Hotel Bosphorus (27 page)

I gave Jean the email address that I gave you, my dear readers. I didn't have to wait long. Ten minutes later, when I went online, a 183-page file was there in my inbox. The file contained police and court records, some of which were translated. Some were in French, some in German and others in languages I couldn't understand at all. It was up to me to wade through all that information to find what I was looking for.

However, I was prepared to do that.

I left the shop and customers to Pelin and set off home.

 

I read the German records, deciphered the French and tried to make something out of the Dutch, making notes as I went. By the time I'd finished the documents relating to the eighth child to be abducted and killed, it was already dark and much of the population was already asleep. What I was reading was heart-rending. I was hungry, my back ached from sitting at my desk all day, I'd split open a second packet of cigarettes and I hadn't managed to find a single piece of information that could save me from the caterpillar.

But somewhere there, in that 183-page file, there had to be what I was looking for.

I moved on to the ninth child.

The ninth child was from West Germany and was abducted from a refugee camp in Krefeld.

The child's date of birth… When abducted, the child wasn't even five. Not even five years old.

I shuddered. It was the youngest child so far. I pressed my hand to my forehead, thinking it was a miracle I hadn't developed a migraine yet. I lit another cigarette and continued reading.

Child's place of birth: Sofia.

Close relatives…

Mother.

Only the mother's name was there. The box for the father's name was empty.

Mother: Mitka Marinova.

The mother's application for asylum had been denied. One week before she was due to be sent back to her own country, her child was abducted.

Mother's address: k.k. Ilinden, bl.54 (vila7) et.3 1342 Sofia, Bulgaria.

Tel: (+359 2) 292 44 76.

 

I went out to the Bambi Büfe for a toasted cheese sandwich.

 

I awoke the next morning feeling a physical and psychological wreck. The details I'd learned had made me toss and turn all night. Even brushing my teeth didn't get rid of the bitter taste in my mouth. It was Saturday, but I was in no fit state to join Yılmaz or engage in cheerful gossip.

I called him up and said I couldn't come.

I went to the kitchen to make some coffee in order to muster up the courage to go back to the file that was waiting for me on the computer.

I was waiting for the water to boil for coffee, with my eyes fixed on the kettle, when suddenly it all clicked.

My thoughts went back to a June day three months earlier, when it was so hot that even the doves were perspiring. I was going up the steps of the villa in Yeniköy. As I went through the door, a coolness mixed with the damp smell of heavy antiques had greeted me. I'd passed through into the sitting room. But I'd wanted to sit on the veranda, not in that huge showcase of furniture. Before going out onto the veranda…

I wasn't alone.

The white-uniformed maid had been standing next to me, telling me how she'd learned Turkish. “I came from Bulgaria and started working here,” she'd said.

“I came from Bulgaria,” she'd said. From Bulgaria!

I went to my study to make a phone call. I couldn't help feeling that I was being stupid. My sensible readers would agree.

I dialled the number I'd noted down the previous evening.

There was a clicking sound. I waited. My heart was pounding. I continued to wait impatiently. The call didn't connect.

I pressed the redial button.

“The water for the coffee must have boiled away in the kitchen,” I thought. Again, the number didn't connect.

That time I didn't press the redial button, I dialled the number. Should I have drunk my coffee and then called, I wondered.

I waited awhile and then, just as I was about to put the phone down, I finally heard the ringing tone. I'd got through! But if anyone picked up the telephone, what was I going to say and which language should I speak?

Someone did pick up the telephone. “Good morning,” I said in English.

A reply in Bulgarian came from the other end.

“Do you speak English?” I asked in English. “Or German?” I quickly added.

A woman said something to me in Bulgarian again.

“Mitka Marinova,” I said this time, instead of going through all the languages I knew.

The woman continued to say something in Bulgarian. “Mitka,” I repeated loudly, as if our problem was not that we had no common language, but that we couldn't hear each other.

There was no reply. I looked around for my packet of cigarettes.

“Alo! You want Mitka, who are you?” said a male voice in German.

“I met Mitka in Germany. In Krefeld. I'm a friend,” I said.

“Mitka isn't in Sofia. She's working in Turkey,” he said.

I took a deep breath.

“Do you have a number where I can call her?” I asked. “We were good friends but I haven't heard from her for a long time. She may have mentioned me to you. My name's Tina. I'm from Ghana.” Don't ask whether there are any women in Ghana called Tina, because I've no idea. And I'm sure the man on the telephone had no idea either.

“There is a number,” he said. And he gave it to me.

I didn't call immediately. I allowed myself time to have a few coffees and cigarettes.

 

“Adana was good for you,” I said.

He smiled and looked at his watch.

“We'll be late. Shall we go?” I said.

Selim left me outside the café in Yeniköy and went off to his office.

The moment I went through the battered door of the café, I saw the two women sitting at a table in the far corner. This time, the white-uniformed maid was wearing a yellow sweater. Her hair was tied back just as when I first saw her on that June day. She'd applied heavy rouge which was noticeable even from that distance.

As I made my way towards their table, I studied the woman sitting next to Mitka. She had a large nose, large lips and large eyes. Apart from her eyes, the most notable thing about her was her leopard-skin-print blouse. The way she was rubbing her hands up and down her arms suggested she knew the season for wearing sleeveless silk blouses was over…

I went and stood next to their table. It was clear that neither of them felt inclined to shake hands with me. “Hello,” I said and sat down.

I was aware of them studying me as I took my cigarettes and lighter out of my bag. My nail varnish, the way I hung my handbag over the arm of the wooden chair, my hairstyle, the colour of my quickly applied eyeshadow…

“Have you had breakfast?” I asked.

