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seemed to last several lifetimes, İkmen, now convinced that the traumatised Berishas had little more to offer on the subject of Rifat at this time, finally came to what victims’ families dreaded most. Looking at Rahman, the only contender for the task, İkmen said, ‘Of course the body will have to be formally identified.’
    ‘Why?’
    For just a moment, both officers thought that they might have misheard, and frowned doubtfully at each other. Only when an uncomfortable length of time had once again passed did Suleyman break the silence and answer the question.
    ‘We must know that the victim is definitely Rifat,’ he said. ‘Even though his description and papers are consistent with those of your son, we have to be certain. People do sometimes plant false papers on dead bodies in order to confound us.’
    ‘So, will you bring him here then? Rifat?’ Aliya Berisha asked as she rubbed one bloodied hand across the swollen hump of her belly.
    İkmen said, ‘No, madam, you will have to come to the hospital.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘Go to the hospital, no,’ the woman said. ‘No.’
    ‘Well,’ İkmen said smoothly, thinking that he knew why Aliya Berisha was refusing – as a religious woman she might well object to being in the presence of a body of the opposite sex, even her own son’s – ‘I was actually thinking that your husband—’
    ‘No.’
    ‘But, madam,’ Suleyman said and leaned towards the couple, the better to impress upon them the seriousness of the issue at hand, ‘as I thought I explained to you—’
    ‘Engelushjia will go,’ the woman said, looking fiercely at the face of her daughter – a girl of sixteen at most.
    ‘But—’
    ‘No, I’ll go.’ Her words were firm even though both İkmen and Suleyman saw that her eyes moved uneasily as she spoke.
    ‘Well, if you insist, Miss Berisha.’
    ‘She does,’ her father answered for her.
    ‘Right. Good.’ İkmen looked at the Berishas; smiling at them, he had quickly discovered, had little effect. The whole family, together with the wife of their landlord, also some sort of relative, had sunk back into stone-like silence once again. Only the girl, marble-white Engelushjia, seemed alert, if terrified. In some ways, thought İkmen, it was probably best if she identified her brother’s body. He just hoped that she wouldn’t find the process too distressing, though he knew that she almost certainly would. Dead bodies were not pretty at the best of times but Rifat Berisha’s, with its head almost hanging off, was particularly unpleasant. Briefly İkmen experienced a wave of anger towards this family who were, seemingly without thought, sending such a young girl to look into the face of horror.
    ‘Well,’ İkmen said as he braced his hands on his knees and then stood up, ‘if we are going to go through these processes and make a start on your son’s case . . .’
    ‘When will we be able to bury my son?’ Rahman asked, not moving his gaze from the floor in front of him.
    Knowing how important it was for Muslims to be able to bury their dead quickly, İkmen frowned as he started to tell the traumatised family why it would not be possible in this case. Murder, as both İkmen and Suleyman knew only too well, changed the rules governing people’s lives in so many ways.
    ‘I am afraid you will have to wait, Mr Berisha,’ he said gravely, ‘until our doctor has firstly determined cause of death and secondly gathered from your son’s body as much evidence as he can. Victims’ bodies can often provide us with enough clues to narrow the scope of an investigation down considerably. As you—’
    ‘If my son is dead, what is it to you?’
    İkmen and Suleyman turned to look at the source of this extraordinary comment – the now slightly more animated Aliya Berisha.
    ‘We think that your son has been murdered, Mrs Berisha,’ Suleyman began.
    ‘And so?’
    One of those deep, thick silences rolled into the room yet again –