Divorce Turkish Style (6 page)

“How did you get mixed up in this?”

“Ask Fofo. It was his idea,” I said with a grin that I hoped would melt the ice between us. But this time Batuhan did not smile.

“We haven't met,” said Fofo.

“Go on,” said Batuhan, reluctantly shaking Fofo's outstretched hand and barely glancing at him. “You were about to tell me how you got mixed up in this.”

“I saw a news item in the Friday papers,” said Fofo. “The sudden death of a woman who was about to divorce a rich husband seemed suspicious. And then when I found that I knew who the woman was—”

“You knew her?” said Batuhan, his interest in what Fofo was saying suddenly aroused.

“We used to see her, but we didn't really know her,” I intervened. “There's a restaurant on the ground floor of this building where we go for lunch and we used to see her there. When we read that she'd died, we decided to visit her office.”

“And when you saw her over lunch, I suppose she told you exactly where her office was,” said Batuhan mockingly.

“We did our own research when we learned of her death,” I said, standing my ground.

“…through open sources,” added Fofo.

“That's right. We did some googling and asked a few questions.”

“And what did you learn by googling and asking a few questions, apart from the office address?” said Batuhan.

“That before she died, she had dinner with her husband's lawyer and they discussed a prenuptial agreement.”

“Prenuptial agreement?” said Batuhan, looking at me through narrowed eyes, which I knew to be an indication that it had caught his interest. “Who is the husband's lawyer?”

“You first,” I said, with mischievous pleasure. “What does the autopsy say? Does it confirm that it was murder?”

“You don't really expect me to reveal the content of confidential documents that are vital to the investigation, do you?”

I did, actually. But I wasn't so naive as to think he would sing like a canary the moment he saw me. It would take time.

“If the laptop was stolen then… Well, you could at least tell us if anyone forced their way into her house,” I said, knowing that I was pushing my luck.

“No one forced their way in,” said Batuhan.

“She had dinner with a lawyer named Demir Soylu last Monday,” I said in return as a gesture of goodwill.

Unfortunately, my gesture was not reciprocated. I didn't get another word out of Batuhan.

*

Busy days at the shop, when I had to talk incessantly about crime fiction with a never-ending flow of customers, should have accustomed me to spending time with so many people, but that day had been too much. When we left GreTur's office, all I wanted to do was stay in and stare at the ceiling.

“I'm going home,” I said to Fofo, as we made our way down Galip Dede Street.

The descent was by no means easy, of course. Indeed, was anything easy in Istanbul, especially Beyoğlu? The narrow pavements were filled with stalls, so we had to walk down the middle of the street, darting to left and right along with all the other pedestrians to avoid being mown down by traffic.

“Don't go home,” said Fofo. “We need to make a plan of action and work out who we're going to talk to.”

“We'll discuss it this evening.”

“Let's have a look at Sani's house first.”

“What would we do at Sani's house, since we can't get in? We could go to Lüleburgaz, but—”

“I wonder who found the body. Maybe it was the porter, or a nosy neighbour. Your Batuhan didn't say anything about that.”

“Never mind Batuhan,” I said. “We need to strengthen our hand a bit. Then he'll move heaven and earth to find out what we know. People don't go running straight to the police to tell them what they've seen. Our position is much better than his.”

At least I knew enough about the business to realize that being a police officer in a homicide investigation was not always an advantage.

3

We rose the next morning with a plan of action. After much huffing and puffing, Fofo had agreed to open up the shop for me and had taken on the task of finding a car to take us to Lüleburgaz. Unfortunately, I'd had to sell all my valuables, including my beloved Peugeot, when I bought my apartment.

Tuesday was cleaning day and I was obliged to have breakfast with Fatma Hanım, who talked endlessly about her cute grandchildren and her husband, who had recently retired and now spent all his time dozing at home. The new shop rota meant that normally I'd already left for work by the time she arrived, so before I went out she took the opportunity to get me to help her turn the mattress, which proved to be laced with spiderwebs. Why I needed such a large bed if I was destined to sleep alone for the rest of my life, I'd no idea. But there it stood in the middle of the room, like some sort of omen. Then, because I was taller, Fatma Hanım sent me up the stepladder to lift down the rugs we'd stored on top of the wardrobe for the summer. After that, I dressed quickly and left before she could fınd anything else for me to do.

Fofo was waiting for me at the front door, grinning from ear to ear.

“I've got a Renault Clio from a friend who lives in Cihangir. How about that?” he said before even saying hello, and as if we were in a position to choose the brand of car we took.

“When will we have it?”

“Whenever we want,” said Fofo. “I called Sevim, the secretary. She'll meet us early this evening to tell us about Sani's family and how to find them.”

“All we have to do is go to Kayacık village, outside Lüleburgaz, and ask for the Kaya family. It's simple,” I said, patronizingly.

“Kayacık? How do you know that?”

“Murat mentioned yesterday that Sani was born there, smartarse. You need to keep your eyes and ears open in this business.”

Fofo looked apoplectic, but managed to shrug it off and said, “Oh dear, I forgot.”

However, I knew what he was thinking: one–nil.

“It's still a good idea to go and see Sevim,” I said. “Just a moment, how did you find out her number?”

It might have been normal for me to memorize a phone number, but not for poor muddle-headed Fofo.

“Yesterday, when she gave the phone number to Batuhan, I filed it away in a corner of my mind,” said Fofo, his self-confidence restored.

