The Kiss Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  “Kayhan is a professional thief. There’s not a door he can’t open. But when he arrived to break into Buse’s flat, someone else was already inside. Someone had broken in before us.”

  “Bad timing,” I commented.

  “We were shocked to hear Buse was dead. When we learned it was murder, we were terrified. All we had in mind was a simple case of blackmail. And maybe theft. That’s all. We were scared, so we gave up on the whole idea.”

  “Really?” I said. “Then what was iceman Kayhan doing in Sabiha Hanım’s flat?”

  “Ahmet got the address from the mortuary correspondent. He thought we should give it another try, said we had nothing to lose. Maybe the photos and letters were still there. That’s when you and the neighbor found Kayhan.”

  “The poor boy doesn’t seem to have much luck.”

  What I really meant was that he was a hopeless failure, but I held my tongue.

  “You’re right. We’ve all been pretty unlucky.”

  She hesitated. She was about to say something else, but couldn’t for some reason. So these two had also been after the photos and letters. We had Süreyya Eronat and his men, Sofya and the Mafia, and a couple of amateur reporters. It was amazing. If Buse were alive, she’d be thrilled.

  “Now,” she continued, “they think we have the photos. They’re after us. They nabbed Kayhan, threatened him.”

  “So the bandage on his cheek . . .”

  “They beat him. He gave them Ahmet’s name, and now Ahmet is beside himself. So am I. What are we supposed to do? We haven’t got a thing. All I have is the tape, but you have the original. Please, try to understand . . .”

  “But what can I do?”

  “You mean you aren’t working with them?”

  We exchanged surprised looks. Now it was my turn to laugh. How could anyone be so stupid? If I’d really been working with them—Hedef Party’s men or the Mafia—what on earth would I be doing in this flat right now? If I was one of them, why would I have needed the chubby-cheeked neighbor to get into the flat? Her husband was right to have left her. What woman could be so filthy and unkempt, live in such a messy flat, and be so stupid to boot?

  That she had ever married at all was a miracle.

  “I’m in the exact same situation that you are. Someone thinks I have the blackmail materials,” I said.

  She gasped.

  “Let’s go in and tell Ahmet. We thought you’d come here to threaten us. Kayhan was especially nervous after seeing the men waiting downstairs.”

  “Men waiting downstairs?”

  It was my turn to gasp.

  We joined Ahmet in the living room. As she filled him in, I peered out the window. On the street below waited two men in a dark car. They saw me. I gave a halfhearted wave. It was silly, but it was the only thing that came to mind. At least I didn’t smile.

  So Sofya’s little helpers had been following me. I hadn’t taken any precautions when I woke up. And now I’d been tracked to this flat. This was just great!

  Ahmet had gone from looking edgy to looking rather sheepish.

  “Believe me, I had no idea this was going to turn out to be such a mess,” he said. “Otherwise I’d never have got involved. I mean, if I was really into this sort of thing, why would I bother running around the city with my camera for a living?”

  He may have been telling the truth, but he was still the one who’d arranged the inept burglar, Kayhan. There was still something dark about Ahmet.

  There was no reason for me to spend any more time with the panicked journalist and Ahmet. At most, we could wring our hands and try to console each other. There was no need for that.

  I wondered where to go when I left them: If I went home, the men would follow me, and I’d be under observation. I had to shake them off somehow. But where could I go?

  The one place I’d always considered safe, my refuge, was my home. If something went wrong, if I was at all troubled, that’s where I’d go. And now the Mafia was posted just outside my building. My most personal spot in the whole world, no longer safe. It was a distressing thought.

  Ahmet and the journalist had opened a bottle of wine and were snuggled up together on the sofa, comforting each other. They told each other that things would turn out all right. That must have been what they were doing when I interrupted. At this rate, they wouldn’t get to first base. Both lacked any fervor. Dispassionate sex is not for me. I disapprove.

  As I looked at them I also felt pity. They kept asking each other what they should do next. It was pathetic.

  “Why don’t you just hand over the cassette, then? Save your skins!” I suggested.

  “But they wouldn’t believe that the tape is all we have,” said the journalist.

  “Tell them exactly what you told me,” I advised. “You never know, they might believe you.”

  I didn’t find my own advice particularly credible, but I was fed up with their whining. No one is truly desperate; it’s just a question of taking unpalatable actions.

  “Do you really think so?” she asked.

  “We could try,” said Ahmet. “Let’s go down and hand it over.”

  “They’ll suddenly be faced with a cassette they know nothing about. And a copy, at that. We’ll just end up making things worse,” she argued.

  She had a point.

  “You still have the original, don’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes, at home.”

  “What about handing that over? We could go down and talk to them. You could take them to your flat, give it to them. This whole nightmare would be over! What do you say?”

  The journalist obviously believed that this would be the best solution and wanted it done as soon as possible.

