Divorce Turkish Style (17 page)

These men took no interest in the beautiful old architecture, the hidden courtyards and alleys, or the sea views that could be glimpsed between tall buildings. They were like strangers who stuck to main roads and never strayed into side streets for fear of getting lost. Whenever they encountered a woman unaccompanied by a man – for them a joke in itself – they'd stop shoving each other and focus their interest on the woman, making lewd comments, supposedly among themselves but loud enough for her to hear. By dark, they'd be on the bus home, where they held themselves responsible for the honour of their mothers, sisters and wives.

“Why do you want to know about my sister's love life?” asked Naz.

“I'm trying to find out everything there is to know in the hope of finding a clue that will lead us to a solution, however unlikely it may be,” I said.

That's what happens in crime fiction, isn't it? In fiction, you never find a murderer tearfully owning up to a crime as soon as it's been committed.

“Do you know Orhan Soner?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said, avoiding eye contact with me.

Why did she shrink from talking about her sister's ex-lover, if it was all in the past? And, even if she found the subject difficult, why was she unable to hide her discomfort from me? I was only a curious amateur detective. I felt sure that if only I could have fired my questions at her through a haze of cigarette smoke, I'd have got answers more quickly. However, nicotine withdrawal meant that my head wasn't as clear as it once was. Not a permanent effect, hopefully.

“Orhan was the love of her life. No one thought they would ever split up,” said Naz.

“Why did they?”

“After Sani graduated, she was offered a scholarship in America. Orhan wanted to stay in Istanbul because he'd found a job with a good firm of architects, but he followed her over there. Sani's scholarship wasn't enough for two people to live on, so Orhan spent a long time looking for work and finally took a job as a petrol-pump attendant, which he hated. He couldn't stand it for long and came back after six months, on the assumption that Sani would be returning soon afterwards, but she didn't. Orhan was in a bad way at that time,” said Naz, still not looking directly at me. “That's why they separated.”

“So that's the great love story.”

“If Sani had given up everything to be with Orhan, it would have been a betrayal of all that she'd worked for,” said Naz.

I didn't like to ask what Naz would have done, because I had the impression that had she been in that situation she'd have sacrificed everything, and women like that frightened me. Weren't we all impotent in the face of women prepared to give up everything for love? Or was I just turning into an old romantic?

“Did you know that her house in Paşabahçe was directly opposite Orhan Soner's?”

“Is that so?” said Naz.

Did I imagine it, or did her voice tremble? I found it strange that she knew so little about her sister, but of course not all siblings are close friends.

“Do you think it's possible that she and Orhan had rekindled their affair?”

“Don't ask me,” said Naz. “Sani could be very unpredictable.”

“Even when it came to love affairs?”

“She was like that about everything. Some people are consistent, but Sani wasn't. She insisted on doing her PhD in America, even though it meant leaving Orhan, whom she claimed to love so much. Then, a few years later, she gave everything up to be with Cem and decided to become a housewife. Why she decided to divorce Cem, I've no idea. It was all very sudden. I couldn't keep up with her love life, or the decisions she took.”

I remembered what Sinan had said about her the previous day. It seemed that he was right when he said that once Sani had finished her doctorate her fighting spirit came to an end too. She no longer wanted to work, struggle and wear herself out.

“Do you know someone called Sinan?” I asked.

“No. Who's Sinan?” said Naz.

“Sani was with him for a while. It started when she was about to leave Cem.”

“Are you suggesting that she decided to divorce Cem because of Sinan? How did you find that out?”

“It's my job to find out everything.”

“Sani didn't talk about Sinan to me. She wouldn't—” said Naz, as if talking to herself.

“Her closest friend was Aylin, yes? Perhaps she discussed these kinds of things with her.”

“I very much doubt it. I don't think she spoke to anyone. You didn't know Sani.”

“But she must have told someone. Everybody confides their secrets to someone.”

“Well, if she did, I don't know who it would have been,” said Naz. “Aylin was a friend of Cem's too, so Sani would have been crazy to confide in her. Anyway, Sani was a closed book when it came to relationships. She never discussed them or gave a hint as to what was going on. You could spend twenty-four hours a day with her and still know nothing about her personal life. It was the same when she was little. She never gave anything away, just used to write everything down in a diary.”

“A diary? Why didn't you say so before?” I said excitedly. “Maybe she was still writing it.”

“That's something you do as a child,” said Naz, pursing her lips. “Why would a grown woman waste time keeping a diary?”

“Have you ever kept a diary?”

“I started a few times, but always got bored after a day. It's not for me.”

“I've never kept one either. But it can become a real compulsion, and I don't mean just for children. It can go on for a lifetime,” I said, thinking of Patricia Highsmith's famous diaries, which were supposed to have measured thirty metres when all the volumes were placed side by side.

“You mean it becomes a habit?”

“Habit or compulsion. One or the other. But some people keep a diary all their lives.”

“Actually, I've just thought of something,” said Naz, tilting her head up and looking at the ceiling. “She might indeed have been keeping a diary.”

“What makes you think that?”

“After Orhan came back from America and before Sani met Cem, she was very lonely for a while. She didn't really know anyone in America, or at least didn't warm to those she did know. We used to write to each other at the time. In one of her emails, she said something like ‘I've nothing to put in my diary. Every day is spent either working in the library or asleep at home.' When I read that, I remember being amazed that she still kept a diary.”

