A Killing Winter (17 page)

From
a decrepit shed behind the safe house, Saltanat hauled out an elderly Ural motorcycle that looked like a relic of the Great Patriotic War, and probably hadn’t been used since then. Maybe not the quickest getaway vehicle, but I supposed the Uzbek Security Service had as little money as its Kyrgyz equivalent.

She handed me a pair of gauntlets and a pair of goggles, so I pulled my
ushanka
down over my ears and almost broke my foot trying to kick-start the bike. Eventually, the engine grumbled into life, and I ferried the two of us back into Bishkek, the Ural bucking and twisting as we rode over potholed and broken roads.

By the time we reached my apartment, I felt as if I’d been frozen deep into the heart of an iceberg. With no sensation in my fingertips, I fumbled with the key until Saltanat took pity on me and opened the door. A welcome blast of warm air hit me, thanks to the city’s central pipes.

‘Drink?’ I asked, heading for the window sill, wondering if Kursan had finished all my vodka. Saltanat walked into the kitchen, returning a moment later with Chinara’s photograph. I replaced it, looked at Chinara’s hair caught in the wind, tried to remember the moment.

When you’re the one left behind, memories splinter into fragments, until the most real thing about your dead wife becomes the pictures you keep on the shelf, the scent of her perfume fading in an empty drawer.

I took the Makarov bullet and held it up between thumb and forefinger for Saltanat to see.

‘The strong medicine you promised me. Still got my name on it?’ I asked.

Saltanat had the grace to look ashamed. She shook her head and, for an instant, her beauty lit up the room. Then she caught the bullet I tossed to her, and she became the ice lady again.

‘Bathroom,’ Saltanat said, pushing me towards the tub. ‘A hot bath, thaw out, and then we work out our next step.’

I was reassured by the ‘we’; I hoped it meant that she didn’t plan to kill me any time soon. But remembering how calmly she’d ended Illya’s career, I waited until she left the room before taking my Yarygin from its hiding place and tucking it underneath a towel by the side of the bath.

Just in case.

*

Steam swelled and billowed up to the ceiling as I lowered myself into the tub, gritting my teeth against the heat. I could barely see across to the door, so I hoped that Saltanat didn’t decide to change her mind.

Lying there, the heat seeping back into my bones, I thought back to what the
pakhan
had said.

‘
I was asked to cause terror and confusion. Which I did
.’

I felt tired beyond exhaustion; all I wanted to do was sleep, with no dreams, none of the recent dead opening their eyes and beckoning to me.

Terror and confusion.

The key to all this. But a key I was incapable of turning.

So I started on the long slide into sleep, deep and safe in the embrace of the water.

I was more than half asleep when the bathroom door
opened, and I felt a hand on my chest. For a second, I thought it was Chinara, come to tell me it was time to go to work. But then, as the hand pressed down harder and was joined by another, I realised where I was.

Saltanat’s weight bore down on me as I struggled to sit up. Unable to move, my arms thrashing by my sides, I started to panic. But I was held fast.

‘Relax,’ Saltanat murmured, and I felt her hands move down from my chest and over my stomach.

I tried to sit up, water spraying everywhere, and it was only then I discovered she was as naked as I was.

Her hands moved lower down, taking hold of me.

‘Don’t tell me you didn’t think of this when we were back in Osh,’ she said. ‘That you didn’t want me to do this.’

And then she leant forward, and kissed me, and I was lost, as surely as if I was in a dark and lonely forest with no path to follow and no guide to lead me.

*

Later, after we’d stumbled to the bed, her never letting go of me, dragging me on top of her, we lay with arms and legs as entangled as the sheets, and I started to drift off into fitful sleep. A sense of guilt washed over me; the last time I’d slept with a woman in this bed was with Chinara, the night before her final trip to the hospital. I’d held her close, both of us unwilling to admit this was the end, knowing it all the same. But I’d still gone to bed with Saltanat, willingly, eagerly. Perhaps that’s another part of surviving; seeking warmth and comfort, in the arms of a stranger, even an enemy.

I checked my phone. As I’d expected, a whole string of missed calls beckoned me, all but one from the Chief. I anticipated him ripping into me, screaming and wanting to know why the fuck I was still messing around on the Tynalieva
case, one sorted out to everyone’s complete satisfaction with the corpses of Tyulev and Lubashov.

Pointless to try to explain that they hadn’t done it. Even if I told him that the Circle of Brothers had put out a contract on her, he’d only tell me that they hired the dead men to carry it out. And if I was honest, I didn’t know how to move the case forward.

Or if I’d see Saltanat again.

Or, more probably, if she’d want to see me.

I unravelled myself from the sheet and her legs, rolled over, facing away from her. The dull ache in my back reminded me that I hadn’t done this for a while. And then everything flowed into sleep and the comfort of a woman’s body beside me.

When I woke up, I was alone, the radio playing softly in the other room. That was where I found Saltanat, a towel wrapped around herself, inspecting the spines of half a dozen well-thumbed books.

‘I didn’t think of you as a poetry lover, Inspector.’

‘Not me, my wife. You know she’s a . . . was a teacher. Physics. She always said that there were laws science couldn’t explain, but poetry could.’

‘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.

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, maybe 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.