Baksheesh (6 page)

“I don't know. It's still too early to say. I have no evidence to support any such claim. I'm just stating what we've been told.”

After a few minutes, I called home. Pelin was out, so I called her on her mobile to tell her not to dawdle and to come straight to the shop. I asked Batuhan to wait until Pelin arrived.

 

At the station, they ordered tea for me. An officer typed up my statement, read it aloud and asked me to sign it. The text was full of spelling errors, but I signed it.

Osman's brothers were also brought in to give statements. One of them made a lunge as if he was about to strike me. Another, who looked no more than fifteen or sixteen, seemed to be the only one with a tongue in his head.

“That woman attacked my brother. She made his ear bleed. My brother Osman said, ‘Let her go, we never lay a finger on women,' then in the evening, this happens. He didn't come home last night. We knew something was wrong straight away. That woman's sick,” he snarled.

The brother who had just lunged at me sidled up and, out of police earshot, whispered in my ear, “Who's going to take care of you then, cunt?”

I felt sick.

“My father is the German Minister of the Interior. He'll take care of me, dickhead,” I whispered back. The man's eyes almost popped out of his head.

Two hours later, they said I could go, but I was barely able to move. I felt as if my blood had completely drained away.

Batuhan was waiting by the door. He took my arm affectionately and drew back a strand of hair that had fallen over my face. The man was clearly a bit unhinged. Only that morning he'd been questioning me about a murder!

“You're OK, aren't you?”

“Ugh,” I said. “What a load of nonsense that was.”

“Let me buy you a meal for old times' sake. I know a good kebab house in Laleli.”

Batuhan's behaviour might give the impression that we had indeed once been in a relationship, but I swear that would be very far from the truth. I first met him when he was working on a murder case that involved a friend of mine. That had been over a year before. Something had happened between us that ended disappointingly for him. But you couldn't even call it a fling. Anyway, what could come of a fling between a policeman and a woman who hates the police as much as I do? Still, it was disappointing.

 

Taking full advantage of Turkish police privileges – which they exploit with primeval relish – we drove, without stopping, down several “no entry” streets before coming to an abrupt halt in front of the door to the kebab house. I had no inclination to eat a kebab and wasn't even sure if I could manage any soup.

“So the man was killed in his office,” I said. Until that moment, both of us had remained tight-lipped.

Batuhan gave me a teasing look. I'm not kidding when I say I felt violent. I had difficulty restraining an urge to fly across the table and land a punch on his smug face. After this, I would definitely never touch anything other than
Wuthering Heights
.

“Look,” I said, “if you really think I'm a killer, then there's no point in us eating kebabs together. Collect whatever evidence there is, have me arrested and get it over with. You know my shop and you know where I live.” I took my bag and got up from the table.

He grabbed my arm and his face broke into a grin. Where were the man's principles? Having adopted a position, he could at least stick to it! But no, men's brains don't work like that.

“Sit down, sit down. Don't get cross so quickly. Why are you being so touchy?”

I didn't like him calling me touchy. Asking me why I was touchy, especially on a day when I was being accused of killing some thug, was likely to make me lose my temper. Somewhere inside
me, a ball of anger exploded. It took only a second to reach my throat. I tried to swallow it and keep it trapped in my throat so that it wouldn't burst out of my mouth. I kept on swallowing. Experts advise taking deep breaths when you're upset. I inhaled the smell of kebabs with four deep breaths.

It was no good. Completely useless. I got up and went to the cloakroom.

I wanted to make that man regret the day he was born and never set eyes on him again. He wouldn't have been the first person I'd cut out of my life. I studied my face in the mirror. What was happening to me? Why was I so irritable? If this went on much longer, I'd have no one left in my life. Already, my mobile phone had stopped ringing. Should I start taking antidepressants? I had to find a way of getting through this with the least amount of damage, with or without Prozac. I'd ask Özlem for the name of a psychiatrist next time I spoke to her.

By the time I returned to the table, I'd pulled myself together. Batuhan had finished his Adana kebab and was putting away a portion of baklava. What an appetite! He tried to squeeze a sliver of baklava into my mouth but I refused, saying I was on a diet. Men have a certain way of treating women who are dieting. He didn't miss the opportunity.

“Hah. Now I know why you're so touchy. Dieting has affected your nerves.”

I tried to pretend I hadn't heard the word touchy. He carried on jabbering.

“You don't need to diet. You're already thin. It wouldn't look good if you got any thinner. Anyway, Turkish men like plump women. You know that.”

I refrained from blurting out, “Who said I wanted Turkish men to like me?”

Instead, I smiled.

The best thing about being perceived as a murder suspect by a person of reasonable intelligence was that it created a great excuse for calling Selim. So it was true – every cloud, in its way, does indeed have a silver lining.

Before going to the shop, I went home to make my phone call. However, as soon as I stepped inside, I changed my mind. I didn't want to be chasing after him or anyone else. If necessary, I'd fork out and hire myself a lawyer. That way, if Selim and I ever got back together, it would mean I hadn't sacrificed the pleasure of being able to needle him by saying, “You abandoned me in my hour of need.”

I tried to make a plan. I wasn't prepared to sit at home, meekly waiting for the Turkish police to finish their investigation. I'd proved I was a genius at solving murder cases once before, and I was quite prepared to take on and solve the murder of Osman Karakaş like a professional detective.