“Well done,” I said, giving him a pat on the shoulder, which only seemed to make him tense up again. “But it's better if I meet Sevim on my own.”

The tense look on Fofo's face turned to one of total dismay, and not without justification. I was getting him to make all the arrangements and then excluding him from the action. I wasn't being fair.

“It's for the sake of our investigation,” I persisted. “A woman always opens up more easily to another woman. But if you want to come…”

Fofo stared out of the window.

“Do you really think she'd be more comfortable speaking to you?” he asked.

“That's the way it is. People who've grown up in conservative
environments always connect more easily with people of their own gender.”

“It was the same in Spain. My mother and aunt always had women friends,” muttered Fofo. “Fine. Go on your own. But you will tell me everything, won't you? Promise?”

“Of course. You know you can trust me, don't you?”

Peering at me closely, as if he believed it was possible to read a person's soul by looking into their eyes, Fofo finally said, “No, I don't trust you.”

Was it possible to read a person's soul by looking into their eyes?

“Don't be silly, Fofo. We're not in competition. We're a team.”

Was that convincing, I wondered?

Sevim and Fofo had agreed to meet at Simit Sarayı in Taksim Square at five o'clock. It was a five-storey building selling
simit
s and other pastries, and was frequented by all sorts of people, mostly from Istanbul's outlying suburbs. I'd never set foot in the place before. It wasn't my sort of thing, but lots of these eating “palaces” had sprung up in Istanbul recently. In the old days, of course,
simit
s were baked in brick ovens, piled on to trays and sold cheaply in the street.

I'd been to an identical Simit Sarayı in Kottbusser Tor on my last visit to Berlin. It had been Christmas time, and nowhere else was open. I couldn't speak for other cities in Germany, but the Turks who settled in Berlin had shown great enterprise in the field of gastronomy by bringing with them native specialities like doner kebabs,
simit
s, nuts, dried fruits and jacket potatoes to sell alongside their halal versions of pork-based Berlin specialities like
currywurst
.

I'd just started to worry that I might not recognize Sevim among the crowds in Simit Sarayı, but relaxed when I saw a
drably dressed woman approaching me with the glee of someone greeting a close relative. Maybe I'd been too hungry or my mind had been completely occupied with Sani, but I suddenly realized I'd paid no attention whatsoever to Sevim the previous day. I certainly hadn't remembered how unprepossessing she looked.

Before making our way to the non-smoking area on the third floor, we went up to the self-service bar and bought ourselves tea and stodgy orange-flavoured cookies of the sort that were only edible if dunked. I've already mentioned that I'd given up smoking, haven't I? I wasn't yet an anti-smoking fanatic, but preferred to sit in a smoke-free environment if possible. However, I refused to acknowledge Fofo's claims that I was just trying to avoid remembering my happy days as a smoker.

“We didn't get the chance to speak much yesterday, but I wanted to ask you a few questions, Sevim Hanım.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.”

“Kati.”

“Kati Hanım, first let me say something. You might not believe this, but I couldn't sleep a wink last night. I spent the whole night tossing and turning, wondering how to get hold of you. I felt so much better after your friend phoned. I have the feeling that when you talked about becoming a member of GreTur, it was just an excuse to come to the office. Am I right?”

Should I have been humbled by this woman's ability to see through my stupid ruse?

“You could say that,” I said. “But I do care about the environment, and I support projects like that.”

I was being truthful. For instance, I avoided buying gold on the grounds that cyanide is frequently used to separate it from the ore.

“You said yesterday that Sani Hanım had been killed,” said Sevim. “Were you at the funeral? It was so crowded that it was impossible to see who was there and who wasn't, but I don't think I saw you.”

I shook my head, indicating that I hadn't been there.

“At the funeral they said that Sani Hanım died in an accident. I checked the papers and they said it was an accident as well. I was very upset when you said yesterday that she'd been killed.”

“Look, I only said it was a possibility. That might not be the case at all.”

I suddenly realized that, all the time I'd been referring to Sani's death, I'd no idea how the poor woman died.

“What kind of accident did they say it was at the funeral?”

“They said that she fell over.”

“Fell?”

“Yes. It's tragic, isn't it? She caught her foot and slipped. Fell over. She probably hit her head. Did you know her?”

“I'd spoken to her a few times, but I wouldn't say I knew her.”

“If you'd known her, you'd have liked her a lot. Who'd want to kill a person like that?”

“Did you know the police have taken her husband in for questioning?”

“Is Cem Bey under suspicion?” she said, covering her mouth as if it was a shameful question to ask.

“In the case of a suspicious death, the first task is to determine who might benefit from that death. Spouses come into that category.”

“But it's impossible. Cem Bey wouldn't hurt a fly. He's such a polite person. A real gentleman. And anyway, how would Cem Bey benefit from Sani Hanım's death? They were about to get divorced.”

“Well, I'm sure you know that some people are awarded alimony or compensation after a divorce. The civil law's been changed, so that any assets acquired during a marriage are shared between the couple. Cem Bey probably acquired a substantial amount of wealth during their marriage. In fact, more money than you and I will ever see in a lifetime.”

“Shall I tell you something?” asked Sevim, looking very serious.

“Go ahead,” I said, matching her seriousness.

“Cem Bey would never kill anyone, even if billions were at stake. As I said, he's a real gentleman. And so courteous. He really loved Sani Hanım. It's just not possible.”

Sevim was making me feel almost ashamed for having even entertained such a thought.