A Killing Winter

by Tom Callaghan

  I reached across and pulled up her sleeve, the rotting krokodil greenish-brown against the pallor of her skin.

  ‘How much of that shit are you shooting up?’

  My voice had risen and I was getting curious stares from the people at the next table. Gulbara looked down at her cup, and I noticed that her fingernails were chewed down to the quick.

  ‘Saltanat told me you were OK.’

  I looked across at the other woman at the table. At least now I knew her name.

  She nodded.

  ‘You’re one of the good guys, Inspector. Or . . .’ Saltanat paused to consider, ‘at least you don’t mind killing the bad guys.’

  ‘I don’t want to kill anyone,’ I said, and drank more tea.

  ‘Doesn’t stop you being pretty good at it, though.’

  Her tone was mocking, as if I was a joke to which only she had the punchline.

  I looked over at Gulbara. The cop banter wasn’t helping her calm down. And then it struck me that I didn’t know if Saltanat was law; I didn’t know anything about her, except that she scared the shit out of me.

  ‘Are you taking me back to Bishkek?’

  I looked at Gulbara, tried to reassure her with a calm voice and an understanding gaze.

  ‘You’re not suspected of anything, there isn’t a warrant out for your arrest. I just need your deposition. Give me some answers, and I’ll see that there won’t be any paper out on you, not even for fleeing the scene of a crime.’

  Saltanat surprised me by nodding in agreement. I gave Gulbara my most winning smile.

  ‘Tell me what you know, it ends here. No having to go back to Bishkek.’

  ‘I don’t have a minder any more, anyway, do I?’ Gulbara asked, guessing that I’d given Gasparian the hard word.

  Once back in the Kulturny, she’d be fixed up with a new protector in seconds, whether she wanted one or not, but I decided not to share that cheerful thought.

  ‘Stay in Osh, maybe,’ I suggested. ‘Get off the krokodil?’

  She looked defensive, and tugged the sleeves of her coat further down over her wrists.

  ‘It’s only every once in a while, to relax, for my nerves.’

  We both knew she was lying; if the krokodil kept biting her, she’d got a year left, maybe two if she was really unlucky. But it was her call, and I was a murder cop, not a drugs counsellor, a father figure or a knight in tarnished armour come to the rescue. Gulbara knew that too, knew what lay ahead as surely as if I’d shown her a photo of a pile of freshly dug earth, with her name and face engraved on the headstone.

  I gave up on the cheap advice, and got down to her statement. Saltanat listened intently, saying nothing, her eyes narrowed from the smoke of her cigarette. What Gulbara had to tell me was pretty much as I expected: no, she didn’t know who Shairkul was meeting, didn’t know anything about Vasily, or what he might have done to get Lubashov so pissed off with him. One thing she did tell me was that Shairkul was also working off the books, servicing clients she’d found on her own account. Which meant she got to keep the money, but risked a beating from Gasparian if he found out. But I already knew Shairkul’s pimp wouldn’t also be her killer.

  ‘The dead woman, she was somebody important?’ she asked, wondering if she should continue to be scared.

  I thought about saying every murder victim is important, if only to their family and friends, but I knew both women would see that as the worst sort of lie. Yekaterina’s father could turn Bishkek upside down to find his daughter’s butcher, but I’d be lucky if I could get Shairkul anything more memorable than a cheap cotton shroud and a state-dug pit.

  ‘Her father’s a big guy,’ I said, and left the rest unspoken. ‘You know anything about Shairkul’s family?’

  I thought I could trace her easily enough, but it never hurts to save time when you’re hunting a murderer.

  ‘She’s . . . was . . . from Tokmok,’ Gulbara said, her face screwed up as if to help her concentration, ‘but I don’t know anything about her family. She said they didn’t get on.’

  I couldn’t say I was surprised; not many parents are delighted when their darling daughter decides to start selling herself under the trees in Panfilov Park. It was time to push Gulbara a little harder.

  ‘How did your house burn down?’ I asked, throwing out the question as if the answer didn’t really matter.

  Gulbara fiddled with her tea, and I sensed a new tension.

