Divorce Turkish Style (24 page)

“Tell me, why did you abandon your theory about a crime syndicate of industrialists in Thrace so quickly?” asked Batuhan.

“I haven't given it up. I've just been trying to look at the situation from other angles,” I said. “Especially after learning that
Cem had an agreement with the nightwatchman and his wife to spy on Sani's house.”

“Who told you that?” asked Batuhan.

“The watchman's wife.”

“She confessed to that?”

“Well, not exactly,” I said, thinking that it could hardly be called a confession, since the poor woman wouldn't even have known it was inappropriate to spy on another person.

“Cem's still a suspect, given that he stood to gain significant material advantages from Sani's death, but we haven't been able to find any evidence against him.”

“Not only against Cem. There's no evidence against anyone, come to think of it,” I said, and added triumphantly, “However, I think I know why Sani's laptop and office computer were stolen.”

“And why's that?” asked Batuhan, his curiosity clearly aroused.

Since we were not really in competition with each other, I told him what I knew and what I'd guessed, with various embellishments. But only some of it, of course.

I went home, my mind brimming with fresh ideas. We needed to ask Murat at Skyrat how to contact Cem's sister in Bodrum. We also had to contact Remzi, the solicitor, to find out what was in Sani's prenuptial agreement.

“You phone Murat tomorrow, and I'll find a way of getting hold of Remzi,” I said to Fofo. “Ask Murat if he's found out anything new. There might be some interesting gossip floating around.”

“At your command, ma'am,” replied Fofo, raising his arm in a salute.

*

I awoke at dawn the next morning and decided to go and open up the shop, even though it wasn't my turn, because I needed to do some Internet research on Orhan Soner.

The first thing that struck me was that he'd become a close friend of the architect Djevad Redzepovski, who three years previously had been made chairman of the Tirana municipality and had managed to transform the town on a very small budget. No one in the press, from left-wing British to conservative German, had a good word to say about this municipal chairman who, it was rumoured, had been put in post by the Tirana mafia. He and Orhan had drawn up a plan for the Tirana City Theatre that had received high praise in a respectable architectural journal. Having read this, I wasn't at all surprised to learn that Orhan had been appointed as the architect for a luxury hotel being built by a large construction company in Tirana.

Normally, I'd have been impressed by such a CV, but thinking about the TLF, Albania, Albanians, Tirana – and whether they were relevant or not – merely created a desperate urge in me to smoke. When Pelin came sauntering in later, she found me deep in thought in my rocking chair, pondering several questions.

Was Orhan the person Naz had referred to as one of her old friends in the TLF? If so, why had she been trying to protect someone who had abandoned her to be with her older sister? Yet what she'd actually done was to point the finger at Orhan. Had the love affair between Sani and Orhan been rekindled? Had that angered Naz?

When the telephone rang, my head was in such confusion that not even a cigarette could have remedied it.

“Hello, it's Sinan. We met on Saturday… Do you remember?”

Didn't he realize that no one was likely to forget him? Or was he trying to be modest?

“I remember,” I said.

“I realize I said something to you that day which… Do you think we could meet?” he asked.

I didn't want to see anyone unless they took a size forty shoe – in fact size forty XOXO trainers – not even if that person was the most gorgeous man in the world.

“What about today?” I suggested.

“If that suits you,” said Sinan.

“Fine,” I said.

“In Bebek? At Lucca's?”

I knew from Fofo that Lucca's had recently become one of the most fashionable places in Bebek, though I didn't know exactly where it was.

“Fine. Is three good for you?” I asked.

“Can we make it four?” said Sinan.

It was only just coming up to eleven o'clock. What was I going to do for all those hours? Furthermore, I didn't want to get caught up in the evening traffic.

“I have another meeting this evening,” I lied.

No meeting had yet been arranged, but I'd do whatever it took to ensure that it was.

“Very well,” said Sinan. “Three o'clock at Lucca's.”

I needed to make a phone call and wanted to be alone so that I could talk openly, so I sent Pelin out to the Minik Buffet to buy some freshly squeezed pomegranate juice. Why pomegranate juice? Because the antioxidants in pomegranates were supposed to have a rejuvenating effect by killing off floating free radicals.

“If the Minik Buffet doesn't have any, try the snack bars at Tünel, will you? I saw a sign in one of the windows there advertising pomegranate juice.”

The moment Pelin left the shop, I was forced to deal with some customers who came in unexpectedly. It was just my luck
that I'd sent her out on such a mammoth expedition and yet was unable to make my phone call before Pelin's return.

“I'm going home,” I said, tipping up the plastic beaker of pomegranate juice and gulping it down in one.

When I reached my apartment, I made straight for the phone.

“What a coincidence! I was going to ring you today,” said Aylin as soon as she picked up.

“Did you think of anything?” I asked.

“What sort of thing?” said Aylin.

“To do with Sani.” What else did she think I meant?

“Remzi and I have sorted things out. I was going to let you know. He talked me round,” she giggled.

Naturally, I didn't ask how he'd convinced her. I might be curious, but not that curious. What would I want with information that was of no benefit to me?

“So, I don't need you any more,” said Aylin.

That was a bit much!

“I've already told you that I don't tail people,” I said.

“Ah yes, so you did,” said Aylin, as if my words were of no significance. Did this woman think that everyone could be talked round in the end?

