Divorce Turkish Style (23 page)

“Why not? We don't have labels saying ‘I'm not Sani' on our foreheads. No one's going to ask questions. We'll find an assistant or a nurse,” I said.

“Do you think we'll get away with it?”

“Of course!”

And we did. It was raining when we left the hospital, and we rushed into a nearby pastry shop. In the time I'd known her, I'd never seen Naz look so pleased as she sat nodding her head and studying the results of the blood analyses.

“If she wasn't poisoned, which was what I'd thought,” she said finally, “then the probable cause of death was hypoglycaemic shock.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“It's caused by dangerously low sugar levels. Anyone with hypoglycaemia needs to avoid hunger, and Sani was always going around half-starved. What's more—”

“Yes?” I said.

“We've been assuming that someone was with her in the house… If she'd had an argument… Well, that could have triggered a sudden drop in her sugar level.”

“So you're suggesting that she died of hunger?”

“Exactly.”

Sani Ankaralıgil starved to death? Who'd have thought it?

9

I'd never known Ramadan to have so little impact on city life. Anyone who remembered the attacks at provincial universities on students who'd refused to fast, even up to the Nineties, would have said that life in Istanbul had become a bed of roses compared with the past. Despite the inevitable tension in the air, there had been no serious incidents so far.

I don't really know why it was different that year. Were fewer people fasting? Or had they become more tolerant? Was there a greater belief that people could live in harmony together? Even the
davul
players, despite handing out their leaflets, seemed to have disappeared. My only complaint concerned the traffic jams caused by hungry people rushing home for their evening feast.

I'd left a few messages for Batuhan during the day, but the time had come for a serious exchange of information. Batuhan called me back after I'd returned from lunch and just as pangs of hunger were starting up again in my stomach.

“Where are you?” I said. “We need to speak.”

“There's no time to do our jobs with all the in-house training they make us do,” complained Batuhan, who had just returned from three days of seminars at a police training centre in Bolu.

“Can we meet sometime today?” I asked.

“Come to the police station. I'm in Room 423.”

“What time?”

“Whenever you like. I'm here until ten tonight.”

It brought tears to my eyes to think of Turkish policemen sacrificing their lives to their work like that.

I'd said earlier that Ramadan had caused few changes to the pattern of city life that year. However, the Petek Snack Bar was closed so that the family, as always, could spend the month in their village. I wasn't concerned about trying to get into size eight clothes and had banished all thoughts of dieting since hearing the awful truth about how Sani had died, so I picked up a toasted cheese sandwich from the Minik Buffet and got into a cab.

The policeman on the door checked my ID thoroughly and phoned to let Batuhan know of my arrival before allowing me into the police station.

Dear Batuhan was waiting for me outside the lift on the fourth floor.

“What do you want to drink?” he asked as soon as we entered his office.

“Aren't you fasting?”

“I've got stomach trouble, so I can't fast.”

I couldn't help wondering if it was the sort of trouble that only appeared during Ramadan. The cab driver had also spoken at length about his stomach problems and how he was unable to fast.

“I'll have a tea, if you're having one,” I said.

“The tea isn't fresh at this time of day. Better to have something cold.”

“In that case, I'll have a soda.”

“What did you want to talk about?” asked Batuhan, sitting down in the armchair opposite me.

“We've found out how Sani died,” I said.

“You've discovered the cause of death?” exclaimed Batuhan in disbelief.

Actually, I thought he should have been more surprised that
I'd actually volunteered this information than that I knew what had killed Sani.

“So how did she die?” asked Batuhan.

“It was hypoglycaemic shock,” I said.

“And what does that mean?”

“It's also called ‘the size eight disease',” I explained. “Starvation can make blood sugar levels fall, causing people to go into shock and fall into a coma. If they don't receive help within ten minutes – fifteen at the most – they don't regain consciousness.”

“Whew! Never heard that before,” said Batuhan.

“Size eight is all the rage in Turkey now,” I continued. “You hear of young girls desperately dieting in the hope of becoming fashion models. Apparently in New York there are frequent delays on the metro caused by girls fainting. Who knows how many it happens to each day?”

“But not in Turkey,” interrupted Batuhan. “Turkish men don't like their women scrawny. By the way, I see you've filled out a bit.”

What did he mean by that? That I'd put on weight? I got up and looked down at my legs.

“It's these trousers,” I said. “It's the way they're cut.”

“Turn around. Let me look at your backside,” said Batuhan.

Was this really happening in Room 423 of the police station?

“You should concentrate on yourself. You've got quite a paunch there,” I remarked.

“I think it makes me look wealthy,” said Batuhan, patting his stomach.

“Oh yes? A fine indication of wealth,” I said, thinking that many of the richest people in the world choose to eat so little they almost starve to death.

“Yeah, I've put on a pound or two, but it suits me,” said Batuhan.

“Aren't you going to ask me how we found out?” I asked, ignoring his absurd comments about weight.

“Found out what?”

“How Sani died.”

“First I want to know who you mean by ‘us',” said Batuhan.

“Sani's sister Naz and myself.”

“Our guys have been looking for her,” he said casually. “Tell her to come in to the station to make a statement.”

“You don't seem very interested in our findings,” I said.

“I'm more interested in you,” he laughed.

