lu any more but İ kmen knew that he was still not happy about her marriage. He was possessive rather than actually attached to women he had once either dated or been married to. It wasn’t a trait that İ kmen felt was in any way attractive, shedding as it did a rather selfish and arrogant light on his friend whom he nevertheless, and for all his faults, loved.
‘But is she capable of murder?’ İ kmen asked.
‘What, you mean because she’s so pretty?’
İ kmen laughed. ‘No, you know me better than that!’ he said. ‘Since when was I ever taken in by a pretty face?’ He wanted to add,
that’s your weakness, not mine
, but he stopped himself. ‘And what do you think of the notion of İ zzedin Effendi killing his younger brother for his money? You know that Yusuf Effendi has a lot of money, don’t you?’
Süleyman didn’t reply but he did frown.
Some of thecasual members of staff drove him crazy. There were two lads who were supposed to be stacking the dishwashers, but neither of them seemed to know how to stack properly. Plates, cups and glasses were just chucked in randomly. Left in that sort of state, they’d break! Ersu Bey saw no other option but to do it himself. The night staff were not generally his concern and he didn’t want to get involved with them, but he’d tell management about them at the earliest opportunity. Sitting about on work benches were about eight of them in total and they looked like a bunch of lazy articles to Ersu. If any of the guests wanted room service in the middle of the night they’d have quite a wait with people like these at the helm.
And then there was the butter! A boy, a dark, Kurdish-looking character, had come straight in and made himself a sandwich using smoked salmon leftovers. Fair enough, but he’d taken butter out of one of the fridges to make the sandwich and had then failed to put it back. Although no actual cooking was taking place, the kitchen was still warm and, if left out on a bench, the butter would melt.
Shaking his head in silent frustration, Ersu Bey picked the butter up and took it through the kitchen to the fridges and freezers at the back. Butter was kept with all the other dairy products in a walk-in fridge. Ersu opened the door and went inside.
Because the fridge was dedicated to milk and its various derivatives, itwas a somewhat colourless environment. Cream, butter in white cartons and cheese made the place look like a cross between an industrial unit of some sort and a version of CS Lewis’s fictional frozen land of Narnia. Ersu put the butter back on the correct shelf and was just about to leave when he heard the door into the fridge close. He knew from long experience of working in hotels that fridge doors like this could only be opened from the outside. He also knew that such devices were virtually soundproof. Ersu Bey, old soldier and consummate professional, told himself that he would have to keep his wits about him. In all probability the stupid kids who were on duty had either carelessly knocked the door or were just having a laugh at his expense. But there was something at the back of his mind that didn’t quite believe that.
There was an air of anticipation in the Kubbeli Saloon that İ kmen found both completely understandable and also very odd. Everyone was waiting for some entirely fictitious murder to occur and yet there was a tension in the room that was almost ominous. It bore some relation to the anxiety he’d felt when he’d first gone to see the film
The Exorcist
. There had been so many accounts in the press about revolving heads and projectile vomiting that İ kmen had both wanted and not wanted to see it. He’d gone with Arto Sarkissian and, although he’d been amarried man with children at the time, he’d watched most of
The Exorcist
through his fingers. Now again he found he had an unreasonable urge to lie low and shield himself from what was about to happen.
‘Do you think it will all start off with a
‘But is she capable of murder?’ İ kmen asked.
‘What, you mean because she’s so pretty?’
İ kmen laughed. ‘No, you know me better than that!’ he said. ‘Since when was I ever taken in by a pretty face?’ He wanted to add,
that’s your weakness, not mine
, but he stopped himself. ‘And what do you think of the notion of İ zzedin Effendi killing his younger brother for his money? You know that Yusuf Effendi has a lot of money, don’t you?’
Süleyman didn’t reply but he did frown.
Some of thecasual members of staff drove him crazy. There were two lads who were supposed to be stacking the dishwashers, but neither of them seemed to know how to stack properly. Plates, cups and glasses were just chucked in randomly. Left in that sort of state, they’d break! Ersu Bey saw no other option but to do it himself. The night staff were not generally his concern and he didn’t want to get involved with them, but he’d tell management about them at the earliest opportunity. Sitting about on work benches were about eight of them in total and they looked like a bunch of lazy articles to Ersu. If any of the guests wanted room service in the middle of the night they’d have quite a wait with people like these at the helm.
And then there was the butter! A boy, a dark, Kurdish-looking character, had come straight in and made himself a sandwich using smoked salmon leftovers. Fair enough, but he’d taken butter out of one of the fridges to make the sandwich and had then failed to put it back. Although no actual cooking was taking place, the kitchen was still warm and, if left out on a bench, the butter would melt.
Shaking his head in silent frustration, Ersu Bey picked the butter up and took it through the kitchen to the fridges and freezers at the back. Butter was kept with all the other dairy products in a walk-in fridge. Ersu opened the door and went inside.
Because the fridge was dedicated to milk and its various derivatives, itwas a somewhat colourless environment. Cream, butter in white cartons and cheese made the place look like a cross between an industrial unit of some sort and a version of CS Lewis’s fictional frozen land of Narnia. Ersu put the butter back on the correct shelf and was just about to leave when he heard the door into the fridge close. He knew from long experience of working in hotels that fridge doors like this could only be opened from the outside. He also knew that such devices were virtually soundproof. Ersu Bey, old soldier and consummate professional, told himself that he would have to keep his wits about him. In all probability the stupid kids who were on duty had either carelessly knocked the door or were just having a laugh at his expense. But there was something at the back of his mind that didn’t quite believe that.
There was an air of anticipation in the Kubbeli Saloon that İ kmen found both completely understandable and also very odd. Everyone was waiting for some entirely fictitious murder to occur and yet there was a tension in the room that was almost ominous. It bore some relation to the anxiety he’d felt when he’d first gone to see the film
The Exorcist
. There had been so many accounts in the press about revolving heads and projectile vomiting that İ kmen had both wanted and not wanted to see it. He’d gone with Arto Sarkissian and, although he’d been amarried man with children at the time, he’d watched most of
The Exorcist
through his fingers. Now again he found he had an unreasonable urge to lie low and shield himself from what was about to happen.
‘Do you think it will all start off with a
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