Divorce Turkish Style (19 page)

“Not her, perhaps, but I bet that capable husband of hers was,” I remarked.

“Are you going to talk to her husband?”

“The police have already spoken to him. Anyway, we've learned all we need to know.”

“In that case, let's go,” said Naz.

The woman returned with a plate in her hand.

“I made some pastries for our pre-dawn breakfast. Stay and have some while the tea's brewing,” she said.

“We have to go,” said Naz.

“But you can't. The tea's not ready yet.”

“Sorry, we can't stay for tea,” said Naz, rushing to put on her shoes and hurling herself out into the street as if being chased by wild horses.

We returned to the back door of Sani's house. From here, all that could be seen was an empty building opposite and a villa that stood to one side, with net curtains at the windows.

“Let's go and ask the people living in that house,” I said.

“Do you think they might be Cem's agents?”

I wasn't thinking about Cem's agents. I wanted to find out if anyone had been seen entering or leaving the house between Tuesday evening and Thursday noon. An eyewitness would make our work much easier.

An elderly but fit-looking lady with an elfin haircut opened the door.

“Hello, I'm Sani Ankaralıgil's sister, Naz Kaya.”

“God rest her soul. My sincere condolences,” said the lady.

“Thank you.”

“If you have time, we'd like to ask you a few questions,” I said.

“A police officer came here the day after it happened, and I told him everything I know,” said the lady.

“We won't take up much of your time, if you wouldn't mind—”

“Not at all, of course. I didn't mean… Oh, please come in.”

The layout of the house was the same as Sani's. We went towards the raised area of the sitting room, which was furnished with some rugs, a sofa and a couple of armchairs.

“Leyla Kantar,” said the woman, holding out her hand.

We introduced ourselves.

“Can I offer you anything?” she asked.

“We won't be staying long,” I said, thinking I didn't want to have to abandon any more freshly brewed tea.

“My husband's in his workshop. Excuse me, I'll just call him,” she said. “He'll be more help to you than I will.”

“I doubt if these people are Cem's agents,” said Naz, when Leyla left the room.

“But they might have seen something,” I said.

Leyla soon returned, carrying a tray with four glasses and a bottle of wine.

“I didn't ask if you preferred red or white, but they say a few glasses of red each day are good for you. We've made it a habit to round off the day with some red wine while we enjoy this beautiful view. Only since we've been retired, of course. It was never possible while we were working.”

“So you're retired,” I said, wanting to ask about her former employment yet aware that middle-class Turks didn't care for such curiosity.

“I retired two years ago,” she said.

“And I run a bookshop,” I said, hoping that she would reciprocate by telling us what her former job was.

“What a lovely occupation. If you ever need any staff, you know where I am,” said Leyla.

We all laughed at the idea of this lady serving behind the counter in a bookshop.

“I never had the opportunity to read before retirement, but now I constantly have my nose in a book. I've always loved reading, but when you're working so hard—”

“Where did you work?” I asked, unable to resist any longer.

“I'm a paediatrician, and my husband's a surgeon.”

Why was there constant talk about doctors being brought in from abroad when the country seemed to be teeming with them?

“I'm a cardiologist. I graduated from Cerrahpaşa,” said Naz.

“We studied at Çapa. Of course, it's a long time since we graduated,” said Leyla.

“Are you telling them about our past adventures?” said a tall thin man who had just entered.

“Gani Kantar,” he said, shaking our hands so vigorously that our arms almost fell off. “My wife tells me you're Sani's sister. We were extremely sad to hear what happened.”

“Thank you,” said Naz.

“I expect you think we might have seen something, but—”

“Did you?” I blurted out, unable to stop myself interrupting these well-mannered people because I had more important things on my mind than observing the rules of etiquette.

“Well, we didn't say anything to the police because we didn't think it right to rake over the poor lady's life if there was no suspicion of murder,” said Gani.

“It's true that the police don't suspect murder. However, it might well be treated as a suspicious death,” I said.

“Really?” said Gani, turning towards his wife with a thoughtful look.

Was he worried because he hadn't told the police whatever it was they knew?

Gani turned back to Naz and said, “If she was your sister, you must have received a copy of the autopsy report from the district attorney's office.”

It hadn't even occurred to us that this was normal procedure.

“Yes, I have a copy of the autopsy report,” said Naz.

“The press kept saying it was an accident, but we… What was the actual cause of death?” asked Gani.

“They say her death was the result of a pre-existing illness,” said Naz.

Gani raised his eyebrows, lit a cigarette and said, “What they mean is that they found nothing in the autopsy.”

“How do you think she might have died?” I asked, pleased to finally have the chance to speak to an experienced doctor.

What a stroke of luck, when we'd only come to ask if they'd seen anything!

“It could have been anything. She could even have died of a heart attack that didn't show up in the pathological analysis,” said Gani, adding politely, “Of course, Naz Hanım would know about that better than I do.”

I wished he'd addressed me, because Naz didn't seem to know anything.

“There was a needle mark on her arm,” said Naz. “But no poisons or narcotics were found in her blood or urine.”