  ‘It’s my mother’s house, not mine. When the recent troubles came, well, we’re Uzbek, and this is a Kyrgyz district. Mama lived through the killings twenty years ago; when it all started up again, she just grabbed what she could and headed for Doslik.’

  We Kyrgyz call the Uzbekistan border Doslik, while the Uzbeks insist it’s called Dostuk. Neighbours, and yet we can’t even agree on a common name. It turned out that Mama had crossed into Uzbekistan and headed for relatives in Tashkent, fleeing the authorities on both sides. A lifetime’s home suddenly in hostile territory, what else was she to do? Yet again, I felt weary despair at my country’s endless acts of hate, stupidity, violence.

  ‘But that was a while ago, and the ruins of your house are still warm. So, again, what happened?’

  Gulbara looked over at Saltanat, but there was no help coming from that quarter.

  ‘I’ve been staying there since I left Bishkek. A couple of nights ago, I’d gone out. Working.’ She looked at me, defying me to criticise. ‘I have to eat, don’t I?’

  I nodded. Whores get hungry too.

  ‘I got back about midnight, and the place was alight. Nobody round here is going to do anything to help. I’m just an Uzbek slut, as far as they’re concerned. Probably my fucking next-door neighbours. Some dickhead who thinks Osh belongs to the Kyrgyz.’

  I didn’t ask about insurance; it’s as rare here as diamonds in the street.

  ‘You don’t think it had anything to do with what happened to Shairkul?’ I asked, as gently as I knew how.

  Saltanat flashed me a warning look, but Gulbara was too busy thinking about the misery of her future to notice. I could see that she could use a kosiak right now, home-grown and hand-rolled, just to take the edge off things, but I didn’t come all this way to listen to stoned ramblings. The thought that the fire might be a hit rather than some racist act wasn’t the best thing to put in her mind, but better that than her stumbling into the sights of a Makarov.

  ‘But I don’t know anything,’ she wailed, tears starting, face twisted, ‘I swear I don’t.’

  ‘You’ve got somewhere to stay?’

  ‘With my uncle and his family, near Gulcha.’

  I nodded. Down south towards the Tajik border, far enough away from Osh to give her relative safety, I hoped.

  ‘I’ll see she gets down there without any trouble,’ Saltanat said.

  One last question.

  ‘Your friend Gasparian? The fat hairy guy I caught teasing the monkey?’

  ‘Him? Pays the rent on the apartment, keeps the local uniforms in breakfast money, we give him a slice of what we make. He visits me every couple of weeks. Can’t get it in without swearing and yelling and calling me names. Not that there’s a lot to put in.’

  ‘Did you say anything about the first murder to him?’

  She scrounged another cigarette off Saltanat. The air above the table was thick and blue, and I wondered if the café owners had ever considered turning it into a cancer ward. She sparked up, and blew smoke in the general direction of the kitchen.

  ‘He mentioned it. Had I heard about it, was she a working girl, did I know her? That sort of thing. And then he got hard and climbed on. I didn’t pay too much attention, too busy trying not to get crushed. And then you spoilt his party.’

  I excused myself, and headed out into the relatively clean air outside. I called Sverdlovsky to tell them to hold Gasparian for further questioning, but he’d already been released. They asked if I want him picked up, but he’d either be laughing from the other side of a border,
going about his daily routine, or dead. It could wait until I flew back.

  Saltanat was making arrangements for Illya to drive Gulbara down to her uncle’s farm. It was quite a drive, over two mountain passes that were going to be dense with snow, but the BMW should make it, if he took it slowly.

  I scribbled my mobile number on the back of my card and gave it to Gulbara.

  ‘If you think of anything more, call.’

  But she probably wouldn’t. And I was pretty sure I wouldn’t see her again, unless it was round by the dark side of Panfilov Park, near the Lenin statue, or on Kenesh’s morgue table.

  Saltanat surprised me by kissing Gulbara on both cheeks, then hugging her; I had her down as an ice maiden. We watched as Gulbara walked down the street, Illya two paces behind. Alone, I turned to Saltanat. The sunglasses were back in place, even though it was now night outside. I reached over and removed them. She stared back at me, expressionless. It was clear that I wasn’t going to get any information that she didn’t want to give.

