Baksheesh by Esmahan Aykol Page A

retiring.”
    â€œWhat do you do here?”
    â€œWe produce made-to-order packaging. I’ll show you if you like. This, for instance, is a shirt wrapping,” he said, getting up and taking a bundle of polythene wrappings out of a cupboard.
    â€œThis sort of thing,” he said, handing me some wrapping with “Kenzo Shirts means Quality Shirts” written on it. I managed not to smile.
    â€œWe also do gift packaging. Tie packages like these, for instance.”
    Yücel Bey pulled out a long, thin transparent plastic box and put it in my hands. It had “cT – cafer Ties” written on it.
    â€œI’m going to sell some of the equipment. A smaller place will do for me now. I only need the occasional order to see me through. I have a small pension and the children help out a bit. But we don’t want to be a burden to them. We own the apartment we live in and people need less money as they get older, my dear. My wife and I will manage.”
    â€œI’m sure you’re right. Do you mind if I take notes while you tell me what happened today? I can’t keep everything in my head,” I said, hoping to steer us back to the main topic of conversation.
    â€œOf course. Of course. Oh dear, am I boring you with my chatter? I’m sorry. Once I get going I don’t know when to stop. Especially when my audience is a beautiful young lady like yourself.”

    Smiling, I thanked him. Anyone seeing that smile would never have believed I was the same woman who had hurled an ashtray at Osman’s head the day before.
    â€œAs I said, come what may, I’m here by half-past eight every morning. This morning was just the same as usual. After I arrived, I took all the files out of the cupboards and started sorting out papers. If I’m not mistaken, it was just after nine when I heard footsteps upstairs, then someone started shouting down the telephone. I knew the voice. It was Musa, the next oldest brother after Osman. The windows were open of course, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. However, I could tell he was agitated. A bit later, I saw two more brothers rush upstairs,” he said, adding somewhat sheepishly: “I sensed something odd had happened, so I opened the door slightly as they went up.”
    I made a head movement indicating that I believed he had definitely acted as any law-abiding Turkish neighbour would.
    â€œThen I heard a loud yell, so I went up too.”
    â€œAnd?” I said, getting excited.
    â€œOsman was lying on the floor, right by the front door. He must have crawled there. There was blood all over the place. Pools of it. Dark red, dried blood.” He covered his mouth with his hand and shook his head from side to side, his eyes filling with tears. “He was like a son to me. We’d been friends for years.”
    I looked away so that he could compose himself and get back to the story.
    â€œOur offices have the same floor plan and he’d obviously crawled from the back room to the front door. He’d been wounded by a bullet. You know how it is in films when they write the killer’s name in blood? Well, I followed a trail of blood that led directly to the back room to have a look. There was certainly enough blood around for it. The brothers were in shock of course. Özcan, the youngest, was on the floor crying and embracing his brother. Musa was crouched down smoking a cigarette. I thought no one
had seen me going into the back room, but Nevruz did because he came after me. That’s why I couldn’t stay in there long. My guess is that there was a really big fight in that room. Everything was turned upside down. The chairs were on their sides and there were papers everywhere. It was complete chaos.”
    â€œI suppose you weren’t able see if the killer’s name was written in blood?” I said, with a tinge of irony. Still, it wasn’t impossible.
    â€œOut of the question! The