The Prophet Murders (10 page)

When Ponpon finished she announced, “Sweetie, I’m off to bed,” and disappeared.

I didn’t feel at all drowsy. Even if I had, there’d be no point in trying to get a good night’s sleep with so many thoughts spinning through my head. I ran through my to-do list: A) Get online; B) Go investigate the housing site in Atakoy where Deniz died; C) Call Cengiz and arrange to spend the night in his arms; D) Locate Jihad2000 and find out what else he knew about the deaths.

Ponpon yelled from her bedroom:

Instead of turning off the lights, I closed the door to the corridor. If the lights and noise were keeping Ponpon from sleeping, the problem had been neatly eliminated. I decided that going to Ataköy would be better than staying at home. If I really felt like it, I could always stop in on Cengiz on the way home.

I put on a black sweater and black spandex trousers. It seemed appropriately mysterious for such late night business. In any case, it was definitely required wearing in every film I’d ever seen. I called the taxi rank and asked for Hüseyin. I figured he may as well earn some money. He was eager to get mixed up in things like this, and I knew he’d be thrilled.

As I was tying my shoe laces, Hüseyin arrived at the door. He stood there with a bashful expression on his face, clearly hoping to be invited inside.

“We’re going to Ataköy,” I informed him mischievously.

His face fell. It was a classic case of expectations being dashed by reality. I closed the door, and led the way down the staircase. I was, of course, fully aware that the spandex clung to my hips and thighs like a second skin. I permitted him to bathe me with his eyes.

“What’s going on?” he wondered. “You home at this hour?”

“I’ve closed the club for the night,” I replied.

“Are you going to go visit someone?”

His voice quavered with insecurity as he asked me this.

“No,” I said. “I’ll explain everything on the road.”

By the time we’d made our way along the coast road to the block of flats, I’d briefed him about Deniz’s death, revealing only what he needed to know. We finally found apartment block A-18 in the middle of several high-rises in B Block. Each building was separated into Block A and Block B, with two lifts in each block. It was late, and most lights had long since been turned off; even those people still sitting up had probably nodded off by now. I reviewed my main reason for coming here in the first place: to speak to Deniz’s neighbours! To extract information from the doorman . . .

That would be impossible. No one was around. I began examining the dozens of doorbells lining both sides of the main entrance.

“What are we looking for?” Hüseyin asked.

“I don’t know.”

I really didn’t. Some intuition or instinct had drawn me here tonight. I didn’t know what it was, or what would happen.

“You’re really something!” Hüseyin exclaimed.

As I checked the doorbells to the right of the main door, he read out the names on the left hand side. It served no purpose but that of confusing me.

Most of the names seemed familiar. They were all Turkish. No surprise there. We were suddenly lit up by headlights from a car pulling into the parking lot. Looking, no doubt, like a common criminal, I turned and watched the car as it was parked. The light reminded me of being under interrogation at police headquarters. I did everything but shield my face with raised arm, guiltily turning my head to the side.

If asked who we were looking for, what would we say? If I mentioned one of the names on the doorbells, and that person turned out to be home, how would I explain? What’s more, the slinky catsuit I’d selected as tonight’s costume would hardly inspire a sense of trust. I had to do something. But what?

I grabbed Hüseyin, pulled him down out of the headlights, locked him in a tight embrace and began kissing him. What the boy would think, and how I would keep him in line later, were matters to be dealt with another time. There was a chance that if we seemed to be a passionately entwined couple whoever came would be too embarrassed to do anything but make a beeline straight for the door.

I kept one eye on the now darkened car, and an ear out for the sound of approaching footsteps or the clang of a closing door – my lips glued to Hüseyin’s all the while. He seemed puzzled at first, but without skipping a beat he played his role to perfection. I firmly removed the hand cupping my bottom and placed it on my waist.

The car contained a couple with a baby. It took them some time to get out of their darkened vehicle. They were trying not to wake up the baby, and spoke in loud whispers. I heard every word. I may have surrendered my body, but my mind was far from the embrace of Hüseyin.

The couple entered A Block without coming anywhere near us. I immediately gave Hüseyin a shove.

“That’s enough!”

“You did seem to be going all cold on me.”

“I used you as camouflage,” I explained.

“I thought so,” he said, shaking his head.

I continued inspecting the bells. Surely my instincts had not drawn me here only to be caught by a couple with a baby or to throw myself into Hüseyin’s arms. Staying where he was, Hüseyin continued reading the names aloud, but this time in a low voice. It was as entertaining as leafing through the telephone book.