  ‘I’ve got a few more questions,’ I said.

  ‘I rather thought you might.’

  ‘Questions like: what’s your involvement in all this? Who are you working for?’

  I poured out the last of the tea into our two cups, added sugar, took a mouthful, savoured the flavour and the warmth.

  ‘I’ll answer your questions. Maybe. But first of all, I want a proper drink.’

  Chapter 24

  It was still dark when I woke up. But in a Kyrgyz winter, that can be almost any time before noon and after three. Out of habit, I reached over and checked that the Yarygin was still on the bedside table. A chair was propped against the door handle; I don’t trust any of the flimsy locks in the kind of places I can afford. The guesthouse was not far from the city centre, just off Ak-Burinskya Street. I’d stayed there before, and the price was right, if you’re law: free. Sure, I might have had to strong-arm an alkash if he’d been causing trouble, but it hadn’t been a problem so far.

  My piss smelt sour, and I could taste the pickled vegetables that had accompanied the chai I’d drunk while Saltanat made do with vodka. I remembered getting some straight answers from Saltanat, which made a refreshing change, until the tiredness creeping up on me slammed my head down on to the table. What I didn’t remember was how I’d got back from the bar, exhaustion wiping my memory clean as effectively as a bottle of the good stuff would have done.

  Or how Saltanat had ended up in my bed.

  I’d still got my socks and underwear on, so maybe I’d played hard to get. There was no sign of any condom wrappers by the bed, and she didn’t seem the kind of woman who took unnecessary risks about anything. I sniffed my fingers, but they stank only of gun oil and nicotine. I decided to postpone any sexual post-mortem for when I was feeling better, and settled down with a cup of tea.

  Outside, a disillusioned sun was doing its best to struggle through a winter hangover. My watch said it was just after ten in the morning; time to work out a plan for the day, reprise the night before.

  ‘You’re going to offer me some?’

  I turned round. Saltanat was sitting up in bed, braless; no modesty there. Small but perfect breasts, darker nipples than I would have expected. She pulled back the sheets and swung her legs out of bed. Black G-string, so I guessed we’d behaved like brother and sister last night. I didn’t know whether to be stupidly grateful or truly pissed off.

  ‘Chai, or . . .?’ and I held the vodka bottle up.

  She gave a dramatic sigh, and ran her fingers through her hair. Whether or not she was intending me to see her breasts rise up, the effect was unmistakable.

  ‘Chai. I’m not one of those cops who’s half drunk most of the time, and all drunk the rest.’

  I tried to look nonchalant as she swivelled round and hooked herself into her bra with practised ease, as if she was alone at home. I pretended not to look; she pretended she didn’t notice.

  ‘So I’m the first woman you’ve slept with since your wife died.’

  It wasn’t a question. I rummaged through the blur of last night, wondering what exactly I’d said, how much of a fool I’d made of myself.

  ‘No, don’t worry, you didn’t mention her, no tearful memories. I’ve seen your file. But it’s hardly a state secret, is it?’

  I wondered what this file was that she’d seen about me. Sverdlovsky’s personnel file? A State Security dossier compiled by Tynaliev? Something the Uzbek police had put together? With both a Russian and a US military base in the country, the world and his mistress probably knew how many spoonfuls of jam I took in my tea. I thought about spy satellites tracking me, about people far more powerful than me with something to hide and no problem getting rid of me to do so. And just how much could I believe of what Saltanat had told me?

  ‘In case you’re wondering, you did ask me if I wanted to fuck you. Very politely, a real gentleman. And then, while I was making my mind up, you fell asleep.’

  There didn’t seem to be anything to say to that, so I finished my chai and headed for the shower. No hot water, a sliver of coarse soap, but you take what you can in these places. I got dressed while Saltanat showered. The look on her face when she came out of the bathroom told me that the water doesn’t run cold for her too often.

