Brother Kemal (12 page)

I wondered how much of the news to pass on to Valerie de Chavannes. I had to warn her about Sheikh Hakim. And I had to warn her about the police. In both cases, moreover, I had to do so in my own interest. Unfortunately, Octavian was right: a mother who hires a private detective to free her daughter from the clutches of a dubious character, and then the dubious character accuses the private detective of first killing his friend who happened to be there and then beating him up – well, it didn’t look good.

It’s not out of the question that some colleague of mine might hit
on the idea that you agreed to do some dirty work for the girl’s parents
.

And Valerie de Chavannes herself, three days earlier:
I’m wondering how far you would go …? For payment corresponding to the job, of course
.

I couldn’t really count on her to maintain a persistent and convincing lie to the effect that she had never made the offer. Far from it. I was convinced that interrogation of any length by the police, or a nastier interrogation by Hakim’s men, and she would throw them the morsel they wanted to get herself out of it as unscathed as possible. ‘Okay, we did talk about it. Abakay … well, you know him. But of course I didn’t mean it seriously. It was just a kind of fantasy, a game. But maybe Herr Kayankaya … I hardly know him, but he was very committed, and I think he also liked me a lot …’

Yes, I could probably count more on something of that nature.

So I had to convince Valerie de Chavannes to deny any connection whatsoever with me to whoever might ask, and do it without frightening her. I didn’t want her turning in panic to the police. And I wanted to leave her believing that the evidence against Abakay was still rock-solid. No excitement, everything was going just fine, Kayankaya held the reins firmly in hand.

I tapped Valerie de Chavannes’s number into my phone. As it rang, I caught myself thinking of her slender feet in those silver sandals.

‘De Chavannes.’

‘Hello, Kayankaya here. Everything okay with you?’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but nothing has happened, if that’s what you mean.’

Her tone was cool – as cool as a tone could be without sounding openly hostile. Did she bear me a grudge for giving her the brush-off when she wanted to hire me to commit murder? Or was it simply the usual de Chavannes tone? I
remembered that she’d sounded like that at the start, when we first met.

‘Yes, that’s what I meant. How is Marieke?’

‘I don’t know. She seems really upset, as if she were in shock. She won’t talk to me. Sits in her room all day listening to Jack Johnson.’

‘Well, that would upset me as well.’

When Hanna did odd jobs for Deborah in the wine bar she always brought Jack Johnson music with her. She thought it was the sort of music that was also bound to appeal to adults who drink red wine.

‘Very funny.’

‘I’m trying. I had the feeling that Marieke is a strong character, the sort who doesn’t go under so easily.’

‘And she doesn’t. But if she does then she
really
goes under.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘But that’s not why you called.’

‘No. I wanted to tell you that the police – that is, well, the officer responsible for the Abakay case – has named me as a witness in his records, although I got him to promise to keep my name out of it. Well, he knows me and he doesn’t particularly like me, so he took his opportunity to do me a bad turn.’

‘Why would he do you a bad turn that way?’

‘Because, of course, sooner or later the question of who I was working for will come up. The court will want to know what I was doing in Abakay’s apartment, and Abakay’s lawyers will do their best to make me look like an unreliable witness – they’ll say my client paid me to smear Abakay’s reputation, and so I thought something up. Well, not many clients want to be named in a criminal case – I assume you’re not among the few exceptions – and no private detective likes it to be known that he can’t protect his clients’ names. So I’d like to ask you, if anyone comes to see you in connection with
Abakay, to deny having any contact with me. If you’ve made a note of my name anywhere, or my business card is lying about the house, get rid of it.’

‘You mean someone might break into our house?’ Her tone was still cool. Maybe too cool. As if, after all that had happened, a mere burglary held no terrors for her. Perhaps it really didn’t. All the better.

‘No, but a halfway tricky private detective who knows his business could pretend to be someone from the municipality and sniff about your house, or he could invite your housekeeper for a coffee and get her to tell him everything about recent visitors. So it would be a good thing if your housekeeper doesn’t come upon my name when she was clearing your wastepaper baskets.’

‘I see … okay.’

She paused, and suddenly it seemed to me as if I were on a different line. I heard her breathing: a heavy, hasty, slightly tremulous struggle for breath. I had never heard anything like it except in people suffering a panic attack or before a very unpleasant and very important encounter. Like de Chavannes always sounded …

‘Ought I to worry about Marieke?’

