Read The Kiss Murder Online

Authors: Mehmet Murat Somer

Tags: #mystery, #gay, #Istanbul

The Kiss Murder (7 page)

BOOK: The Kiss Murder
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“I don’t know,” she replied, still looking at us, the same smile plastered across her considerable face.
“I—I mean, we—are friends of her son’s, Fevzi,” I explained. “We really must see her.”
“You mean her girl Fevzi.” Her smile became slightly mocking. “He became a woman. By the name of Buse. We were good playmates as kids.”
“So you were Buse’s childhood friend? How nice.”
Did she have any idea Buse was dead? And was I really the person who should be informing her?
“Sabiha Hanım doesn’t really get out much. If she does, it’s to visit us, or the neighbor upstairs. That’s it. The rest are all tenants. We’re the old-timers. This flat belonged to my mother, and my husband came to live here with us.” Mercy. We’d known each other for all of five minutes and I was already drowning in unnecessary details.
“Why don’t you go upstairs and check on flat number seven? If she’s not there, come on over. I’ve just made a pot of fresh tea, and we’ve got some ice-cold watermelon. We can all enjoy it together.”
I thanked her and set off for the top floor. As we approached the landing her voice rang out from below, “I’m expecting you. Do come.”
The door to flat seven was slightly ajar. I rang the bell nevertheless. A television blared from inside, but no one came to the door. “Good evening,” I called as I pushed open the door and entered. The others followed me in. I can smell danger, and a strong whiff of it hit me as I stood near the doorway. The flat was dark, illuminated only by the flickering light of the TV. I carefully made my way to the source of the racket. There, in the middle of the dark room filled with old armchairs, I saw her. Even in the gloom, there was no mistaking the round hole in the middle of her forehead. Her head was tilted back, lifeless.
Chapter 8
I
t would seem an obvious case of murder. Elderly ladies are generally not found slumped in armchairs with bullet holes in the center of their foreheads.
“Is she dead?” Hüseyin asked. I nodded yes. Gönül bellowed in a decidedly masculine fashion.
“They found her, too,” I said.

 

“We’re in deep shit now,” sighed Hüseyin. He was white as a sheet.
We had two choices: inform the police or scram. Simply running away seemed the less intelligent of the two. The robust lady downstairs had seen us. And I had touched a few things since we’d entered the flat, so some of the fingerprints would belong to us. It did cross my mind that the police didn’t always bother with things like fingerprints, but caution was still advisable. And what was there to be afraid of? We had every reason to be there. We had come to pay our condolences to the mother of a dead friend. Unable to find her at home, we’d checked at the upstairs neighbor’s and been greeted by a corpse.

 

Against my will, I found myself listening to the game show still blaring on the TV set. The question was: The most common intrusive igneous rock type is: (A) granite; (B) rhyolite; (C) basalt; (D) andesite. It was easy enough to whittle down the right answer to (A) granite. After all, it’s the only intrusive rock on the list. Of course, the contestant was clueless.
Gönül’s voice brought me back to my senses and the present situation:
“
Abla,
who is this woman?”
But wasn’t it Sabiha Hanım? Perhaps not. There was no way for me to know. I turned to Gönül, my face a question mark. She provided a swift answer.
“This isn’t Sabiha.”
The contestant had eliminated two of the possible answers. Rhyolite and andesite were erased from the screen. I devised my own set of possible answers to the question confronting me. (A) This was an unrelated murder; (B) We were face to face with a serial murderer prepared to eradicate all who crossed his path; (C) This woman, whoever she was, had mistakenly been killed in place of Sabiha Hanım; (D) Why on earth were those letters and photographs worth killing for? The response deserving of immediate elimination was, of course, D.
Hüseyin placed a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe we’d better get out of here.”
I politely, but firmly, removed the overly familiar appendage. “No way,” I said.