“Kizilyildiz,” he said. “People sure have strange names. Instead of writing it out, they’ve drawn a picture of a red star.”

“Perhaps they’re former communists,” I suggested.

He continued muttering to himself as he read out the names. I went to his side to have a look. Yes, someone had sprayed a star design with red paint. It had faded.

Hüseyin seized the opportunity to seize me.

“I think someone’s coming,” he said.

No one was arriving or leaving. I shook him off. If he persisted, he would find himself flung head over heels into the nearby bushes. He didn’t.

There was no way to know what inspired him to kill. But he was plainly a sick individual.

I sat on the stairs and collected my thoughts. Why would someone so wealthy and well-known resort to murder? If indeed he had, how could I find proof? Where was the evidence? Simply saying I was acting on a hunch just wouldn’t cut it. What had I found out so far? Nothing! I had stumbled on a doorbell with a red star. It may or may not have belonged to Adem Yildiz. It was easy enough to find out. But even if it was his apartment, what would that prove?

The deaths, or murders if that’s what they were, had taken place far apart. If Adem Yildiz had been anywhere near any of the crime scenes, that would go a long way towards implicating him. But it still proved nothing conclusive.

Anyway, men like him always employed others who were willing to take the rap. If things started getting sticky one of them would pop up and “confess” to all the murders.

Even if I was on the right track, I had to come up with some concrete evidence. I couldn’t think of a way to implicate Adem Yildiz, or a way to make my accusations stick.

The coroner’s report sent by Sel
uk could shed some light on the deaths of Gül and Ceren. I could also get access to the police files on the deaths of Musa in Antalya and Muhammet in Van.

Jihad2000 could surprise me by coming up with something.

Cengiz had told me that his summer house was right next to that of the Yildiz family. That could provide some sort of lead. Even the most insignificant event or tiniest detail could prove vital.

I had to learn where Adem Yildiz was at the time of the deaths. And did the flat in Ataköy with the red star on the doorbell belong to him?

Had Adem Yildiz gone home with any of the girls the night he came to the club? If he had, with whom? I could find this out from Hasan.

I tossed and turned until dawn.

When it was time for ordinary people to start work, I ignored Ponpon’s need for beauty sleep and began making phone calls. First I called Sel
uk. The police are supposed to start work first thing in the morning, after all. There was no need to raise Selcuk’s suspicions without proof of some kind. I didn’t mention Adem Yildiz, just brought up the deaths in Van and Antalya and the disappearance of Funda, the girl working the motorway. I told him I’d need some information.

He paused for a moment.

“Look,” he said. “I’ll do what I can, but I can’t help wondering what the guys in the department will think if I start poking my nose into a bunch of transvestite incidents that have nothing to do with us.”

“I understand,” I told him.

He was right. If a police chief suddenly took it upon himself to look into a case that was none of his business it would mean he was invading someone else’s turf. And the transvestite angle would be enough to get tongues wagging.

“This is really getting to me,” I said. “I can’t get it out of my head. There’s some connection between the names of the victims. I’ve got to find it, whatever it is.”

“I see what you’re getting at,” he said. “But believe me, I can’t promise anything. Over time, we can investigate each case. But to suddenly open all the files . . . ”

“I see . . . ”

“Sorry,” he continued. “It’s bad enough already. There’s always trouble if someone’s toes get stepped on.”

“What do you mean, ‘sorry’,” I said. “There’s nothing to apologise for. . . ”

“The coroner’s report came in. I had a look. There didn’t seem to be anything important. Someone will bring it over to you in a bit.”

“Thanks.”

Something came to mind just as I was about to hang up.

“Just one more thing,” I said. I mentioned the address in Ataköy. “Could we find out who owns the flat and who’s using it?”

“It’s as good as done.”

I thanked him again.

Would it make any sense for me to travel to Van, in the east, Antalya, down south, and Rize, all the way up on the Black Sea? Even if I went to them all, would it make a bit of difference?

Despite the early hour, I called Hasan. The phone rang repeatedly before he finally picked up, cursing under his breath.

“I know it’s a bit early, but I haven’t been able to sleep. I was wondering about something. Who went off with Adem Yildiz when he came to the club the other night?”

Hasan was still sleepy, and it took him some time to understand what I was getting at. I repeated my question.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t remember. There were a lot of them at the table. Ahmet Kuyu and the others. Girls were coming and going all night. A bunch went off together. They left a big tip, but I can’t remember who went with them.”

“You’ve got to find out,” I said. “I need to know which of the girls left with them.’

