Divorce Turkish Style (2 page)

“So? What of it? It's nothing to do with us,” I said.

“Don't you think her sudden death in the middle of a divorce case is of interest?”

“If you really want to know, struggling to pay off my bank loan is a lot more interesting to me right now,” I replied. “Tell me, how many books have you sold this morning? Hmm?”

“What's happened to your bloodhound nose? A woman divorces her rich husband—”

“I keep my nose for sniffing out financial matters,” I interrupted. “Not that it seems to have any effect on my staff.”

“What if she was murdered?” persisted Fofo.

“Do you know how many women are murdered every minute? Things like that are handled by the police, whose salaries are paid for out of my taxes, and by women's associations, to which I give financial support despite my current material straits. It's none of my business.”

“You're impossible today. Sorry for taking up your time,” said Fofo reproachfully, rising to his feet with a bitter smile.

He went out to the small kitchen area behind the orange- and green-striped curtain and picked up a duster, which he started flicking randomly over the bookshelves. Meanwhile, I sat down at the computer to go over the previous week's accounts.

Business on Fridays was always erratic. Sometimes, there'd be a constant flow of customers and barely time to breathe, while at other times we'd squabble with each other just to pass the time. However, that Friday was very busy. Our customers ranged from foreign tourists taking a look at city life to locals wanting to arm themselves with books before setting off to spend the best days of autumn on an Aegean boat trip. It was a profitable day. If only every day could be like that.

After paying Pelin and Fofo's salaries, I was finding it difficult to keep up the repayments on my bank loan, never mind putting money aside for retirement.

“From now on, we'll be opening at the weekends,” I'd announced at the start of summer, ignoring the way Fofo and Pelin looked at each other as if I was out of my mind. “Not only is Kuledibi much nicer when all the trashy shops are closed, our target customers mainly come here at weekends, either just to have tea or to see Istanbul from the Galata Tower.”

Fofo and Pelin remained silent.

“Any objections, either of you?”

“We'd have to make up a new rota,” said Pelin.

“Of course we'll have a new rota. Since you'll be at university during the week, you can open up at the weekends. Fofo and I will take care of the other days.”

“Fine,” said Pelin.

Fofo nodded reluctantly. He was a dear friend, but wouldn't so much as move his little finger unless compelled.

So Pelin and Fofo started running the business without me at the weekends. In return, I'd come in early on Monday mornings. That Monday, I'd opened the shutters and was waiting for the water to boil to make green tea when the telephone rang.

“Are you online?” shouted Fofo down the line.

“Yes,” I replied, holding the receiver away from my ear.

I'd opened up the computer as soon as I arrived, as always.

“Go to Skyrat. Our Sani is headline news!” cried Fofo.

Skyrat was a popular website for gossip and rumours in Istanbul. For security reasons the website owners didn't reveal their names, but the word was that three men ran it: a couple of journalists who had lost their jobs while investigating the police, and the editor of a society magazine.

From this website, for instance, we'd learned that Turkey's self-styled most beautiful woman, the singer Binnur Baran, had
discovered her husband in bed with their Romanian maid, and the identity of the person who supplied drugs to the beautiful young model Gül Arkan, whose corpse had been found in the street the previous year. The website provided all kinds of source material: from pre-fame nude photos of a well-known actress to secret sex tapes of a university professor who was familiar as a TV news commentator.

With the phone wedged between my neck and shoulder, I typed in the website address.

A page of flashing headlines came up and invited me to click for more details. I clicked.

Investigations are continuing into the sudden and mysterious death of Sani Ankaralıgil following an accident at her villa in Paşabahçe. She was in the process of divorcing her husband Cem Ankaralıgil, a familiar face in society and the only son of Tamaşa and Bahri Ankaralıgil, the well-known shipping magnate and owner of the Ankaralıgil group of companies. A few days before her death, Sani Ankaralıgil is known to have dined at the famous Shining Sun restaurant with a close friend of her husband.

What was discussed at this meal?

Bookmark
skyrat.com.tr
for breaking news!

“So, what about it?” I said.

“It's hotting up!” said Fofo, his voice ringing with excitement. “We're not the only ones who've refused to let this go. Why don't we go and speak to the people who run this website? We might find out what's behind it all.”

“You're full of good ideas today, aren't you, Fofo?” I retorted. “But I can't be running after killers. I need to concentrate on running the shop, paying off my debts and putting money aside for a rainy day.”

However, I was beginning to weaken. This could be another chance to prove my skills at sniffing out a murderer. As you'll appreciate, dear reader, it wasn't every day that a seller of crime fiction was presented with a murder waiting to be solved.

“Anyway, suppose we decided to pursue this,” I said, still putting up a defensive front, “where are you going to find the people who run this website? No one knows who they are.”

“Oh, Kati, how naive you are,” interrupted Fofo cheerfully. “Don't tell me you really think something like that can be kept secret in Istanbul.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I know the two journalists. I see them cavorting around on the dance floor whenever I go to Pakize's. You've seen them too. Remember the guy with brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses?”

“Uh-huh,” I said in a non-committal way, finding the description pretty unhelpful.

“You know, the one who dances like a lunatic?” continued Fofo. “He removed his shirt once and started waving it about. He's tall, with—”

“Yes, I think I remember,” I said.

An image was beginning to form in my mind, not of a face but a trim, muscular body, the type I'd swear spent at least four days a week at the gym, weightlifting in front of a mirror and watching his muscles swell. How did he find time to stretch out this one-line piece of news like a piece of chewing gum?

