‘Some do, yes, Doctor. Except, that is, in my case.’

İkmen, unable to join what was essentially a closed conversation, changed the subject. ‘So what we’ve got,’ he said slowly, as if fixing the information firmly in his mind, ‘is a victim who is young, a drug user and who may have been strangled. This house, or rather this part of the house, may or may not have been his home. As far as we know the place is owned or rented by an older man who may or may not be Armenian and who we really do need to find now.’

‘And the windows have been nailed shut.’

They all turned to look at Sergeant Farsakoǧlu who had been minutely examining the casement.

‘What?’

‘These windows are all nailed shut, sir,’ she said, ‘and they’ve been painted over too. Some time ago by the look of it.’

‘Have they indeed?’ İkmen replied. ‘Well, quite a conundrum for my sergeant to get his teeth into when he returns to us tomorrow.’

The doctor put his gloves and stethoscope back into his bag and sighed. ‘And another late night for me, I think.’

‘Yes,’ said İkmen, ‘we need to get going on this one fast.’

For those residents of İshak Paşa Caddesi for whom high drama was a particular passion, the events of the rest of that night proved most absorbing. As well as the arrival of various ordinary police squad cars there was the added thrill of witnessing the entrances and exits of other people to and from the house. These included police photographers, forensic investigators and, just after midnight, a group of sombre individuals bearing a stretcher and body-bag. As this latter group and its grim cargo passed by the now considerable crowd of onlookers, those in that company of a more religious persuasion were heard to mutter ‘Allah!’ and turn away from this all-too-real manifestation of mortality.

Opinions varied regarding what may or may not have occurred in ‘that house’. The police officers, as ever, were not in the least forthcoming about what was occurring and so theories abounded within the crowd. Mrs Yalçin, the grocer’s wife, was particularly free with her ideas.

‘I always knew that it wasn’t quite natural for a man of his age to be living there all by himself.’

‘Well, he is Armenian,’ offered another elderly, heavily veiled woman. ‘And you know that with Christians—’

‘Wit