“I’ll find out. But I’m afraid there was more than one girl. There was a whole group of them together.”

“All right,” I said. “Find out as quick as you can who they were.”

“Good morning,” Ponpon sang out from her room.

She came in wearing a kimono; pinkies cocked, she modestly held the front closed. It was black, and every inch was covered with embroidery. She raised her eyebrows as she spoke. On her feet were Japanese slippers. The nails of her enormous feet were painted a pale pink.

Taking tiny steps, she came over and kissed me. Then she sat down opposite. She carefully draped the kimono around her legs. Slowly, ever so slowly, she crossed them. Then she fussed once more with her kimono.

“What about my coffee?”

My unwanted guest wanted service as well.

I went to the kitchen to top up my coffee and prepare hers. I’d already had far too much of the stuff. I’d begun drinking before sunrise. In a single morning, I’d drunk more than I usually consume in a week.

“So what have you found out?” her voice floated out.

“I’m coming,” I said.

“You left me all alone last night.”

“You were asleep.”

“So what,” she protested. “Why do you think I came here in the first place? Because I was afraid of being alone. And what did you do? You went off and left me.”

“Would you like milk in your coffee?”

“Please . . . But not too much. Two drops or so. And two sugars!”

She’d added the last bit because she knows I don’t take sugar. I always forget to add sugar for my guests.

I started talking about this and that, not going into detail because I know how panicky Ponpon can be. She’d get scared while I was out.

“You’re really exaggerating,” she said. “Sweetie, we’re all named after holy men. I mean, all right, there are some with new, modern, made-up names. But for God’s sake, how many? enerally only the young ones. Which doesn’t apply to us. And there are some with Central Asian Turkic names. That’s it.”

There was no trace of the Ponpon who only the previous night had been fearing for her life.

“So?” I said.

“What I mean to say, sweetie, is if you dig deep enough we’ve all got suspect names.”

I was thrilled to see her so nonplussed, and hoped it would last.

We’d sipped about half our coffee when the doorbell rang. A well-built policeman stood in the doorway, his motorcycle helmet under his arm and a large yellow envelope in his hand.

“Commissioner Selcuk Taylanc sent this,” he informed me.

As I took the envelope I examined him from head to toe.

I ignored Ponpon’s cry of “Who is it?”

I have a weakness for these black leather motorcycle outfits. And it’s a fact that the best-looking policemen are selected for special services. They are in a completely different league from the ones responsible for traffic infractions and passport checks.

It seemed pointless to get horny at this time of day, with so much to do and Ponpon sitting inside. In any case, the boy didn’t seem interested. I thanked him and closed the door.

Ponpon was even more curious than me. She grabbed one of the dossiers. We sat across from each other, reading. Apart from her asking me the meaning of every medical term she encountered, and her tiny shrieks of horror when I answered, we read the reports right through to the end.

Both of the corpses exhibited evidence of sodomy. There were no more details about Ceren, whose body had been badly burned. But her internal organs were apparently undamaged. Traces of blood and sperm, damaged by heat, were found in her anus. What a surprise! The report was unable to determine exactly how long Gül had remained in the water. Despite the extensive swelling, the police had identified signs of trauma to her body. Her anus exhibited signs of forced entry. No traces of drugs or medication were found in her blood.

The contents of their stomachs had been analysed and the report contained details of what they had eaten, and when. There were detailed descriptions of their skin, eyes, hair and other physical characteristics. Excessive doses of oestrogen were found in Ceren’s body. Despite its charred state, “deformations” had been detected in her chest and buttocks.

I read the reports stony-faced, but I was badly shaken. So was Ponpon. We avoided eye contact.

“But this is just too nauseating,” she cried. “I woke up hungry for breakfast. Now I’ve lost my appetite.”

“You said it.” I agreed. “Me too.”

I left Ponpon in front of the television and got on the internet. It was time to look up Jihad2000.

It didn’t take long to find him. I summarised everything. I explained about Musa, Muhammet and Yunus-Funda. He was sorry he didn’t know anything about them. He said he’d found out what he could.

I also asked him to investigate “adam-star”, “starman” and “*adam”. I just had too much to do, and he was in front of the computer all day anyway. Not only would it be a lot easier for him, it would save me a lot of time.

He asked when I would visit again. I told him I was busy these days, and that I wouldn’t be able to commit myself until I’d settled everything.

I hesitated to provide him with the name Adem Yildiz. Then I decided to. After all, there was no point in my getting mixed up with that filth unless I really had to.