A Killing Winter

by Tom Callaghan

  ‘She had good taste, your wife. In poets, I mean. Blok, Pasternak, Akhmatova, Esenin.’

  The names brought back memories, of Chinara sitting by the window, in the last of the daylight, reciting the odd line or two, almost chanting, words she believed gave light and meaning to the darkness.

  ‘I’m not much of a reader. I didn’t understand most of it, even when she explained it to me.’

  What I didn’t add was that Chinara believed poems explained the world, but I sometimes wondered whether only bullets could change it.

  Saltanat riffled through one of the books, as if hunting a quotation, something to suit the moment.

  ‘My husband read all these. He taught, as well. But literature; even had a few poems published.’

  I felt awkward. A third person had entered the room unobserved, waiting to be introduced.

  ‘Don’t look so worried. I’m not married any more. Perhaps I read the wrong poets. The only things his new wife recites are dress sizes and bank statements.’

  To move the conversation to safer, shallower waters, I showed her my phone.

  ‘The Chief. I’m summoned. Probably assigned to traffic.’

  Her smile made me want her all over again.

  ‘Maybe he wants you to investigate the mysterious death of a leading underworld figure?’ she said.

  ‘A Member of Parliament’s been murdered?’ I asked.

  It’s common knowledge that half of our elected officials are busy stealing from anyone with two som in their pocket, and sometimes the victims take it personally.

  ‘If he asks you to investigate Aydaraliev’s death? Conscience or cock?’ Unable to reach the former, she stretched out her hand and gave the latter a squeeze.

  ‘Underworld killings are notoriously difficult to solve,’ I said, considering my words carefully. ‘And in the absence of any witnesses, or forensic evidence, almost impossible to get a conviction. Someone may have dropped a hint, given an order, but that’s not proof. And the public don’t like us wasting our time on murders that take bad guys off the streets.’

  ‘I thought you might say that,’ she said, and sat back in her chair.

  I pulled on my trousers, and fastened my Yarygin to my belt.

  ‘Stay here if you want. Just pull the door shut behind you when you leave,’ I said, adding, ‘if you want to leave.’

  ‘I look that domesticated? Expecting to come home to an immaculate apartment and stew on the stove? Been there, got the divorce papers, didn’t get the apartment.’

  I paused, waiting for her to tell me more, then ducked as she hurled a shoe in my direction. I was still grinning as I pulled the front door shut and clattered down the stairs.

  It was one of those rare and stunning mornings we often get in the depths of winter, where the sky looks glazed, and the mountains to the north and south of the city gleam with fresh snowfalls. The peaks looked close enough to touch, empty and forbidding, with the farmers’ flocks brought down, away from the wolves that descend from the high plain in search of food. That’s when I would always remind myself that my country, for all its faults, is one of the most beautiful in the world.

  It was early and the roads were still pristine, no tyre tracks scarring the snow. Nothing could look more peaceful. But in Kyrgyzstan, most of the wolves walk on two legs. And further up the street, the remnants of the crime-scene tapes spread around Yekaterina Tynalieva’s body still fluttered and twitched in the wind travelling down from the north.

  Chapter 38

  Sverdlovsky Station hadn’t changed in the time I’d been away. A half-asleep uniform still lurked outside the door, Kalash drooping over one arm while he gripped a papirosh in the style of soldiers and policemen everywhere, glowing tip concealed by his palm. As I walked past, he glanced away, and I suspected the hot word had gone round the station that I was no longer the Chief’s golden boy.

  I knocked on the Chief’s door and waited for him to bellow. But instead, the door was flung open, and Illya Sergeyevich jerked a thumb over his shoulder. I walked in, and saw he already had a guest, one considerably more important than me.

  ‘Good morning, Minister,’ I said, with the humble tone appropriate in front of someone who could ship me off to some shithole at the scrawl of a pen.

  Mikhail Tynaliev turned round, stared at me, found my face in his mental card index.