‘No more than I suppose you’re worrying anyway, after what happened. Abakay’s lawyers will try to find witnesses to let him off the hook, and if all Marieke and Abakay really talked about was photography and social injustice, then of course she’d be perfect.’

‘If,’ repeated Valerie de Chavannes, pausing again. And once again I heard her breathing. But I didn’t think she was breathing so heavily because of our phone call. I had thought, once before, that underneath the various masks worn by Valerie de Chavannes there was nothing but a constant state of fear. The arrogant upper-class cow, angry and scornful, the little woman in need of help, the yearning, melting tattooed minx de Chavannes, and now the Agent 007 Mama
preserving a cool head in difficult times and keeping the show on the road – all of them camouflage and attempts to stay largely unscathed. And that had nothing to do with Abakay; it had always been like that, I thought – or, anyway, for a long time.

‘You still haven’t told me what exactly the crime was that Abakay committed. Did you mean it about murder, or was that just to scare me?’

‘Both. Whether he committed the murder himself isn’t certain, but he’s certainly involved in it. However, that’s nothing to do with Marieke. Abakay is a little street mongrel who will try to pick up a few euros where and when he can. Of course drugs play a part, and probably stolen cars, weapons, forged papers, God knows what. And here we come very close to a capital crime. All the same, he did take those photos on the side, and that’s what linked him to Marieke.’

‘Of course you know that I’d love to believe you.’

‘Of course I do. But tell me a reason I’d lie to you.’

She hesitated. ‘Because you don’t want to hurt me.’ She was trying to keep the cool tone of voice going, but it didn’t entirely work. Or she acted as if she were trying to keep the cool tone of voice going, and let it slip into emotion on purpose.

‘I really would be very reluctant to hurt you, but I wouldn’t tell you fairy tales on that account.’

‘How do you explain Marieke’s behaviour over the last few days?’

‘Well, my bet would be she feels crossed in love. I didn’t say the photos were all of it. And Abakay certainly knows how to impress a sixteen-year-old. Anyway, if I were you I’d make sure Marieke doesn’t go prison visiting in the immediate future.’

‘For God’s sake!’

‘You should be glad she’s spending all day in her room. Maybe you should buy her a different CD.’

For a moment there was silence on the line. Obviously her breathing had calmed down, or she was holding the receiver to one side. Then she sighed, sounding surprisingly amused, and asked, ‘How old are you?’

‘Fifty-three. Why?’

‘Because no one buys CDs these days. They download music to their MP3 players.’

‘I even still have some cassettes.’

‘Simply Red or something like that, I expect.’

‘No, Whitney Houston. But I can’t listen to the cassettes anymore, my recorder’s broken.’

‘Whitney Houston,’ she repeated, and was about to say something making fun of me – it wasn’t difficult to make fun of people who still listened to Whitney Houston – but then something seemed to occur to her and she suddenly fell silent.

So did I. Probably we had both carried on like that because we were glad to get away from the subject of Abakay for a moment. But in no time at all we had landed in front of an open door. For instance, she went on: Whitney Houston – right, now I do believe you’re fifty-three. What else do you like? Foreigner? Münchner Freiheit? And I: You’ve never listened to Whitney Houston properly. At three in the morning, with a few beers or something else inside you, windows of the bar open, mild air, and then ‘The Greatest Love of All’ on the jukebox – you could fall on your knees with happiness. And she again: Well, okay. I have a recorder that still works … Or something like that. Anyway, we both knew that from here to a Whitney Houston evening together with wine and candlelight it was three more sentences at the most.

Finally I said, ‘Apart from which my Whitney Houston days are over.’

She cleared her throat, and her tone became friendly but objective. ‘Well, I hope so, at the age of fifty-three.’

‘You mean fifty-three is too old for Whitney Houston?’

‘Too old for Whitney Houston period, I’d say. A song now and then, why not?’

I noticed that I was baring my teeth. ‘I bet you’ve listened to a Whitney Houston song now and then on your MP3 player.’

She hesitated. ‘Could be. I don’t know. It’s a long time since I listened to any music at all.’

