Hotel Bosphorus (18 page)

“You can still finish the film…” I said, feeling that I was repeating myself like a scratched record.

“We handed out advances, paid hotel bills… It'll be difficult for Phoenix to get through this. Things weren't too brilliant anyway, and now we're suspected of murder. Well, it certainly wasn't me.”

“I don't think the Mumcu family will go under from losing a bit of money,” I said. I leaned over and picked up my small orange handbag from beside my chair. I was standing with the henchman waiting at my side, despite the fact that I'd been rude to him. “Why is this man a constant fixture at our side?” I asked Yusuf.

“In case we want anything. It's called hospitality.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You should know that after living here for thirteen years.” He was pleased to be giving me a lesson on local custom and tradition.

“We move in different circles,” I said.

He didn't realize I was teasing him. “The class differences here are very marked. We Germans are much more like each other, aren't we? I find it all very confusing,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding my head in agreement. I was still standing in the same place. “I'm going. Will you let Mr Mumcu know?” I said in Turkish to the henchman.

“Wait here a moment,” said the henchman, hurrying out of the room.

I picked up my cigarettes and lighter from among the plates, put them in my handbag and held out my hand to Yusuf. He jumped up in a state of agitation. He had obviously not understood what I had said to the henchman.

“Are you going? You can't go until my brother-in-law comes,” he cried anxiously.

“I'll wait until he comes, don't worry,” I said. At that moment, I felt Mesut's breath on my neck.

“Hey, you can't go like that, we're going to eat,” he whispered in my ear.

I turned round to face him. We were so close we were almost touching.

“We've only just had breakfast, Mr Mumcu. We'll go out to eat later. I have some business to see to,” I said, almost as if I was an important businesswoman.

“In that case, we'll have you collected at eight o'clock this evening,” he said. He said something in Kurdish and, without giving me a chance to object, started walking briskly towards the stairs.

“That's all I need,” I thought.

At seven o'clock, I was sitting on my bed with manicured nails and blow-dried hair, staring at my clothes in the wardrobe. My stomach was churning at the mere thought of going out for a meal with Mesut. At least that morning when we'd had breakfast, I'd had good reason to be there. I was there to speak to Yusuf. But now I was openly going out for a meal with a member of the underworld. And I had much better things to do, such as meet up with Petra and, while I still could, find out where she met Müller and why she had suggested him as director for the film.

When I returned to the shop that afternoon, I found the number for Phoenix Films on the Internet. Introducing myself as Inspector Leyla Batuhan from the Istanbul homicide desk, I spoke to Mr Franz. I doubted that anyone would bother to investigate this telephone conversation but, if they were interested, it would be difficult, even impossible, to trace me. Another advantage of being a reader of crime fiction: I had the bright idea of phoning Franz from Galatasaray Post Office. Throughout our conversation, the only thing that aroused his suspicion was that I spoke German as well as a German. Well, I couldn't do anything about that.

Mr Franz confirmed that, as Yusuf had said, it was Petra who proposed Müller. He didn't know if the two had worked together on a film before, in fact he didn't think they had, but was there anything suspicious about Müller and Petra knowing each other? It was a small world and the film business was even smaller.

I didn't think Franz was the murderer because, along with Mesut and Yusuf, he had a lot to lose. My idea, which had at first seemed so reasonable, that Mesut's gang wanted to use the film to smuggle heroin out of the country and had killed Müller because of a disagreement, no longer seemed viable.

I realized that meant I needed to change my tactics and to focus on who would benefit from Müller's death, but so far nobody appeared to have gained anything from the murder. Then suddenly, a thought occurred to me that made me sit bolt upright. There was someone who had benefited from Müller's death. And that person was the assistant director, Miss Bauer. Had not Mr Franz said that very day that the best person to finish the film was Miss Bauer?

“Our team is competent enough. We can complete the film without having to sign an agreement with another director,” he had said.

“Who do you have in mind when you say the team is competent enough?” I had asked.

“We have a competent assistant director in Miss Bauer. She can take over.”

Of course, it didn't mean the only person to benefit from that murder was Miss Bauer. However, she had been promoted as a result of it. So, until Miss Bauer was eliminated from my list of suspects, I wasn't going
to give up my detective work on this murder case and quietly go back to my former monotonous existence.

Perhaps I should have heard alarm bells at discovering it was Petra who set up Müller as director but, whenever I thought about it, I couldn't help remembering how she'd said with apparent sincerity that there was nothing between them. Could there really have been anything going on between Petra and Müller? Perhaps he cheated on her and they'd had a row… A straightforward crime of passion! I didn't even want to think about the possibility of Petra committing a murder because she'd been deceived, and there was no reason to think Müller was killed because of a quarrel. It was a planned murder, not the result of a moment of anger. Nobody would think “what if we were to have a row”, and then go off to their lover's room with three extension cables and a hair-dryer that hadn't been on the market for four years.

As I raised my hand to my mouth to bite off a piece of cuticle, I stopped abruptly. I'd had a manicure that day and now I had to decide on something to wear. I concentrated on my wardrobe again.

It was ten past eight by the time I was dressed and giving myself a final look in the mirror, but the doorbell had still not rung. The situation was clear – Mesut had forgotten our date. Ever since he had talked about going out for dinner that evening, I'd felt nervous about the idea. I hadn't been able to stop thinking about it and what it might lead to.

I consoled myself until eight twenty by smoking and trying to convince myself that he was held up in traffic. By eight twenty-two, I could stand it no longer. At eight twenty-three, I put on my shoes and picked up my bag.
One minute later, I locked the door and went out into the street.

I was too smartly dressed to go just anywhere on my own, so I went to the Cactus Café, where I sat at the bar drinking margaritas. Four of them.

