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devoid of his usual chirpy lightness, ‘I’ve never seen anything like this before. The acid was obviously used as an instrument of torture. The killer didn’t apply enough to consume or conceal the victim’s identity. I can’t really let myself think about the kind of agonies this poor old man went through before he died.’
    ikmen wiped the top of the bottle with his sleeve and passed it silently to the doctor. He was going to have to be careful now. Looks, he knew from long hard experience, could be deceptive. He gazed up again at the swastika.
    Meyer was - had been - a Jew. A racist murder, on the face of it at least. Until he had more information at his disposal perhaps. But for now it was the only lead that he had to go on. It was awesome! So blatant! It was hard to believe that even they - Nazis, Hitlerphiles, whatever - would be quite so brazen. Such people existed, he knew. But now, at this vast distance in time? Unless it was a crank, a sick mind working alone, killing for thrills.
    ‘Do you think it’s anti-Semitic, Arto?’
    ‘Looks like it. The way the world is these days, it wouldn’t surprise me. Hate is endemic to the human race, I thought you knew that.’
    ‘But here?’
    ‘Why not? It’s happening all over Europe, Cetin. Germany, France; there’s even been a Mussolini revival in Italy Communism, Fascism, it’s cyclic: Reds for a few years, then Nazis for a few more, then Reds again. It’s why neither of us gets involved in politics.’
    ‘Or religion.’
    ‘Or religion. We’re individualists and individualists don’t join. That way we don’t get sucked into ideologies that lead to things like this.’ He tilted his head sourly in the direction of the body on the bed.
    ikmen sighed. ‘I wonder why him, why Meyer in particular?’
    ‘That’s
    your job to find out,’ the doctor replied, giving the policeman back his bottle, ‘unless of course you subscribe to the concept you Turks call “kismet”.’
    ‘That it was his fate? No, I don’t believe that. I don’t believe that anything this horrible could be … ordained, if you like.’ He paused. ‘What’s Armenian thinking on it, Arto?’
    The little doctor’s many chins wobbled as he laughed.
    ‘What, kismet? I don’t think we have any thinking as such. We’re Armenians, hated infidels, outsiders, there’s never been enough time to philosophise. Too many people trying to kill us, just like the Jews in fact. Grab your wife’s jewellery, hope for the best, and run like the Devil’s on your tail!’
    ikmen took one more look at the sheet-covered remains of Leonid Meyer and put his hand lightly on the doctor’s shoulder. Levity, even Arto’s well-meaning variety, was out of place here. It was like whistling in a cemetery. ‘Come on, Arto, let’s get out of here.’
    ‘All right.’ The doctor rolled down his sleeves and picked up his attache case from the rickety chair by the side of the bed. ‘There’s a body bag and transport on the way. If any relatives turn up you’ll have to tell them that I’ve got to do some more tests before I can release the body. It’ll be quite a long job.’
    The two men moved towards the door.
    ‘What about the woman who found the body?’
    ‘Leah Delmonte? I sent her to hospital. She was in deep shock. I’d give it a good twelve hours before you contact her, Cetin. And when you do, be gentle, OK? When she’s had enough, you stop.’
    ‘Of course.’
    Sarkissian looked almost tearful. ‘She’s an old prostitute, you know. Lot of them round here. But then that’s in the nature of poverty, isn’t it? The degradation of the self.’
    ikmen often wondered what went on behind the merry
    eyes of his old childhood friend at times like this. He was always so cheerful, so light, so disrespectful. The Inspector knew it was simply Sarkissian’s way of coping. His humour was a breastplate shielding the softness of the heart within.
    ‘Come on, Arto,’ he said, ‘you’re getting