Divorce Turkish Style (15 page)

“How should I know? Is the idea of eating
köfte
with fashionistas more appealing if it's in Paşabahçe?”

Paşabahçe used to be a small place situated in a wooded area on the Asian side of the Bosphorus. In the past, the majority of its residents had been workers at local factories making
rakı
and glassware. Then the area was “discovered”, and subjected to substantial building development. Now the coastline of what had once been one of the ancient Bosphorus fishing villages was covered with countless new villas, and my intuition told me that there would be people at this
köfte
party who would love nothing more than to discuss the gossip on Skyrat. It was an opportunity not to be missed.

“Actually, it might be nice,” I said. “I've had enough of Beyoğlu nightlife. I think a change would… Could Fofo come with me, perhaps?”

“What are you up to, Kati?” asked Lale darkly.

I can't bear having friends who know me too well. A person's entitled to a few secrets in life, aren't they?

“I'll explain later,” I said.

“We can pick you up from somewhere. How would you get there otherwise?”

“Bus,
dolmuş
and taxi—”

“That'll take for ever! We'll collect you from the ferry at Üsküdar.”

We left early in the afternoon to go to Sinan's place and, since the weather was fine, we decided to get out of the taxi at Arnavutköy
and walk the rest of the way. At exactly three o'clock, we seated ourselves on a bench overlooking the Bosphorus and I called the number Sinan had given us.

“It's ringing,” I cried in amazement, wondering if I should start trusting people more.

“See! We should have believed in him,” said Fofo.

The phone rang for a long time before cutting off automatically.

“It rang, but he's not picking up,” I said.

“Try again. He might not have got to it in time.”

I tried a few more times, but there was no response.

“We weren't wrong about him,” I said. “Let's get a taxi and go home.”

“Do you think it's all right to simply not turn up?”

“We took the trouble to come all this way, and for what, Fofo? Anyway, have you ever come across a detective with good manners? I'd love to know if any detective has ever prearranged a meeting with a suspect like we did.”

“But we don't work on conventional principles. We don't invade people's privacy, even if they're suspects, which is why we're liked.”

“Liked?”

“Well, we could be. We could make a name for ourselves that way.”

“Never mind being liked. We don't have a chance of solving this case, the way things are going. If Sinan is the murderer, of course he's going to avoid meeting us. And he'll get away with it if we behave like polite wimps and leave him alone on the grounds that he might be a little unwell,” I said, thinking I sounded perfectly reasonable.

“Fine, then, let's go home. But at least call him one more time,” said Fofo.

I tried the number again. It rang for a long time, and then cut off.

“That's it. We're leaving.”

While I was trying to explain the meaning of “polite wimp” to Fofo in the taxi, my mobile rang and showed “private number”.

“You called me,” said a drowsy voice.

“Sinan Bey, is that you?”

“It is.”

“We spoke last night and arranged to meet today.”

“I've just woken up. I didn't hear the phone.”

People with a greater capacity for sleep than me always amaze me.

“We're in a taxi on our way to see you.”

“Did I give you the address?”

“No, you didn't, but we've got it anyway,” I said.

“Can you come in half an hour to give me time for a shower?” he said, showing no sign of annoyance that we'd managed to get hold of his address.

“Of course,” I said. What else was I supposed to say?

We told the taxi driver to turn round and go back to Rumelihisarı, where we sat in a tea garden and gazed at the sea in silence. Not only was I cross that there would be no time to go home and change before meeting Lale and Erol, I felt disinclined to pander to the whims of a celebrity, however handsome he was.

Eventually, we took another taxi. This time, the driver didn't know the area at all and we had difficulty finding the house. After stopping at a corner shop and then a butcher's to ask the way, we finally got out of the taxi at the entrance to a cul-de-sac.

“Sinan was right. It isn't easy to find,” I said to Fofo.

“Istanbul taxi drivers even have difficulty finding Taksim Square,” commented Fofo.

“Oh, don't start complaining about taxi drivers again, please.”

“But I'm right, aren't I?” he said, and rang the doorbell without waiting for me to reply.

The door was opened by a young man who looked a few years younger than Sinan. He was at least as handsome, and wore nothing but a towel around his waist. Fofo was clearly spellbound, so I forced myself to speak.

“We have an appointment with Sinan,” I said, my voice sounding a little hoarse.

“Come in. I'm Sinan's brother, Alkan.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said with genuine sincerity. After all, I don't encounter such fine specimens every day.

Alkan led us up to the first floor of the narrow-fronted detached house.

“Sit down here, and I'll be back in a moment. I was making coffee,” he said, and disappeared downstairs, his towel flapping as he went.

We were in a room containing a sofa and two armchairs squashed between shelves of CDs that lined the walls. Before long, Alkan returned, still with the towel around his waist, carrying two large cups of coffee in his hands.

“I'll just get the milk and sugar.”

“Not for me,” I said.

“I'd like some,” said Fofo.

As Alkan went downstairs again, Fofo bent over and whispered in my ear, “What if his towel were to fall off?”

I gave him a reproachful look. Why do some people become such sex maniacs when they're without a lover?

Alkan returned, this time with sugar in one hand and milk in the other.

“I'll just go and see what Sinan is doing,” he said, and disappeared again.

