Hotel Bosphorus by Esmahan Aykol Page A

It’s fresh.”
    â€œDon’t trouble yourself,” he said, which in Turkish means “That would be very nice.”
    â€œHas there been any progress with the investigation?” I asked as I went to the kitchen to fetch a cup.
    â€œVery little. We haven’t been able to speak to all the members of the film crew yet. Taking statements through an interpreter is a slow process. Actually, I doubt if the statements will produce anything more of interest. Everyone says roughly the same thing.”
    â€œOK, but what do you know about the victim?” I called out from the kitchen.
    â€œVictim? You know…” He stopped. I was standing with a cup in my hand in front of the striped curtain separating the kitchen from the shop.

    â€œWho’d want to kill the poor man? And why? I understood him to be a quiet, harmless type,” I said.
    â€œWould you call him harmless? I don’t know. You’re right that in his capacity as a film director he was harmless. He didn’t amount to much as a film-maker and it’s unlikely that that was his main job.” There was a silence. My heart jumped as I took in what he was saying. Had I got it right – that Müller’s murder was linked to his lifestyle and relationships?
    â€œOf course, these… These are not things you should talk about in public,” he said. I didn’t understand what he meant just at that moment, but I would soon find out.
    â€œIt’s a complicated case, as far as I can see,” I said, all the while wondering how I was going to get him to say more.
    â€œYes, it’s pretty complicated.”
    â€œWas the film director mixed up with drugs?” I said out of the blue. This possibility, which had just occurred to me, almost flew from my lips of its own accord. I’m not usually so indiscreet.
    Batuhan looked startled: “Where did you get that idea from?”
    â€œIt’s one of the first things people think of.”
    He looked at me admiringly and then, thinking he’d changed the subject rather skilfully, started telling me about how much crime fiction he’d read. Actually his knowledge of detective stories wasn’t bad at all, and he loved reading Raymond Chandler. After about half an hour of him rattling on like that, I managed to escape to the kitchen, saying, “I’ll make some more tea.”
    He looked at his watch and, without lifting his head, said, “It’s a bit late for tea.” When he raised his head, he
didn’t look at me. He spoke in a voice that was almost inaudible.
    â€œWhat if I asked you out for dinner? We could talk more comfortably,” he said.
    I replied in German, “ Sie sind schneller als die Polizei erlaubt. ”
    Very politely, he said, “Excuse me, I don’t know German.”
    I’m not so polite. I translated it into Turkish as “You’re a fast worker.”
    In fact, the Trabzon pitta bread I’d consumed just before he arrived was lying undigested in my stomach like concrete, but there was no way I was going to refuse Batuhan’s dinner invitation. I had to look after my own interests. Ever since the previous morning, I had been flapping about trying to find something about the murder but had so far made little progress. The only way was to get Batuhan talking. A good meal, some wine… I changed this to rakı when it occurred to me that this man, who grinned half bashfully, half shamelessly when glancing at the open neck of my blouse, was actually a policeman. A kebab with rakı would have Batuhan warbling like a nightingale.
    Without appearing too eager, in fact as if I was doing him a favour, I accepted the dinner invitation. Immediately I added, “But, I’m going to choose where we go. OK?”
    There’s no harm in being open with you. I was afraid he would either suggest going to one of the wine bars in Beyoğlu where my friends go, or to some haunt