Baksheesh (22 page)

Ä°nci had started to miss Osman. She didn't say anything like that the first time we met.

“Yes, but what about him not wanting you to read and so on?”

“Look, I graduated from high school. Osman didn't even have a primary school diploma. He was too poor to go to school. Because he didn't have a diploma, he couldn't get a driving licence. He could read and write of course, and he tried to better himself. ‘I'm a graduate of the University of Life,' he used to say. It was true. He was a very knowledgeable person.”

“Do you think the reason he didn't accept the proposal from UEP was that he didn't have a primary school diploma?” You
needed to have finished primary school to become an MP, as far as I knew.

“Did UEP approach him? He didn't tell me. Oh my God. He'd never have had anything to do with those religious fanatics. Amazing, who told you that?”

“The tea-boy in Kuledibi. He knows all the gossip.” What I said was a dreadful lie. But what could I say? Should I have said that I'd heard it from my Chief Inspector friend?

“Actually, Osman never discussed business matters with me. I only knew about things if he spoke about them on the phone when he was with me. But he wasn't how you think he was. He cared a lot about knowledge and culture. He has four children and they all go to private schools. He tried to get Özcan to study, but he ran away from school. Osman had a lot of respect for people who studied. He was a very unusual person. There aren't many like him in this world.” Ä°nci was definitely missing him.

“So did you learn anything when you were listening to his phone conversations? What sort of business was Osman involved in?”

“He was burdened with taking care of us all. There was the car-park business. Nothing illegal about that. He respected the law. He had a restaurant somewhere near Aksaray. I think it was in Laleli. I've never been there. ‘It's not suitable for respectable women,' he used to say. They had dancers there. And he had a coach company. You remember Özcan told you that the other day? The company operated between Van and Istanbul. I don't know how many coaches were his, because other people who owned coaches were also allowed to operate under his company name. I think they put his name on their vehicles and gave Osman a share of the profits. I'm not quite sure how it worked.”

“Is that all? I thought he dabbled in all sorts of things.”

“No. Osman was persistent. Once he put his mind to something, he'd see it through. For instance, he was thinking of going into the construction business. He saw it as a way of putting food on the
table for everyone. There are loads of relatives, and they're mostly in the building trade. Labourers, you know. He wanted to set up a company that would make money and provide work for his relatives at the same time. But he didn't live to see that happen.”

By then, she was really crying. I'm not the sort, like some idiot men, that can't bear to see a woman cry. I do get uneasy if someone is crying right in front of me, but whether it's a man or woman makes no difference to me. I just have no idea what to say or how to console them.

That's how it was then. I felt absolutely useless.

“Poor man. At least he was spared.”

“Spared? Why did you say that?” she said. The crying had stopped and she was studying my face carefully.

It was because of my Turkish of course. I'd got my clichés for such situations muddled up.

“What I mean is that he died without too much suffering,” I said, again without really understanding the significance of what I was saying.

She started crying again.

“Without too much suffering? He crawled across the floor right up to the door trying to get help. How much more could he suffer? He couldn't even stand up. He died crawling on the floor.” Her crying had now turned into real sobbing. I went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.

As I opened the refrigerator, I changed my mind and took out a can of beer, pouring it into two glasses. That much alcohol was unlikely to harm a pregnant woman.

She drank the beer and asked for a cigarette. That pleased me because normally she wouldn't allow smoking in the house. I immediately lit one for myself as well.

“How's your financial situation while the inheritance is being sorted out?” I asked, thinking that lack of money might be upsetting her.

“He'd already opened a bank account in my name. There's not much money in it, but I can get by for three or four months. And he made this apartment over to me. Özcan said he'd see I didn't have financial difficulties, but he doesn't know that Osman bought this apartment for me. I think there may be a problem when he finds that out.”

“So what does he think?”

“He thinks this place is rented.”

“Well if you don't tell him otherwise, then there's no problem.”

“The running costs here are very high. What if he tells me to move somewhere cheaper?”

“Then you move. You weren't born around here, after all.” I hadn't meant to insult her, but I had the feeling I might have offended her. “I mean, there are nicer and more reasonable places you could rent in Istanbul. Then you could rent this place out.”

“You don't understand,” she said, her eyes filling with tears again.

“What don't I understand?”

“We were very poor. I spent my childhood in poverty. No one knows better than me what it's like to be poor. My mother used to set out in the morning while it was still dark and walk to work because she didn't have money for the bus. Me and my brothers and sisters, we all worked, but it still wasn't enough. I don't want to go back to that life. I know what it's like to have a bit of money now, do you understand? I have a car and someone to clean my apartment. I buy clothes from the best stores where the managers, who used to turn me down for jobs as a sales assistant, now call me ‘madam'. There's no going back for me now. I won't go back to live in Bağcılar or Güngören. Also, I take care of my family. Do you have any idea what all that comes to every month? They spend as much as I do.”

“Yes, but supposing you win the case and your child gets a share of the inheritance. What are Osman's assets? He certainly didn't
own factories and mansions, after all. He made his money from running car parks and coaches. He had to be there on the job in order to make money. There's no way you can continue your old standard of living, even if you get some of the inheritance, or if Özcan gives you money every month.”

“That's exactly what I'm saying.”

“So?”

“Osman's killer might as well have shot me! And the child in my belly! I'm ruined!” she cried, rocking back and forth. “My life's ruined!” she exclaimed, covering her face with her hands and burying her head between her knees.

Once again, I didn't know what to say or do – which won't surprise you. For a while, I sat like an imbecile watching this woman cry her eyes out in front of me. Finally, I decided that beer wasn't going to be the answer, so I looked in the drinks cabinet for some whisky. I took the bottle to the kitchen and poured a couple of glasses. With ice.