After taking a shower, I put on some proper clothes to rev myself up a bit. By the time I left the house, I was almost high on adrenalin.

As I was knocking on the door of the late Osman Karakaş's Tatar neighbour, it occurred to me that I really should start referring to this dear man by name. After all, he had come into my life as such a force for good. How would I like it if people always referred to me as “the German”?

When Yücel Bey saw me, he put his hand against the wall to steady himself and stop himself from falling. He was clearly very surprised.

“Ah, my dear lady, did they let you go? I heard the police had taken you in. What were they thinking of ? A lady like you. Come in, please. I'm sorry, my office is a bit untidy. I've found a new place, you see. We haven't signed the contract yet, but I thought I'd make a start on sorting out the paperwork. Would you like some tea? Or something cold?”

I hadn't been able to get a word in edgeways until then, so I didn't miss my opportunity.

“I won't drink anything, thank you. But if you have time, I'd like to talk to you.”

“Even if I didn't have the time, I would make time for a lady like you. Come in. I'll sort out my files tomorrow. So, what was it you wanted to talk about?”

“Did you see the murder scene? Do you know how they found the body?”

“Oh yes, I did, unfortunately. It certainly wasn't something anyone would actually want to see. But I went upstairs because I heard shouting, and also partly because of that terrible incident that happened to you. Otherwise, I'm not an inquisitive person. Never get mixed up in other people's business. You don't often hear fighting going on around here. But now we've had two incidents in two days. I'm baffled by it all. Actually, I was worried it might have something to do with you.”

“What did you see, Yücel Bey? Please tell me.”

“He was lying there on the floor. Stone dead. His name was Osman, as you know. He was the eldest brother. There are lots of siblings. I know five of them and there must be more. They're from the east, but I don't know which province. Really, I suppose, you'd have to call them
Ä°stanbullu
now. I'm told they've been here for over fifteen years. In Kuledibi, I mean. They were probably somewhere else in Istanbul before that. But I wish you'd have something to drink. It doesn't feel right. Shall I send out for some tea? Do let's have some tea.”

I nodded my assent to keep him happy. He ordered tea over the two-way phone by the front door, and came back to sit down in the chair opposite me. As always, he lifted his trouser legs carefully before sitting. He was a tall, robust-looking man in his sixties, with thinning hair. I wondered where he lived. Where would such a man live in Istanbul?

“Do you live around here, Yücel Bey?”

“No, madam. Is this any place to live?” he replied. Then he glanced at me and said, “What I mean is, this is no place for people like us. I live on Vatan Road. We used to have a single-storey house with a garden, but we sold it to property developers. I don't know what got into us. Having a garden was such a great blessing. It's only with age that people understand the value of certain things. We still have a house and garden out at Silivri. It's a paradise there. We grow a few vegetables in the garden. Eat home-grown tomatoes. My eldest son is an agricultural engineer, so he's interested in…”

He went to open the door and came back with the tea-boy, a mere child, who bowed his head in greeting. Obviously, our Recai didn't cover this area.

“Sorry' bout what 'appened, miss.”

“What?”

“Sorry 'bout what 'appened. We 'eard they took you in.”

“Thanks,” I said.

The boy bowed his head again and left.

“Wow,” I said. “My fame has spread.”

Yücel Bey seemed uncomfortable that the tea-boy had not only recognized me, but had seen me in his workshop. Taking an enormous handkerchief out of his pocket, he mopped his brow.

“I'll go if you like,” I said.

He was stroking a brown mole by his nose, thoughtfully, and appeared not to hear me.

“I'll go if you like,” I repeated.

Blinking, he looked at me.

“What did you say?”

“If talking to me is a problem for you, I can go.”

“No, no. Don't be absurd. Why should it be a problem?” He stopped for a moment, still deep in thought, then added firmly, “Of course not. Why should you go?”

“Well, in that case, I won't take up much of your time,” I said, pointing to the pile of files lying on the floor.

“Let me explain to you what I know. If that's all right with you.”

I lit a cigarette.

“I'm here by half-past eight every morning. Business has been bad recently because of the economic crisis. There are no orders and, as you see, I have nobody working here. When there was work, this place provided a living for ten people, but now I'm thinking of winding the business down and retiring.”

“What do you do here?”

“We produce made-to-order packaging. I'll show you if you like. This, for instance, is a shirt wrapping,” he said, getting up and taking a bundle of polythene wrappings out of a cupboard.

“This sort of thing,” he said, handing me some wrapping with “Kenzo Shirts means Quality Shirts” written on it. I managed not to smile.

“We also do gift packaging. Tie packages like these, for instance.”

Yücel Bey pulled out a long, thin transparent plastic box and put it in my hands. It had “cT – cafer Ties” written on it.

“I'm going to sell some of the equipment. A smaller place will do for me now. I only need the occasional order to see me through. I have a small pension and the children help out a bit. But we don't want to be a burden to them. We own the apartment we live in and people need less money as they get older, my dear. My wife and I will manage.”

“I'm sure you're right. Do you mind if I take notes while you tell me what happened today? I can't keep everything in my head,” I said, hoping to steer us back to the main topic of conversation.

“Of course. Of course. Oh dear, am I boring you with my chatter? I'm sorry. Once I get going I don't know when to stop. Especially when my audience is a beautiful young lady like yourself.”

Smiling, I thanked him. Anyone seeing that smile would never have believed I was the same woman who had hurled an ashtray at Osman's head the day before.