It doesn't take as long as you think to drink four margaritas. At nine fifty, I was back home again. The first thing I did was rush over to the phone. I felt a wave of pleasure sweep over me at seeing the flashing red light signalling the good news that I had a voicemail and that my female pride had been saved. I pressed the
Neue Infos
button. “
Sie haben vier neue Nachrichten
,” said the robotic female voice on the contraption that my mother had brought from Germany on one of her visits.

The first message had been left by Petra immediately after I went out. We hadn't seen each other for two days and she was asking why I hadn't called her.

The second message had been at eight forty-two; it was from the landlord on the top floor to remind me that I hadn't paid that month's rent yet. There was no hurry, but she was worried because I was never late with my rent and she wondered if something was wrong.

Someone rang at nine thirty-five, but put the phone down without leaving a message.

At one minute past ten, my elder brother rang from Göttingen to say that my mother's blood pressure had gone up that day and she'd been taken ill in the street. They'd carried her off to hospital but, according to the doctors, there was nothing to worry about.

I collapsed onto a chair. That was all I needed. While I was worrying about being corrupted by the
mafiosi
over here, my mother was suffering over there in hospital.

I dialled my brother's number with little hope of a reply. However, it was possible his wife had stayed at home rather than go to Berlin to see my mother, and I might get some details from her. I was about to put the phone down after five rings, when my brother answered.

“Hirschel,” he said.

“What are you doing there?” I asked.

“Kati!” he said, sounding delighted. “We were in the garden and I didn't hear the phone.”

“Didn't you go to Berlin? Or is Mother with you?” I asked.

“No, Mother's in Berlin. They took her to Urban Hospital. Why should I be in Berlin?” I think he was drunk.

“Because Mother's in hospital,” I said.

“Oh… no! It's nothing serious. She fell onto her right leg and broke her ankle. With old people, the slightest fall can cause a fracture. Of course there's her blood pressure too. But as you know, she's had that for years anyway. Ute and I are having a barbecue in the garden.” Ute is my sister-in-law.

“I'm going to Berlin tomorrow,” I said.

“Why?” What kind of question was that?

“To see Mother,” I said.

“Have you gone out of your mind?” he said in amazement. “I'm not even going from here.”

“But I am going,” I said. I'd made my mind up at that moment.

“You've spent too much time over there… We don't do that sort of thing. People here don't all pile on top of each other just because of a slight illness. Living in that hot climate has made you as excitable as they are.”

“I'm going to Berlin tomorrow, Schalom. We'll meet up there, if you decide to come,” I said.

It always made him angry when I spoke in this tone.

“Fine, you go then,” he said. We put our phones down without saying goodbye.

I threw my best clothes on the floor without a second thought, and went to bed without removing my make-up.

At first when I awoke the next morning, I couldn't remember the reason for the nagging worry I was feeling. But not for long. I soon remembered first my mother and then the Müller case, which I seemed unable to shake off. Setting aside thoughts of Müller, I jumped out of bed. The sooner I got moving the better if I was to get on a flight to Berlin.

A pain was gradually spreading from the left side of my head. Telling myself out loud that it would pass, I ran to phone the travel agent.

“It's impossible to find seats on any airline at the moment, Miss Hirschel,” said the man at the travel agency when I'd finished speaking.

“I simply have to go. If not today, tomorrow at the latest.”

“Well, as you know, Turks working abroad and tourists just keep coming at this time of year. And when they come here, what does that mean? It means they have to go back again. I very much doubt if we'll find a seat, but I'll do another check and get back to you.”

“OK. Please do that. I'll be at home,” I said.

“I can tell you there's no chance of finding a seat on a charter flight, but I'll have a look at the scheduled flights.”

“Yes, if you would. And see if there are any indirect flights. I definitely have to go,” I said firmly.

I put the telephone down and rushed off to the bathroom. The face that looked back at me in the mirror over the washbasin resembled that of a Venezuelan who had just learned she'd been crowned Miss World. I had mascara and eye shadow running all down my cheeks. I plunged into the shower.

The ring of the telephone resounded throughout the whole apartment, but I only heard it when I turned off the shower. It had to be the travel agent. Wrapping myself in a towel, I ran to the phone taking care not to slip. It was Yılmaz.

“Did you forget? Today's Saturday,” he said, without even giving me the chance to say hello.

“Yılmaaz! Something terrible has happened. Where are you? Come over here and we'll have breakfast, and…”

He interrupted, saying, “I'm in the café next to the mosque, where else would I be? I'll be there in five minutes,” he said.

 

We sat with our legs propped up on the balcony railing and, on Yılmaz's instructions, were enjoying our tea. I'd been telling him what had been happening to me over the past ten days. Not everything of course, just what was necessary. Then the phone rang. I had a strong urge to escape any further disaster by fleeing to a mountain village with no telephone connection. If such a place still exists.

This time it was the travel agent telling me there was a Turkish Airlines flight at thirteen forty-five the next day and asking if I wanted it.

“Yes, of course,” I said.

“When will you be returning?”

“In a week's time, maybe ten days. It might be less, but not more than ten days.”

“In that case, I'll make the ticket out for two weeks, although a one-week ticket would be cheaper… At the moment, Turkish Airlines costs more than Lufthansa. A fifteen-day return ticket is 450 dollars, just so you know. Naturally, they can't find clients at these prices. It's not for nothing that everyone says Turkish Airlines should be privatized. Their losses are carried by all of us. In the old days, there were special workers' tickets, but not any more. Although we couldn't have got you a worker's ticket anyway, so nothing's changed as far as you're concerned.”

“The money's not important. My mother's ill and I definitely have to go,” I said.