Divorce Turkish Style by Esmahan Aykol Read Free Book Online

melt the ice between us. But this time Batuhan did not smile.
    â€œWe haven’t met,” said Fofo.
    â€œGo on,” said Batuhan, reluctantly shaking Fofo’s outstretched hand and barely glancing at him. “You were about to tell me how you got mixed up in this.”
    â€œI saw a news item in the Friday papers,” said Fofo. “The sudden death of a woman who was about to divorce a rich husband seemed suspicious. And then when I found that I knew who the woman was—”
    â€œYou knew her?” said Batuhan, his interest in what Fofo was saying suddenly aroused.
    â€œWe used to see her, but we didn’t really know her,” I intervened. “There’s a restaurant on the ground floor of this building where we go for lunch and we used to see her there. When we read that she’d died, we decided to visit her office.”
    â€œAnd when you saw her over lunch, I suppose she told you exactly where her office was,” said Batuhan mockingly.
    â€œWe did our own research when we learned of her death,” I said, standing my ground.
    â€œâ€¦through open sources,” added Fofo.
    â€œThat’s right. We did some googling and asked a few questions.”
    â€œAnd what did you learn by googling and asking a few questions, apart from the office address?” said Batuhan.
    â€œThat before she died, she had dinner with her husband’s lawyer and they discussed a prenuptial agreement.”
    â€œPrenuptial agreement?” said Batuhan, looking at me through narrowed eyes, which I knew to be an indication that it had caught his interest. “Who is the husband’s lawyer?”
    â€œYou first,” I said, with mischievous pleasure. “What does the autopsy say? Does it confirm that it was murder?”
    â€œYou don’t really expect me to reveal the content of confidential documents that are vital to the investigation, do you?”
    I did, actually. But I wasn’t so naive as to think he would sing like a canary the moment he saw me. It would take time.
    â€œIf the laptop was stolen then… Well, you could at least tell us if anyone forced their way into her house,” I said, knowing that I was pushing my luck.
    â€œNo one forced their way in,” said Batuhan.
    â€œShe had dinner with a lawyer named Demir Soylu last Monday,” I said in return as a gesture of goodwill.
    Unfortunately, my gesture was not reciprocated. I didn’t get another word out of Batuhan.
    *
    Busy days at the shop, when I had to talk incessantly about crime fiction with a never-ending flow of customers, should have accustomed me to spending time with so many people, but that day had been too much. When we left GreTur’s office, all I wanted to do was stay in and stare at the ceiling.
    â€œI’m going home,” I said to Fofo, as we made our way down Galip Dede Street.
    The descent was by no means easy, of course. Indeed, was anything easy in Istanbul, especially Beyoğlu? The narrow pavements were filled with stalls, so we had to walk down the middle of the street, darting to left and right along with all the other pedestrians to avoid being mown down by traffic.
    â€œDon’t go home,” said Fofo. “We need to make a plan of action and work out who we’re going to talk to.”
    â€œWe’ll discuss it this evening.”
    â€œLet’s have a look at Sani’s house first.”
    â€œWhat would we do at Sani’s house, since we can’t get in? We could go to Lüleburgaz, but—”
    â€œI wonder who found the body. Maybe it was the porter, or a nosy neighbour. Your Batuhan didn’t say anything about that.”
    â€œNever mind Batuhan,” I said. “We need to strengthen our hand a bit. Then he’ll move heaven and earth to find out what we know. People don’t go running straight to the police to tell them what they’ve seen. Our position is much better than