“Which year was that?”

“Six or seven years ago. It wasn't recent.”

“Nevertheless, it seems she was still keeping a diary as an adult. Do you have her door key with you?”

“Are you asking if we can go to Sani's house?”

“I'm not asking. We're going there.”

We went by metro as far as Levent and from there by taxi to Paşabahçe. By the time we reached the housing complex, Naz was obviously feeling badly on edge.

“Perhaps we should find the nightwatchman first,” she said.

“Once we have the nightwatchman on to us, we'll never get away from him. Let's find the house first.”

The housing complex was on top of a hill. It consisted of seven villas situated around a large swimming pool. Signs of life were visible in only three of the villas; the others looked very empty, which confirmed what I'd heard the previous night.

“This is the one,” said Naz, stopping in front of the villa nearest to the main road.

An official notice with a red seal was wedged between the door and door frame, stating that breaking the seal and entering would incur a penalty. I'd secretly entered sealed-off places before, as my dear readers will know. However, this door was visible to any passer-by, and also to the Soners opposite. It was a greater risk than I was prepared to take.

“What should we do? Find the nightwatchman?” asked Naz.

Why did she keep going on about the nightwatchman?

“He's not likely to let us in, and it's better if we don't linger here staring at the door,” I said, heading towards the side of the house. “Is there only one way into this enormous house? Isn't there a back door?”

“I don't know. I only came here once before, when my parents stayed with Sani for a few days and I came to collect them,” said Naz. “Anyway, if there's another door it'll be sealed off too.”

“Let's look round the back,” I said.

We both smiled upon seeing that the back door wasn't sealed. Batuhan, bless him, had clearly been doing wonders with this investigation!

“Let's just hope that Sani gave my father a key to this door.”

While Naz tried each of the keys she was holding, I looked to see if we'd been noticed, but everything was as silent as before – no twitching curtains, no opened windows and no neighbours' voices. One of the keys finally fitted the lock, and we breathed a sigh of relief.

We went through a hallway into a completely vacant sitting room that overlooked the street and the sea.

“She lived upstairs,” said Naz. “Downstairs was always empty.”

Naz clutched my arm, as if my presence gave her strength, as we went up the stairs to the first floor. In a sitting room, we saw the
outline of how Sani's body had been positioned on the wooden floor. Remains of the black dust used to take fingerprints were sprinkled over the furniture. A heavy smell pervaded the airless room. Was it the smell of death? It was certainly unbearable.

One part of the spacious sitting room was raised slightly to give a better view of the Bosphorus. The position in which the corpse had been found suggested that Sani had hit her head on the steps leading to this raised area.

“Ouch,” I winced, as Naz tightened her fingers on my arm like a vice.

“Sorry, sorry,” she repeated a few times and drew her hand away, immediately swaying as if unable to remain upright without my assistance.

“Do you want some water?” I said, taking her arm.

“No, I'm all right.”

“You go and sit down. Remember, we mustn't touch anything.”

“I'm fine,” said Naz, making her way towards the desk, where the drawers had been opened and their contents neatly lined up, obviously to be photographed. Scattered across the desk were other items, presumably from Sani's handbag, which included a lipstick, hand mirror, cigarettes, lighter, black fountain pen and a half-full bottle of perfume. The police must have removed the handbag and any other items that might be evidence, so even if she'd kept a diary, it was long gone.

“What did the diary look like?” I asked.

“When Sani was little, she wrote in a little pink notebook. An uncle in Istanbul bought it for her. But I've no idea what she would have been using recently.”

“Didn't you tell me that she never wrote anything by hand and claimed to have difficulty even signing her name? Was that you?”

“What do you mean?” asked Naz, shaking her head from side to side absent-mindedly.

“I'm asking if you're quite sure that she kept a handwritten diary.”

“Are you suggesting that she wrote it on her laptop?” said Naz, still staring at the desk.

“Well, why not?” I asked.

Naz swayed again, and I caught her hand as she reached out to grab the desk.

“We mustn't touch anything,” I said. “Might there be any rubber gloves in the kitchen?”

Naz didn't reply, so I took her arm and led her into the kitchen, which was immaculate and showed no sign of ever having being used to cook a meal. A toaster, an espresso machine and two small cups stood on the worktop. We stood motionless in the middle of the kitchen, our arms still linked, while I summoned up the courage to ask my next question.

“Let's get out of here,” said Naz, disengaging her arm and turning towards the stairs.

“No!” I said. “Take a look at this.”

“What is it?” said Naz, stopping at the top of the stairs.

“Do you know how this espresso machine works?”

“Are you saying you want an espresso?” asked Naz, as if it was the most unimaginable request for anyone to make. Perhaps at that moment, in the house of a dead person whose effects we were examining, she was right.

“Do you think Sani put those cups out to make coffee for two?” I asked, pointing to the cups standing next to the coffee machine.

“Hmm, I wonder why there are two out,” replied Naz, who seemed to have recovered slightly.

“Look and see if she put enough coffee into the machine for two. But first we need to find some gloves.”

“It has nothing to do with how much coffee you put in the machine. You just put another capsule in for each cup.”

“How do you mean? I don't understand.”

“Each cup is made separately. You put a capsule in and turn the machine on, then discard the empty capsule, put another in and press the button again.”