A short while later, M. turned the corner with sirens and flashing blue lights and nearly lost control of the vehicle. The gas pedal was pushed to the floor. He had taken S. out of the cell, up the stairs, and, ignoring the surprised looks of his colleagues, had secretly passed him between the desks. C., who was talking on the phone in his office, hung up when he saw Muhammed's chalk-white face, but he was not fast enough to stop him and S. from heading towards the door. They left the building, and by the time C. reached the sidewalk, M. and S. were already disappearing in opposite directions. Within seconds, C. decided to follow M.. He shouted to her to stop, but M. ignored him and jumped into a police car. C. caught up with her just before she turned onto the street. He knocked on the window of the moving car. What was wrong? M. pretended not to care, while C. stood there with a look of astonishment and disbelief on his face. Instead of rolling down the window, M. turned on the siren, stepped on the gas, and sped out of the parking lot. When C. called him on the radio a short time later, M. didn't even bother to answer. It usually took 15 minutes to get from the office to the Tayyips' trailer. Between the sirens and the excessive speed, M. only needed 8 minutes; by the time C. radioed him, he was already halfway there. The driver, who was traveling at 140 kilometers per hour on the highway, developed high blood pressure as he exited the trailer park. He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that some parts of his hands had gone numb, but he hadn't noticed it in his state. Anger was shaking him, keeping all other emotions out of him. Osman had driven his wife. He had almost gotten rid of her. Muhammed's car skidded from right to left in the driveway as it accelerated again. The trees on the side were scattered in colorful pieces. He could see nothing but the road ahead. As he swerved to the right, Muhammed finally took his foot off the gas pedal and hit the brakes. He was almost there. He had been waiting for this moment for two years. M. stopped the car in the middle of the park and jumped out. He looked around nervously through the open driver's door, recording every movement. He clenched his teeth, trying to control himself. He reached for his gun from his holster. Osman had killed his wife. He had crushed himself in cold blood. There was an eerie silence all around. Nothing could be heard except the crackling of the engine. The trees stood still, not a single leaf rustled. No bird sang on the fence post. The only sounds Muhammed heard were his own: the sound of the gun sliding out of its holster and his own gasps. The air was cold, the air clear and fresh, a spring sky on a winter day. Muhammed waited. After a while, the screen door creaked open like an accordion chord. What do you want? I'm here for Osman. Let him out. M. released the safety catch on the gun and put his finger on the trigger. His heart was pounding. After the longest minute of his life, he saw the door being pushed open again. What. What is he accused of? the voice demanded. Let him out now! For what reason? He's been arrested! Let him out! Put your hands on your head! The door slammed again, and M. realized how dangerous his situation was. He had put himself in danger by acting hastily. There were four caravans around him, two in front and two on the sides, and although no one had yet appeared in the others, he knew that they were all full. There were also countless wrecked cars on the property, some jacked up, and M. suddenly wondered if the Tayyips had secretly surrounded him. Of course, he wasn't allowed to come alone, he knew that very well, and he could always call for reinforcements. But he didn't. Absolutely not. Not now. The door opened again, and C. appeared on the stairs. He was holding a coffee cup in one hand and looked extremely relaxed, as if something like this happened every day. When he saw the barrel of M.'s gun pointed at him, he took a step back. What do you want? He didn't do anything. I have to take him with mest