“We've been hanging around here since three o'clock,” I said to Fofo, who was happily sipping his coffee without a care in the world.

By the time Sinan appeared, I was ready to lose my temper. It seemed to me that he'd been hoping that we'd simply get up and leave if he made us wait long enough.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said.

“No problem. It doesn't matter at all,” said Fofo, still totally enraptured.

To avoid creating unnecessary tension, I refrained from blurting out the words that were on the tip of my tongue.

“Shall we get straight to the point?” said Sinan. “Last night you said you wanted to talk about Sani.”

“And you asked us who we were,” I said, thinking it was essential to get this out of the way first. “We're working for Sani's family.”

My words were not totally untrue. After all, her father had offered to pay us.

“So you're private detectives. But no crime has been committed. I don't understand why the family has hired a private detective.”

“Actually, I have a bookshop in Kuledibi,” I said, as if I hadn't heard his last sentence, because it seemed wise to wait a little before broaching the matter of murder.

“Kuledibi? Don't tell me you specialize in crime fiction!”

“Are you one of our customers?” said Fofo in disbelief, wondering how such a man could have escaped his attention.

“Not me, but my mother is. She reads a lot of crime fiction, and is probably one of your best customers.” Then, raising his voice, he called out, “Alka-an! They own the bookshop that Mama likes.”

“Tell me, what does your mother look like?” I asked.

“She's in her fifties, and has blonde hair which she wears in a ponytail. She always wears sunglasses, even when there's no sun,” said Sinan.

An image was forming in my mind.

“Does she prefer to read in English?” I asked.

“She generally reads in English because she says most of the crime fiction translated into Turkish is pretty awful.”

“Don't tell me your mother is Perihan Hanım!” I said, reflecting that it'd never have occurred to me that, attractive as she was, she could produce two such gorgeous sons.

“That's right. Well done!”

“Perihan Hanım is one of our best customers,” I said.

Fofo had still not worked out who she was.

“What's up?” asked Alkan, who had now replaced the towel with a pair of ripped jeans but was still naked above the waist.

“They know Mama. They have the crime fiction bookshop in Kuledibi,” said Sinan.

“Kati's the owner. I just work there,” said Fofo modestly.

Was he trying to play for sympathy, I wondered?

“Sorry, I've forgotten your name,” said Sinan.

“Fofo.”

“You have a slight accent. What is it?”

A smart way of asking a person where they come from, I thought.

“I'm Spanish. I came to Istanbul six years ago,” said Fofo.

“You've learned to speak wonderful Turkish in six years. That's a real achievement for such a short time.”

At this, Fofo puffed up like a turkey and turned to me as if to say, “Hear that?”

“Your relationship with Sani—” I interrupted, not wanting to waste time with small talk after waiting so long.

“I'm curious to know how you found out I was seeing Sani,” said Sinan.

“I promised not to reveal the identity of the person who gave me that information.”

“I understand,” he said with apparent sincerity. “Did that person also say that we'd split up? You can at least tell me that.”

“Had you split up?” I asked, instantly realizing this would mean he wasn't the person who'd been with Sani just before she died. Either that, or he was lying.

“We split up on 19 June.”

How strange to remember the specific date on which they'd split up. Still, some people are obsessive about such things.

“19 June is my birthday,” said Sinan.

I breathed a sigh of relief. After all, no one wants to get involved with an obsessive.

“We'd met at my place that evening. Sani was worried about her husband finding out about us and wouldn't meet anywhere in public, so we always met here. After we'd eaten, she said it was all over, and that was the last time I saw her. I phoned her a few times, but she was very distant with me and I stopped calling.”

Unless he was a good actor, he was obviously still angry, or at least offended about being ditched.

“You didn't go to the funeral?” I asked.

“How could I? The media were going to be there and people would have asked what I was doing there. Why would I attend the funeral of a married woman? Sani had never wanted to go public about our relationship. The age difference between us was a bit of an issue for her, but the real problem was that she was married.”

“What was the age difference?” I asked, merely out of curiosity because it had no bearing on the investigation.

“Eight years.”

That meant he was twenty-five. A man in his prime!

“Sani was always scared. Scared that her husband was having her followed, scared that photos of us together would get out, scared that we'd get caught – scared of everything. She was convinced that her husband would do whatever it took to get out of paying alimony. But actually, she had no need of alimony.
She was so well educated and multitalented that she could have found a job anywhere, any time. But I couldn't persuade her of that. For some reason, she felt very inadequate.”

Sinan's portrayal of Sani didn't conform at all to the image I had of her. I'd imagined someone with initiative, who was prepared to fight for her beliefs to the bitter end.

“I was really surprised when I got to know her properly,” continued Sinan. “Do you know what I think? I believe everyone's born with a certain amount of fighting spirit, but that if someone is forced to struggle at a young age it can get used up too early. It's as if Sani had lost her ability to fight. She'd grown accustomed to the material benefits provided by her husband and could no longer imagine any other life.”

“Yet she didn't want to live with her husband,” I said.

“I've no idea what went on in that relationship. She didn't tell me, and I didn't want to know, because I don't like discussing previous relationships. I could tell that Sani had been hurt, but she always kept her lips tightly shut, which was why I was surprised that you'd heard about us. Did she tell her sister?”