The Prophet Murders (25 page)

Presented with the opportunity to compile my own list, I have decided to milk it for all it’s worth. If I have overlooked
anyone, I apologise for the oversight of my editor and consultant.

First of all, I would naturally like to thank my family: my mother, dearest Melo
; my late father, even if he is unable
to read this; my brother, who I believe has always taken life much more seriously than I do; his spouse, the happy result
of my skills as a matchmaker; my late grandmother from my mother’s side, who was always a source of joy and panic in the house
where I grew up; that pillar of dignified calm, my late grand-grandmother from my father’s side; various other relatives,
some living, others no longer with us, including my aunts, uncles, maternal uncles, first- and second-generation cousins (those
passed over know who they are) and, finally, because anything but a specific mention would be a disgrace, my “special” cousin, Ye
im Toduk; my aunt’s husband, and my sisters- and aunts-in-law.

Next come the friends I would like to thank: Naim Faik Dilmener, who patiently read my manuscript, guiding and encouraging
me, and who is himself a keen reader of detective stories and an authority on golden oldie ’45s, as well as his entire family:
his son, but in particular his wife, “Belinda”; Berran Tözer, who set out with me when this project was a five-book mini series,
but threw in the towel by the time we reached; my esteemed partners and fellow consultants with whom I make a respectable
living, for it would be impossible for me to survive on my earnings from writing books; I
il Daylo
lu Aslan and A. Ates,
Akansel; and their spouses Burçak and Suada, who is also my Reiki master; as well as Isil and Burçak’s daughter, Zeynep; and
Ates, and Suada’s dogs.

Despite their not really knowing what exactly was going on, I would like to thank, for their unfailing emotional support, Mehmet “Serdar” Omay; Murathan Mungan, even if we have not met for a long time, Füsun Akatli and her daughter, Zeynep; and Zeynep Zeytino
lu; Yildirim Türker; Nejat Ulusay; Nilgün Abisel; Levent Suner; Nilüfer Kavalali; Mete Özgencil, whose painting, into which I lose myself from time to time, hangs on the wall of my study; and Barbaros Altu
, who somehow managed to motivate me without making his intentions obvious, and who is now my agent and imagines that he will somehow emerge unblemished from all of this.

Miraç Atuna, who constantly reinvents herself and, like me, wakes up before dawn, therefore making it possible for me to have
a phone conversation with someone before 7am, and who is also a Feng Shui master and hypnotherapist.

My business colleagues, Kezban Eren, Derya Babuç and – yes, her surname is real – Pelin Burmabiyiklio
lu; the ever-smiling
Remzi Demircan and Meral Emeksiz, who are the most positive people I’ve ever met; everyone I’ve met and encountered at offices
anywhere, especially the sometimes capricious secretaries for enduring all kinds of cruelty; all of my eccentric former managers
and bosses – I have somehow never been able to locate the normal ones, with the exception of Ergin Bener, who, of that group,
is the only one completely at peace with his inner child.

And as far as those responsible for my technical development: naturally, all of “our” girls, if for no other reason than their
courage and their very existence; my encounters with each and every one of them has enabled me, consciously or unconsciously,
to make use of their many impersonations, gestures, styles and sometimes – the revealing detail of a single word.

The publishing house that will print this book, my editor or editors, copy editor, proofreader, binder, cover designer and
all those involved in promoting, distributing and selling the book.

The many who through their works have inspired me over the years, including Honore de Balzac, Patricia Highsmith, Saki, Truman
Capote, Christopher Isherwood, Resat Ekrem Koçu, Andre Gide, Marquis de Sade, Chauderlos de Laclos, Yusuf Atilgan, Hüseyin
Rahmi Gürpinar, Gore Vidal, Serdar Turgut and many others.

Those whose music has enabled me to find inner peace: G. F. Handel, Gustave Mahler, Schubert, V. Bellini’s “Norma” in particular,
Tchaikovsky, Eric Satie, Philip Glass, Cole Porter, Eleni Karaindrou, Michel Berger and all composers, in fact, everywhere.

For similar reasons, Mina, whose albums I would rush to buy if they recorded no more than a belch; Barbra Streisand, back
before she transformed every three-minute song into a five-curtain opera, that is to say, pre-1980s; Yorgo Dallaras, Hildegard
Knef, Sylvie Vartan, Veronique Sanson, Jane Birkin, Patty Pravo, Michael Franks, Lee Oscar, Manhattan Transfer, Supertramp,
Juliette Greco and, again pre-1988 – for better or worse – Ajda Pekkan; Hümeyra, for all she is; Nükhet Duru, who manages
to inject meaning into all of her songs, even when they are rubbish; Gonül Turgut, whose decision to leave music I have never
understood and whose absence I continue to lament; Ayla Dikmen, for her costumes alone; and Madonna, whose songs I’m not wild
about, but whose existence seems to me to be a good thing.