Baksheesh (20 page)

Once again, he narrowed his eyes.

“How do you know about guns?” Batuhan asked.

“I don't really, but I know what a revolver is. They're quite expensive and more of a connoisseur's weapon, and getting hold of bullets for them isn't that easy. That sort of gun is way out of the league of a poor wretch like the uncle.”

“You're right. You're definitely right, but where does that get us?”

“To the old woman,” I said.

“The old woman? The woman who was stabbed?”

“There's definitely a connection between those two murders. That woman always sat at the window watching the street. If the murder took place before dark, say seven-thirty or eight o'clock, it's extremely likely she saw the killer. He must have realized the woman had seen him leave the building and killed her at the first opportunity. She was a key witness, don't you see?”

He sat thinking and playing with his lighter for a while.

“Your imagination is working overtime,” he remarked.

I managed to stop myself from snapping back at him. What is there to say to a police officer who refuses to look beyond the simplest solution in order to close a case?

“I'll show you, if you like. The old woman used to sit on the divan that's in the corner by the window. From that angle, the
stairs of the opposite building are visible. The woman could have seen the murderer.”

“Fine, but I don't suppose he had ‘murderer' written on his forehead. How would she have known that he or she was a murderer?”

“She?” I said, instantly realizing that I'd been focusing too much on the idea that the murderer was a man. “Why did you say ‘she'?”

“Figure of speech. But women can be killers too, as you know. Or are murderers always men in fiction?”

Saying “figure of speech” was just a diversion. He undoubtedly thought the killer might be a woman.

 

Batuhan spoke to someone on his mobile and said he had to go immediately, leaving me wondering what to do with myself.

Hopping into the car and driving from place to place is never the best way of spending a Sunday in Istanbul. In fact, every day is a bad day for doing that in Istanbul, unless your life depends on it.

I walked as far as the street where the two murders had been committed. Kuledibi is unbelievable on Sundays. It's shrouded in silence, like all areas that mainly consist of offices. If only every day were Sunday in Kuledibi.

I went up to the main door of the building where Osman's office was. It was wide open. I hesitated for a moment on the first floor in front of Yücel Bey's door, then pressed the bell. There was no response. I went up to the next floor.

A large yellow notice had been stuck on the door of Osman's apartment and the padlock was secured by some rope with a red seal. I was afraid to touch it, thinking of DNA tests, fingerprints and so on. Anything was possible. I sat down on the stairs and phoned Selim.

“What would happen if I were to break a seal the police had put on a door and go inside?”

“Have you gone crazy? Where are you?”

“What's the penalty for breaking a seal?”

“Kati!” he said, like a father rebuking a child.

“I've no intention of doing anything like that. I'm just asking,” I said.

“What's the penalty for breaking a police seal?” he asked someone next to him. “I'm a commercial lawyer, don't forget. How should I know the penalty for breaking a seal? No! Yes, a first offence. Oh, OK then, cheers.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“The penalty isn't very harsh – one to three months. Can be converted to a fine, of course. Daily rate starts at seven million lira. You can break it all you like. You have a lawyer ready and waiting. He's sitting right next to me.”

He thought I was joking.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“At the office. I have two hearings tomorrow that I'm working on. Come over here if you want and we can leave together,” he said. Our relationship was continuing from where we had left off, and at the same pace. People develop certain behavioural patterns with each other that never change, unless something disastrous happens. I think I'm right in saying that.

“I'll call you when I'm on my way. I'm just looking around Kuledibi at the moment,” I said.

“You won't touch that seal, will you? I was only joking before.”

“I won't touch it. Anyway, what's the good of breaking a seal if I can't open the door?” I said.

There are people who open doors with things like hair-clips. It happens in real life, not just in films and novels. I wanted to be one of those people. If I had been, I wouldn't have thought twice about that daily penalty of seven million lira.

If only I could take a look inside that office. It would undoubtedly provide me with some sort of inspiration about who had committed the murder.

I sat down on the marble stairs and lit a cigarette. Waiting for inspiration. My chin resting on my hand, waiting for inspiration like poets do. I thought it might come if I sat in a place where I had never sat before, by the door of an apartment to which I had formed an emotional attachment.

The inspiration that came to me was of no use in finding out who had committed the murder. But it produced the following poem:

I took care not to throw away my cigarette butt until after I had reached the street. It was important to be careful at all times.

I had parked my car in a street near the Neve Shalom Synagogue. Even in Kuledibi there was no problem finding a parking space on a Sunday. I walked towards the synagogue, playing with my keys. I felt sure that if I could only talk to the family of the old woman, they would give me something to go on. Or that's what I hoped. However, I had no intention of going to that basement for a second time without good reason. Had I been a private detective, I could at least have created the impression of having a valid reason for asking questions. But I had no police officers under my command, no criminal laboratories updating me with reports, and no witnesses to interrogate. I was stuck.

Sighing with frustration, I turned on the ignition.

The prospects didn't look very bright.

Not bright at all.

The killer was the uncle.

Or someone involved in a blood feud.

There was no link between the murder of the old woman and Osman.

……

It just didn't feel right to me.

But that's how it was.

So what?

What did it matter to me?

I wasn't even a private detective.

I was nothing.

No! It wasn't that bad!

I was a woman who sold crime fiction.

I had to take care of my own life.

So what about this property-buying business?

