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towns and villages, but nobody had seen the boy since he was abducted. His pictures were shown on news bulletins and crime programmes in a bid for information from anyone who had seen him or knew
his whereabouts. There were over three thousand telephone tip-offs, but the outcome was zero. Petra hired a private detective, who was unable to find even the smallest clue.
    Two months after his abduction, Peter’s bruised and mangled body was found in Belgium, in woods surrounding a village near Brussels. The tiny body had been violated. The perpetrators were never found and there were no clues.

4
    The driveway to the plushest and costliest hotel on the Bosphorus was seething with police and journalists’ cars. The murder of one of their clients was probably not good for the hotel’s reputation, at least in the short term. However, I doubt if the owners, whoever they were, cared very much.
    The hotel was swarming with men who were obviously plain-clothes policemen. I had become really curious about the identity of the victim. When I asked at the reception desk where Petra might be, a woman told me Miss Vogel wasn’t speaking to journalists.
    â€œOh, for God’s sake,” I murmured to myself.
    â€œI’m her friend. Please, would you call her, wherever she is, and tell her that her friend Kati is in the lobby?”
    Without even waiting for me to finish my sentence, the woman turned her back and was gone. I noticed a male receptionist who looked a bit more human; this time I said I was Petra Vogel’s friend and wanted to see her. Clearly everyone had got out of bed on the wrong side that day because he also stood his ground, saying, “Miss Vogel doesn’t want to be disturbed, madam.”
    When I asked him to at least give her a message, it did no good at all.

    I am not a person to give up easily, so I decided to go and eat something in the hotel café and work out a strategy. The journalists were also there, picnicking in the café and, like me, waiting for the right moment to pounce.
    I approached a woman sitting at a table apart from the others. I recognized her vivacious appearance and dyed blonde hair from one of the commercial news channels. Using all my networking skills, I told the woman that I recognized her from television and enjoyed her work, and I asked if she would answer a question for me.
    She didn’t look very impressed by my flattery. Nevertheless, she said, “Of course, sit down.”
    â€œI’m Petra Vogel’s friend and I want to see her but they’ve changed her room, and reception won’t give me her new room number. Perhaps you…”
    The woman glanced quickly at her notebook as I was talking, and murmured, “Petra Vogel, Petra Vogel.”
    â€œI haven’t written down her room number. Wait here, I’ll find out from my colleagues and let you know,” she said, and disappeared.
    I didn’t understand who she meant by “colleagues”, but I didn’t think the woman would come back anyway. She probably thought this was outside her remit. After all, she wasn’t there to perform a public service and satisfy someone just because they flattered her. So I was amazed when, two minutes later, she returned with a list in her hand.
    â€œYou’re looking for the film star who was staying in the Topkapı suite, aren’t you?” she said.
    â€œYes,” I replied eagerly.
    â€œThey’ve moved her to Room 724.”
    I looked gratefully at the woman.

    â€œMay I ask you another question?”
    She nodded her head.
    â€œWho was the murder victim?”
    â€œDon’t you know?”
    She looked at me vacantly as if she couldn’t understand why she had gone to so much trouble for me.
    â€œIt was the director of the film your friend was starring in,” she said.
    The director of Petra’s film!
    What was his name? What was it?
    There was no point straining my memory. I had never