Hotel Bosphorus (22 page)

He took out a notepad from the same shirt pocket that contained the dictionary and started turning the pages.

“Batuhan Önal was his name. Do you know him?”

“No,” I said calmly. “Does he say they can't solve this murder?”

“Of course he's not saying that. That's what I inferred from what he said. It's a strange business; they're absolutely refusing to let the German police get involved in the investigation. If they think they can't solve it, then why don't they accept help? I don't understand.”

“Didn't you just say that there aren't any leads?”

“Yes.”

“If there aren't any leads, what could the German police do?”

“Well that's just it. If the German police were here, they'd find a lead.”

I had difficulty stopping myself punching the air and laughing out loud.

“How nice that you think the German police are so resourceful,” I said. “My knowledge of German police is that they are famous for killing the hostage in order to catch the hostage-taker.”

Otto put the notepad back in his pocket and shook his head angrily. He clearly didn't approve of my anti-German attitude.

“Who do you think the murderer is?” I asked.

“I don't like that sort of speculation,” he said sullenly.

“Make a guess,” I said. “Don't you ever play the lottery?”

That made him very uneasy and he didn't answer. Even the bream garnished with rocket, which he swallowed without chewing, was not enough to dispel the rage he felt towards me.

As I ate my fish in a silence that confused even me, it dawned on me that I wouldn't be able to talk to Miss Bauer while she was sitting at one end of the three tables pushed together and I was at the other. As the plates were being cleared away, I suggested going for a drink
at a nearby café. Most of the crew said they wanted to go back to the hotel because they were tired and had had enough for one day. Petra was among those who didn't feel like carrying on.

I set off walking through the back streets of Beyoğlu towards the Cactus Café with Gust, Miss Bauer, Otto and the woman who liked Istanbul, whose name I finally found out to be Miss Wolff. As we walked, I acted as a guide and provided a running commentary: it was doubtful we'd find a place at the Cactus, but we were going to try and, if not there, we'd go to one of the six thousand or so cafés or bars in the vicinity of Beyoğlu – over ten thousand if you counted the unlicensed places.

A second good thing happened that day, after finding a ticket to Berlin, which was that despite the crowds of people we found a table at the Cactus that was just being vacated. It didn't escape Miss Wolff's notice that I was greeted as an old friend by Vahit the barman.

The moment we sat down, she said, “You're clearly well known here.”

I smiled modestly.

Miss Bauer drew back her bright-red hair and said, “You're Petra's bookseller friend, aren't you? I saw you at the airport the day we arrived in Istanbul.”

“You have an excellent memory,” I said. It was quite something to pick me out in that crowd and then recognize me later.

It was Miss Wolff who raised the subject of the murder. Otto saw his opportunity and repeated what he had previously said to me at dinner. As he spoke, I watched Miss Bauer's face for some kind of reassurance. That woman was an extremely cold-hearted killer, or else my hunch, like all my other hunches, was wrong. And that
was something I found it very difficult to get my head around. Her face was completely expressionless. For once I decided to try out a shock tactic.

“Actually, the only person to benefit from this murder is you,” I said to Miss Bauer, as soon as Otto had stopped speaking.

The four of them spun their heads round towards me and I sensed I needed to do something to defuse the situation.

“Only joking,” I said. “Just thinking out loud… You misunderstood me.”

Miss Wolff laughed.

“You can't really say that Annette has benefited from the murder; she's had to take on a whole lot of extra responsibilities,” she said.

“Why not? She's ended up being promoted,” I said, as if the woman was not there.

“Aren't you oversimplifying things?” asked Otto.

“Yes, indeed,” said Gust.

“Well, it's simple,” I said. “Murder is simple. We're talking about killing a man for honour, money, love, revenge or sex. What's complicated about that?”

“The murderer might have had another motive,” said Otto. He thought he'd cornered me.

“Give me another motive,” I said.

As he thought about that, it occurred to me that the murderer might have had a political motive but I said nothing.

“I can't think of anything else at the moment,” he said. “But whatever the motive, it's a murder without clues.”

I wagged my finger at him. “Didn't you say that it's only a murder without clues according to the Turkish police?”

Miss Wolff let out a ringing laugh.

“Are you saying that if Miss Marple were here, she'd solve it?” she said.

Otto had understood what I meant. He pursed his lips.

“I'm thinking,” said Miss Bauer, “and I think you're right. The only person to gain from this murder has been me.”

“Don't be silly, Annette,” said Gust. Then, looking me straight in the eyes to reassure me that he was telling the truth, he said, “We were together on the night of the murder. Annette never left my side.”

That wasn't news to me; nevertheless it was worth sacrificing an evening, just to hear them both admit it in front of everyone.

Gust must have felt he needed to explain the situation to the others. “I'm going to divorce my wife. Annette and I love each other,” he said. Miss Wolff smiled sympathetically.

Gust was now holding Miss Bauer's hand tightly. He gave me a sidelong glance. “The night Kurt was killed, it was dawn before…” Before finishing his sentence, he pushed aside Miss Bauer's red hair and placed a kiss on her earlobe. “We were together all night. Annette didn't leave my side for a moment.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Marple,” said Miss Bauer, raising her glass to me.

I woke up to the telephone and to Lale telling me she couldn't take me to the airport because she simply had to get to the office. This meant I had to find a taxi at the crack of dawn, but I was glad Lale had gone off to work at her usual early hour.

I got myself ready without too many distractions, locked the balcony doors, checked the windows a hundred times and called the landlady on the top floor to say I would be away for ten days. It was almost eleven o'clock when I left home. I'm not really someone who believes in arriving at the airport two hours before a flight; the only reason for leaving so early that morning was to make sure I really had a ticket.

