The Kiss Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  He’d answered all my questions. Buse could have spoken under hypnosis. The question of who would have hypnotized her, and under what conditions, was one I could not answer.

  “So is just anyone able to hypnotize others?” I asked.

  “It’s not that simple,” the doctor replied. “Technically, the answer is yes, anyone can do it. A little information, a course, would suffice. In fact, some do it as a hobby. But it only works if the subject is open to being hypnotized. Technically speaking, there is little chance of success otherwise. In order to be a truly effective hypnotist, however, years of training are required.”

  “I know that. You told me earlier. What I’d really like to know is, would it be possible for someone to hypnotize someone else just for the fun of it? Without being certified or anything.”

  “Of course it would be. And there are those who do, particularly these days. A woman from Portugal even offers them some sort of so-called training. She’s been churning out hypnotists left and right. My Web site and I are both bombarded with questions. There’s so much they don’t know . . . Sometimes they find themselves in a bind and panic. Then they come to me. Oh, by the way, the site could do with updating. It wouldn’t be a major project, just adding some links and some of my more recent photographs. You’ll be able to help me, won’t you?”

  It was no time to refuse, or to demand payment. He’d been of use and had immediately demanded payment in kind. He was prompt about settling all debts. The answering machine was still on. It announced with a piercingly unpleasant tone that the message was full, and switched itself off.

  Mimicking the sound, I said, “Of course.”

  “Come by today if it suits you. I’m free. It’s summer. Everyone’s on holiday; I have few requests for therapy.”

  Now, that was a bit too prompt. I couldn’t be expected to be free just because he was. I saw no need for such immediate repayment.

  “I won’t be available,” I said. “Unless it’s urgent, I’ll give you a call soon and we’ll sort something out. I’m a bit weighed down with work at the moment.”

  “It can wait. Oh, and I’ll be going on holiday next Saturday. It’d be nice to be finished by then.”

  I was at his command. As if I didn’t have enough on my plate, I’d now have to update his Web site.

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to,” I said. “I’ve taken on so much. And next week will be even busier. Maybe later. Let me finish what I’ve got and I’ll give you a call.”

  His reaction was far more reasonable than I’d expected, thankfully. We hung up, promising to speak again as soon as possible.

  There was no reason to leave the conversation recorded on my answering machine. I pushed the erase button. I began spreading lotion on my body, my conversation with Cem playing in the background. I started with my shoulders, working my way down. My skin became beautifully slick; I nearly started desiring myself.

  One word that Cem had said suddenly caught my attention: “Portugal.” I hadn’t noted it when we were talking, but now I remembered that he had specifically mentioned a hypnotist from Portugal. The lady journalist whose name I’d never learned was also from Portugal. It could be a coincidence. But then again, it might not be.

  Excited, I sloshed lotion onto my legs. I wanted to visit the journalist as soon as possible. I threw on some clothes.

  As I was going out the door the phone rang, but I didn’t answer. As I locked the door, Ali’s voice floated out. Good—I assumed he’d received the package and had called to chat.

  Chapter 28

  I gave the waiting taxi driver the address. It was one of the older drivers. Given the slightest encouragement, he’d hold forth on any subject.

  As we drove up the ramp to the main motorway, he began:

  “I was just about to deliver your package this morning when a customer came. Hüseyin handled it instead. That young friend of yours.”

  So Hüseyin was back in action. For whatever that was worth. Strange, the way he seemed to show up whenever there was a crisis.

  “Good,” I said.

  My tone of voice suggested I was not interested in further conversation. The driver interpreted it correctly.

  It suddenly hit me. I’d sent the envelope early in the morning, but hadn’t gone to the window to see who the driver was. I’d also warned them to make sure it wasn’t delivered before ten a.m. Hüseyin had been at the club the previous night, flirting with tubby Müjde. If he’d arrived at work by ten, then nothing much could have happened between them. I wondered how much Müjde had cost him. Or had she serviced him for free, on account of his good looks and youth?

  Some of the girls do that. If they run into someone they like, they’ll say, “This one’s just for fun,” and off they go. Although I don’t think much of him, Hüseyin is actually a good-looking guy. Müjde could well have been attracted to him. It’s not like anyone decent ever approaches her. We called her our “country gal.” Because of her plumpness, only those with a predilection for some extra cushioning—that is, country men visiting the big city, mostly middle-aged and older—prefer her. During those rare periods when she adheres to her diet she bargains ferociously, but when her figure is at its fullest, she’ll go for the first bidder, no playing hard to get at all.

  The motorway was riddled with road works, as it always is in summer. And as always on a Sunday, everyone in Istanbul takes their family out sightseeing. Any bit of grass, or area shaded by a tree, was a potential picnic spot. The nauseating smell of grilling meat wafted into the open window of the taxi from all directions.

