Baksheesh by Esmahan Aykol Read Free Book Online Page A

no evidence to support any such claim. I’m just stating what we’ve been told.”

    After a few minutes, I called home. Pelin was out, so I called her on her mobile to tell her not to dawdle and to come straight to the shop. I asked Batuhan to wait until Pelin arrived.
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    At the station, they ordered tea for me. An officer typed up my statement, read it aloud and asked me to sign it. The text was full of spelling errors, but I signed it.
    Osman’s brothers were also brought in to give statements. One of them made a lunge as if he was about to strike me. Another, who looked no more than fifteen or sixteen, seemed to be the only one with a tongue in his head.
    â€œThat woman attacked my brother. She made his ear bleed. My brother Osman said, ‘Let her go, we never lay a finger on women,’ then in the evening, this happens. He didn’t come home last night. We knew something was wrong straight away. That woman’s sick,” he snarled.
    The brother who had just lunged at me sidled up and, out of police earshot, whispered in my ear, “Who’s going to take care of you then, cunt?”
    I felt sick.
    â€œMy father is the German Minister of the Interior. He’ll take care of me, dickhead,” I whispered back. The man’s eyes almost popped out of his head.
    Two hours later, they said I could go, but I was barely able to move. I felt as if my blood had completely drained away.
    Batuhan was waiting by the door. He took my arm affectionately and drew back a strand of hair that had fallen over my face. The man was clearly a bit unhinged. Only that morning he’d been questioning me about a murder!
    â€œYou’re OK, aren’t you?”
    â€œUgh,” I said. “What a load of nonsense that was.”
    â€œLet me buy you a meal for old times’ sake. I know a good kebab house in Laleli.”

    Batuhan’s behaviour might give the impression that we had indeed once been in a relationship, but I swear that would be very far from the truth. I first met him when he was working on a murder case that involved a friend of mine. That had been over a year before. Something had happened between us that ended disappointingly for him. But you couldn’t even call it a fling. Anyway, what could come of a fling between a policeman and a woman who hates the police as much as I do? Still, it was disappointing.
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    Taking full advantage of Turkish police privileges – which they exploit with primeval relish – we drove, without stopping, down several “no entry” streets before coming to an abrupt halt in front of the door to the kebab house. I had no inclination to eat a kebab and wasn’t even sure if I could manage any soup.
    â€œSo the man was killed in his office,” I said. Until that moment, both of us had remained tight-lipped.
    Batuhan gave me a teasing look. I’m not kidding when I say I felt violent. I had difficulty restraining an urge to fly across the table and land a punch on his smug face. After this, I would definitely never touch anything other than Wuthering Heights .
    â€œLook,” I said, “if you really think I’m a killer, then there’s no point in us eating kebabs together. Collect whatever evidence there is, have me arrested and get it over with. You know my shop and you know where I live.” I took my bag and got up from the table.
    He grabbed my arm and his face broke into a grin. Where were the man’s principles? Having adopted a position, he could at least stick to it! But no, men’s brains don’t work like that.
    â€œSit down, sit down. Don’t get cross so quickly. Why are you being so touchy?”
    I didn’t like him calling me touchy. Asking me why I was touchy, especially on a day when I was being accused of killing some thug, was likely to make me lose my temper. Somewhere inside
me, a ball of anger exploded. It took only a second to reach my throat. I tried to