  ‘I hear you’ve been busy, Inspector,’ he said, and gestured at the chair next to him. I was sure the Chief would have preferred me standing ramrod straight while he shoved a two-metre stick up my arse, but what Ministers of State Security want, they usually get. So I sat, got the Chief’s ‘pay for it later’ glare.

  In deference to the Minister’s visit, there was no sign of the customary bottle, but I’d no doubt there was one quietly hidden away, not that I was likely to be offered anything wet other than blood from a smack in the mouth.

  The two men stared at me, both looking as if they intended pissing on me from a great height.

  ‘The Chief tells me you’re not convinced that the case of my daughter’s murder has been solved.’

  I could feel the Chief’s eyes boring into me, but I really didn’t have any option but to answer the Minister. The Chief could have me shipped out to the border, but I could always resign and become one of the little people again. With Tynaliev, I could simply disappear into a cell somewhere.

  ‘I greatly value the Chief’s opinion,’ I said, cautious to the point of stupidity, ‘but there have been too many crimes with a similar pattern over too great a set of distances, including in Tashkent, for it to be solely the work of Tyulev and Lubashov.’

  The Chief scowled, and I did my best to appease him.

  ‘Even if the men I shot were responsible for the murder of your daughter, there is a motive behind it that goes much higher than two small-time razboiniki high on something and looking for kicks.’

  The Minister dismissed my words with a gesture.

  ‘I told you to bring me Yekaterina’s killers. Alive. Instead, you gun down two men who may or may not be responsible. Now you tell me, they possibly didn’t do it. And even if they did, they were acting under orders.’

  Technically, I hadn’t killed Vasily, but it didn’t seem a good idea to mention it. Tynaliev stood up, and again I sensed his power, his control over everyone who crossed his path.

  ‘But you still can’t tell me who did it?’

  I decided it was time to placate the Chief and give up some of what I knew.

  ‘I have an informant, someone high up in the Circle of Brothers here in Bishkek. He says some criminal – and he was very careful not to tell me who – got asked to carry out a few simple requests. Of course, he means ordered to, or face the consequences for disobeying the Inner Circle.’

  I turned to Tynaliev.

  ‘I very much regret, Minister, that your daughter was targeted by these people. Why, I don’t yet know. But he said the aim of the people who paid him was to spread terror and confusion. His exact words –’

  The Chief held his hand up to stop me.

  ‘This mystery informant of yours; does he have a name?’

  ‘Chief, this station has more leaks in it than the Naryn Reservoir. I wouldn’t even file his name on a piece of paper, and expect him to be breathing by the end of the day. There’s always someone with their palm face up, looking for a few som to pay for his beer.’

  Reminding the Chief of the force’s corruption didn’t divert him from the question.

  ‘You know Maksat Aydaraliev?’

  ‘The name, of course,’ I answered, all too certain where this was taking me.

  ‘More than just the name?’ the Minister asked.

  ‘I interviewed him a couple of times, when we had that little gang war a couple of years ago. Nothing stuck, of course. It’s been a long time since he got blood and flesh trapped under his fingernails – if he still had any, that is.’

  ‘You think you should interview him, see what he can cough up, ma
ybe with a little persuasion?’

  If anyone could have got answers out of Aydaraliev in his current condition, they’d be the smartest cop in history. But I pretended to think about my reply.

  ‘Chief, he had his hand smashed and his fingernails pliered out two floors below where we’re sitting now, and he didn’t sing then. I shouldn’t think he’s mellowed with the years.’

  The Chief exchanged glances with Tynaliev, the sort of look that confirmed something they’d discussed earlier.

  ‘You’re right, he won’t be spilling his guts to you. Maybe his brains, what with having two bullets in his head.’

  I did my best to look startled, then shrugged, trying not to let anything show in my face.

  ‘He was the old-school top boss. He made a lot of enemies. Or maybe his own people, impatient for the throne and a bigger slice. If you’re satisfied that we’re getting nowhere with the other murders, you’re giving me his case?’

  ‘I wouldn’t waste an hour of a rookie’s time on that piece of shit,’ the Chief said, then gave me the hard stare. ‘Don’t you want to know how he was killed?’

