The Prophet Murders (13 page)

Hüseyin works nights, so wasn’t available. That was just as well. I was in no mood to cope with his flirting. I got into the first taxi waiting at the stand. I couldn’t decide between going to the office and paying a visit to Jihad2000 Kemal. I decided to give Kemal some more time to finish his research.

The office workers all respect me immensely. They just find me a bit odd. I’m fully aware that they describe me using terms like “interesting”, “eccentric” and “unconventional”. While they’re generally accustomed to seeing me dressed as a man, I have been known on occasion to arrive with a two-day beard, full eye makeup, rouge and lipstick just to shock annoying clients.

Ali was out. For the moment, that was just as well. There was no one there to drag me into conversation.

Clearing a workspace, I pushed aside the pile of mail left on my desk by the secretary.

Now, everything was ready – except me. I didn’t know where to start. All right, I was going to get to work. But on what? Where should I begin, and where would it lead?

I was convinced of Adem Yildiz’s guilt. That much was certain. But there wasn’t a shred of evidence to implicate him. He was a piece of filth, a real pervert. So what did that prove? And that was the problem in a nutshell.

I had plenty of time. I decided to check through the chat room records. Even though I had no idea what I was looking for, I would scan the entries made by “adam star”, “starman” and “*adam”.

“You have a call, sir. I’m putting you through.”

The secretary needed a good dressmg down. By simply announcing that a call was being put through, the assumption was that I was compelled to accept it.

It couldn’t be, but it was. Yes, it was on Gönül on the line. I’d completely forgotten that I’d ever given her my number.

“Ay! So you know who it is.”

“Why wouldn’t I? How could I ever forget you?”

“You really mean that, don’t you?”

“What is it, anyway? I’m busy. I’m working,” I said.

I just left the coroner’s. I thought I’d fill you in.”

I’d forgotten all about that, too.

“Any leads?” I asked.

“Oh, it hurt like hell. Had I known, I swear I’d never have agreed. That fiendish witch of a woman. Just like that, she shoved a whole length of icy iron right up my arse.”

I wouldn’t require details. I could easily imagine what her “voluntary” examination had been like. What’s more, it didn’t answer my question.

“What about Gül’s death?” I prompted her. “Any leads or developments?”

“You bet!” she exclaimed. And was silent.

“What?”

And she hung up.

If she’d been within arm’s reach, I’d have strangled her.

To make matters worse, I had no idea how to find her. I guessed she was a regular at the rough beer houses of Aksaray. Or worse. But I didn’t know where she lived or spent her time. The only place I was certain to find her was at the coroner’s or at a funeral. Perhaps I wouldn’t see her again until another girl died.

My only hope was that she’d call me.

Unbalanced people and unhinged situations tend to throw my equilibrium out of whack as well. With no idea what to do, I sat staring at the wall opposite.

Ali’s arrival ended that little reverie.

That secretary would have to be disciplined. She was supposed to check with me first, then connect my calls.

“I’ve got great news for you!” be announced. Remember that Italian company, Mare T. Docile? It’s as good as done. I think I’ve landed a deal. Time for the money to roll in . . . ”

He rubbed his hands together with glee. A grin stretched from ear to ear. As usual, when talking about money his eyes narrow to slits and his face seems to glow with a strange lust.

My thoughts were elsewhere. Talk of Italians and their lire would have no effect on me.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked. “We’ve been chasing after this account for two months. Now we’ve got it. You’re not even reacting. What’s wrong with you?”

“Don’t mind me,” I said. “I was thinking about something else.”

“There’ll be none of that. You’ve got to concentrate. This is our biggest account ever. We’ve got to focus on it from now on.

We could even retire if we handle it right. Just think about the money we’ll make!”

“How much is it?” I asked.

The figure he cited was roughly the equivalent of winning the national lottery.

“They want to have a meeting with the two of us as soon as possible. We may even need to go to their headquarters in Geneva or offices in Nice to inspect their networks.”

He knows how much I hate business travel.

“It won’t take long. Just a few days. And we can spend a couple of them having fun. Shopping and stuff . . . ”

“I can handle everything right here,” I reminded him. “Advanced technology makes that possible.”

“I know that. It’s just not what they want. They tell me their main systems are closed to outside intervention. They’re unique and they have their own software program. The customer’s always right.”

“Ali,” I said sharply. “We’ve been working together all these years. How many times do I have to tell you that the system they use and the protective shield are completely independent of each other.”

“I know,” he allowed. “But . . . ”

“No ‘but’s’ about it. If I can’t get this through your head I don’t see how I’m supposed to explain it to them.”

