Table of Contents
A PENGUIN MYSTERY
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Glossary
Acknowledgements
Teaser chapter
A PENGUIN MYSTERY
The Kiss Murder
MEHMET MURAT SOMER was born in Ankara in 1959. After graduating from Middle Eastern University (ODTÜ) School of Industrial Engineering, he worked for a short time as an engineer, and for an extended period as a banker. Since 1994, he has been a management consultant, conducting corporate seminars on management skills and personal development. Somer has written a number of made-to-order scenarios for feature films and television series, as well as classical music critiques for various newspapers and magazines. He currently lives in Istanbul.
KENNETH JAMES DAKAN was born in Salt Lake City in 1964. After spending a year in New Zealand as a Rotary Exchange Student, he attended New York University’s Mass Communications Department. On January 1, 1988, he set off on an around-the-world trip. He has not yet returned. Currently he resides in Istanbul, where he works freelance, translating, writing a morning news bulletin, contributing to travel guides, editing, and doing voice-over narratives for industrial films.
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First published in Penguin Books 2008
Copyright © Iletisim Yayincilik A.S., 2003
Translation copyright © Kenneth Dakan, 2008
All rights reserved
Originally published in Turkish under the title Buse Cinayeti by Iletisim Yayinlari, Istanbul.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA
Somer, Mehmet Murat, 1959-
[Buse cinayeti. English]
The kiss murder / Mehmet Murat Somer.
p. cm.—(A Penguin mystery)
eISBN : 978-1-440-65569-2
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Chapter 1
Heading for the bathroom, I switched the channel on the television to a game show, just to listen. Like all such programs, it’s aimed squarely at the unrepentantly ignorant, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy getting most of the questions right. In fact, some of the girls at the club even egg me on to become a contestant.
“Wouldn’t it be great?” they speculate. “You’d really sock it to them.”
“Ayol! As if they’d let someone like me on their show,” I always respond. That shuts them up.
I finished shaving before the first round of questions was over. Next it was time for my makeup. When I’m in high spirits, this process can last for ages. Otherwise, it’s over in less than a couple of minutes. It was a hot night, so the club wouldn’t fill up until late. I had plenty of time.
With the right makeup, I’m transformed into a glamorous star of Hollywood’s golden age. My all-time favorite is Audrey Hepburn, that boyish beauty.
Perfect, once again. I blew myself a big kiss in the mirror. After dressing in a slinky leopard-print dress, semitransparent and dripping with sequins, I phoned the stand for a taxi. Hüseyin arrived. He’s one of those characters who addresses me with a respectful abi, or “elder brother,” by day, but salivates at the sight of me by night. As I emerged from the apartment building, he grinned at me like a fawning dog, as always. The moment I entered the cab he switched off the light. At least he’s a well-trained dog.
“The club?”
As if I would be going anywhere else at this hour.
“Yes.”
I abhor small talk.
We drove off. His eyes were on me, rather than the road. Not content with glimpses in the rearview mirror, he insolently turned to steal glances at me over his shoulder. Now, if he were my type, no problem. But not with that baby face. I like my men manly.
“It’s steamy out, isn’t it?”
“Hmmm . . .”
“Everything’s sticking to me. I’m in the car all day long . . . Like a sun-dried sausage. But dripping wet.”
Once again, I was subjected to the sight of a groveling hound.
“But you work nights, don’t you?”
“I get all sticky at night, too.”
“Take lots of cold showers, then.”
“You think there’s a shower at the taxi stand? . . . Could I come to your place? We’ll cool off . . . Together . . .”
“Don’t be impertinent.”
“Okay, abi . . . Just trying my luck. No big deal.”
Over time, as the neighborhood has got to know me better, their attitude has changed. The guys at the taxi stand, too, suddenly saw me in a new light when I managed to teach a neighborhood creep a lesson, employing my formidable skills in Thai kickboxing and aikido, dressed all the while in the tiniest of miniskirts. The public thrashing of a guy twice my size gained me quite a bit of respect.