 

In a clear voice, for their benefit, I summarized the situation: Getting the police involved would mean being escorted to the police station and spending the rest of the night there; Gönül would most likely be roughed up, and have a visit to the state venereal clinic arranged for her; there was no telling what exactly would happen to Hüseyin.
The contestant insisted on “basalt” and was promptly eliminated.

 

The corpse was not yet cold. The time of death was fairly recent. Who was behind this? Were the blackmail materials so damning that they justified these cold-blooded killings? How was I supposed to find out his identity? Where was the real Sabiha Hanım? What, if anything, had happened to the letters and photographs?
It was safe to assume that Sabiha Hanım was still alive. I ran through the list of alternatives once again. Finally, I decided to consult the studio audience:
“Look,” I began, “if this woman is not Sabiha Hanım, we still have to find her—that is, we still have to find Buse’s letters and photographs.”
“First let’s get out of here. I don’t like cops,” said Gönül.

 

She had a point. Neither do I. And I suspected Hüseyin wasn’t partial to them, either. Taxi drivers are such easy pickings for the cops, real whipping boys when it comes to issuing tickets and general bullying.
“Well then, let’s remove all signs we’ve been here and clear the hell out!”
I had to hand it to Hüseyin; perhaps he wasn’t so dim after all.
After we had restored the scene to its original state, we slowly pulled the door nearly shut, as it had been when we’d arrived. It was like a film being played backward. In order to pull off the pretense that we had never set eyes on the freshly killed corpse, to be able to say we had not seen, heard, or learned a thing, we had to first make an appearance at the home of Mrs. Robust. Only then would it be wise to flee the scene. Truly, the last thing we needed was a compulsory visit to the local precinct, followed by an interrogation at police headquarters at the homicide desk.

 

I silently considered the possibility of forcing our way into Sabiha Hanım’s flat, conducting a thorough search of Fevzi’s old bedroom and finding the photographs. I suppressed the urge, stopping instead in front of the collection of shoes, where I rang the bell. The door immediately opened. It seemed at least one of the inhabitants of this flat was stationed in front of the door at all times.
This time, it was the man of the house. He was the type of man who wears a tie even at home, a sight seldom seen these days. His collar was even buttoned down. Like his wife, the husband, too, had a cheery demeanor. He reacted as though he had been expecting, and was now receiving, dear old friends.
“Welcome . . . Do come in.”
The apple-cheeked wife had no doubt told her husband all about us. He was prepared to greet us.
“I’m afraid we can’t, but thank you so much,” I politely refused. “We were looking for Sabiha Hanım. Your wife suggested we check on flat seven.”
Perhaps afraid I would say too much, Hüseyin interrupted. “No one was at home. We rang, but no one answered the door.”
The smile froze on the husband’s face. He looked surprised.
“That’s strange. It’s impossible. Hamiyet Hanım doesn’t ever close her door. She’s hard of hearing. She always leaves it open in case she doesn’t hear the bell. Just give it a push and go right in.”
Trouble had announced its imminent arrival. Now he would decide to accompany us upstairs to show us that the door was indeed open a crack, the corpse would be discovered, and we would all end up at the police station. No, I couldn’t let that happen.
With a swift fluid movement, he removed the imitation leather house slippers from his white-stockinged feet, slipping into a pair of of shoes waiting in front of the door. Hüseyin grabbed his arms.
“
Aman,
dear
abi,
don’t trouble yourself—”
“Ah, what do you mean, ‘trouble’? It’s just one floor up.” He shouted into the house, “Aynur, I’m showing our guests to Hamiyet Hanım’s. I’ll be right back.”
Before he’d finished speaking, the small girl appeared between his legs, taking his hand. If it weren’t for me and Hüseyin directly in front of him, blocking the way, and Gönül, a brick wall of reinforcement just behind us, that agile man of the house would long since have bounded to the floor above.
Hüseyin stroked the head of the girl, who still retained her father’s hand and was saucily casting flirtatious looks in Hüseyin’s direction.
“
Maşallah,
aren’t you a little sweetheart? What’s your name?”
Suddenly shy, she retreated behind Daddy’s legs.
“Go on, Sevgi, tell him your name.”
I was overwhelmed with the desire to forget all I’d seen and get as far away as possible. I detest middle-class families. I’d striven all my life to put as much distance as possible between myself and them. They’re suffocating. And here I was, on the verge of getting hopelessly entangled with one of them.

