Free Hotel Bosphorus by Esmahan Aykol Page B

to this news …”
    I interrupted him: “You mean Ayla has some connection with your company? I don’t understand what you mean.”
    â€œMadam, Ayla used to be my wife. I hope Miss Vogel will forgive us; we’ll see she’s compensated for this mistake.”

    â€œYou mean your ex-wife started the rumour because your company was involved. Is that right?” I said, repeating what he’d said in order to be sure that I’d understood properly.
    â€œYes, yes, that’s right. It’s not important. Nothing to panic about.”
    I twisted my bottom lip and looked at Petra. I think it must be a Turkish trait because she didn’t understand what I meant.
    â€œBut Petra had a letter from your film company today telling her to leave this hotel because they can no longer pay the bill here.”
    â€œOh no, she doesn’t have to leave. We’ll sort it out when we get back to Istanbul. Make a note of my mobile number, and Miss Vogel can call us if she has any problem,” he said.
    After putting the telephone down, I laughed cynically. For twenty-four hours, Ayla Özdal had been discussing ridiculous conspiracy theories with various people, including homicide desk inspectors, yet it hadn’t occurred to anyone that this woman might have been making it all up.
    I conveyed the gist of the conversation to Petra. She calmed down considerably when she heard that the hotel fees were to be paid. With a tranquil smile, she said, “I thought there might be something like that behind Ayla Özdal’s stories.”
    â€œYou guessed?”
    â€œOf course. Things like this happen all the time; remember I’ve been in the cinema business for twenty years. Anyway, that woman is too young; she wouldn’t have been right for this part. You can’t age a woman by thirty years, even with the best make-up artists.”

    I was annoyed with myself for not realizing the age issue before. “Yes, she’s definitely too young,” I murmured.
    â€œKurt allowed her to hope that she would have my part. He played her at her own game.” Tossing her hair, she threw back her head and gave a mocking half-smile. “And anyway, who’s Kurt? Who’s he to sack me?”
    I couldn’t spend any more time learning about the tricks of people who want to be directors or film stars. It was three thirty.
    Â 
    I was fifteen minutes late when I entered the café opposite my shop in Kuledibi where the two reporters were drinking tea and smoking at tables covered with camera equipment. I had rushed there on foot after my conversation with the producer, Ayla Özdal’s ex. There was little more I could learn from these reporters, but I didn’t want to upset Lale. After all, she’d arranged for me to have a few hours with them.
    The crime reporter, who I reckoned to be in his fifties, was a skinny, bald chain smoker with nicotine-stained fingers. The magazine reporter on the other hand looked young enough to be playing truant from school. They made an odd couple.
    â€œWho’s this Ayla Özdal?” I asked the youth, after the usual introductions.
    â€œHaven’t you heard of her?” he asked accusingly, as if we were talking about Claudia Cardinale. “Ayla was crowned Miss Turkey in 2000 and then went on to become a model. Three months ago she brought out an album, but it hasn’t been selling very well. Apparently she’s going to have a part in a new TV series due to start broadcasting next season. It was a stroke of bad luck for her that the film director was killed, because a part
in an international production could have changed everything for her. What a shame, a real shame.” I got the distinct impression that this young reporter was one of Ayla’s admirers.
    â€œShe’s supposed to have had a relationship with Mesut Mumcu. Is that true?” I asked. Mesut Mumcu was the name of the Turkish producer who