Chapter Forty

APART FROM HAVING to stab him through the fleshy part of his hand, my follow-up conversation with Ahmut Pamuk actually turned out to be quite pleasant.

After I left the Skybar I walked along the harbour, found a bench in the shade, slid the battery back into my phone and called Cumali at the station house. I hadn’t spoken to her since Florence and I wanted to check any progress on the newly launched investigation into Dodge’s murder.

As it turned out, very little had happened. Hayrunnisa picked up the call and told me Cumali had left just after 11 a. m. and wouldn’t be back for the rest of the day.

‘Where’s she gone? ’ I asked.

‘Just a few private things she had to attend to, ’ she replied.

I was about to press her when I realized it was Thursday and that Cumali’s son had invited me to see the Grand Parade and the clowns. She had taken him to the State Circus.

I said I would call back in the morning and then spent another hour checking with people working near phone boxes – again to no avail – and realized that, with lunchtime approaching and most offices and stores closing, it was about to become a near-to-hopeless task.

With little choice but to take a break, I decided to turn my attention to the French House. My confidence had been badly shaken by the mistake that Whisperer and I had made: we had jeopardized our entire mission by assuming that the death of Dodge would be a case worth investigating. Such errors rarely went unpunished in the secret world and, on the plane back from Florence, I had resolved never to let it happen again. Come what may, I was going to stay one step ahead of the cops. Knowledge is power, as they say.

The core question was simple: how did the killer manage to enter and leave the estate without being seen? Included in the files about Dodge’s death that Cumali had given me was a reference to the company responsible for letting the mansion, and I figured that was the best place to start.

Prestige Realty was its name, and I had seen its flashy storefront a number of times during my walking tours. I glanced at my watch and saw that, if I hurried, I had a chance of getting there before it too closed for lunch.

I got within hailing distance just as a man was locking the front door. When he heard me calling to him in English he turned and switched on the smile that realtors reserve for someone they think might have just got off the boat. As soon as he saw me, he switched it off.

He was in his early forties with a full pompadour, an open-necked shirt and a rope of gold chains around his neck big enough to anchor a cruise liner. I liked him immediately. In a strange way, there was no guile to him – if you got ripped off by a man who looked like that, I figured you only had yourself to blame.

I introduced myself, told him I was with the FBI and that I wanted to discuss the French House. He shrugged and said that one of the local cops had visited him about a week ago and taken a photocopy of the lease. He was just the realtor and there was really nothing more he could add.

He was obviously in a hurry to leave and I apologized for taking his time – as a rule, I’ve always found it helps to be polite – and told him the local cop had called by when it had been an investigation into an accidental death.

‘What is it now then? ’ he asked, surprised.

Obviously the word hadn’t leaked out about the overnight developments in the case – although I guessed that what I was about to tell him would mean most of Bodrum would know by nightfall.

I looked at the glass front door and saw his name in gold letters. ‘It’s a murder investigation, Mr Kaya. The young American was pushed off the cliff. ’

It shocked him – upset him, too. ‘He was a nice man, ’ he said. ‘Not like most of the assholes who rent mansions here. He talked, showed an interest – he said he was going to take me out on his boat. Shit – murdered? ’

‘You can understand why I need to talk to you. ’

‘I was just going to lunch—’

‘Good, I’ll join you. ’

He laughed. ‘You know that wasn’t what I meant. ’

‘Yeah. ’ I smiled. ‘But where are we eating? ’