  “Just look at this; everyone’s dumped their cars in the middle of the road. What if there was an emergency? There’s no way we’d get through!” I complained. I said all this without thinking. Otherwise, I had no intention of encouraging the driver.

  “Isn’t that the truth, sir,” he began, leaping at the chance to make conversation. “Traffic is the worst on Sundays. The roads are pretty clear until noon, but after that it’s a nightmare. If we’d tried to go to the Bosphorus we wouldn’t have made it. That’s how packed it is. I went last week. As if getting there wasn’t bad enough, it took me two hours to get back. As you can imagine, it meant I was out of pocket. It’s because of the coast road, Bağdat Caddesi. Take Hüseyin, for example. Off he went all those hours ago and he still hadn’t returned by the time you called. He may have picked up a fare on the way back, but even so . . .”

  So Hüseyin hadn’t returned from his trip to the office. Ali had called me just as I left. I didn’t know what he said, but the fact that he called surely meant the envelope had been delivered. Traffic on the way to Maslak could be heavy, thanks to the day-trippers heading to Belgrade Forest and the beach in Kilyos, but Hüseyin had left at ten, and should have avoided the worst of it. Maybe he was so tired from the previous night he’d pulled over for a nap.

  “Just come out and say it: that delivery is going to cost me a fortune.”

  “That’s not what I meant, sir. You’ll only pay what the meter says. It’s not like you’re a stranger. I was just letting you know how bad traffic must be.”

  “Yes,” I said. My one-word reply meant it was time to shut up again. He understood, and did so.

  We’d nearly arrived in any case. I paid him and got out.

  As I entered the apartment building, someone else was coming down the stairs. I don’t normally look at strangers, preferring to maintain a certain aloofness, but something told me to look up, so I did. I suppose what really made me look closely was the dark suit. I mean, who wears a suit on a hot Sunday afternoon? As we passed each other on the stairs I recognized him: It was the man with the high-pitched voice who’d been standing guard in Sabiha Hanım’s flat. A chill ran up my spine. He was either a Mafioso type or one of Süreyya Eronat’s men. He recognized me as well, and spun around on his heel as he reached the landing, taking a long look at me. On his right cheekbone was a huge bandage. His colored eyes flickered coldly. He had the look of a natural
-born killer.

  We exchanged glances for a split second, then he quickly exited the apartment building. I considered chasing after him. If he wasn’t armed, I could catch and interrogate him. In other words, despite my vows of the previous night, I was prepared to dive right back into this.

  Either he wasn’t after me or he’d decided that this wasn’t the place to dispose of me. And if he wasn’t after me, he must have come for the lady journalist. One thing was clear, they now knew exactly where I was.

  I raced up to the third floor. I’d expected an open door, even a body inside, but the door to the flat was firmly shut.

  I rang the bell. Shortly afterward, the door swung open. More accurately, the head of the journalist lady poked out from the partly opened door. She was one of those rare people who look really bad in light blue. In her blouse of that color, she looked like a corpse.

  “Merhaba,” I greeted her. “I’d like to speak to you, if you have a moment.”

  She was clearly displeased to see me. You’d have thought that the woman who’d hit on me, who’d pinched and prodded me, was a distant relation of hers. She looked tense.

  “I’m not really free. I have a guest.”

  Her hair was in disarray. Had I caught her at a delicate moment? Considering how sex-mad she had been the previous day, it was highly likely she’d have resumed the hunt once she woke up sober and alone.

  “It won’t take long. Please, it’s very important,” I pleaded.

  She looked surprised. I realized that she wasn’t listening to me. She was barely aware of my presence at all.

  “All right, then, but I really am busy at the moment. I’m discussing something urgent with a friend,” she said.

  My insistence must have done the trick. She stepped aside to let me in.

  Occupying my spot of the previous day was none other than—surprise—that pansy of a reporter, Ahmet. With his two-day stubble, messy hair, and swollen eyes he looked to be well over forty. It was hard to believe that a nancy boy like him could be up to anything erotic with the journalist, but you can’t underestimate the powers of a driven woman. Bedding a man like Ahmet was a test of wills some couldn’t resist.

  He shook my hand without rising from his seat. His hand was greasy and moist. I found him repulsive, and knew no one who felt otherwise, but there’s no telling what becomes desirable once hormones reach a certain level. My presence clearly disturbed him.

  Moving closer to the journalist, I asked, “Can we speak in private?”

  “Certainly, that’d be better. Let’s go to the kitchen,” she agreed, preparing to lead the way. Her phone rang before she’d advanced two steps. She apologized, returning to the living room to answer it.

  In rapid succession, she said hello, opened her eyes wide, and looked directly at me. Naturally, my suspicions were aroused. I listened intently to her end of the conversation.

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes still on me. “All right, then, we’ll handle it,” she interjected, before listening to the caller for a considerable time.