It was on the tip of my tongue to say: Surely a ballad or so with Abakay now and then?

Instead, I said, ‘It’ll come back. These are just phases.’ And then, more briskly, ‘Did you get my bill?’

‘Yes.’ A short pause, then back to the cool tone. ‘Do I destroy that as well?’

‘Don’t transfer the money direct to me anyway. I’ll collect it in cash sometime.’

She didn’t reply.

‘Or maybe I’ll send a friend to collect it.’

‘Yes, let’s do it that way,’ she said.

It annoyed me. I didn’t want her letting me go so quickly. And it annoyed me that it annoyed me.

‘Okay, we’ll do it that way. And please let me know at once if anyone asks you about me.’

‘Can’t I tell your friend? Wouldn’t that be simpler?’

I looked at my big station clock, behind which my pistols, handcuffs, knock-out drops and pepper spray were hidden. ‘No, it wouldn’t be simpler, because my friend has no idea what this is about.’

‘Fine, then, I’ll call you. Anything else we ought to discuss?’

I said no, we said goodbye and hung up. I was furious. With her, with myself. And briefly I wondered how, after Whitney Houston, I had gotten to Foreigner and Münchner Freiheit. Brothel music, all of it.

I was still sitting thoughtfully at my desk when Katja
Lipschitz called ten minutes later.

‘Hello, Herr Kayankaya.’

‘Hello, Frau Lipschitz.’

‘I’ve spoken to our publisher. If you’re still prepared to do the job I’d like to hire you as bodyguard for Malik Rashid for three days at the Book Fair.’

‘Yes, I’m ready to do it. Did you tell your publisher my fee? We don’t want problems about it later.’

I didn’t know why, probably it was just a cliché picked up from cheap TV films. But I thought there could be some difficulty in meeting financial obligations in the book trade.

‘It’s all decided. Send me your contract by email.’

‘I’ll do that at once. The advance is a minimum daily fee, a thousand euros plus taxes. As soon as that’s in my account I’ll take a look at Rashid’s hotel. What was its name again?’

‘The Harmonia in Niederrad.’

‘When does Rashid arrive?’

‘At noon on Friday, is that all right for you? Midday Friday until midday on Monday, three days?’

‘That’s okay. Shall I fetch him from the airport or the railway station?’

‘No, my assistant will do that. Rashid, you and I will meet at twelve at the hotel to discuss everything. From then on he’ll be in your care.’

‘Fine. See you at twelve on Friday, then.’

‘I have one request, Herr Kayankaya. It’s possible that journalists will approach you during the Fair. Rashid and his novel will be much discussed, so his bodyguard could be a subject of interest as well. Have you read his book, what you think of it as a Muslim, and so on …’

‘And you’d like me to keep my mouth shut.’

‘Well, what you told me about your attitude towards religion, and your manner in general … don’t misunderstand me, I thought it was very … interesting to talk to you, but … you see, journalists don’t like anything complicated. And a
Turkish bodyguard who compares God to hot stones and possibly doesn’t take the man he’s guarding, an internationally famous author who is generally considered to have written a very important and sensational book, well, possibly doesn’t take him entirely seriously – anyway, it wouldn’t be simple to get that across. And then the papers might say: best-selling author mocked by own bodyguard, or something like that.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m not at all interested in getting into the papers.’

‘That’s what I thought. I just wanted to warn you – some journalists can be very pushy.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And something else …’

‘Yes?’

‘In Rashid’s daily schedule you’ll see what events he’s taking part in. One of them is a panel discussion at the House of Literature with Dr. Breitel …’

She paused, giving me time to react, and when I said nothing she went on to explain, ‘One of the editors of the
Berliner Nachrichten
. The title is “The Ten Plagues …” ’ Another pause for my reaction. ‘It’s out of the Bible, when God sent plagues of heat, locusts, hail and so on into the country … Oh, I don’t remember all of it. Anyway, the discussion will turn on the various threats to Western society: falling birth rates, families breaking up, isolation, excessive technology, the Internet, a few more things, and finally – with Malik Rashid as the guest, of course the real subject behind all this is whether there isn’t an increasingly well-organised Islam behind it all, preparing the threats, that’s to say the plagues, more or less intentionally. For instance, there’ll be the consequences of the falling birth rate among, er …’