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said.
    â€œAnd the police,” I thought, “there’s something vulgar about them, even when they’re handsome.”
    â€œIs Petra the only person on your list of suspects?” I asked.
    â€œNo, no,” he replied unconvincingly.
    â€œSo who else is there?”
    He shrugged his shoulders and muttered something.
    â€œFor instance, could this be a crime of passion?” I asked.
    â€œThe underlying motive for the murder might be love, money or revenge. But what mainly interests us is who committed the crime, not the reasons why. We leave it to lawyers to prove motives and establish what bearing they have on the crime,” he said. He looked at me as if to measure the effect of his grand words on me. His eyes had become bloodshot from the rakı . I realized then that I no longer found him attractive and that the situation had become serious. I was in a place that I only
knew about from going to the airport, and I was eating kebab and drinking rakı with a policeman who thought my friend Petra was a murderer.
    When I awoke the next morning, the air had not yet started to heat up. I phoned the corner shop to give them my order. The shop owner Hamdi had noticed that I’d been buying all the papers for the last two days. As he filled the basket I’d lowered from my window, he grinned up at me and asked, “What’s up, Kati? Keeping track of world events then?”
    Please! I really don’t need such a display of intimacy first thing in the morning. But I must be getting used to these Turkish ways because I just laughed it off.
    A two-day-old murder was obviously stale news as far as the newspapers were concerned, because a photograph of film star Ayla Özdal showing her bum while playing tennis appeared to be more appealing than a passport photo of Müller’s pock-marked face.
    All the papers I bought gave plenty of space to what Ayla Özdal had said the previous day at a press conference with her manager. She had said mournfully that her great talent was not appreciated in Turkey, and that while she had all the qualities necessary for representing Turkish cinema abroad, this chance had been snatched from her at the last minute because of a crazy murder. Her manager spoke a bit more sense. He said it was true that, following the murder of the director, the future of the film was uncertain, but Ayla was Turkish cinema’s greatest asset and she would undoubtedly receive new offers and represent her country abroad excellently.
    After giving details of Ayla Özdal’s press conference, the newspapers ended with a few lines saying that Müller’s murderer had not yet been caught, but that
finding this person was definitely a top priority for the Istanbul police.
    I immediately called Petra. I think I woke her up this time.
    â€œThe Turkish papers are full of news today that you were about to be sacked,” I said, instead of saying good morning. I was cross with Petra because of the things I’d heard from dubious sources which made her the number-one suspect, but not so cross that I wasn’t prepared to ask her to her face whether or not she was Müller’s lover.
    â€œAbout to be sacked? Where did that come from?” she said. I don’t think she was fully awake yet.
    â€œThat’s what the papers are saying,” I said. For a moment we both remained silent, waiting for the other to speak. I didn’t even consider telling Petra that I already knew this before reading about it in the papers. You only give as good as you get, or as the Turks say, I was prepared to “match her bread with an equal amount of köfte ”, but no more.
    â€œWas I going to be sacked?” she said. It was clear from her sleepy voice that she didn’t believe it.
    â€œYes, apparently you were going to be sacked,” I said, thinking it would be better to speak to her when she wasn’t so sleepy.
    â€œIf you like, we could meet