As I got out of the taxi in front of the club, Hüseyin asked, “Should I pick you up when you finish?”
If there’d been even the remotest chance of his turning out to be another John Holmes, I’d have entertained the idea. But there were none of the telltale signs. Neither his nose nor his fingers showed any promising length.
“No,” I said. “There’s no telling when I’ll get out of here. Don’t bother waiting.”
Our bodyguard, Cüneyt, met me at the door. I’ve always suspected that he uses an alias: somehow he seems more like a Mehmet Ali. Whatever his real name is, he’s one of those pumpers of iron. One night, when the club was empty, and only at the girls’ insistence, I arranged a little aikido demonstration. Apparently his back ached for a week. And I’d held back, only intending to put on a show! It’s so typical. Those gym bunnies often turn out to be paper tigers. And the steroids mean they’re not much fun in the sack, either.
The club was crowded tonight. Praise the Lord; we are very much in vogue. I won’t deny that I deserve some of the credit. After all, I’m the one who introduced a novel management approach, and a new set of rules and regulations.
Because I own a legal, if tiny, share of the club, the girls treat me as their boss. Their high regard for me is the result not only of my stake, but due to the fact that I hold down a day job. In other words, I am not dependent, as they are, on the payments collected from club customers.
Serap made a beeline for me, turning down the noisy music in order to speak:
“Abla, my boy’s here again . . . Should I go off with him?”
“For free again?”
“But you know I’ve got a soft spot for him.”
“He’s taking advantage of you. At this rate you won’t even make the rent this month.”
“I’ll work later.”
“Doesn’t he stay with you all night?”
“Ayol, are you kidding? . . . He lives with his family. He’s got to be home by midnight. Or deal with his big brother.”
I smiled to myself. I know those censorious big brothers. They’re the sort who get up to things, or at least imagine getting up to things, that would make even my hair stand on end.
The sight of a pair of eyes glowing with longing made me change my mind about trying to talk some sense into her.
“It’s up to you, sweetie, but take care not to let yourself go too much,” I warned.
“I’m as gone as I’ll ever get,” was the reply.
“So off you go, then.”
Serap raced toward her sweetheart, a dry, dark, skinny slip of a nineteen-year-old, who was shorter than her and would have good reason to fear an older brother. Even as she ran, Serap did not neglect her trademark waggle of the hips. From what she says, the boy’s tackle warrants a second look, although that’s certainly not the impression he makes on first sight. Well, I suppose it’s never really clear who’s sporting what.
Leaving my drink on the bar, I pushed through the crowd toward the dance floor. Various girls greeted and kissed me as I passed. When I emerged on the floor, DJ Osman played my favorite track, the Weather Girls’ “It’s Raining Men,” and I started dancing. Buse approached me, her pallor obvious even in the darkness. Makeup does have its limitations. Acting like she was dancing, Buse came right up to me.
“Can we talk?” she said.
Placing an arm around her shoulders, I led Buse off the dance floor. In response to the quizzical look Osman threw me from the DJ booth, I gestured, Later.
“What is it?”
“Can we go upstairs? It’s too noisy here. I don’t want to shout.”
The girls often share their problems with me, consulting me on every subject under the sun, employing me as everything from financial advisor to agony aunt.
We went to the office on the top floor. It’s a low-ceilinged mezzanine, with a small window looking out over the interior of the club. It’s cluttered. Crammed into the room are a huge desk, a safe in the corner, two old armchairs, stocks of toilet paper and napkins, and crates of alcohol. I perched on the edge of a crate of wine. Buse sank into the only empty armchair. She fixed her eyes on me, as though expecting an explanation of some sort. I waited for a few moments, doing my best to understand. Had I forgotten anything? No, I hadn’t.
“What’s going on, ayol?” I finally demanded. “What’s with the questioning eyes? You’re the one who wanted to talk.”
She continued staring intently, silent. Like she was sizing me up. She was clearly wondering whether or not to spill the beans.