 

I turned off the engine and called Kasım Bey.

“I was just about to call you. Congratulations. The hearing was on Friday. The judge broke his pencil.”

“Broke his pencil?” Isn't that what they say when the judge issues the death penalty? Hadn't the death penalty been abolished? Anyway who was the suspect?

“Oh, it means everything's done and dusted. When that happens, people say ‘he broke his pencil'.”

I had no intention of trying to teach Turkish to Kasım Bey.

“How did he reach his decision?”

“Since no inheritors could be found, a decision was taken to turn the estate over to the Treasury. The ball's in my court now. I'm going to speed things up and put it on the market immediately. You get your money together and I'll let you know when the
auction date has been set. Be happy. There's just one colleague holding things up. I need to talk to him.”

He wanted money again. I'd been living there long enough to understand Turkish euphemisms.

“How much?” I said.

“What?”

“How much more do you want?”

“It's for my friend, not me.”

“Fine, so how much does your friend want?”

“Let's not discuss it on the phone. I'll call you and we'll meet somewhere.”

“Ring me and I'll call you back,” I said. That man sickened me. Also I didn't feel at all sure that Osman's brothers would let me have that apartment. Still, there was no point in being pessimistic. One thing was going well and worth living for: my love life.

 

“You must be joking, pet,” said Selim. No one else I knew addressed me as “pet”.

“No, I'm not joking,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Anyway, why should I joke about something so absurd?”

“I said, ‘you must be joking' as a figure of speech. I know you'd never joke about a thing like that, don't worry.”

People kept talking about figures of speech for some reason.

“I've bribed Kasım Bey so that he'll get me an apartment. He works in the trustee department at the National Real Estate Bureau.”

“You can't really have bribed someone, that's… No, I don't believe it.”

“Why not? You hand out bribes to officials in the justice department.”

“Not bribes, pet. I hand out baksheesh. Like you tip a waiter who serves you in a restaurant. It's the same sort of thing.”

“Don't talk nonsense. You're forever handing out bribes.”

“I give people money if they provide a service that's beyond what they would normally do. They do what is required and I reward them. If I handed out money for something they shouldn't do or was illegal, then it would be a bribe.”

“Yes, well, I wasn't getting him to do anything illegal. I just gave him a little sweetener to secure me a perfectly lawful prerogative that will enable me to buy an apartment that would otherwise have been impossible. Why should yours be baksheesh and mine a bribe?”

“All right, darling. We'll call yours baksheesh. What can I say? I mean… It seems strange for someone with your principles. I just can't imagine you bribing anyone. How did you give it to him, in a brown envelope?”

“Huh? I gave it in just the same way as you would. And I'm not proud of myself.”

My reason for telling Selim about my dealings with Kasım Bey was to get him to find someone to go to the auction for me. It wasn't to boast to my darling man about what I'd been doing.

“Fine, I'll find a lawyer to go with you to the auction,” he said eventually.

He was lying on the sofa, twiddling his toes. I sat down next to him and stroked his belly.

“My one and only Selim,” I said, with genuine sincerity.

 

For the first two days of that week, I hardly had time to catch my breath. I paid off the refuse-collection tax in order to escape the nagging phone calls from my landlady. I met my accountant. I accompanied Özlem to collect her belongings from the apartment she had shared with the husband she was about to divorce. I even tried to reconcile Pelin and her boyfriend. I failed miserably there, but sorted out the other matters without any difficulty. The Pelin business had turned into a battle of wills.

On Wednesday, it poured down all day, yet again. Pelin was accusing me of being unsympathetic when Batuhan turned up at the shop. I'd completely forgotten about Osman, vendettas and the uncle. Seeing Batuhan reminded me that I hadn't heard from Ä°nci for days. Not taking my detective work seriously was one thing, but it was sheer disloyalty to ignore a newly established friendship in that way.

Pelin had clearly had enough. She saw Batuhan's arrival as an opportunity to go out, regardless of the rain. I know what she was thinking. She thought I wanted her to make up with the boyfriend in order to get her out of my apartment. But that had nothing to do with it. It was just that I knew how hard it was to find a decent, straight man. I reckon you shouldn't let go of what you have until someone better comes along. If young people would only listen to me, their lives would be much easier. What a shame they can't understand that.

“Am I disturbing you?” asked Batuhan.

“Not at all,” I replied.

“Your friend got up and left the moment she saw me.”

Turks are like that. They think the world revolves around them. I find it very tiresome sometimes. Life with Germans is easier.

“What's that got to do with you? She had business to see to and was about to go anyway,” I said. “What happened about the vendetta people?”

“Nothing. We obtained twenty-four different sets of fingerprints from the office, but none of them correspond to those of the uncle, who says he's never set foot in that office anyway. From the fingerprints, he might be telling the truth. He was still wearing the same clothes as when he ran off with the money. His wife verified that. He was filthy all over but there was no trace of gunpowder on his clothes.”

“Was there any gunpowder on his hands?”

“His hands?”

“Don't people use their hands to fire guns?”

“The murder was committed two weeks ago. Is it likely that he'd still have traces of gunpowder on his hands?”

“No?”

“Impossible.”

“What about the vendetta people?”

“We took fingerprints from everyone we managed to get hold of and compared them with the ones found at the office. Not one of them matched.”

“Have you started to think that maybe there's a link between this murder and the old woman?”