  As she listened, she kept her eyes trained on me, glancing away only when I caught her eye. I was sure she was talking about me, probably with the thug I’d encountered in the stair-well. I was the one to be “handled” and “we” referred to herself and Ahmet. This is what is known as “falling into their lap.” So the lady journalist was involved, and Ahmet was also in on it. It seemed everyone I knew was working for these people.

  I needed to formulate a strategic plan—and quickly. I smiled at her, as though I had no idea what was going on. She responded with a tense smile of her own, then hung up the phone.

  We went to the kitchen. It was even filthier than the rest of the flat. On a piece of newspaper on the floor were watermelon rinds several days old. It was disgusting.

  “Would you mind waiting just a second? I need to tell Ahmet something, so he can continue working while we talk,” she said.

  Leaving me on my own in the kitchen, she left, closing the door securely behind her. So that was it; she’d come up with a plan and was briefing Ahmet on their course of action. He didn’t seem particularly strong, but there was no knowing what he’d do if cornered. I panicked.

  The huge knife used earlier to carve the watermelon rested on the table. Its steel blade was dull with rust and dried juice. I grabbed it. As a precaution, I carefully kept the hand holding the knife behind my back as I sat at the table.

  The door opened, and she came back in. My grip tightened on the concealed knife. She leaned on the table and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket.

  “All right, I’m listening. What is it you want?”

  She blew smoke in my face. Scrutinizing me carefully, then looking me straight in the eye, she began doing something strange with her eyes, narrowing and widening them. She may have been trying to hypnotize me.

  “Did you study hypnosis in Portugal?”

  “Yes,” she answered, instantly abandoning the odd winking game.

  “You continued after you returned to Turkey?”

  “Well, of course I did. It’s not like journalists get paid that much. I mean, some do, but most earn what I do. There’s a lot I do for a bit of spare income. Why do you ask? Are you interested in the subject?”

  “You could say that,” I said. “Did you hypnotize Buse? To get her to talk?”

  I’d adopted the tactic of being short and sweet. She looked a bit shaken. She took a deep drag on her cigarette. First she glanced at the floor, then the ceiling, and at last right at me. A guttural “Yes” emerged in a cloud of smoke.

  “I suspected as much,” I said. “That will be all. Thank you. I really don’t want to disturb you further.”

  I knew all I needed to. Buse had been under hypnosis when she revealed everything. There was no reason for me to remain in this filthy, foul-smelling flat. The sooner I got out, the better. I casually eased the knife onto the floor, on top of the newspaper, and got up from the table. She stopped me.

  “Is that it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “You were expecting more? That’s all I was interested in.”

  I was prepared to answer no to whatever her next question was. I wanted out. She laughed softly.

  “Come on, let’s not play games,” she said.

  “Fine.”

  I regretted having given up the knife. Squatting quickly, I retrieved it, then stepped back, leaning against the wall.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “What do you want?” she countered. “Leave me out of this. I swear I didn’t do anything. Ahmet’s the one who’s mixed up in it.”

  I had no doubt of that last statement, but knew that the lady journalist couldn’t be entirely innocent, either. She looked like she was hiding something.

  “What is going on here?”

  She was clearly hesitating over whether or not to speak. “Things got out of hand,” she said. “Maybe you can help.”

  Help? I was out to save my own ass.

  “Listen,” she continued, “Buse asked me to use hypnosis to help kick her drug habit. That’s why she came to me. I later realized how sensitive she was to suggestion. When we’d finished her therapy, I tried again. It was easy, and she began talking about her past, her life. Believe me, I wasn’t expecting anything or plotting anything. All I cared about was an exclusive, a five-page spread, maybe even a front-page headline.”

  She sat in the chair I’d vacated, the only one in the kitchen. She stubbed out her cigarette on a dirty plate. Looking at me, she continued:

  “Then, like I told you, my story was censored. I was so pissed off. That’s when Ahmet came in. When he saw how upset I was, he comforted me, and I told him everything.”

  So that was it. Queer or not, Ahmet was screwing her when he could. So that’s how he maintained his manhood. The business about comforting her was just an excuse.

  “He’s the one who had the idea of selling the information. I was angry at the newspaper. It seemed like a reasonable pr
oposition, so I agreed. We tried to get into Buse’s house, but failed. That’s when Ahmet arranged Kayhan.”

  “That icy number I ran into on the stairs?” I asked.

  “That’s him. He recognized you, too.”

  “He’s the one who called, isn’t he?”

  “That’s right,” she said, suddenly laughing hysterically. She covered her mouth with a hand, fumbled for another cigarette.

  “But you just put one out,” I said, pointing to the butt on the plate.

  She shrugged and lit another. Then she once again stubbed out the butt on the plate, which was still smoking.