  The cassette could never be used as evidence; what’s more, any gossip could make the same claims. Without proof, words had no importance. The source was a dead transvestite, as unreliable a source as any. The cassette wouldn’t do us any good. We’d heard all we needed to and even had a copy. There was no reason not to hand over the original.

  “Fine,” I said. They brightened.

  Taking the copy as a precaution, the three of us trooped down the stairs. We headed straight for the car.

  Two men were eating dürüm inside. They couldn’t be expected to go without eating as they followed me around all day. They, too, had needs, got hungry and thirsty. They were drinking cans of cola. As we approached, they straightened. The window was open. I was hit by the smell of raw onions.

  I began making our case, but the journalist and photographer kept interrupting. So I shut up and stepped to one side. After all, they were reporters.

  The men in the car listened expressionlessly. They were third-rate henchmen. I suspected they hadn’t even been briefed. They’d just been instructed to follow me and phone their boss, whoever he was, to report my moves. The idiot reporters started from the beginning, with Buse’s murder, and mentioned Süreyya Eronat numerous times. When his name was mentioned the men in the car seemed to shift slightly, smiling oddly. My stomach turned.

  The long-winded explanation took ages, but eventually they finished.

  “Give us the tape, then,” said the man in the passenger seat.

  “We can’t. It’s at his flat.”

  Ahmet pointed to me as he said this.

  “Let’s go there, then,” ordered the driver.

  He was clearly stupid. The three of us got into the back seat. Mixed with the stench of dürüm and onions was the tang of sweat. If we’d intended to attack them, the two in the front were completely defenseless. As it was, we had no intention of making trouble.

  I didn’t have to give them directions. They knew the way.

  Chapter 29

  I handed over the tape and the four of them left.

  It couldn’t be this quick and easy. Here I was again, at home. Home, sweet home. I was probably still under surveillance. After all, the only thing they’d been able to get their hands on was a cassette, not the letters or photos.
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br />   I was just about to get in the shower when the phone rang. It was Sofya.

  “What’s this cassette? What’s this all about?”

  It was impossible for the cassette to have reached her so quickly. And it was beyond impossible for her to have listened to it.

  “It’s an interview Buse gave before she died. In it she talks about everyone she’s ever slept with.”

  “Even him?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed.

  “Why didn’t you give it to me? You’ve had it all along.” She’d reverted to her ill-tempered self.

  “I didn’t think it was of any use. Tapes can’t be used as evidence.”

  “We’ll decide that.”

  And she hung up.

  They were astonishingly quick. Amazing.

  After showering I got into bed, still wet. I’d scrubbed off the filth of the lady journalist’s flat. There was still no news of Buse’s killers. The police must have relegated her case to the unsolved murders file. I’d failed at everything I’d set out to do. I hadn’t found the letters and photos, rescued Buse’s blind mother, or discovered who’d murdered her. I’d been kidnapped and threatened, and torn my favorite cotton dress. All for nothing. The scratches and bruises were an added bonus.

  If they were satisfied with the tape, and I doubted that, I wanted to wash my hands of the whole affair. I felt thoroughly exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. I decided to settle in front of the TV with a cup of fennel tea. I filled the kettle with just enough water.

  While waiting for it to boil, I went over to the answering machine and pushed the button. There would be the message Ali had left just as I was leaving the apartment. From the kitchen, where I’d returned to make my tea, I heard Ali’s voice:

  “Happy Sunday, it’s me, Ali. I’m in the office, working. I’d expected you to send me something. It’s going on two o’clock. I’ll be leaving soon. I just wondered how you were. Call me when you can. Good-bye.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. He hadn’t received the envelope I’d sent. I’d told the men at the stand to deliver it after ten, and from what the other driver had told me, that’s exactly what Hüseyin did. But the envelope had never reached Ali. There was something funny going on.

  I called Ali immediately. He always carries his cell phone. He answered on the second ring.

  “Oooo, merhaba, or should I say good morning, maybe even good evening,” he began.

  “Ali, did you get the envelope I sent?”

  “No,” he said. “I left you a message telling you I was about to leave the office. I stayed for about another hour but I never got an envelope.”

  “Something has gone wrong here. I gave the envelope to the taxi stand early this morning and told them to deliver it after ten. A driver who knows where the office is took it and went off to deliver it to you.”

  “He may have left it with the doorman, but I never got it. You know, I saw Nevzat Efendi on the way out, and he didn’t say a word.”

  So Nevzat Efendi was the doorman as well as the gardener. After I hung up, I tried to put my thoughts in order. I’d given the envelope to the corner market boy with instructions to hand it along to the driver waiting in front of the building. The man at the taxi stand later confirmed having received it. Then the old, chatty driver told me that Hüseyin had left at about ten with the envelope, but hadn’t yet returned, well after noon. So the envelope had set off for Ali’s office, but hadn’t made it.