“I’m terrified,” she began. “Absolutely petrified . . .”
I looked at her inquiringly. Thinking it best, I also allowed a sympathetic smile to settle into the corners of my mouth.
“I don’t know where to start. I’m so confused.”
“Just start talking. Tell me anything you like,” I encouraged.
She stared down at the floor, still silent. I began counting the stocks of rakı: nine crates, all fully encased in plastic.
“I’m so frightened . . .”
“That much is clear, sweetie,” I said. “But why?”
I waited for her to continue. Still not a peep. I began counting the boxes of white wine: five in all; less than I’d expected. There do seem to be a lot of white wine drinkers these days. We’re flying through the stock.
“I’m in possession of certain documents.”
Buse was still looking at the floor. Carefully choosing each word, she slowly continued, “They concern an important person. A prominent person. If it ever got out, all hell would break loose. It’d be the biggest scandal ever.”
My interest was piqued, despite myself.
“Years ago . . . I was with someone, someone who’s very important now. And it wasn’t just a one-night stand. It was more like a relationship. It lasted for a long time. There are photos of us, together, at various times, in different places. And the notes he wrote me. I say notes, but one of them is more like a letter. Handwritten and signed. I mean, a proper letter. It spells out everything.”
There was another long period of silence. I’d become more curious, but I still lacked the patience to wait for more. I moved on to the red wine. Only two cases. What concerned me most was the beer: only sixteen cases and four kegs left.
“Someone knows I have the photos and letters.”
The girls tend to be chatterboxes. They tell everyone everything, particularly if they bed a celebrity, however minor. Every last detail. Inevitably, the lover is actually straight, but just couldn’t resist yours truly. In fact, he’s fallen head over heels. Of course, these little tales are designed to advertise the beauty and singularity of the narrator—not all of them are true. Even I occasionally stretch the truth.
But the Buse I knew never indulged in these ego-inflating exercises. In fact, when I thought about it, I realized how little I did know about her. Her real name was Fevzi. She was from Istanbul. She lived alone in Teşvikiye. She had a cat. She was a bit older than the others, I’d guess close to forty.
When our sort passes forty, those with money shut themselves up in their homes; those without resources end up in third-rate music halls or back in the countryside, rubbing shoulders with “the people.” Every province in the land has a licensed kebab hall that employs our girls. Those exiled to the country come to Istanbul once a year to shop, exhibit themselves, and lie pitifully about how fabulously contented they are.
Anyway, Buse started receiving silicone injections about ten years ago. Then she began spraying herself liberally with L’Eau d’Issey.
“I would never betray a relationship. I never have. When it’s over, it’s over.”
Once again, she fell silent. This time, she lifted her eyes to the wall. Her unseeing eyes scanned the management license and tax report affixed there, and I began to read it as well.
“It was very private and special in any case. And it still is. Very personal.”
Buse focused her eyes onto the management license and fell into a sort of reverie. Although she said not a word, she was clearly on a virtual journey, reliving that relationship of which she’d said so little. I began toying with a bit of adhesive that had come loose on the tabletop. I lifted it with a fake fingernail, then allowed it to fall. I didn’t keep track of how many times I did this, but it took a while before Buse spoke a
gain.
“It’s got complicated. I told someone about it. I was high. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but it must have been too much. Then someone else found out about the documents, and now they want me to hand them over.”
“Why?” I asked.
“For blackmail, I suppose.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know. First they left a message on my answering machine. I didn’t give it much thought. I didn’t do what they asked . . . Then they broke into my house. Last night, while I was here at the club. They went through all of my things but didn’t find anything.”
“Could it have been a burglar?”
“I thought that at first, but it wasn’t. They didn’t touch the money I had lying around. The stereo was still there. None of my jewels were missing. But the apartment had been turned upside down. I spent all day today cleaning up.”
“So where did you hide them? Why couldn’t they find them?”
“They’re at my mother’s,” she replied.
The Kiss Murder Page 1