Mehmet Somer - The Gigolo Murder

“And their brother-in-law, Ziya?”

“He’s another brand of troublemaker. The kind who gives us all a bad name. A shifty sort, no sense of right and wrong, doesn’t know the meaning of words like ‘sin’ and ‘justice’ and ‘shame.’ ”

“I see,” I said, not really seeing at all what he meant.

“There’s a lot I could tell you, but it’d be wrong to say too much. I’m not the sort to run my mouth. I was raised different.”

We spent the rest of the trip talking about Istanbul ’s problems and life in general. He told me how we could save our country, how working conditions were going downhill, how his earnings were adding up to less, how ashamed he was to bring home so little money at the end of the day.

Just before I got out, I asked one more question about Volkan’s death.

“Do you think the guy who’s been arrested is the one who killed Volkan?”

“It could be anyone,” he said knowingly. “Anyone. He was mixed up with a bad crowd. There’s a price to pay for easy money. He’d managed to buy a minibus in just three years. Brand new. Including rights to the line he drove. They say you reap what you sow. I believe that’s what he did.”

Volkan Sarıdoğan was an even richer, more popular gigolo than I’d imagined.

Waiting for me when I got home was a large manila envelope from Selçuk and an enormous bouquet sent by Money-counter Ali. I was truly astonished by the flowers. The gesture was as unexpected as it was secretly hoped for. I really had to thank them both.

Ponpon was sitting in front of the TV mesmerized by her favorite BBC cooking program, offering barely an indication that she’d noticed my arrival. On the screen, a lively black man gushed and enthused and jabbered as he diced potatoes. Sitting across from Ponpon, I opened the envelope from Selçuk. It contained copies of the report filed by the policemen who’d discovered the body, official records from the nearest precinct, the coroner’s report, and details of the initial investigation-all of them classified, of course. How sweet of Selçuk to send them along. Of course, he was fully aware that it was my taxes that paid for them-that is, that paid for the transport, water, electricity, and whatnot of the police force. But still, confidential is confidential.

Volkan Sarıdoğan’s body was found in the forest just past the Kilyos junction. Whoever discovered him could not have been on a routine foot patrol. A child or woodsman had most likely stumbled upon it and called the police.

He’d been stabbed to death. The stab wounds were all on the front of the body, seven of them, of varied depths, in the chest and stomach, but all from the same knife. So he must have come face-to-face with the killer. The coroner estimated that forty-eight hours had elapsed before the body was discovered. The assailant was right-handed.

Found on the body were an ID card, a wallet, and a cell phone. It appeared that the killer had not stolen any personal items. Well, if Faruk Hanoğlu was indeed the murderer, why would he? It isn’t as though he’d need cash or a phone.

It had been impossible to identify the footprints of the assailant: The area near the body was muddy, due to recent rain, and a number of individuals had approached the body, including the police. Tire tracks were faintly visible near the scene of the crime, but it was not possible to trace them any further.

For whatever reason, no one had made off with Volkan’s phone, despite the fact that it was switched on and the PIN code already entered; the last three calls had been made to Faruk Hanoğlu. Twice cell phone to cell phone, and once to a fixed-line phone.

So Faruk Hanoğlu really had been detained on what would seem to be the flimsiest of evidence. No prosecutor in his right mind would dream of accusing him on the evidence at hand, let alone having him jailed. It was just as Haluk, my Haluk, had said: He would be free in a day or two.

What was missing from the envelope was a print-out of all the calls made to and from Volkan’s cell phone. There must be a copy somewhere, but Selçuk hadn’t forwarded it to me. I compiled an imaginary list of my own, one full of society figures, each name enough to cause a citywide scandal.

Ponpon’s program finished, she turned off the TV and faced me.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“How’s what going?” I countered.

“How’s whatever it is you’re up to going?”

“I’m not up to anything,” I protested. “Yet.”

“I know you. The way you’re sitting, the way you move, the glint in your eyes. The way you were just scrutinizing whatever’s in that envelope… You’re up to something. Miss Marple is back in business.”

“But she’s so old,” I cried in mock dismay.

The Agatha Christie heroine, who manages to solve innumerable murder cases on the basis of what she overhears in the garden of her country home, where she seldom leaves her chair, is an elderly, white-haired spinster. I was nothing like her!

“What do I know? It’s been years since I’ve read a detective novel. Hercule Poirot would have been a stretch of the imagination, so I hit on Miss Marple.”

“You could have said Miss Peel. You know, Diana Rigg in The Avengers.”

“That’s true,” she agreed. “The way you hop about and beat men up.”

“I practice what is known as aikido,” I informed her. “As well as a bit of Thai boxing.”

Actually, I hadn’t done any training for weeks. I was rusty, and would be unable to jump more than a foot. Not all that long ago I’d been able to soar nearly two meters, simultaneously delivering a sharp kick to the head with either my left or right foot.

Curling her feet under her, Ponpon settled into her armchair.

“So, tell me. What are you up to? What have you stumbled on? What have you unearthed?”

Ponpon was grinning at me.

“Nothing much” was all I said.

“I don’t believe you! You never return empty-handed. What’s in that envelope Selçuk sent you?”

Even engrossed in her cooking program, Ponpon hadn’t missed a thing. And hadn’t she already learned my computer password?

“If you call Selçuk to thank him, send my greetings. I suppose you won’t object to that much,” she added.

“I’m just about to call.”

“Oh, and remind him that he and his wife were going to come see me perform. They still haven’t. Do convey my sense of disappointment, would you?”

A wicked grin had spread across her face. Her eyes were shining. I’d forgotten how beautiful Ponpon’s eyes were. The color of rich honey, with chocolate speckles. Her pupils were huge, and made her eyes look all the warmer. They dominated her face. Her Roman nose had been whittled away by the scalpel to next to nothing, and she was forever reflexively pursing her tiny mouth. The only distinguishing feature left on that face was a pair of larger-than-life, luminous eyes.

“What are you grinning about?” I asked. “Someone’s got a secret. Out with it.”

At first she was coy, feigning reluctance. Then she let her little bombshell drop:

“Faruk Hanoğlu was released on lack of evidence.”

“That quickly?”

“Well, how could they keep him without any evidence?”

Selçuk had implied they’d simply manufacture something. It sounded like someone had other ideas.

“It’s proof once again of what a fine attorney Haluk is,” Ponpon continued. “If I ever have legal problems, I’m going straight to him. It’s true he’s a bit pricey, but he deserves every penny. Good for him!”

“How did you find out he’d been released? Was it on television?”

“No, sweetie. When I called Canan to offer my sympathies, she told me. They were elated, of course. But it’s still just too horrid: accused of murder, detained in a cell. May Allah not visit such a fate on even my worst enemies. Protect us, O mighty one!”