“Well, it's him,” said Fofo with a deep sigh. “They say he's totally straight, but if you ask me, there's a bit more to him than that.”

This was nothing new. Fofo was always claiming that men were naturally bisexual from birth. His belief in this theory was quite unshakeable.

“Could you find this guy?” I asked.

“I can do more than that,” he said, brightly. “I don't have his number, but I know who he hangs out with, and one of them is my friend Taner. How about that?”

“You're a marvel! Call him immediately,” I said, suddenly feeling ready to pursue a murder case with the energy of a panther preparing to pounce on its prey. Never mind the shop and the endless loans!

“Old habits die hard, I see,” laughed Fofo. “Isn't that what you used to say?”

“Why break the habit of a lifetime?”

“Indeed. But what about the shop?” said Fofo, suddenly sounding serious. “Can we get hold of Pelin? If this man works near here, we might be able to see him straight away.”

“I'm calling Pelin now.”

“And if you can't reach her?”

“Don't worry, I'm not missing this for anything,” I said.

“Yeah, I like it!” said Fofo.

I called Pelin and used various threats to get her to come to the shop immediately. Then, as I was going over the piece on Skyrat again, the telephone rang. It was Fofo.

“Sweetie,” he said. “We're on! Be at Cactus Café in fifteen minutes. Don't be late! I worked hard to persuade him to meet us.”

Rather than attempt the hazardous walk, I jumped into a taxi and was the fırst to arrive at Cactus Café. By the time Fofo rushed in, all out of breath, I was settled at a table on the street, flipping through a magazine and sipping lemonade.

“I told the guy that we're private detectives,” whispered Fofo,
pulling a chair up to mine. “I also hinted that his help wouldn't go unrewarded.”

“You hinted what? Do you think I've got money to throw away?” I replied, probably too loudly, because a little girl, who'd been waiting for a chance to sell me a packet of tissues, glared and walked away. “You do realize I haven't paid off my loans yet, don't you? And there's all that interest! I'll go bankrupt at this rate.”

“Oh, Kati. This isn't like you. Stop being so melodramatic.”

“Fine,” I said, and thought for a moment. “There's a hole in my pocket, I'm skint, I'm running on empty, and I've left everything to the cat! Is that good enough for you?”

“Money never brings happiness,” grinned Fofo.

We stopped arguing and looked up as the journalist approached us. I scrutinized his face to see how else Fofo might have described him other than saying he was brown-haired with horn-rimmed glasses. Actually, he could have been taken for a student. There was a penny-pinching air about him, and I hated him instantly.

“Fofo Bey?” he asked, checking that he was sitting down at the right table, and appearing to be seeing Fofo for the first time in his life.

“We've met before, at Pakize's,” said Fofo, looking most impressed by all the designer gear the man was wearing.

“I don't set foot in Pakize's unless I'm stoned, so I never remember faces from there,” he said, as if anyone who frequented Pakize's was not even worth remembering.

“But we remember seeing you dance until dawn. In fact, I'd even say that your style is quite unforgettable,” I commented, making no effort to hide my contempt.

Fofo and the journalist looked taken aback.

“What do you mean by that?” asked the journalist, scratching his sideburns.

“Nothing,” I said, patting a strand of hair into place.

“We haven't been introduced,” said the journalist, clumsily pushing his glasses into place on his nose.

“This is my business partner, Kati Hirschel,” said Fofo.

When did we become partners?

“His boss, actually,” I corrected. “I'm Kati Hirschel.”

“Do you have a private detective company? Your name seems familiar, but I can't think why.”

“It's a sideline of mine,” I said, as if I owned a company, or even a chain of companies.

“What is it you want from me?” he asked, this time looking directly at me. Actually, his eyes weren't bad. Brown, flecked with green, which wasn't obvious unless you looked carefully behind the glasses. I prefer good looks that aren't immediately obvious, like a fine Riesling that's best after a few sips. Not that I understand much about wine, but I enjoy it.

“Did you write the piece on the website?” asked Fofo. “The one on Sani Ankaralıgil?”

“Maybe. Why do you ask?”

“Can we keep this off the record?” whispered Fofo to the journalist, sounding like someone in a TV crime series and making me wonder if I was too harsh on him about his Turkish.

But what was he up to?

“The situation is this,” continued Fofo. “We're conducting an investigation on behalf of Sani Ankaralıgil's family.”

“Yes?” said the journalist.

“We believe there's something suspicious about the poor woman's death.”

I sighed inwardly at the inanity of what Fofo was saying.

“Yes?” said the man again, before turning to me and saying triumphantly, “I know why your name's familiar! Don't you sell crime fiction in Kuledibi?”

“Maybe. Why do you ask?” I replied, imitating his earlier reply.

“I know you. You're a friend of Lale Hanım, aren't you?”

Fofo and I exchanged glances.

“A German film director was killed in Istanbul five or six years ago. Remember that?” asked the journalist.

Fofo and I exchanged glances again.

“Lale Hanım engaged some of our investigative staff to get information for you,” continued the journalist. They said one of your friends was mixed up in it.”

“Yes, that murder was never solved,” I said, with feigned regret.

Officially, it was recorded in the statistics as “unsolved murder”. However, you dear readers will remember that… But of course, I'm not one to boast.

“You'd be amazed at the number of crimes that go unsolved,” said the journalist.