A Killing Winter

by Tom Callaghan

  Tynaliev gave a long sigh, of resignation almost, at the prospect of a difficult but necessary task about to be undertaken.

  ‘You’ll bring him to me.’

  Not a question, not a request. An order. I put my glass down, untouched.

  ‘As yet, we don’t have a suspect –’

  ‘This is not a matter for the security forces, Inspector. But I don’t want every incompetent myrki policeman stumbling his way through this. I want you to handle this case personally, no one else. When you catch him, you bring him to me. Don’t worry, I’ll clear it all with your Chief, and tell him you’re handling the case alone. I’ll see you have your back covered, a roof over your head. And I’ll owe you.’

  I understood why the Minister didn’t want the department involved; a hint of weakness and his image as a hard man would be threatened. In Kyrgyzstan, to be seen as weak is to invite your fall, from power, from office, perhaps even from life. And political protection from a man like Tynaliev wasn’t something to be tossed away lightly. But at the same time, I knew that handing a suspect over to him would mean taking part in torture, agony and, only after a long time, death. Then the remnants to deal with: a couple of torn fingernails, splintered teeth, a puddle of blood for the cleaners to mop away. Tynaliev might owe me, but he’d also own me, and I knew enough about how things worked to know it all gets called in, sooner or later.

  ‘We’ll obviously keep you informed of the progress of the investigation. But right now, I must ask you to come with me. For formal identification, you understand.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘I’ve had the morgue opened for you. At a time like this, the family’s wishes are paramount.’

  I didn’t mention his wife, Yekaterina’s mother. It was common knowledge in the department that she lived in the dacha, the country cottage near Talas, while Mikhail Ivanovich occupied himself with an ever-changing line-up of ambitious young women.

  ‘Very well.’

  He paused, placed a hand on my shoulder, gripped it uncomfortably tight.

  ‘But let me repeat, Inspector, you bring him to me.’

  This time, not an order. A threat.

  Chapter 9

  Impassive, Mikhail Tynaliev stared down at the face of his dead daughter. I’d warned Usupov of our visit, so the body was laid out in the inspection room rather than tucked away in a refrigerated drawer. A sheet covered the body, so that only her face was visible, but nothing hid the sour stink of dried blood, the harsh smell of raw meat.

  I cleared my throat, gave a preparatory cough.

  ‘Mikhail Ivanovich Tynaliev, are you able to make a formal identification of the deceased?’

  ‘This is my daughter, Yekaterina Mikhailovna Tynalieva.’

  His voice level, unwavering. My God, this bastard was strong. I’d seen some of Bishkek’s toughest break down in this room, scream, yell, weep, threaten the world with blood and fire. But not this man.

  He reached out for the sheet, and I took him by the wrist.

  ‘Honestly, Minister, there’s nothing to be gained by that.’

  He looked at me, his eyes as blank and unstoppable as a rockfall, and I had to turn away from his gaze.

  ‘She’s my daughter.’

  ‘The courts will be very severe with a case like this. The maximum sentence.’

  I paid lip service to law and order, but we both knew that was never going to happen.

  I left the room, left him to the carcass and ruin of a daughter he had once cradled and bathed, sung to sleep, kissed, danced with at her graduation, where she wore the class sash and rang the last bell.

  In the lobby, I tried not to hear Tynaliev’s howl of pain and anger. When he emerged, ten minutes later, he was all business, calm, efficient. The autopsy completed, I saw no point in holding the body, and we arranged for its removal in the morning.

  ‘I want to thank you, Inspector, for the delicacy you’ve shown in this matter.’

  I nodded. Only the Chief and I knew who the dead girl was, although Usupov must have had some suspicions, having seen the Minister arrive.

  ‘As I said earlier, you’re to handle this personally, no involvement from my department, official or otherwise.’

  I nodded again. The Minister hadn’t survived two revolutions by not knowing exactly where power lay at any moment, and how best to use that knowledge. If his daughter’s death had any political resonance, he would keep silence until the best moment to strike and avenge her.

