Divorce Turkish Style (18 page)

“Hmm. But there are two cups. Is there no way of finding out if Sani was going to make two cups of coffee?”

Naz shook her head.

“Where did she keep the capsules?” I asked.

“I don't know,” said Naz.

“How do you know how this machine works?”

“I have the same model.”

Why didn't I know anything about these espresso machines, when everyone else seemed to be using them?

“Let's just check the other rooms before we go,” I said.

“I need to sit down for a bit. You go and look,” said Naz.

“All right, but don't touch anything. The police might come back to look for more fingerprints.”

I looked in the bedroom, bathroom and the empty rooms on the top floor. If anything had escaped the attention of the police, I couldn't find it. When I returned to the sitting room, Naz was sitting cross-legged on the floor.

“Did you find anything?” she asked.

I shook my head and asked, “Why are you sitting like that?”

Naz handed me a tiny yellow metal item shaped like a narrow-brimmed bowler hat. The top of a bottle, perhaps?

“Where did you find this?” I asked, examining the item closely.

“It was stuck between one of the desk legs and the wall. I saw it when I sat down.”

“It's probably the top of a bottle.”

“It's a very elegant bottle top,” said Naz.

I held the item to my nose, as I did with everything I picked up. It smelled of perfume, a mixture of spices and flowers.

“It must be the top of a perfume bottle,” I said. “Sani obviously liked heavy perfumes.”

It smelled very similar to the Guerlain Samsara perfume that was on the desk.

“Let's go now,” I said, holding out my hand to Naz to help her up.

“While we're here, why don't we call in on the neighbours?” I suggested, while checking that the door was properly shut.

“Which neighbours?” said Naz.

“Orhan and Simin Soner. Their house is just opposite, so it's possible that they saw—” I said hesitantly.

“No,” interrupted Naz. “I don't want to call on them.”

“But their house is just here. A couple of paces away.”

“No!”

Naz clearly didn't want me to pursue the matter, but why? Was she still angry with Orhan for coming back to Turkey and leaving her sister in America? That was all very well, but, having come all the way to Paşabahçe, I'd really hoped to see more than a couple of espresso cups.

“We were going to speak to the nightwatchman,” I said.

“Okay,” said Naz. “Let's talk to him.”

“Do you know which his house is?”

“It can't be far.”

“The person in the corner shop will know,” I said.

We entered a rather sleazy shop where a young woman was sitting in front of an array of alcoholic beverages, which I found surprising. It was certainly not a scene you'd find in the slum districts of Istanbul.

“A corner shop selling alcohol! Even Kuledibi only has one of those,” I remarked, as we followed the woman's directions to the nightwatchman's hut.

“It's like that in the hills above Paşabahçe,” said Naz. “Can you smell it in the air?”

It was impossible to miss. The air was filled with the scent of aniseed from a nearby
rakı
factory that had recently closed. I yearned for a glass of ice-cold
rakı.

“Islamists don't like living right next to a
rakı
factory, so this area is mostly inhabited by liberal types,” said Naz.

“You're joking!”

“It's no joke. Anyway, that's what I was told. And it makes sense. If it's a sin to drink alcohol, why should inhaling it be any different?”

“Do you know this man?” I whispered, as Naz went to knock on the door of the shack that we'd been directed to by the woman in the shop.

“No. Why would I? As I said, I only visited Sani's once before, when I came to pick up my parents.”

A woman who was presumably the nightwatchman's wife opened the door. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties. However, the daily grind of living took its toll on women like her, who were usually a good ten years younger than they looked. I guessed she was about forty-five.

The woman stared at us, and tucked in the ends of her headscarf.

“I'm Sani Ankaralıgil's sister,” said Naz.

“I knew you looked like someone, but couldn't work it out. Don't you look like her? Come in, don't stand there on the doorstep.”

We removed our shoes and placed them on a piece of newspaper laid on the floor next to the front door.

“It's nearly Ramadan, so we're all in a rush. Sorry,” said the woman.

“We should be apologizing for turning up at your door out of the blue.”

“Not at all. Sincere condolences, my dear.”

We entered a largish room with a stove in the centre around which a few cushions had been neatly placed. The enormous wall-mounted plasma TV screen – at least one hundred centimetres wide – was probably the most expensive thing in the house. Actually, if I'd owned one, it would have been the most costly item in my apartment too. But that's another matter.

“Shall I light the stove?” asked the woman.

“It's not cold,” I said.

“I'll make some tea. Our youngest daughter-in-law is usually here to do it, but she went to visit an uncle today.”

“Please don't bother yourself on our account,” said Naz.

I was dying for some tea, but I said nothing.

“You must let me serve you some tea,” said the woman, ignoring Naz.

“My condolences,” said the woman again when she returned a few minutes later. “Sani Hanım was so young and pretty. They say she fell and hit her head or something.”

“I understand that it was your husband who found her?”

“That's right, he did. I wasn't here. I go and clean for an old lady in Kandilli on Thursdays. Been going there for years. She won't let anyone else touch her things.”

“Did your husband go into Sani's house alone, then?”

