Baksheesh (31 page)

 

I hadn't been in such a situation before. Nor would I ever have expected to be. Sitting next to me at the wheel was a man who thought I was a murderer, or, at any rate, an accessory to murder, and he was trying to squeeze his hand between my legs as he drove. I drew them away from him towards the door, out of harm's way.

“I'm a suspect again, aren't I?” I said.

He banged the steering wheel with his fist and said nothing.

We went past Valide Sultan Mosque towards Unkapanı.

“Was the mobile ever used again after that evening?” I asked.

Again, he said nothing.

“Was the mobile—” I started to repeat, but he interrupted me.

“I live apart from my wife,” he said. “We're getting divorced.”

I looked up at the roof of the car. What was there to say?

“Sorry to hear that,” I said.

“Sorry?”

“It's sad when people separate. Do you have any children?”

He lit a cigarette and nodded thoughtfully.

“I understand,” I said. “I understand you very well.”

A bit later, just as I was beginning to think I could bear the silence in the car no longer, he replied to my question, saying, “The mobile wasn't used again. It's probably lying at the bottom of the Bosphorus.”

“Hadn't you noticed before that the mobile was missing?”

He seemed to pull himself together.

“Yes, I had noticed. But the gun that Osman was supposed to always carry with him was also missing, so I assumed the murderer must have taken both of them. Later we realized that Osman's brothers had disposed of his gun before the police arrived at the crime scene. Because it was unlicensed. But we still don't know what happened to the mobile.”

“Who's to say that Temel wasn't lying when he said he didn't take it? Maybe it was him, in fact.”

“Yes,” he said, making a tutting noise between his teeth. “If you saw him, you'd understand why I don't think that's the case.”

“Why?” I said.

“He's an odd character. A real shyster type who goes around with wads of money in his pockets. Not the type to think, ‘I'll take his mobile so he can't call for help and dies.' If he'd really wanted to kill Osman, he'd have put another bullet in him, not wasted his time over a mobile.”

“You mean he's so rich he wouldn't steal a telephone to sell it on,” I said.

“Yes. Temel taking that mobile just doesn't fit the jigsaw.”

“What?” I said.

“It just doesn't fit,” he said.

“But it's possible that a passer-by went inside and took the mobile from the desk. They could have thrown away the SIM card and sold the phone.” I was thinking of the workers on the floor above as I said this.

“It's possible, but not at all likely. Osman's body was very close to the front door when it was found. He must have crawled there. If the mobile had been on the desk, he'd have crawled towards the desk instead of the door. But he headed for the door, which was the only place where he could ask for help. Which means that Osman was still alive when the person left with the telephone.”

“What do you conclude from that?” I asked.

“Firstly, if Osman had phoned for help, he wouldn't have crawled towards the door. Secondly, nobody would enter a place and jump over a corpse to steal a mobile. Not just a phone anyway. Osman still had his wallet in his pocket and his watch was on his wrist, plus his gun was in the desk drawer. A thief would have taken those too.”

When Batuhan dropped me in front of my apartment building, I saw that all the lights were on in my sitting room. Pelin was obviously at home. Out of politeness, I rang the front-doorbell downstairs, instead of letting myself in with my keys.

A young man I'd never seen before, wearing enormous boots, was stretched out on the sofa in my living room. It's a bit strange to bring your guests home if you're a guest yourself. And there's only one word to describe guests who create infant-sized pits on the owner's designer sofa with their feet: abominable.

I gave a cool greeting to Pelin, who opened the door for me with very red cheeks, and headed straight for my study, I heard the idiot bloke lying on my sofa remark, “Your landlady's pretty fit.”

I'd reached that age when young guys fancied me. The worst thing about it was that I didn't find it pleasant at all.

Before changing my clothes, I sat at my desk and looked at the list I'd made the previous week. I'd crossed out one of the items that day:

I got up and shut the door so as not to hear the sounds coming from the sitting room. But as soon as I sat down again, I realized I was thirsty, so I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. I returned to my study with a large glass of water, a bowl of ice and a bottle of whisky. After all, the apartment was big enough for three people to roam about without bumping into each other.

I sat down at my desk again.

With my eyes fixed on the shelves of books, I sat there smoking and drinking whisky.

 

I didn't feel like removing my make-up and massaging night cream into my face in tiny circles that night, with the result that when I awoke the next morning I lost a few eyelashes as I tried to prise apart the upper and lower lashes of my right eye. And I hadn't brushed my teeth before going to bed the night before. I felt really dreadful.

I went into the bathroom and felt even worse when I saw my blood-shot eyes in the mirror. I filled the bath. Having a bath in the morning is a strange experience. The good thing is that it makes you feel like someone who doesn't have to work and is lucky enough to be able to set aside any hour of the day for such pleasures. The bad thing is that a bath of still water just doesn't have the refreshing effect of a shower, and you lie there feeling sleepier than ever.

I put on my bathrobe, wound a towel around my head and went into the study. I hadn't aired the room the previous night, and it smelled disgustingly of cigarettes. Pelin had woken up and was obviously alone. She put her head round the door.

“Good morning,” she said with a radiant smile.

“Are you going to open up the shop?” I asked.

She was in such a happy state that even this didn't affect her mood.

“Just about to go,” she said.

I opened the balcony window to air the room, stubbed out my cigarette and went to get dressed.

 

I returned to my study, armed with a cup of green tea, and sat down to ring Habibe, but it was still too early for people who didn't have to work.

The phone rang for a long time before anyone picked up. Finally, I heard a sleepy voice say, “Hello.”