They didn't reply.

“We haven't met,” I said to the woman in the leopard-skin blouse.

“I know who you are,” she said.

“But I don't know who you are,” I said.

She raised her hand towards somebody and waved. A man standing near the door came running over to us.

“Yes, miss.”

“Fetch me a sweater, Necmi. I'm cold.”

“Right away,” said Necmi.

I narrowed my eyes and looked at the woman.

“You're Yakut,” I said.

Now I was excited.

“Why did you want to meet Mitka?” When she asked this question, her tone was so hostile that I felt I should object.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Look, I'm not your enemy.” I smiled at Mitka. “I just wanted to talk.”

That was no good! This was no time to be pleasant, yet I'd just caved in straight away.

I asked the waiter to bring me a coffee.

“I know you spoke to Petra,” said Yakut. “Petra was too much for you, and you thought Mitka would be a softer touch, yes? But there aren't just the two of you in this. You have me to reckon with as well, so act accordingly!” She banged the table with her dark, bony hand. The water bottle and glasses of Uludağ soda jolted, splashing their contents, which spread across the table and dripped onto the floor. Yakut pushed back her chair.

“You can't blackmail us!” she said through her teeth.

“I have no intention of blackmailing anyone.”

“You'd better not!”

I looked around. The café was full of families with children and young people out to enjoy themselves.

“If you're relying on that idiot lawyer friend of yours…”

Was it hearing Selim referred to as an idiot that made me see red? Or was it that she seemed to think I needed someone to lean on?

I suddenly leaned forward, grabbed the collar of her leopard-skin blouse with my right hand and pulled her towards me. I held her chin in my hand, feeling the water that had just spilled onto the table creep up my arm.

“You're the idiot,” I said, bringing her face right up to mine. “Watch it! Or I'll create a really bad scene here.”

Letting go of her collar, I grasped her hair with my left hand. Mitka jumped to her feet and started shouting. I banged Yakut's face down onto the table, then let go of her hair as I heard the sound of feet running towards us. She sat back in her chair, holding her nose and looking as if she was about to faint, but it was her lip that was bleeding, not her nose.

“Miss!” said a man in a black suit. It wasn't Necmi. He had his eyes fixed on me, waiting for orders.

“It's nothing,” said Yakut. “Go away.” Then, as he made to go, she said, “Stop! Take Mitka home.”

After they left, she covered her mouth with her hand, got up and went to the bathroom.

I lit a cigarette.

 

By the time Yakut returned, my coffee had arrived.

“How do I look?” she asked as she sat down.

I didn't reply.

“How do I look?” she repeated.

“Better than before,” I said.

“They couldn't find me a sweater,” she said, rubbing her arms with her hands to warm herself.

I was upset by the sight of this woman whose lip I had just burst open, and I wanted to give her my own sweater.

“Shall we go?” I asked. I didn't like being there any more. The other customers had stopped talking and were looking at us. I didn't blame them; I would have done the same.

“Let's sit here a bit longer,” she said, clearly needing more time to collect herself.

“Shall I order some tea?” I asked.

“Coffee would be better, no sugar.”

I beckoned to the waiter, who had been standing with his eyes fixed on us, and asked for two coffees with no sugar.

“You're a strange woman,” said Yakut. Was that meant as a compliment?

“So are you,” I said. “How did you get mixed up in this business?”

She fixed her eyes on some distant spot and seemed deep in thought. “Mmm. How did I get mixed up in this?” she murmured to herself.

No, actually that was not what I'd wanted to ask. I could have answered that question myself. Yakut was clearly a woman of principles and not afraid to extend a helping hand to anyone around her who was in need.

“Who did you know? Was it Mitka?” She looked at me vacantly. I needed to keep talking.

“I've no intention of going to the police,” I said. “I'm curious, that's all. If you don't want to tell me, we'll forget about it.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I know you've no intention of going to the police,” she said. “Mitka works at my brother's house.”

“I know,” I said.

“You couldn't help noticing that she'd been through a dreadful experience.”

And Mesut? Did he know too?

“Were Mesut and Yusuf aware that…” I was unable to finish my sentence.

“No, this was women's business,” she said, adding with a smile: “A hair-dryer is very much a woman's weapon, don't you think?”

“Yes, a woman's weapon…” The waiter brought our coffees and I thanked him. “Who threw the hair-dryer into the bathtub?”

She pointed towards the cigarettes as if asking if she could take one. I picked up the packet.

“They're all wet.”

She looked at the cigarettes and laughed.

“Who do you think threw the hair-dryer into the bath?”

“Petra,” I said, without smiling.

She raised one eyebrow and nodded her head.

“Bravo.”

“And you arranged everything.”

“It was quite a job. It even involved persuading that lazy husband of mine to do some work. There were loads of actresses who would have been perfect for that part, so of course I had to work extra hard to make sure Petra got the part.”

“OK. And Mitka?”

“She was crucial. If it hadn't been for her, I wouldn't even have known of Kurt Müller's existence.”

“How did you find Petra? How did you know that her son was one of the victims?”

“There are excellent detectives who can find these things out.”

“But no one even knew that Peter was Petra's child.”

“My dear, take a good look at me. Do I look like a woman who would believe that tale about the sister in Korea?”

I looked at her huge eyes, her large nose and her thick lips.

“No,” I said. “Definitely not.” Looking at her huge eyes again, I said, “I'm far too hot. Let me give you my sweater.”

 

“Are you sure we can't drop you off at home?” she asked, as the driver opened the door and she seated herself inside her luxury car.