The Prophet Murders (15 page)

The moment she finished her third whiskey her eyes began to shut and she went off to bed. I quietly began searching through her address book, which she’d fortunately brought to my house. I didn’t recognize most of the names, but some of the listings were truly astounding. She’d scribbled in +, – and x next to some of them. It was obviously some kind of rating system for men.

There was nothing next to Fehmi
enyürek’s name, and no listing for Adem Yildiz.

I was up all night with various schemes racing through my mind.

The baby poo mask had not worked any wonders. My eyes were puffy from lack of sleep. When I finished shaving and showering, Ponpon was still asleep. I gulped down a cup of strong coffee. Aiming to be as seductive as possible, I squeezed into a black bodysuit and leather trousers. Grabbing a studded leather jacket, I headed out the door.

The morning chill did me good.

The owner of the patisserie knows me well. He immediately understood something had bothered me.

“No, thank you,” I replied.

“Thank you.”

“Look, I’m referring to you as ‘siz’,” he pointed out. His care in doing so was progress of a kind “Good for you,” I praised him.

“I see you’re as high and mighty as ever, no matter how I act.”

He was asking for it. I had no intention in indulging in a bout of morning gymnastics, but he deserved to be plastered against the wall.

I ignored him.

“It looks like you’re off somewhere . . . ”

The patisserie owner sensed things were heating up, but could do nothing but look on worriedly. Naturally, he wasn’t pleased at the prospect of broken glass and shattered furniture. It was the busiest time of day, and a brawl on the premises was the last thing he needed.

“You’ll really have to remind me to give you a sound thrashing some time,” I said. “Nice and slow. . . ”

“Roses spring up from whatever your hand touches.”

He’d reverted to the informal “sen”. I couldn’t hold back any longer.

As I rose from the table I kicked his shoulder with my left foot, toppling him and his chair. He looked up, startled.

“What do you think you’re doing!” he protested.

Without giving him a chance to catch his bearings, I placed my right foot on his throat. As I spoke, I pressed down lightly.

“That will be enough for this morning!”

I winked.

As I left the patisserie I noted the look of relief on the owner’s face. Hüseyin was still stretched out on the floor, looking at me with the same shocked expression.

I had no difficulty finding Jihad2000 Kemal’s house. The apartment building door was open. I climbed the stairs straight to the top floor.

The blue-eyed mother, who opened the door, didn’t seem at all surprised to see me.

“Come right in, Kemal is in his room,” was all she said.

As we walked to his room I looked her over, trying to decide if she would really eavesdrop on him. Unless she was busy, she probably would. There was no sound of a television or radio. It would be easy to hear all we said.

Kemal was astonished to see me. He was dressed in a sweat suit that clearly doubled as pyjamas. On his feet were thick woollen stockings.

“You’re early. This isn’t what you promised!”

He arranged his hair with one hand.

“I haven’t even taken a bath yet!”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You’re just fine like this.”

I wasn’t sure how convincing the lie was, but he smiled, if only for a moment.

“Yeah right,” he replied.

“I couldn’t stand it. I’m dying of curiosity,” I told him. “Tell me whatever it is you’ve found out. I’ll come back in the afternoon.”

“You’re lying,” was his response.

I looked deep into his eyes. I’ve always had a talent for staring at the point right between someone’s eyes. It’s easy to maintain for a long time and gives the object the impression that I’m looking directly into his eyes.

“You’re lying,” he repeated. “You’ll find out what you need to know, and leave. Then you won’t return.”

I continued with my penetrating gaze.

“Oh, all right,” he relented.

“Let’s get started then,” I said.

“I haven’t even had my tea,” he whined. “I just got up. I was at the computer all night. I worked until morning for a German company called Frechen.”

The Frechen he mentioned was probably the same company Ali had talked about. So they preferred Stephen Hawking to us. I suppose they knew what they were doing, but I made a mental note to hack them.

“You’ll have to wait for a bit,” he said. “I need to go to the toilet. I haven’t even washed my hands and face. My mother won’t leave until she’s given me a bath. Until then, neither of us will get what we want.”

While I recognised a quick mind at work, I had no intention of allowing him to play cat and mouse with me.