“I called you to ask for your help,” I said.

“Yes?”

“Didn't Sani have a single close friend,” I said, and hesitated before adding, “apart from you, I mean?”

“Close friend? No, she didn't,” said Aylin.

“But everyone has a close friend.”

“Not Sani.”

“You said that things between Sani and Naz weren't too good.”

“She was just jealous of Naz.”

“But it'd be more logical for Naz to be jealous of Sani, wouldn't it?”

“Jealousy is illogical,” said Aylin. “Just take what happened to me recently. When I saw that woman in Remzi's office, it never occurred to me that she might actually be his client. Was that rational? Jealousy is irrational by its very nature.”

What wisdom she had!

“That day at the brasserie, you said Sani took up with Naz's ex-lover while she was at university,” I said.

“Orhan Soner,” said Aylin, just as I expected. “He's a famous architect. You must've heard of him.”

Of course I had.

“Do you think Sani and Orhan might have started up their relationship again while she was going through the divorce proceedings?” I asked.

“Oh, I've no idea. As far as I know, Orhan Soner's married, but… Well, why not? It's possible,” said Aylin.

“But there wasn't any gossip about it going round.”

“If Sani had been in a relationship before her divorce came through, she would definitely have done everything in her power to keep it quiet,” insisted Aylin.

But I was far from certain about that. Moving into a house directly opposite that of a former lover was not the action of a cautious person.

“I don't think I've been much help to you,” said Aylin.

“Actually, you could help me now that you've patched things up with your husband. Could you arrange for me to have a meeting with him?”

“Of course, darling. His secretary will phone you, all right?” said Aylin breezily.

“Today, late afternoon, if possible.”

“Fine. I'll tell him now, and his secretary will get back to you.”

“Thank you very much,” I said.

Although Aylin looked like a Nişantaşı lady, she wasn't at all bad, nor was she stupid. Maybe all Nişantaşı ladies were like that, and I was just prejudiced.

Instead of getting lost in my own thoughts, I sat down with a cup of green tea and made a list of all the questions that still needed answers. I came up with seven.

Unfortunately, it was only after I'd put down the phone that I thought of asking Aylin if she'd found out the name of Cem's sister. In the meantime, with no word from Remzi's secretary or Fofo, I began to get stressed and decided to do some cleaning. There had to be something in the apartment that had escaped Fatma's eagle eye the previous day. There always was.

I started wiping the sitting room windows, which weren't really dirty, but I always find the room looks lighter when the glass is sparkling clean. Before I'd even half finished, I heard a key turning in the lock, and Fofo entered.

“I called in at the shop first,” he said. “What are you doing home at this hour?”

“I'm cleaning the windows,” I replied. “I can't think what else to do.”

“I've found out something amazing. Stop what you're doing at once.”

I went out of the room to discard the dirty wad of paper towels and to prolong the moment of delicious tension. My insides were burning in anticipation of whatever it was I was about to discover. The excitement I felt was like that of flirting with someone to whom you're attracted but know nothing about. Unfortunately, such dates tended to quickly become as hard to digest as a piece of tough steak. Far be it from me to belittle those who, despite knowing better, continue to chew
their way through tough steak for years on end. I never ate it, so I couldn't understand people who ordered it at a restaurant or bought huge chunks to cook at home. Why bother if fillet steak was on offer? Either they'd never tasted fillet, or they preferred meat that needed endless chewing.

“Are you coming?” called Fofo from the sitting room.

“Yes, I'm here,” I said. “Tell me everything.”

“Cem does have a sister,” he said.

“Didn't I tell you?”

“She lives in Bodrum. It wasn't easy to find this out, of course. It took numerous phone calls, but eventually Murat managed to trace her.”

“And?”

“She's a painter called Jasmin Gil, and she paints pictures of harlequins.”

“Why doesn't she use her father's surname?”

“She discarded the Ankaralı part of the name, because she's one of a handful of heirs to the fortunes of the Ankaralıgil empire. Apparently, she's regarded as Bahri's problem child within their family circle. Anyway, her mother's German.”

What did Fofo mean by “anyway”? Did he mean there might be a connection between Jasmin being a problem child and the fact her mother was German?

“Children who grow up straddling two cultures tend to be a bit strange, darling,” said Fofo.

“You're entitled to your own opinion, Fofo, but I think it's a bonus for children to grow up in two different cultures. The ability to speak two languages and pick out the best of both cultures can produce highly creative people.”

“I'm not going to argue about it,” said Fofo. “Having a German mother may have nothing to do with it, but this painter woman is definitely strange.”

“Why, what's she done?”

“What hasn't she done? They had to put her in a clinic when she was sixteen to get her off drugs. Then a few years later she attacked her father with a razor and cut his throat, but the wound wasn't deep and he survived. Of course, the press never found out. They merely said he'd cut himself while shaving.”

“Hmm. What else?”

“There's a literary competition in Germany where the competitors go on stage to read out their work and are given points by the audience and adjudicators.”

“I've heard of it. So, what happened?”

“Well, she entered it, but while reading her short story on stage, she started undressing until she was stark naked. Then she lay down on the table and started masturbating!”

“Someone told me about that,” I said, “or else I read about it somewhere. It was a long time ago. Didn't she stand naked outside the venue for days on end afterwards as a protest?”