  I’d had my doubts about Hüseyin all along. He seemed to pop up at the most opportune times. He might have wondered what was in the envelope and opened it up. He could have thought it was something personal. But I had even worse suspicions. What if Hüseyin had been in on it all along? If so, whose side was he on? He couldn’t have been one of Süreyya’s men. They’d jump back three paces if you so much as mentioned the word “homosexual.” But Hüseyin . . . he had no such aversion. He might be working with Sofya. Or even operating alone. He’d told me all about his dreams of being a proper detective, wanting to work with me. None of the thoughts running through my head seemed entirely unlikely.

  Perhaps the building had been under surveillance when I sent off the envelope, just as it could be right now. They’d have noted the sending of a package. And if they’d seen Hüseyin out with me the first night, it was only natural they’d assume he was of importance, perhaps even tailing him as well. Hüseyin was certainly an attractive enough quarry for either Hedef Party’s men or the Mafia.

  Just thinking about it gave me a terrible headache. I went to the bathroom and took two painkillers. From my eyebrows to my hairline, my entire forehead throbbed. It was a sensation closely resembling a guilty conscience. In fact, there was no reason for me to blame myself, or to hold myself responsible in any way. But such reasoned thinking did nothing to alleviate my aching head.

  Part of me even thought Hüseyin fully deserved whatever he got. There were his airs, his clumsy, hopeless attempts at seducing me, the fact that he’d come to the club two nights in a row, no doubt using my name at the door to get in, and then the way he ended up with that tub of lard, Müjde. But despite my wounded pride and desire for revenge, I still couldn’t talk myself into wishing harm to Hüseyin. I have a heart of gold, maybe even platinum—at the very least diamond-encrusted. It was distressing indeed to imagine Hüseyin getting into trouble because he’d been sent on an errand of mine.

  I rang the taxi stand and calmly asked if Hüseyin was there. The person who answered was, I think, a friend of Hüseyin’s, a guy with a shaved head and tattoos on his hand. “He hasn’t come back yet. I’ll send him along when he does,” he said in an unpleasantly cloying voice.

  My serenity only recently restored, I felt a surge of anger. A little voice told me to run to the stand, grab the guy by the throat, and beat the crap out of him. That’d be one way to vent my frustration!

  I often ignore that little voice, and that’s what I did this time too. Settling into my favorite chair, I removed from its plastic wrapper a computer magazine delivered three days earlier. But I hadn’t forgotten the offensive friend, and would get him one day. I leafed through the magazine, my mind on the future drubbing. If I’d felt like reading, there was page after page of mostly useless information. I had more pressing things to focus on, however. Finishing my tea, I got up.

  I began pacing through the flat. It’s what I most often do when I need to concentrate on a certain subject. I clean, throw out whatever I don’t need, sort through my possessions, even move the furniture sometimes. I tolerate the changes for a few days. Then, when the cleaning lady comes on Monday, everything goes back to its original spot and I feel better. The first task I faced was the heap of things spread across the sofa, everything from a pair of underwear and single earring to old notebooks and photographs. I began quickly picking up and discarding things. Out of an old photo album fell a music hall photo, the kind they take at your table and sell to you that same night. Old black and white photographs were stapled onto the cardboard frame. As I looked through them, I suddenly had another realization. Buse had posed in Ferruh’s arms one day when we went out together in a large group. Belkıs was not in the picture; she must not have been among us.

  Now I understood why Ferruh kept trying to talk to me. When I’d left them that night at the club, Buse had been headed over to their table. I knew they’d once indulged in a ménage à trois, but I’d completely forgotten that Buse and Ferruh had once had a more “intimate” relationship by themselves. So Ferruh had also been spooked by news of the tape and was out to save his own ass.

  Without wasting another second, I dialed Ferruh and Belkıs’s number. Belkıs answered. We chatted about nothing in particular, while I tried to think of a reason to ask to speak to Ferruh. But I couldn’t. No matter what I came up with, I knew that Belkıs would suffer a fit of jealousy.

  Sending my best wishes to Ferruh, I hung up.

  There hadn’t been a peep from Sofya and her gang ever since they had gotten their hand
s on the cassette. I wondered if they’d found the Passat I’d left in the cultural center parking lot. Sofya hadn’t mentioned anything about it. If they hadn’t found it, then why hadn’t they come after me? Süleyman knew where the club was, and could just as easily find my flat. At the very least, he should have shown up with a couple of heavies—knowing he couldn’t handle me on his own—and forced me to tell him where it was. What was this Süleyman character after, anyway?

  It was an unusually cool night, with an occasional breeze. Nothing like the usual humid, oppressive Istanbul nights. I hadn’t turned on the TV or the CD player. The quiet seemed almost eerie.

  The pills had done their magic; my headache was under control. I took a half-finished book from my nightstand. I was asleep before I’d finished the first page.