I reached for my glass and took a sip of soda to give me time to collect myself.

“It's not a question of whether I'm interested or not, Kati,” said Batuhan. “When you reach commander level, you get buried in so much admin that there's barely time to get out and conduct investigations. You wouldn't want to hear how I spend my time. I have to do the most boring work.”

“I understand,” I said, realizing this meant the end of those enjoyable days spent with Batuhan.

“So how did you find out that she'd died from shock, or whatever it was?” asked Batuhan.

“She had a blood test done at the hospital on Tuesday afternoon.”

“Have you got the results of the test with you?”

Of course I had. “Here, keep it,” I said.

“And what did you want from me?”

Finally, after all these years, Batuhan showed that he had an inkling of how my mind worked: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours…

“Why were you so certain that Sani wasn't alone in the house when she died?” I asked.

Batuhan reached for one of the files lying on the table, took out a few pages and handed them to me.

“Read these. I'll be back in a moment,” he said.

He rose to his feet and left the room. A moment later, I heard him shouting at some people out in the corridor.

The report from the police laboratory read as follows:

Ultraviolet photographs 1, 2 and 3 show that the nature of the scratches on the floor, and chemical analysis of the colour and type of dye found in these scratches, matches the colour and particulars of the size 38 black high-heeled woman's shoes found on the feet of the deceased person, as outlined in Doc. 2006/221. It is therefore feasible that the size 38 black shoes detailed therein made these scratches.

Ultraviolet photographs 4, 5 and 6 show marks made by size 40 flat-heeled shoes, as detailed in Doc. 2006/222.

So, whoever had watched Sani die in her house had been wearing size forty flats.

“Have you read it?” asked Batuhan when he returned.

“I have,” I said. “It was obviously a woman in the house with her.”

“Or a short man…Some men take a size forty shoe.”

“Is that all you know?” I asked.

Batuhan leaned over my shoulder to look at the report I was still holding, and then handed me Document 2006/222, on which ‘XOXO' had been scribbled underneath “size 40 flat-heeled shoe”. Otherwise, there was no further information in this document. As far as I could remember, XOXO was the name of a sportswear chain.

“Could it have been the cleaner?” I suggested. “Or the nightwatchman? They both went into the house. Why did you only find two sets of footprints in the sitting room?”

“Do you want to see photos of the watchman and cleaner's footprints?” said Batuhan. “I didn't show them to you because I didn't think they'd be of any use.”

“I don't need to see them. I just wondered if they were there,” I said. “I see the Turkish police have gone in for ultraviolet photography.”

“Whatever technology they have in Europe and America, we have too,” said Batuhan. “We lack for nothing here.”

“I don't suppose it's possible to search for XOXO shoes in the houses of anyone related to this case who takes a size forty shoe, is it?”

Batuhan didn't laugh out loud, but he was clearly amused.

“If only, but our hands are tied by regulations,” he said. “I need sound evidence before I can apply for a search warrant.”

“Anyway, I suppose it would be pointless doing house searches for shoes that might have been disposed of days ago,” I said.

“Even you were unaware that we use ultraviolet photography, so they might not have been,” said Batuhan, then, suddenly looking serious, added, “You must promise not to say a word to anyone about these photos.”

“Of course,” I said, flicking a strand of hair away from my eyes. “You've interviewed Cem Ankaralıgil, haven't you?”

“Several times. Have you spoken to him?”

“I doubt if he'd talk to me, especially since I have no official capacity.”

“It doesn't matter anyway. He has reliable witnesses,” said Batuhan. “On the Tuesday evening, he attended a meeting at the Chamber of Shipping Transport and left at about nine o'clock. After that he went to a fish restaurant in Bebek, where he met up with some friends.”

“And what did he do after leaving his friends?” I asked.

“He didn't leave them. They left the restaurant together and all went back to someone's house, where they carried on drinking. He returned home in the early hours of the morning. At nine-thirty on Wednesday morning he attended a meeting at his company
headquarters, after which he went to a shipyard in Izmit. Then in the evening he attended a dinner at a sports club where he's on the executive committee. When the meal was over, his chauffeur took him to the family home, where he stayed until morning.”

“He has a busier schedule than the Prime Minister,” I remarked. “But is there any chance his friends might be lying? Maybe he didn't spend Tuesday night with them.”

“They're in no position to lie,” said Batuhan.

What did he mean by that? All the people I'd met connected with this case had lied.

“They're not the types to be bought off.”

Over the previous few days I'd begun to think that no one was taking a handout!

“Who are these people?” I asked out of curiosity.

“Some of Turkey's most renowned businessmen, a foreign diplomat and a company director. Do you think they'd all lie?”

“Why not?” I replied, wondering if I'd lost all faith in humankind.

“For the simple reason that they wouldn't be willing to put themselves at risk because Cem had allowed his wife's blood sugar level to drop and watched her die, that's why. No one in their position would be stupid enough to go to prison for aiding and abetting,” said Batuhan, and paused before adding, with an air of finality, “Anyway, Cem doesn't take a size forty shoe.”

I have to admit that, in my humble opinion, this was a far stronger argument than any given in the witness statements. Nevertheless, the possibility still remained that Cem could have sent someone wearing size forty shoes to Sani's house.