When I asked the taxi driver to take me to the airport, there was no “Can you direct me there, miss?”, no wailing Turkish arabesque music, and no excuse about having to overcharge me because he didn't have change.

At the Turkish Airlines desk, everything was in order. Three minutes after giving them my name, I had a ticket in my hand.

In short, I was having a lucky day.

I didn't waste any time gazing round the duty-free shops, but went straight to gate eleven to board the flight, which was announced to be leaving shortly.

The plane was full. The moment I boarded, I felt the heaviness of the air on my face. In Istanbul, the only place I ever see such a dowdy lot of people is at the airport when boarding a plane to Berlin. Yes, the culture shock had started already.

It was difficult to get to my seat because of migrant workers pushing their badly packed bags and sacks into place. I sat down next to a fat, elderly woman wearing a headscarf, who was clearly searching avidly for some victim with whom to engage in trivial conversation. I immediately took out a book and started reading. The woman made her first attempt at conversation before I had even finished the first sentence. I responded by pretending to be a non-Turkish-speaking German tourist, which is what I always do on flights to Berlin if things are too bad.

“Do you live in Berlin?” asked the elderly woman, tucking in the corner of her headscarf.

“
Ich spreche leider kein Türkisch
,” I said with a smile.

“
Ach, so!
” said the woman and she turned hopefully to a German tourist wearing shorts, who was sitting on her other side.

Without the slightest twinge of conscience, I went back to my book. This time, I'd just reached the end of the first sentence when I found one of the hostesses at my side and speaking to me. In German.

“Excuse me, I wonder if you would mind changing seats?” she said.

“Why? Am I sitting in the wrong seat?” I asked, trying to find my boarding pass in the pocket of the seat in front.

“No, no, you're in the right seat,” said the hostess, whose heavy make-up made her look like a painted doll.

“Then why?” I asked.

“They've put a gentleman next to two women at the front, and these women say they won't sit next to a man. There aren't any empty seats on the plane so I wondered if you would change places with the gentleman.”

I pointed to the woman sitting next to me and said, “Don't ask me, ask her. Then everyone will be happy.”

The hostess looked vexed, turned to my neighbour and said the same thing in Turkish. The headscarved woman didn't wait to be asked twice. She got out of her seat with some difficulty, but with obvious pleasure at escaping her non-Turkish-speaking travel companions. As she walked towards the front, I sat up straight, trying to see the sex pervert who was coming to sit next to me.

All those people who, a short while ago, had been in the aisle shoving and pushing their bags into the overhead luggage storage were now seated. Apart from the headscarved woman waddling to her new seat, the only person standing was a tall, grey-haired man, who was talking to the hostesses. I sat up straight in order to have a good look at him.

Oh my God, what a vision!

“It can't be that man,” I thought. What sane woman would not want to sit next to him? And what's more, thigh to thigh?

The man, one of God's gifts to women, thanked the hostesses and made his way towards the seat next to me.

“Don't get your hopes up,” I said to myself. “He's probably going to the bathroom.”

He stopped by my seat and said in German, “I'm afraid I have to disturb you.”

I got up to make way for him. After we had both settled in our seats, I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he fastened his seatbelt, took a thick book and some newspapers out of his bag and put them in the pocket in front of him. I wasn't sure how to set about starting up a conversation with him. I searched for a line that would show, before take-off, what a brilliant and nice person I was. In the end, I pointed to the roll of newspapers in his hand and asked, “Could I have a look at your
Günebakan
?”

He looked startled, turned towards me and said, “Unfortunately, I didn't buy the
Günebakan
. But the hostesses will bring the papers round soon.”

The man sitting by the window leaned forwards to have a look at me. I wondered if he'd heard me say “I don't know Turkish” to the headscarved woman. But I didn't care.

“Do you live in Berlin?” I asked, inspired by thoughts of the headscarved woman.

“No, I live in Istanbul.” He clearly wasn't the talkative type. However, once I was set on something, I wasn't the sort to give up whatever the cost. And this was the case now.

“I live in Istanbul too,” I said. He nodded. “There was some problem about the seating, I believe,” I added.

“You realize what happened,” he said.

“The hostess asked if I'd change places with you,” I said.

“It's the first time anything like that has happened to me,” he said. He seemed to be still in shock. “I normally travel business class, but this time I had to book at the last
minute and that was the only remaining seat. The scene at the airport was bad enough, but this…” He shook his head in disbelief. “For someone to call a hostess and say, ‘We won't sit next to this man', it's almost as if they had something personal against me…”

“Oh no,” I said. “Actually it didn't seem strange to me. If you can't sit next to women on intercity buses, why shouldn't the same apply to aeroplanes?”

He laughed.

“I think you've been living in Turkey for a long time.”

“Long enough,” I said.

“I've no objection to women sitting next to each other, but…”

He was taking this far too seriously.

I interrupted him, saying, “I don't think you should worry about it.” I just managed to stop myself from adding, “I'm sure there are lots of women who would give their life to sit next to you.”

We developed our acquaintance further as the aeroplane began its descent over Berlin. He was a lawyer who handled international trade lawsuits and, as far as I could understand from his answers to my indirect questioning, he was a bachelor and did not even have a girlfriend. That he was a lawyer was understandable, but I simply could not comprehend how he could still be a bachelor. It seemed that Lale's theory, which I had been trying to disprove for years, that all attractive men in Istanbul are either married or gay, was about to be proved groundless. I have a feeling that you're wondering how I could be so certain that Selim, this man I'd been sitting next to for three hours, wasn't gay. Well, as Miss Wolff had said the previous night, I now say, “It was a hunch, and you have to trust me.” Is
that enough for you? There may be readers who protest that my hunches are not to be trusted when it comes to solving murder cases. To them, my reply is simply that everyone has some area of expertise and, at that time, mine was not in catching murderers.