 

“I think it’s best we leave now,” was all I said.
Gönül had already turned, prepared to make an escape down the stairs. I extended a hand to the man in the tie. At that moment, a cheery voice rang out from the smiley, red-cheeked woman.
“
Vallahi,
you can’t leave! I won’t hear of it. I’ve got the teapot all ready.”
“We really can’t. Another time, perhaps.”
The tie leaped backward into his slippers, and began tugging at my arm.
“Come in, come in . . . We’ll have a cup of tea. Then you can go. And you never know, Sabiha Hanım may arrive while you’re here.”
There was a certain logic in what he’d just said. That is, if Sabiha wasn’t dead, or being held hostage somewhere.
“The car’s in a no-parking zone. They’ll tow it away. We really can’t stay any longer.”
It was Hüseyin’s best effort. “They won’t tow it . . . they can’t. It’s never happened on our street,” he was assured. Gönül’s face fell further. We added our shoes to the collection in front of the door. Gönül leaned forward to whisper, “They’ll understand about me, won’t they?”
There was no way they wouldn’t know. Even he-men camping it up in drag comedies were more convincing as women than Gönül.

 

“I would think so. They’ll at least suspect something,” I told her.
“Then I’m not coming in.”
That was enough whispering in front of the door. I grabbed her arm and shoved her inside. “Don’t talk, and maybe they won’t get it.”
Chapter 9
E
ven if I had instructed Gönül to talk nonstop, she couldn’t have been more of a chatterbox. From the moment we settled onto the tacky fabrics shrouding the sofa and armchairs, Gönül appointed herself group spokeswoman. The increasingly warmer weather; the likelihood of another earthquake in Istanbul, and the probable epicenter and magnitude of the natural disaster, were it to occur; how to select the juiciest watermelons; which soccer team should recruit which players for the upcoming season; how a pinch of cinnamon and a dash of cloves transforms freshly ground coffee beans into a gourmet experience: she jumped from one unrelated subject to another.
I listened, but I was unable to forget the body upstairs. Our carelessness had resulted in our becoming stuck with this family, like we were at a theater intermission, drinking tea.
Seizing on the first silence created by our simultaneous swallowing of tea, with an Istanbul accent modeled on old Turkish films, Mrs. Full Red Cheeks inquired:
“You’ve turned yourself into a woman just like Fevzi, haven’t you?”
At first I wasn’t sure whether or not the question was addressed to me, as well as to poor Gönül, who looked terribly upset. But, I ask you, what self-respecting Turkish woman would have speculated on next year’s soccer player trades?

 

“My name is Gönül,” she declared, as though somehow answering the question.
“So, you’ve had the operation, then?”
Gönül looked over at me, helpless and dumbfounded. Hüseyin was doing his best to hide behind a crystal tea glass, the kind trotted out only for company. The slim, tulip-shaped glass was nearly lost in his hand. I noted the cleanliness of his hands, his well-trimmed fingernails.
The husband detected our discomfort and graciously intervened. “Really, now, Aynur. And in front of the child . . .”
That was right! The little girl was there. Ever since we’d arrived, she’d been squatting across from Hüseyin, pining away at him with cow eyes.
“What’s the big deal? These are the facts of life. Better she learn about them here at home than out in the street.”
It seemed that the structure of the middle-class family, the sort I knew and despised, had undergone some serious changes in the time I’d managed to avoid it.
BOOK: The Kiss Murder
11.03Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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