“Now don’t go off in a tizzy.”

“I’m not. Tell me again. What kind of figure are we talking about here?”

He repeated the amount.

It really would be best for me to forget everything and start thinking about what I could do with that money. My cut would be more than enough. I could buy up all the shares in the club, or even open a new one. In fact, I could open a summer club in Bodrum and use the one in Istanbul during the winter.

I let my imagination run wild: I could do my work in Berlin or Paris. Or I could give up this racket and become the star attraction of clubs all across the globe. I could visit every transvestite club and bar on the planet. Who knows the things I’d see, that I’d experience!

“We’ve got to get to work immediately,” Ali said. “I’ve even brought you some files for homework.”

As Ali went out to get the Mare T. Docile files I looked at the piece of paper on my desk. I’d made a list of all the dead girls. Their nicknames and male names were all in a row. In the adjacent column I’d jotted down the specifics of their deaths and noteworthy details, if any.

I began the moment Ali walked back in carrying two CD-Roms.

“You know that friend of yours, Cengiz . . . ”

“You liked him, didn’t you?” he interrupted. “I knew he’d be just your type.”

“He said he had a summer house right next to Adem Yildiz’s place . . . ”

“That’s right,” said Ali. “A summer house in Bodrum, on Mazi harbour. But his ex-wife and kids are there right now.”

“Shut up a minute,” I said. “Stop interrupting me. There’s something else I want to ask.”

“All right . . . all right!”

“How well do you think he knows Adem Yildiz?’’

“Did you like him too?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “I’ve got my suspicions. I need some information. Make it hush-hush though.”

“Talk to Cengiz,” he said. “There’s no way for me to know. . . ”

The subject was closed and he placed the CD-Roms in front of me.

“You’ll find all the system specifications and the various problems they’ve faced to date. I’d like you to have a look. I told them we’d be finished reviewing everything by the beginning of next week. We will be finished, won’t we?”

I, too, had fallen under the spell of the expected payment from Mare T.Docile.

When I got home I was greeted by a reproachful Ponpon.

My home, my sweet home, was a place of gleaming parquet floors. The furniture had all been rearranged according to Ponpon’s tastes. There wasn’t a trace of my calculated efforts to create a post-modern effect. I now resided in what could easily have passed for a granny flat.

As I looked over her handiwork, Ponpon smiled at me proudly.

“It’s so much better now, don’t you think?” she asked.

“Thanks for taking so much trouble,” I replied. What else could I say?

“Sati and I worked our fingers to the bone, of course, but it was worth it. I had to follow her from corner to corner. They just don’t get down to work unless you stand over them.”

“Too true,” I agreed.

“This Sati Hanim of yours is a bit lazy. She supposedly comes three times a week, but dust has been collecting under the carpets for months at least. I’ll send you my Zerrin. Give her a try. She’s a real whirlwind!”

I smiled weakly. In fact, I was close to tears.

“And now for our dinner. I made fresh okra with chicken. With lots of lemon.”

The chicken okra was delicious. If Ponpon stayed long-term I was sure to put on as much weight as she had.

“Did anyone call while I was out?” I asked.

“Ah, of course! I almost forgot,” she said. “That police friend of yours called. He’s got news. Ferruh or Fabri, or something like that.”

“What exactly was it?” I asked.

She must have been talking about Fatih
enyürek.

“He didn’t say. He’s going to call you back.”

“Anyone else?” I prompted.

“And Hasan?” I asked.

“He didn’t call. I called him to find out what was going on. But he didn’t have anything new.”

I waited for Ponpon to leave so I could call Jihad2000, who I suspected was the heavy breather, and Selçuk. She seemed determined to stay put.

“When are you going out?” I asked her hopefully.

“Oh, I’m not,” she replied. “I’m off tonight. I don’t have any extra business either. I thought we’d enjoy some girl talk in front of the TV. A long merciless gossip about everyone we know. . . ”

I love chatting with Ponpon, but this wasn’t the night for it. I had other things to do. Before I concentrated on getting rich with the Mare T. Docile account, I wanted to solve the prophet murders, or at least resolve some of the puzzling questions spinning through my head.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got to get some work done,” I told her.

Her face fell.

“And what am I supposed to do while you’re working?

“Watch TV, or put on one of my new DVDs. I could rustle up a visitor for you if you like.”

Everyone knew Ponpon was an asexual transvestite. In fact, some suggested she’d become a cross-dresser just to spite her family.

“What I’d really like is to sit at your side,” she persisted. “I’ll make tea or coffee. I could even pop some corn. We’ll chat while you work. I promise not to bother you.”

