The Prophet Murders Read Free Page B

him.
    “Boss,” observed Cüneyt, as he held open the door for me, “you sure treat that guy bad.”
    I flashed upon him the look of contempt he so richly deserved.
    “But then again,” he corrected himself, “who am I to . . . ”
    “Exactly,” I snapped. Short and sweet.
    Particularly when it comes to my employees, I have rather limited tolerance for presumptuous behaviour. That is, none. No one could expect anything different. That said, I do have a certain amount of sympathy for Cüneyt. If nothing else, the boy is just so comical. He makes me laugh. Then there is his showy body, a critical attribute for a club doorman and the result of nearly daily sessions at the gym. He is also so refreshingly simple. By that, I do not refer to his intelligence, but to his purity. His naivety, if you will. Cüneyt just has a different way of looking at things, a degree of empathy that even I find excessive. Most importantly, he approaches his job with the utmost seriousness.
    The club was empty. DJ Osman, barman Sükrü and our waiter, Hasan, were huddled together talking. When they saw me, they sprang to attention.
    “Is everything all right, boss?” asked Sükrü. “You’re early tonight.”
    “I have an appointment. With Afet,” I answered.
    “I’ll get your Virgin Mary immediately,” said Sükrü. It is my habit to have my drink ready and handed to me the moment I enter the club. Then again, there was no way he could have known that I would arrive early.
    Taking advantage of the absence of customers – or rather, my absence – Osman was playing his favourite ear-splitting heavy metal. With the club empty, and the lack of a general din to absorb the thudding, the music was even more violently audible than usual.
    Taking his cue from my severe expression, Osman rushed to the DJ booth to change the music.
    I wa left alone with Hasan.
    “ Merhaba ,” he greeted me. “Did you find out anything?”
    “Not really,” I admitted. “It’s clear she didn’t die in that house. I smell a rat. I’m afraid the girl suffered.”
    “I got to thinking after I talked to you . . . You’re right. There’s definitely something funny going on here.”
    “The police won’t bother to look into it. They’ve already closed her file.”
    “You’re right,” he agreed. “But there are still municipality and fire department investigations.”
    It was now my turn to agree.
    We looked at each other for a moment in silence. Osman had changed the music to some kind of elevator muzak. He returned, fighting off a smirk. In the middle of the table, a glass of mandarin soda, over half full, awaited him. No one else in the club drinks mandarin soda. None of the customers have ever ordered one. But it is the only thing he touches. Two cases a month are brought in for his personal use.
    “What’s this music you’re playing?” I demanded.
    “Adiemus. New Age. It’s a new group. Great isn’t it?” To add insult to injury, he was poking fun at me. New Age is one of the forms of music I simply don’t comprehend. Paul Mauriat, Franck Pourcel, Francis Lai and even Fausto Papetti have been playing this kind of music for years. The only difference is that they perform with an orchestra, not synthesisers and the piping of a flute. Nowadays, intellectuals have elevated this sort of music into an art form. Why the double standard? What have the others been doing wrong all these years? A succession of critics has slammed them. All right, I don’t think much of their work either, but I don’t see the difference. Do you?
    “Look here!” I snapped. “Don’t push me. Go put on something decent!”
    “Right, boss,” he said, straight back to the DJ booth.
    Once again, Hasan and I were tête-à-tête.
    “I tried to reach Gül. But I failed.”
    Hasan spoke of failure, but he is in fact extremely gifted. What’s more, he’s sharp as a pin. He also loves gossip; he makes a point of inspiring and encouraging it. And he’s shameless