“Aylin Hanım phoned him and told him to go and take a look. I keep a set of Sani Hanım's keys, but I never leave anything lying around. My children and grandchildren always come to me if they lose something. Their keys went missing last year and my eldest son bought me a mobile so they can phone me whenever they lose something. Anyway, when my hubby went into Sani Hanım's house, he saw her lying on the floor and ran straight out without touching a thing. The police told him he did the right thing not to touch anything. He's a wise old thing, my hubby. Had
no education, but always knows what to do. Nobody believes he's just a nightwatchman. People ask him who got him that job, but nobody got it for him. We don't know people who can get anyone a job. It's just that he's good at everything he does.”

“Which days did you go to clean at Sani's?”

“Tuesdays and Fridays were Sani Hanım's days. Mondays and Wednesdays I go to Sibel Hanım, and then over to Kandilli on Thursdays. The rest of the time, I take care of my grandchildren.”

This meant she'd been cleaning at Sani's on the day of her death.

“Had you been on that Tuesday?”

“Of course. Just the same as always. I even kept going when I had toothache for weeks.”

“Did you see Sani that day?”

“Sani Hanım said she didn't want me hanging around, so I never got there too early. But it was a lot of work for one, and I'd be there till evening.”

“What time did you leave that Tuesday?”

“I left at dusk.”

What did she mean by dusk?

“Did you see Sani before you left?”

“No, she was never back that early.”

“When would she normally come back?”

“Never before evening prayers, but sometimes in time for night prayers.”

The woman obviously measured her days by the calls to prayer. But how was I supposed to know what time they were?

“What time are evening prayers said?” I whispered to Naz.

“About half past six at the moment, I think,” replied Naz.

“Yes, that's it. About half past six,” said the woman. “Near enough, anyway.”

The days were of course getting slightly shorter every day, so
when Sani died, evening prayers were probably recited a little after seven.

“So you didn't speak to Sani that Tuesday, but did you see her come home that night?”

“I saw her light on.”

“Was that after evening prayers?”

“Yes. It was late and I saw the light on my way home. That Tuesday, we'd called in on my eldest daughter-in-law, who'd just come back from her mother's village. On our way home, I saw Sani Hanım's light on. When I got up for morning prayers, I saw the light was still on. I went to my husband and…”

“Yes?” I said, encouragingly.

“It was the same on Wednesday night. And the light was still on when I got up in the morning.”

“But you don't know if she was alone or not,” I said. “Did Sani have a friend with her when she returned on Tuesday evening?”

“Good gracious, no!” said the woman, looking as offended as if I'd cast a slur on Sani's honour. “We've never seen her with any sort of ‘friend'. She was pure as they come. But a single woman is an easy target for gossip, even after death. I swear by almighty God, I never saw her with a friend, or with anyone else.”

“But you can't possibly see everything,” said Naz.

“Indeed I do, as God is my witness,” said the woman.

“Okay, but when you saw the light was still on on Thursday morning, why didn't you do anything?” I asked, paying little attention to her claim, which I assumed to be mere words.

“Of course we did something. My hubby phoned Cem Bey.”

“Your husband called Cem Bey?” I asked with surprise, since it was the first I'd heard of this.

“That's right, he called Cem Bey.”

“Did you know anything about this?” I asked Naz, who was looking as surprised as I was.

“And while I was at work,” continued the woman, “Aylin Hanım phoned my hubby and told him to go and take a look.”

“But you phoned Cem first, yes?”

“That's right. We phoned him. That is, my hubby did.”

“But how did you know Cem's phone number?”

“He gave it to us.”

So Cem had given his phone number to his soon-to-be-divorced wife's nightwatchman. That didn't seem like normal behaviour to me, but it had certainly proved to be useful.

“When did he give it to you?” I asked.

“He came here, just like you did today, and had some tea,” said the woman. “He gave us his phone number, which my hubby said was a mobile number. He says Cem Bey's a very powerful man who could get a job for our youngest boy, if he felt inclined. Our boy works in a button factory, but his wages aren't good enough.”

“Why did Cem give you his number?” I asked.

“Well, you see, I stand at the window when I'm cooking. I'd never impose on my daughter-in-law. I tell her she'll have plenty of time to cook when she's got a place of her own. Anyway, I don't like other people's cooking. Everyone has their own ideas when it comes to how much salt or oil to use.”

I felt my stomach contract.

“Can you see Sani's door from your kitchen?” I asked.

“When I look out of the kitchen window, her door is right opposite. Cem Bey told me to keep an eye on everyone who goes in and out. You know how women who live alone always have people chasing after them, especially if they're young and pretty like her.”

“So you're saying that Cem Bey gave you his number so that you could phone him if you saw anyone going in or coming out of Sani's house. Is that right, or have I got it wrong?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“Can I take a look out of your kitchen window?” I asked.

“Come,” said the woman, placing a hand on her knee to support herself as she rose from her cushion.

It was true. Sani's door was certainly visible, and from a very good angle. While the woman was busy making tea, I went back to Naz and asked, “Why do you think Cem made a pact with these people to keep an eye on Sani?”

Naz's eyes were filling up.

“Only the front door is visible from the kitchen, so she wouldn't have seen anyone going in through the back door that we used,” I said.

“Maybe he hired someone else to monitor the back door. Do you think she was paid to do this?” asked Naz.