When I returned to the sitting room, her crying suddenly subsided. She sipped the whisky without saying a word.

“I think that officer who's on the case reckons I'm the killer,” she said. “He's got it in for me, practically accused me of killing Osman.”

“What makes you think you're a suspect?”

“He took my fingerprints. Özcan must have said something to turn him against me. When Osman didn't come home that night, Özcan says he called me to ask his brother something or other. But he's lying! I've no idea why he rang. He's never called me to get hold of Osman. Osman would stay with me at least four nights a week and never let anyone know where he was. Nobody seemed to care. So why were they curious that particular night when he didn't come home? Why were they curious about him on the very night he was killed? He'd been with me two nights before, but nobody phoned. Why check up on a grown man anyway?”

“Probably because his mobile didn't answer,” I said, remembering what Özcan had said.

“Even if his mobile had been on, they still wouldn't have called him. OK, maybe there was something urgent. Or maybe it was just coincidence. But that seems a bit too coincidental to me.”

“Hmm,” I said.
Ein Zufall zuviel.
There were indeed too many of these coincidences, don't you think?

“But what of it, if Özcan called you?”

“It means he found out I wasn't at home that evening, because I didn't answer the phone.”

“What do you mean? Weren't you at home that night?”

This time she cried silently, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Can you keep a secret?” she asked hoarsely.

What can you say to a question like that? Can you really say, “No, I can't”?

“Of course I will,” I said.

“I wasn't at home.”

I felt a sudden need for someone to massage the back of my neck. I twisted my head from left to right and rubbed the stiff muscles. It didn't really do much good. Massaging yourself is like masturbation. I've never mastered either of them properly. Or rather it's never been effective. An awful lot of effort for very little result.

“Have you got a lover?” I asked.

She started crying loudly again.

“It's not what you think,” she said between sobs.

“I'm not thinking anything. Calm down. I don't think you're the killer. Anyway I'm in no position to pass judgement.” Which was true of course. I'd cheated on every man in my life until Selim came along. And it was only a question of time before I did the same to him.

“What did you tell the police when they asked where you were that night?”

“I said I was at home watching TV.” Ä°nci had told me the same thing.

“Was Özcan with you when you told them that?”

“No, but Özcan also asked me where I was.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him I was watching TV as well,” she said, starting to cry again.

“Ä°nci!” I said in an authoritative voice. I held her by the shoulders and shook her. “Calm down. Pull yourself together and go and wash your face.”

She went off to the bathroom, sniffling.

I lit a cigarette.

I really wished I could lose this compulsion for detective work, become like my self-assured, properly behaved, middle-class friends and stick to those lovely bourgeois morals. Nothing at all wrong with bourgeois morals, even if I don't happen to have received my share in that department.

“Özcan didn't tell me he tried to phone me that night. If I'd known, I'd have made up a different story. But when they asked where I was, I said I was at home. That's where I would be normally. Once I'd said it, I couldn't go back on it. I told Özcan I was probably in the bath when he rang and didn't hear the phone. I didn't know he'd kept calling until morning.”

“He kept calling you till morning?”

“That's what he said.”

“You should have said you don't answer the phone after a certain hour.”

“I didn't think of that. I was caught off guard. He pretended not to take much notice, but he was definitely suspicious. Bastard. He informed on me to the police. Otherwise, why would the police take my fingerprints?”

“Didn't they tell you why?”

“They said they were taking everybody's and they'd get a
court order if I didn't consent to having them done. ‘Give your consent, then we won't have to resort to such methods,' they said. What could I do? If I'd refused, they'd have been really suspicious, so I let them do it. They said they destroy all fingerprints afterwards.”

“I think it's normal to take fingerprints. And nothing will happen if you tell the police you weren't at home that night. Your lover will testify that you were with him. The police are trying to solve a murder; they're not interested in where you were, who you were with or what you did.”

“And Özcan?”

“Do you think the police are going to go and tell Özcan that you were cheating on Osman?”

“I don't know. But what if it comes out?”

“The real risk right now is that the fact that you lied might come out. I think you should make up some story for Özcan, but tell the truth to the police and let them call on your lover if they want.”

“They can't call on my lover,” she said, biting her lips as she tried to hold back her tears.

“Why?”

“Because he'd kill me, that's why.”

“Is he married?”

She gave me a horrified look. Dear God! Did I say something so terrible? I'm forty-four years old. Of course I know why people try to keep the identity of their lovers a secret. I mean, you don't have to be a crime-fiction addict to work that out.

“Alp was my childhood sweetheart. We were in the same class at school. His father was a schoolteacher and he saw that Alp got a good education. He graduated as an engineer just last year. He's married to his boss's daughter, but doesn't love her. I've seen his wife – she's very ugly. But, she's the boss's daughter, and the boss is very rich. So if it comes out now… If anyone hears about us…”

The whisky burned the back of my throat.

“Hang on a minute!” I said. Ä°nci fell quiet and looked at me absent-mindedly, still completely engrossed in what she'd been telling me. I drummed my fingernails on the table. Tik, tik, tik, tik… There was nothing complicated about this. A woman in a steady relationship was cheating on her lover with a married man. Well, I know a bit about that sort of thing. If it's evening, men say they have to go out to a dinner. If it's daytime, they say they're going to the bank, a business meeting or to pay the telephone bill. But what can a woman say? A woman who has no contact with the outside world? What can a woman say to get out of the house in the evening when she never has business dinners to go to? Doesn't even have an excuse to go out during the day?