“That doesn't mean anything. In my time, they used to look for up to forty different poisonous substances at the Forensic Medicine Institute. That number must have increased to about forty-five by now. They look for the most commonly used poisons. However, a poison that hadn't been used in Turkey, or at least not used in the last fifty years, would be impossible to identify in a routine forensic investigation. For example, the Institute's routine investigations wouldn't cover a poison obtained from the root of a plant grown in Africa. In such a case, the report would state that the person died from a pre-existing illness. That way, they'd be covered, even if the cause of death was an unidentified poison.”

Marvellous, I thought, as I'm sure you did too.

“Are you saying that she could have been poisoned?” I asked.

“No. All I'm saying is that, as the lady said, a needle mark on the arm always looks suspicious,” said Gani.

Naz hadn't said any such thing, but Gani was trying to be polite.

“None of this had occurred to me,” said Naz, looking down at the floor.

“That's perfectly normal,” said Leyla. “You're in shock because you've lost someone very dear to you. It's impossible to see details clearly when you're still experiencing the pain of bereavement. Even someone familiar with the system is incapable of absorbing all the facts when they're grieving.”

Leyla's little speech was as comforting to me as it was to Naz. After all, if my colleague was so out of touch with the way things worked, then it was better to be able to attribute her failings to grief.

“But the report said nothing about—” muttered Naz.

“That's what forensic reports are like if they're not backed up by a police investigation. There's nothing abnormal about it. You can't eliminate any possibilities with that report,” said Gani.

So we were back where we started. If we couldn't eliminate any possibilities, how were we supposed to reach a conclusion?

“If a murder has been committed.” Gani paused and turned to his wife with a mischievous look. “Leyla will tell you that it's no simple matter solving a murder.”

“I read a lot of crime fiction. That's why he said that,” said Leyla.

“I love crime fiction too,” I said. “Gani, you were about to say that you saw something suspicious, I believe.”

“I don't know if it was suspicious, but when you said it wasn't an accident that killed Sani, I wished I'd said something to the police,” he said.

“Why don't you tell us?” I said.

“It may have nothing to do with Sani Hanım's death,” said Gani.

“Quite possibly,” I said. “But tell us all the same.”

“Well, we're old and don't sleep like we used to. I usually get up early and go straight down to my workshop. I used to see Sani go out jogging several times a week. On the Sunday before she died, I saw her coming back from her run. I didn't know her well, but we'd exchange greetings if we saw each other. That morning, she didn't see me—”

“But you saw her return from her run,” I said.

“Yes. Earlier, I'd noticed a Mercedes A-Class parked on the pavement. I'm interested in cars, and they've only recently started importing that model,” said Gani. “Anyway, I was taking a good look at it, from a distance, of course, and saw someone sitting at the wheel.”

“All this makes it sound as if we're constantly engaged in idle snooping,” said Leyla.

“It was nothing like that, my dear. It was just something I happened to see,” said Gani calmly.

“Then what happened? Sani returned from her run… There was someone sitting at the wheel of the car—” I said, my impatience rising.

“The person got out of the car when he saw Sani return. He appeared to be young,” said Gani. “Sani looked annoyed to see him. They talked for a while, but I couldn't hear what was said because our windows were closed. However, I could tell from Sani's face that she was upset. Then a quarrel broke out, or rather Sani pushed the young man away. He didn't respond, but I felt a need to intervene at this point. By the time I got outside, though, Sani Hanım was going back into her house and the Mercedes had disappeared.”

“Do you think it was her husband?”

“I've seen pictures of her husband in the papers and I don't think it was him. Even though the young man had his back to me most of the time, I saw his face as he got out of the car.”

“We don't want to lay suspicion on anyone,” intervened Leyla.

“I think Cem Bey is about thirty-five,” said Naz.

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“This was someone younger,” said Gani. “You could tell from the way he dressed. He was wearing trousers a bit like yours.”

“Was he tall, with a light complexion?”

“I couldn't say. He was quite a long way away.”

“Can you tell us exactly where he was parked?” I asked, wondering why the nightwatchman's wife knew nothing about this.

“There's a better view of the street from my workshop downstairs, but come over here,” said Gani, leading me to the floor-to-ceiling picture window. “Do you see that fig tree? He was parked just behind it. I couldn't say if the Mercedes was there before I
went down to my workshop, but I know it was parked there for at least twenty minutes.”

“Do you have an Internet connection here?” I asked.

“Unfortunately we don't have ADSL yet. We do get the Internet, but it's a bit slow,” said Gani.

“I want to show you some photos,” I said.

“Please, sit down. I'll open up the computer,” said Gani.

Five minutes later, we were looking at the photos I'd found on Google Images.

“Mmm, he resembled that young man. I couldn't swear to it, but—” said Gani, adjusting his spectacles.

“You couldn't swear to it, but what?”

“I think it was him.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You've been very helpful.”

And indeed he had. If nothing else, he'd exposed a lie. He was a good man, who had no reason to lie about something so insignificant. Maybe our little encounter was less insignificant than I'd expected.

8

I opened up the shop on Monday, as usual. After half an hour of drinking tea and browsing the Internet, I began to feel imprisoned inside my lovely little shop. It was still too early for customers, who after all were not likely to have dreamt about buying books. It was also the first day of Ramadan.