A Killing Winter (11 page)

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.’

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.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. Chinara, her long hair now grey, playing with a grandchild, while I watched approvingly. Long walks through the foothills above Karakol once the last snows of winter had melted away and the spring melt was cascading through the gorges. Quiet summer nights listening to her sleeping beside me, watching the morning light come up through the window.

‘You wouldn’t be telling me this, unless I’ve got a reprieve.’

‘When we heard you’d been assigned to the Tynalieva case, we already knew of your reputation. Through Vasily.’

She nodded as I raised an eyebrow.

‘Surely you’re not surprised? He worked for us, for the Tajiks, the Kazakhs, for anyone who would slip a few thousand dodgy
som
his way. He said you were tough, reliable, good at carrying out orders. So we assumed you were on board to set this up as a race-hate crime: crazed Uzbek psycho slaughters Kyrgyz innocents, that kind of thing. While
your government was also killing Uzbeks, to stoke the fires across the border.’

‘Why go to all that trouble? Simply burn a few houses down, and everybody’s ready to kick off, you know that.’

Saltanat shook her head, and I watched how the raven wing of her hair folded back across her cheek.

‘Accountability. A riot is one thing, a coup organised by a foreign government is quite another. You need something to stir up terror, not just hatred.’

‘That’s why the mutilations? And the dead babies?’

‘Of course.’

I lit another cigarette. There was a sort of mad logic to it, but I couldn’t see my government organising it. Not when it took us all our time to get the electricity working. A thought struck me: could this be disinformation? What if it was the Uzbek government setting things up, to reclaim Osh?

I was wondering if aspirin would help, or only make my headache worse, when Saltanat’s phone rang. She stubbed out her cigarette, and walked towards the door. Too cold to stand outside, but I was clearly not meant to listen. I passed the time by remembering the curve of her breasts, and wondering if I was ever going to see them again. To have the woman you woke up with announce that she’s been ordered to kill you is not a great start to the day. On the other hand, I wasn’t lying face down looking surprised on the bedroom floor.

Saltanat came back to our table, her face grim.

‘That was my Bishkek contact.’

‘And?’

I searched her face for clues, but she remained impassive.

‘Your pal, Gasparian. Your colleagues released him, took
him up to Ibraimova Street, to the scene of the Tynalieva murder.’

I shrugged; nothing too unusual about that.

‘For what it’s worth, I don’t think he did it; doesn’t have the balls. I don’t think he did Shairkul either. He’s a liar and a pimp, sure, but he’s no killer.’

Saltanat stared up at the stained and nicotine-yellow ceiling, watching her cigarette smoke ascend and melt into the general fug.

‘Well, if he was, he surely isn’t now.’

I got a sinking feeling. Maybe I shouldn’t have left him in the loving care of Sariev. A shitty day might be about to get shittier.

‘What’s the story?’

‘Some genius decided that taking Gasparian to the “scene of his brutal crime” might spur a little remorse, perhaps even a confession and a plea for mercy. So they threw him in the back of a police car, headed up towards the Blonder Pub, and marched him down to where the body was found. He must have been guilty, because he headbutted his escort, put him on the ground and started running away through the trees.’

She paused, gave me one of her trademark hard stares.

I swallowed; I had a pretty good idea of what was coming.

‘The enormity of his crimes must have driven him insane, because he ran all the way to the bridge over the carriageway. You know, the one with the two-metre fence on either side? And that’s where he decided to end it all.’

I pulled a face. It’s a long way down to the road, and nobody bothers too much about the speed limit there.

‘On to the road below?’

‘They’re still scraping him off tyres between there and Tashkent. But he must have been really determined to kill himself. How many people do you know who could climb a two-metre fence with their hands cuffed behind them?’

I winced and ground out my cigarette, then waved to the waitress and pointed at my cup. I wanted something stronger, but I felt at enough of a disadvantage as it was.

‘Sariev?’

Saltanat shrugged.

‘Or Tynaliev’s men, maybe,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine he’d be too happy with his daughter’s killer getting three meals a day for the next fifteen years.’

Clearly Saltanat had never seen the inside of a Kyrgyz prison; a few months ago, the entire prison population of Kyrgyzstan sewed their lips shut with wire, protesting about the conditions inside. If the gangs didn’t get you, the beatings or the TB would. But it still had to beat making a final Nureyev-style pirouette through the winter air before ending your days as roadkill.

I could see how the authorities would think it better all round if Gasparian was the killer, even if there was no evidence to link him to any of the crimes, let alone the ones in Uzbekistan. My boss would be happy, the word could go out that the guilty had been punished, and everyone could go back to filling their pockets. Unless the killings continued, of course, in which case, heads would roll – and I had a pretty shrewd idea whose.

I turned my mobile back on and, as if he’d read my mind, a flock of calls from the Chief scrolled upwards. I didn’t need to read them to know what he’d be saying. Fortunately,
reception is pretty bad this side of the mountains, and my finger accidentally hit the ‘delete all’ button.

‘What’s your plan?’ Saltanat said, watching me erase my career.

‘I rather think it’s time to call in professional help,’ I replied, and sat back as the waitress poured more tea.