  Tynaliev wrapped his scarf around his throat, pulled on his gloves, glanced over at the door where his driver and a bodyguard were waiting. He strode towards them, saying nothing. He didn’t need to. I had my orders.

  The sound of their boots was still echoing off the walls when Usupov appeared. He cocked his head in the direction of the door, and raised an eyebrow. I nodded in answer.

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered, ‘you’ll have to dance carefully, Inspector. You’re amongst the wolves now.’

  ‘You think so?’ I asked, fumbling for a cigarette to soothe my nerves.

  ‘So now you know who she was?’

  ‘Not was. Is.’

  He shrugged but, to me, it made all the difference in the world. Once her killer was caught, once her death was accounted for and laid to rest, then she could silently slip into the past. Until then, I wanted to think of her as an unseen presence, spurring me on, watching from the sidelines. Chinara always said that I wanted the world to be explained, understood, a place where the dead could rest appeased. I wanted to understand Yekaterina’s death, but I didn’t believe in the solace of explanations. Not any more.

  I shut my eyes against the glare of the overhead lights and tried to remember when I had last slept properly. Almost forty-eight hours, but it was my soul that was exhausted. Anyway, I’d have for ever to sleep, once I joined Chinara and Yekaterina, and all the others I’ve attended over the years.

  ‘Here.’

  Usupov was shaking my shoulder, and I realised I’d been dozing on my feet.

  ‘Why don’t you go home, sleep for a while? Even Tynaliev can’t expect you to work without a break.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘That’s exactly what he does expect,’ I replied, rubbing my face as if to massage the weariness out of it. I remembered the pills stashed back home, pharmaceutical speed. Just enough to keep me up for a few more hours, to try to work out where I might find a lead, something to report back to the Chief, and for the Chief to tell the Minister.

  I shook Usupov’s hand, told him what time the undertakers would arrive, and took a copy of his report away with me. I decided to walk back to the apartment; another dawn spent trudging through the snow, trying to work out a pattern, sifting my thoughts to see what links I could make.

  Usupov shut and locked the morgue door behind me, and I looked around to see what the new day would bring. The snow had stopped, the wind had died down, and it was brutally cold, in the minus twenties, at a guess. I didn’t want to imagine how cold the Torugart Pass would be. It was early yet, but I’d be able to buy a couple of chicken samsi on the way home. The thought made me realise how hungry I was. A case like this, I might go for days without a hot meal, but wherever you turn in my country, there’s a bottle of vodka to tempt you.

  It was getting light when I got back to my khrushchyovk apartment block. As usual, the main entrance door was ajar. People either forget the security code or can’t be bothered to use it. The lift wasn’t working either, so I climbed the three flights of concrete stairs, past the rubble and clutter that communal spaces always acquire. What wasn’t so usual was that the doors to my apartment were open. I stopped, waited to get my breath back, listened. The TV was playing, which was strange since I live on my own. I took off my boots and unholstered my Yarygin, wondering why I always seemed to enter a room with a gun in my hand. I pushed the wooden door further open, and peeked in. The kitchenette was empty, but the steam rising from the kettle told me someone was making themselves thoroughly at hom
e.

  I walked towards the main room, my stockinged feet making no noise on the wooden floor. I reached the door, and braced myself to dive through and start shooting.

  ‘Come in, Inspector, I’m in here. And put the gun away.’

  I decided to disobey the second part.

  ‘I know they pay you cops fuck all, but there’s no excuse for drinking this shit pretending to be tea. And surely you can afford a decent samovar?’

  ‘Hello, Kursan,’ I said, putting my gun away. ‘Since when did you become a tea drinker?’

  ‘Since I couldn’t find a proper drink anywhere in this dump.’

  Kursan Alymbayev grinned at me, his white felt kalpak hat tilted at a jaunty angle on his head, gold tooth glinting, stubble white along his jaw. A face as creased and stained as an old waistcoat, seventy something years old, still strong enough to lift a horse, punch a hole through a door, coax the dress off a reluctant babushka. First Tynaliev and now Alymbayev: it was my week for encountering hard men. But while the Minister is firmly on the side of law and order, Kursan hasn’t done anything legal since long before independence. Smuggling meat from China, marijuana to Uzbekistan, BMWs stolen to order from Almaty, Kursan knew every border crossing, every mountain pass, every corrupt guard. I couldn’t help admiring his talent for survival. And since he was Chinara’s father’s half-brother, he was family as well.