“Hello, it's Kati,” I said, then remained silent as I tried to find a suitable way of explaining who I was.

“Hello, how are you?” said the woman, still sounding sleepy.

“Do you remember me?” I asked.

“How could I forget you?” she said.

We both laughed. Habibe was obviously one of those rare people who can laugh the moment they wake up.

“So, you haven't gone back to Mount Ida yet,” I said.

“The guest house doesn't have many clients at this time of year. My partner's taking care of things,” she said.

“Did I wake you?”

“No, I was awake, but still in bed. It's good you rang.”

“I'd like to see you. To ask you about something,” I said.

“You're on the European side, aren't you?” she said.

“Yes,” I replied.

“I have to meet someone at Teşvikiye today, anyway. If you like, we could meet around there late afternoon,” she said. “What's happened? Are you still one of the suspects?”

“You might say that,” I said.

“Is five o'clock all right for you?”

“Yes,” I said. “Where?”

“You decide,” she said. “You know that area better than me.”

I can't claim to be very enterprising when it comes to choosing meeting places.

“Why don't you come to my place?” I said, and gave her my address.

 

I didn't go out all day, but spent the day pacing round the apartment, smoking and thinking. Unlike Batuhan's, everything fitted perfectly into my jigsaw. In fact, almost too perfectly. But what if I was wrong?

It frightens me when everything is going well, when my relationships have no problems and business is running smoothly. I have a tendency to think that I'm unworthy of happiness, triumph or love, and that behind everything good lies something bad waiting to make me grovel. My life is better if things aren't perfect. Only then can I be really happy. For instance, if the shop is doing well and I'm having a wonderful love affair, I still find things to fret about. I insist on wearing shoes that pinch my toes. Or I give up smoking and embark on a programme of intense workouts three days a week. I don't drink coffee. Not even tea. And I even cut out toasted cheese sandwiches.

As I said, one of the worst things that can happen to me is for everything to be going well.

It was an incredible triumph to have solved a murder like that, without a hitch. An outstanding success for an amateur detective, don't you think?

But I never want to accuse anyone of murder just for the sake of it. After all, I'm not a predatory police officer, just a bookshop owner doing her own thing. It's not my job to solve crimes, catch murderers and hand them over to the justice system. I'm not one to point the finger at someone and shout, “Murderer!” I wasn't going to further my career, get a pay rise and more holiday leave, or even a medal for extraordinary service as a result of solving this crime.

It didn't concern me. It might in fact have been a woman who left Osman in agony and walked away with his mobile. That woman might have been Habibe. She might have done it out of revenge. For her, maybe it was the best thing to do. Or maybe the worst.

It didn't concern me.

I wasn't going to say anything to Habibe about the murder when she arrived.

I would make no claims or accusations whatsoever.

What I was going to say wouldn't really count as an accusation.

It was up to Habibe to say if it was true or untrue. If she didn't want to talk to me about it, she could get up and leave. That would be the end of it. I wasn't going to force her to listen to my speculations.

 

I curled up on the sofa and went to sleep.

When I awoke, a bell was ringing. I ran to the door and pressed the entry buzzer. The bell carried on ringing. I rushed to the phone in my study. The ringing sound was moving further away. I ran back towards the sitting room. To my mobile. The ringing stopped.

I threw myself onto the sofa, mobile in hand, and pressed the keys to find out who had rung me. An undisclosed number, which meant: Selim.

I didn't have the energy to talk.

By the time the doorbell rang at exactly five o'clock, I'd pulled myself together. I never expect Turks to be punctual. To be honest, it's difficult even for a German to be punctual in Istanbul. There are constant traffic hold-ups and it's impossible to gauge how much time to allow for getting from one place to another, so you're invariably late.

I pressed the automatic entry buzzer.

Habibe ascended the stairs in a long black billowing tunic. She looked much more elegant than when we first met. Her hairstyle was different too.

“Your hair suits you,” I said, as we touched cheeks lightly.

“I've come straight from the hairdresser's. Just had it cut,” she said, handing me a package.

“I brought you some gateau, so I hope you're not on a diet.”

I made a noise that could mean either yes or no.

We sat in the sitting room at first. Then I realized that curling up in fluffy armchairs is not conducive to getting people to talk
about what's on their minds. We could have sat there for days eating chocolate gateau and talking about winter fashions, cake shops in Nişantaşı, hairdressers in Etiler, or Yamamoto's newly opened boutique. The murder, Osman, his mobile or İnci might never have entered our minds.

“Shall we sit on the balcony? We should make the most of the last warm days of the year,” I said.

My balcony overlooked the back gardens of my block and several others behind it. It wasn't a view of the Bosphorus, but I could see several of Istanbul's last remaining trees and it felt far away from the noise of the street.

We went through my study onto the balcony.

“It's nice here,” said Habibe.

I put the tea and gateau on a side table and stretched my legs out onto the balcony railings.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “That's what you said on the phone this morning.”

I bit my lips.

“So?” she said.

“Well, it's this. On the night Osman was killed, or rather, evening…” I said, stopping for an intake of breath to contain my excitement. “On the evening Osman was killed, might you have called in at Osman's office?”

She scrutinized me with her beautiful grass-green eyes for a moment and then lowered her head slightly.

“What makes you ask that?”

I took my feet off the railings and crossed my legs.

“Look,” I said. “I'm not the police, nor do I collaborate with the police.” After my first murder case, I'd learnt that when accusing a person of murder it's best to begin by saying I'm just a curious amateur detective.

“What do you mean by that?” she said, still gazing at me cautiously.