  *

  Back in the café, we both lit up, and checked the menu. Mutton and rice. Eggs. Horsemeat sausage. Who could resist? I pushed the fatty yellow sausage to one side, just as the waitress brought over a hundred grams without me asking. The glass sat there and stared at me, telling me that if I was such a tough cop, it was there for the taking. Murder Squad cops have a name as hardened drinkers – goes with the territory, I suppose.

  ‘Some of the details of last night . . .’ I started, and then paused, uncertain what to say, ‘maybe you can recap?’

  ‘The embassy told me you were the best in Sverdlovsky’s murder team, the one who uncovers the corpses. We got the whisper about Tynaliev’s daughter; no way could anyone keep that hidden. And Otkur’s been feeding us information for years, in return for the occasional blind eye at the border. So we knew about the peasant girl as well.’

  I contemplated the burning tip of my cigarette, pushed the vodka to one side.

  ‘So you’ve got good sources. With a psycho of a boss like yours, you’d have to.’

  If she was at all annoyed at my insult about the Uzbek president, she wasn’t showing it. But a man who has his political opponents boiled alive keeps his enemies close, because that’s all he has. Children betray parents, husbands betray wives, and the secret police listen in at every door. Cross Islam Karimov and you wouldn’t have to worry about planning for a secure old age.

  ‘What I don’t understand is why Uzbek Security would get involved. You are Security, I take it? All three victims were Kyrgyz.’

  Saltanat continued to stare at me, unblinking. For once, I was on the wrong side of an interrogation, and I didn’t care for it one little bit.

  ‘You’re right, they were Kyrgyz. Nothing to do with us, outside our turf. But the ones on our side of the border? They’re very much our concern.’

  For a second, I wondered if I’d misheard.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘So far? Eight. All found with male foetuses. Some theirs, some not.’

  Light glittered off the surface of the vodka, whispering about the consolations in the glass. I don’t mind not drinking, but I hate being tempted.

  ‘So some kind of serial thing? A psycho?’

  ‘We don’t think so.’

  ‘What else? Someone crossing the border, killing in both countries. Maybe going into Kazakhstan, Tajikistan.’

  ‘We think it’s political. Someone out to cause unrest, get the Uzbek people outraged at the lack of security, the failure of the police, maybe start our own version of your Tulip Revolution.’

  I nodded; I could see why President Karimov wouldn’t be too keen on demonstrations in the streets of Tashkent. But there was a serious
flaw to Saltanat’s theory, and I was quick to drive the point home.

  ‘If the point of the killings is to destabilise your government, then why are there the same murders and mutilations here? And who’s got the power to do that?’

  Saltanat said nothing for a moment, looked into her half-empty teacup.

  ‘We don’t think there’s a crazy guy roaming Central Asia looking to hack up women. We think it’s your government trying to foment a revolution, maybe even revenge for the trouble here in Osh. And your dead women have been murdered just to draw suspicion away from your country.’

  I said nothing; the idea was surely too far-fetched. But then I thought of the wave of killings and mutilations, the looting and burning that hit Osh during the last revolution, and suddenly I wasn’t so sure. The Fergana Valley is the most prosperous, fertile land in the region; always has been, ever since the days of the Silk Road. Control that and you control the economy. And that means plenty of ways of wetting your beak, worth a little turmoil and strife, especially if it’s somebody else’s.

  ‘If I’m so good, and it’s all an elaborate plan, why would they appoint me to solve the cases?’

  ‘You find some fall guy, pin it all on him, the killings continue in Uzbekistan, the people get angry that the Kyrgyz can find their killer and we can’t.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘So why confide all this to me?’

  ‘So I can make up my mind. Whether I’m going to carry out my mission, or not.’

  She smiled at me, but the warmth never reached her eyes. I noticed that she had her hand in her bag, and I had a suspicion that she wasn’t looking for her lipstick.

  ‘I didn’t come here to solve your case. I came here to kill you.’

  Chapter 25

  My Yarygin was on my hip, and I calculated how many bullets Saltanat could pump into me before I cleared my holster. About six too many to make it worth my while, and I suspected she would only need the one. I kept my hand well clear from my side, moved my arm slowly. If she was Uzbek Security, she’d have no hesitation in shooting if I made a threatening move. And if she was here to kill me, she’d have no hesitation at all.