This is just great, I thought. It seemed like a joke, but Ponpon never indulges in them.

Laughing lightly, I said, “I’m afraid it wouldn’t work out.”

“What do you mean, it wouldn’t. Of course it would,” she insisted. “Go and get started and I’ll bring some tea.”

Hoping the preparation of the tea would keep her busy for some time, I called Selçuk. His wife Ayla answered. She said they were expecting me for dinner Saturday evening. I accepted. Then she handed the phone to Selçuk.

“You remember your man, Fehmi, Senyürek,” he began. “He works for a shipping company by the name of Astro.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” I said.

“Me neither. But I did some research. It’s a subsidiary company of Yildiz.” Lightning struck. I heard bells.

“Not the Yildiz chain of markets?” I said, seeking confirmation.

“That’s the one. He’s even got a small airline. The company’s growing quietly but surely.”

“I really appreciate this,” I thanked him.

“I don’t understand what you’re after, but I’m glad to turn up something for you. Oh, and the DNA tests are being done. I’ll let you know the minute the results come in.”

Selçuk was absolutely right when he said they were growing quietly but surely. The Yildiz Group didn’t appear in the media much. I couldn’t decide if that was by design, or the result of an incompetent PR department. I seemed to recall, though, that conservative companies generally prefer the stealthy approach. Not much information leaks out, but, below the radar, slowly but surely. . . And without attracting any attention.

I’d connected to the internet by the time Ponpon came in with the tea, and was researching Astro shipping and Star Air. Other than chamber of commerce registration records, there was next to no information.

“You know what,” said Ponpon. “Whenever you concentrate on something you’ve got this way of pursing your lips and frowning. I’ve always noticed it.” She contorted her face to illustrate.

Once those lines have set in there’s no getting rid of them. You’ve got to look after yourself. I recommend facial masks. I’ll go and whip one up if you like. It dries on your face like some kind of shell. You can’t wrinkle your forehead if you try. Or you could get those injections. You know, like Tansu C, iller. Or save your money and use sellotape. That stops you screwing up your face too.”

“Botox,” I said.

“That’s it.”

It wouldn’t be a bad idea to dispatch Ponpon to the kitchen while I got on-line with Jihad2000. I wasn’t sure what kind of messages Jihad2000 would write, and I really couldn’t risk Ponpon reading them.

“What kind of mask are you going to make?” I asked.

“Well, there’s nothing handier than a good mud mask. Open jar, spread on face. Presto!”

That wouldn’t do. She’d be back, jar in hand, in seconds. I tried to think of something more time-consuming.

“Haven’t you got anything a bit more unusual?” I suggested. “You know, all natural ingredients, Ayurvedic and the like . . . ”

“Don’t I just!” she pounced. “It’s a fabulous concoction of my own. But it’ll take some time to prepare. If you’ll hang on for a bit I’ll go and whip it up for you. But promise to wait patiently!”

I did my best to look intrigued.

“How long will it take?”

“Well, I’d say at least . . . ” She was calculating the ingredients needed, the time to prepare each one. “It’ll take a good twenty minutes, minimum.”

“That’s great!” I replied with genuine enthusiasm. “If you get started right away we can wash it off before we go out to the club.”

“You bet!”

Nothing makes Ponpon happier than being entrusted with a task. Buzzing with a sense of mission, she trotted off to the kitchen.

I began hunting down Jihad2000.

He is online every waking moment, and his favourite pastimes involve haranguing or proselytizing those in the chat rooms. I located him immediately. He was in our “manly-girls” room, but hadn’t activated his status icon. I hate lurkers. I just don’t see the point in concealing your very existence in what is already a world of “virtual” names, descriptions, desires and orgasms. He spotted me right away, and opened a private window.

He immediately sent a float.

His return to lower case was a good sign.

give me a time:)>

but don’t be late

i’ll be getting ready for you>

I could only guess at the perversions involved in “getting ready”.

What did you find out?>

i want you here with me>

The last thing I needed was a pervert on my hands. He was as weird as something from a B horror flick. Seeing that he had no intention of telling me anything, there was no point in continuing to chat. The conversation would go nowhere. At most he’d write something racy and jerk off over it. I would not, indeed could not, be a party to such things. Then I thought of all the things I had been a party to, and my chat friend’s desires suddenly seemed almost tame.

Ponpon’s voice sang out from inside: “I’ve finished off your honey. I hope you’ve got some more.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said.

“I can’t hear you,” she shrieked. “What was that? I can’t hear you over the blender!”

I switched off the computer and went to the kitchen, to Ponpon. It was time for our beauty treatment.