  ‘You said, Chief, two in the head. Execution-style, I guess.’

  ‘You don’t want to know where?’

  I held my hands wide.

  ‘If I’m not handling the case, why should I care where he was dumped?’

  The Chief’s eyes flashed; I’d blundered.

  ‘Who said he was dumped?’

  ‘The big guys have security wherever they go. His gang must have been taken out, then a torpedo takes Aydaraliev somewhere quiet, does him, dumps him.’

  The Chief considered this, nodded, apparently satisfied.

  ‘He was found outside the Kulturny about five this morning. The funny thing is, someone rang in a call earlier, about one of Aydaraliev’s muscle boys, given a kicking outside that shithole. And while the uniforms were loading him into the patrol car, they found one of his pals nearby, with his neck broken.’

  I did my best to look unconcerned.

  ‘So Aydaraliev gets done outside the Kulturny, or somewhere else, makes fuck-all difference. His successor will have already called a conference to slice up his inheritance. Maybe a couple of guys will join him on Usupov’s slab, then it all calms down. It always does.’

  Impatient, Tynaliev turned to the Chief and jabbed a stubby finger at him.

  ‘This officer believes my daughter’s death needs further investigation, but you say the case is closed, right?’

  The Chief was on the ropes, but he was too skilled a fighter not to defend himself.

  ‘It’s the Department’s considered belief that the two men killed outside Fatboys were about to murder the Inspector here, to end his investigation. The probability is they were hired to commit her murder, or other murders, with no evidence, no witnesses, nothing to suggest otherwise.’

  The Chief placed his hand on the Minister’s shoulder, adopted a sorrowful expression.

  ‘You should comfort your wife, mourn your daughter, remember her in all her beauty. Nothing can bring her back, but your memories are always yours.’

  He’d said the same anodyne rubbish to me when I returned from the mountains after burying Chinara, and it sounded just as insincere then. Tynaliev was no more taken in by it than I had been.

  ‘Thank you for your advice, Chief,’ he said, pulling on his overcoat, turning to me. ‘Inspector, walk with me to my car?’

  ‘Naturally,’ I said, happy to get out of the Chief’s presence.

  We walked along the gloomy corridors, down the bare concrete steps, saying nothing. Trudging through the slush in the yard towards his official car, the Minister suddenly stopped.

  ‘Forget what that fat buffoon says. Last time, I told you what you have to do. Nothing’s changed.’

  He considered his words for a moment, beckoned me closer. I looked up at the Chief’s window, but there was no sign we were being watched.

  ‘Do this for me. Off-duty. No one to know you’re still on the case except me. Understood?’

  I nodded, helpless in the political crossfire.

  ‘You’ll find my support very useful in your career, Inspector,’ he said, his narrow-lipped smile never even attempting to reach his eyes. ‘And if you fail, well, I’m sure there’s a lot more to Aydaraliev’s unfortunate demise than you’re telling me. And no one is ever above the law. Not as far as I’m concerned, anyway.’

  His threat lingered in the air as he clambered into the back of his car. As he pulled away, his driver splashed my boots with muddy half-melted snow and dirt.

  Chapter 39

  Back at my apartment, there was no sign of Saltanat, no note, nothing to show she’d ever been there, apart from rumpled sheets, a damp towel on the bathroom floor, a scattering of poetry books on the table. As I picked up the towel, I realised I didn’t have her number. I wasn’t sure if I wanted it. I didn’t even know if Saltanat was her real name. I wondered what Chinara would have made of it; the evening before her final trip to the hospital, she’d talked about me finding someone else, but I didn’t imagine she had someone like Saltanat in mind.

  I opened one of the poetry books, Collected Poems by Osip Mandelstam, and read the inscription I’d written there what felt like a million years ago.

  To my beloved Chinara, whose love is all the poetry I’ll ever need. Your loving Akyl.

  I flipped through the pages, as if they held the solution to the murders, to my confusion, to my life. But the words blurred before my eyes, refusing to give up their understanding of the world. I gathered the books together and replaced them on the shelf, a kind of order whose secrets I couldn’t unlock.