  Kursan jabbed a grimy thumb at his mouth and raised an eyebrow. I opened the window and brought in the bottle that had been sitting on the ledge. Kyrgyz hospitality always overrules tiredness. I handed him the bottle and a glass, and watched as he took a good shot, then lit a foul-smelling home-made papirosh.

  ‘You?’

  ‘Not this morning.’

  ‘Getting old, brother. This stuff keeps you young, strong. Ask the young girls.’

  He cupped his balls and leered, before pouring another shot to follow the first.

  ‘Word gets around fast. I assume you’re not just here to finish my vodka.’

  ‘Well, if you insist. Sure you won’t?’

  I shook my head. Seeing my face, Kursan’s expression changed to one of concern.

  ‘Of course. Forgive me. You don’t get over a death like that in a hurry.’

  The memory of the dead woman rose up before me, the unborn child curled up inside her, a question mark without an answer.

  ‘I know you loved her, brother. The way you love once in a lifetime.’

  I realised with a shock that Kursan was talking about Chinara, and felt sick to my belly at the way she’d been supplanted in my thoughts. Kursan walked over to the wall unit and picked up the one photograph of Chinara that I had on display. Taken a couple of summers ago, from the top of the Ferris wheel at Bosteri, by Lake Issyk-Kul. Laughing, her hair caught in the wind, sunlight dazzling off the lake. Joyous and carefree. Alive.

  Kursan stared at the photo for a moment, his face unreadable, and then carefully replaced it on the shelf.

  ‘I’m here to help you. About the Minister’s daughter.’

  First Vasily, now Kursan; they must both have a squealer at the station with a mouth working overtime. I sometimes wonder if I’m the only law not on the take.

  ‘It’s not what you’re thinking. It’s been a long time since anyone at Sverdlovsky told me anything other than to fuck off.’

  He grinned lopsidedly, and poured a small shot.

  ‘Well, Kursan, if it’s not a uniform looking for breakfast money, what do you know that I don’t?’

  He put the glass down, without taking even a sip, walked towards me, put his massive hands on my shoulders. I could smell his sweat, the sweetness of vodka, the tang of his papirosh. He stared at me, unblinking, his face as serious as death. When he did speak, it was in a whisper so low I could barely hear him.

  ‘I can tell you where the dead child came from.’

  Chapter 10

  Late morning, and Kursan and I were on the road to Karakol, pretty much the other side of Kyrgyzstan, an eight-hour drive at the best of times. Which, being winter, it wasn’t. We were crawling along, Kursan driving, which was fine by me.

  ‘Relax, I know what I’m doing, there was one time I brought a cargo of furs in from Tashkent over to Osh. No paperwork, you understand. The snow was as thick as an Uzbek’s neck; I couldn’t see out of the windscreen, so I just stuck my head out of the window. Try driving like that for five hours!’

  We’d passed Bosteri about an hour ago, so we were skirting the northern shore of Lake Issyk-Kul, about halfway to Karakol. I’d grabbed a couple of hours’ sleep, left a cryptic message for the Chief, then we’d set off. A ment drove us as far as Tokmok where, at Kursan’s insistence, we changed cars, into an elderly but serviceable BMW.

  ‘They all know this car, believe me. Don’t worry about the traffic filth, I hand out enough som all year, we won’t get stopped for speeding.’

  I thought that the likelihood of us going any faster than a brisk walk was pretty remote, but I didn’t want to stop Kursan in full flow.

  ‘I love a good mystery, but maybe you can tell me why we’re going to Karakol? Only so that, when they drag me up before the disciplinary board, I can give them some half-arsed excuse. Before Tynaliev’s men drag me up in front of him, and I lose my arse altogether.’

  ‘Brother, I’m family, remember. Would I let anything happen to you? Don’t forget, I know people.’

