Free A Noble Killing by Barbara Nadel

the two women behind her begin to talk.
    ‘My sister lives across from this family whose daughter died in a fire in Beşiktaş,’ the one directly behind her said.
    ‘If the girl was bad, then it was well done,’ her companion replied.
    Ayşe looked over at Hikmet and put a finger up to her lips to silence him, lest he suddenly decide to talk.
    ‘Oh, I agree!’ the first woman said forcefully. ‘If she had shamed them, then what could they do?’
    Ayşe had expected such attitudes in Fatih. What came next, however, was a surprise to her.
    The first woman said, ‘My sister does say, however, that the family themselves – not the people who lived here already, but those from over in Beşiktaş who are staying with them – are not as decent as they could be.’
    ‘What does that mean?’ the second woman enquired. Ayşe Farsakoğlu pricked up her ears. She was quite anxious to know that too.
    ‘Some immoral behaviour. I can’t say,’ the first woman said.
    ‘No, of course not,’ her companion agreed. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to.’
    Ayşe felt her hackles rise. When the two women had left, she said to Hikmet Yıldız, ‘Why do they do that?’
    ‘What?’
    She leaned across the table towards him again and said, ‘Not talk about sin.’
    He shrugged. Some things were obvious, or so he thought. ‘They don’t want to sully themselves,’ he said. ‘Talking about sin is bad.’
    ‘Doing it is worse,’ Ayşe snapped back. ‘Killing young girls for no good reason is pretty bad.’
    They looked at each other and saw in each other’s eyes their differences of opinion. He could not condone honour killing but he could understand where it came from and why it happened. Her mind was totally closed. He looked away first.
    Still staring at his profile, Ayşe said, ‘I wonder what kind of “immoral behaviour” the Seyhans indulge in. I’d be willing to wager it does not include the mother.’
    There was blood everywhere – all over the bed, on the carpet, up the walls.
    Süleyman looked down at the pale, stiff body that lay face down on the bed and said, ‘Do we have a name?’
    ‘Hamid İdiz,’ his sergeant, İzzet Melik, said. ‘A piano teacher.’
    There had been a very shiny grand piano in the sitting room.
    ‘Constable downstairs has already turned one student away.’
    Süleyman bent down in order to look at the face of Hamid İdiz. Beyond the ghastly shade of blue that tinged his skin, he looked as if he had been an attractive man.
    ‘Who found him?’
    ‘His first student, a girl, rang the bell several times before going to get the kapıcı ,’ İzzet said. ‘According to her, Hamid Bey never missed a lesson and was never late. The kapıcı concurred with this and opened up the apartment. Hamid İdiz was diabetic, and so of course the kapıcı was worried that he might be in a coma.’
    ‘Reasonable.’ Süleyman looked around the bedroom. A gold colour scheme had been employed, now sodden with red. ‘Do we know how old Mr İdiz was?’
    İzzet looked at his notebook. ‘Fifty-three, the kapıcı said.’
    ‘Did he say anything else?’
    They both knew, as all Turks did, that the custodians of apartment blocks usually knew a lot of things about their tenants.
    ‘He said that Mr İdiz was “flamboyant”,’ İzzet said.
    Süleyman picked up a magazine that lay on a chair over by the window and moved the front cover aside with the end of a ballpoint pen. ‘What wonderful euphemisms people use for the word homosexual,’ he said.
    ‘The apartment’s full of queer porn,’ İzzet said.
    ‘What fun forensics are going to have!’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ İzzet frowned.
    ‘I assume we’re waiting on the arrival of Dr Sarkissian?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘In the meantime, did the kapıcı see anyone arrive before the girl this morning or last night?’ Süleyman said.
    İzzet shrugged. ‘Well, he did . . .’
    Süleyman looked at the many bottles of cologne and aftershave on Hamid Bey’s