  ‘Terror and confusion, terror and confusion.’

  The pakhan’s words kept going through my head, like an awkward knot refusing to come untied. The phrase clung inside my mind, a quotation from somewhere in my past, just out of reach. I decided to think about something else, hoping my subconscious would sneak up on the problem and solve the mystery while my back was turned.

  My mobile rang, a number I didn’t recognise. Wondering if it might be Saltanat, perhaps even hoping it was, I answered it.

  The voice on the other end was male, abrupt, direct. Russian.

  ‘Barabanov here.’

  The Colonel from the airbase. What shit was the Kremlin in its wisdom throwing my way?

  ‘Colonel? Privyet. What can I do for you?’

  ‘A matter of protocol, Inspector.’

  When I didn’t answer, he continued, clipped, emotionless. As if discussing missing supplies rather than the murder of the mother of his unborn child.

  ‘The incident involving Nurse Gurchenko has been resolved. The culprit was arrested earlier today, no other further suspects are being sought at this time.’

  ‘Really, Colonel? I have to congratulate you. When will it be possible for me to interview your suspect?’

  The Colonel paused, and I knew he was about to lie to me.

  ‘I regret to say that will not be possible. En route to further questioning in Moscow, the suspect managed to disarm one of his guards and was shot dead trying to escape.’

  I felt the anger rising, but I kept my voice calm.

  ‘Why was your “suspect” being taken to Moscow? As you know, I am investigating a series of brutal murders across Kyrgyzstan, murders that share several of the same characteristics. It’s very doubtful that the Minister for State Security would grant you permission to extradite a Kyrgyz citizen without my having interviewed him first.’

  The Colonel’s tone was back to being flat and unemotional.

  ‘My apologies, Inspector, I should have made myself clear. The man my military police arrested was a serving Russian officer here on the base. Our zampolit, to be precise.’

  If there’s one thing I know about the Russian Armed Forces, it’s that the political commissars they select to spy on their comrades and work up appropriate revolutionary fervour are some of the most unemotional thugs you’d find
anywhere. A zampolit is about as likely to commit a sex murder as Lenin is to get up from his glass case and run naked around Red Square.

  This time, I didn’t bother to hide the incredulity in my voice.

  ‘A crime of passion, I suppose, Colonel? A jealous lover driven insane by the thought of his beloved carrying another man’s child? Or perhaps enraged by being rejected in favour of a better catch?’

  Barabanov didn’t rise to the bait.

  ‘I’m sure that with one of those motives you’ve hit the nail upon the head, Inspector. A pity we will never know the exact reason behind this terrible tragedy.’

  I wanted to ask more, but the high-pitched tone told me he’d broken the connection.

  ‘Cheers,’ I muttered, wondering if a single word of what I’d just heard bore any passing resemblance to the truth.

  I put the kettle on for chai, and while the water started to boil I debated just what truth was mixed in with Barabanov’s lies. No way of knowing if the ‘suspect’ had butchered Marina Gurchenko, if he was dead. If he ever even existed. I stirred a spoonful of plum jam into my tea, and thought back to the sight of her, splayed out like a deer gutted during hunting season. It would have taken tremendous strength, and time, to complete such butchery, and all the political officers I’d ever encountered had been weasel-faced weaklings, light flashing off rimless glasses to hide the deceit in their eyes.

  The tea was hot and sweet, and I was grateful for the kick it gave. I stared at my phone and wondered if Saltanat would call me, but it remained obstinately silent.

  I decided to forget about Marina Gurchenko. Had her death been a personal matter, or part of the bigger picture? I knew that was one murder I would never solve. And if I ever tracked down her killer, it would probably be for something else, and I wouldn’t even realise I’d caught him. The Kremlin keeps its secrets locked away in basements that make Sverdlovsky look like a luxury sanatorium on the north shore of Lake Issyk-Kul.

  As I sipped my tea, I made connections. Terror and confusion was the instruction given by the Circle of Brothers. But that went against every rule they normally followed.