  He grinned, and lit another of his stinking papirosh. Somehow, I didn’t think that Kursan’s ‘people’ would want to take on the might of the State Security Office, but I kept my doubts to myself.

  ‘You know a little about my business, da? How I can get things at the right price for the right people, without those wolves in the White House taking their piece and leaving nothing for honest folk? Fuck your mother, that’s what I tell them!’

  He looked round at me, genuinely indignant. I smiled at the thought of Kursan telling a set of strait-laced bureaucrats about his assignations with their mothers, and pointed in the direction of the windscreen, just as a gentle hint about his driving. He gave a dismissive snort.

  ‘Don’t worry, only an arsehole would be out driving on a day like this. Me, I know this road like I know my old woman’s tits.’

  He wrenched at the wheel as a giant truck loomed out of the whiteness, and I bounced against the door as the wheels locked and skidded. I had visions of us being dug out of a snowdrift in about three months’ time, but Kursan set us back on the road, and brought us to a halt.

  ‘Fuck off!’ he yelled into the blizzard, then turned to me and grinned. ‘Told you I could drive, nyet?’

  Despite myself, I had to grin back.

  ‘Anyway, I do a little trading, a little bobbing and weaving, you understand. Takes all sorts. A little weed, it grows by the side of the road around here, and it’s herbal, natural. But you know I never touch any of the hard shit. You sell krokodil, to me you’re scum. Same with pimps. Arseholes!’

  Kursan’s always told me he doesn’t handle pills or injectables. And unlike a lot of smugglers, he’s totally opposed to trafficking; it’s the reason I’ve been able to turn a familial blind eye to his activities for all these years.

  ‘There’s other shit I won’t touch as well. Parts.’

  ‘Parts?’

  ‘Animal parts, you know, all that stuff those slant-eyes over the mountains take, to make their little yellow dicks stand up.’

  Cross over the Tien Shan Mountains into China and head to the market in Urumchi, and you can find all sorts of strange medicines. Everybody knows about the belief that rhino horn cures impotence, and tiger bones help with arthritis. But that’s just the start of a long list of ingredients in traditional Chinese medicine: syrup of bile extracted three times a day from captive Asian bears, dried seahorses crushed into a powder, bitter herbs used to make tea, and who knows what else.

  I sensed Kursan was hinting at something. But although I was family, I was also ment, and it went against the grain to tell a cop
anything. I said nothing; I’ve always known the value of patience. When he was ready to tell me, he’d talk. There was a reason why he was dragging me out towards the mountains. And so far, he was the only lead I’d got. I stared out at Lake Issyk-Kul over to my right; even this high up in the mountains, it never freezes, which is how it gets its name, ‘Warm Lake’.

  In the summer, the place is packed with holidaymakers enjoying the clear water and clean air. Expensive sanatoria are filled with Russians coming to take a health cure; the bureaucrats stay in government-owned dachas. By the roadside, the locals sell buckets of glistening cherries and apples picked fresh from their gardens. Headscarved women stroll up and down the beaches selling smoked fish. You might even glimpse a two-humped Bactrian camel, trudging gloomily along the shore, a couple of screaming children on its back.

  Winter, though, that’s a different story. In the sour grey light, with the wind blasting down from the Celestial Mountains, the old stories about sacred rocks and rivers, ancient armies riding through the night, the sack of villages and the slaughter of the locals, seem only too real. The only sensible course of action is to hole up somewhere warm with a bottle of vodka and wait for the spring to stumble back in four months’ time. The Kyrgyz winter reminds us that the past is never dead, simply waiting to ambush us around the next corner.

  ‘The thing is,’ Kursan continued, ‘I know this Uighur, from Urumchi. Not a bad type, not a shithead like most of them are. We’ve managed to do a bit of business in the past. He called me up a couple of days ago, and asked if I’d heard anything about girls being shipped over the border into Bishkek. You know there’s lots of demand in Dubai, not so much in Moscow, but why would you drag someone all the way over the Tien Shan in this weather? Plenty of young bitches in Panfilov Park, if that’s what you’re after.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, he was a bit concerned about this woman because he said she was pregnant, long way gone, and with her time almost due, when she disappeared.’