A Killing Winter (5 page)

The
State Service for National Security plays by its own rules. Its people are never photographed, quoted in newspapers, hauled before Parliament. Think of them as smoke, or morning mist on the water of Lake Issyk-Kul, drifting, intangible, impossible to pin down. They’re the elite, the Kyrgyz equivalent of the Russian
Spetsnaz
, hand-picked and trained to eliminate any threat to the welfare and security of the state. The problem is that, all too often, the welfare of the state means the welfare of the top men. So anything that’s bad for them is bad for the country. And Mikhail Tynaliev was the kind of man who refuses to let anything bad happen on his watch. He would take the news I was going to bring him very badly indeed.

As we pulled up outside his town house, motion-controlled lights flashed on while we parked. An armed guard in a secure sentry gatehouse kept a close watch on the street; the blue flickering light across his face told me that the cameras around the grounds weren’t just for show. This was one of Bishkek’s smartest roads, private houses set back, secure, regularly patrolled.

I got out of the car slowly, my hands well away from my body, my ID card already in my hand. This was not the time or place for any sudden moves. From the other side of the glass, the guard beckoned me further forward. I smiled, doing my best to look harmless, my boots skidding on the packed ice.

‘How’s tricks, comrade?’ I said, holding up my card.

The guard didn’t take his eyes off me, but pushed a sliding tray from his side of the glass. I dropped my card in, and waited while the guard scrutinised it. Obviously, I wasn’t his comrade. Eventually, I passed muster.

‘What are you here for?’ he asked, his voice mechanical and hoarse through the loudspeaker set into the window.

‘I’m here to see the Minister. Police business, official.’

‘Does he know you’re coming?’

‘
Nyet
.’

This was where it could all go to shit. Maybe the guard wouldn’t admit me, in which case Tynaliev wouldn’t find out about his daughter until the morning, which wouldn’t please him. And if I told the guard my reason for coming, it would be all over the city in an hour.

The guard pondered his options, then made a call. A couple of moments of conversation, his face turned away so I couldn’t lip-read, then the decision was made.

‘Someone will be down from the house.’

‘Can you open the gate? We’ll park outside.’

The guard shook his head. No matter that this was a police car, that he’d seen my ID; the risk of a suicide car bomb was too great. I stamped my feet to keep warm, until a side door in the main gate opened. Two more guards waved me forward towards a scanner, but I stopped, held my jacket open to show the Yarygin. No point in giving anyone an excuse to show how fast and decisive he could be when guarding the boss.

They took my gun away, walked me through the scanner a couple of times, and then the senior of the two guards led me towards the house.

‘This had better be important,’ he said. ‘No guarantee he’ll see you.’

‘My Chief sent me personally. It’s to do with a case.’

The guard looked at me, curious, but I wasn’t about to volunteer any more information.

‘You’d better hope he thinks so.’

I trudged down the path, my boots crunching in the newly fallen snow. A wave of tiredness drifted over me at the thought of another death to announce, another person’s grief to observe. The door swung open as I arrived, and I was shepherded into the hall by yet another guard. He patted me down again, clinically and thoroughly, and then took me through into a study to wait for the great man. I could feel sweat starting on my forehead, so I removed my fur hat and stood bareheaded. The room was stiflingly overheated, but that wasn’t the only reason I was sweating. I knew my career could end right there.

‘Inspector.’

I turned round to see Mikhail Tynaliev standing in the doorway. Shorter than I’d imagined from his pictures, but with the typical Kyrgyz build: broad shoulders, a bull neck, powerful hands. Easy to imagine him interrogating a prisoner in the basement of his headquarters, standing too close, the casual punch, the backhanded slap that loosens teeth and lashes blood across the floor.

‘Minister.’

‘It’s very late for an unscheduled visit.’

‘My apologies. I wouldn’t have come at this time of night had it not been a matter of the utmost urgency.’

I stood to attention, spoke formally, tried not to let a tremor enter my voice. Because this man had seen and heard the sounds of fear a thousand times, knew them all.

‘Which is why I’m seeing you now.’

The Minister crossed over to one of the leather sofas that
stood against the far wall and sat down. He didn’t invite me to join him.

‘I find it hard to imagine that there’s a threat to the state that the police would know about before my people.’

‘It’s not a political matter, Minister.’

‘No?’

I saw that I’d caught his attention. Not terrorism, not organised crime. Then what? His eyes were on my face now, cold and black as the ice outside.

‘A personal matter. A family matter.’

His voice, when he spoke, was harsh, flat.

‘Go on.’

‘Early yesterday morning, the body of a young woman was found off Ibraimova Street. We were unable to make a preliminary identification at first; there was no ID on the body. But further information came into our possession within the last couple of hours.’

I paused, but the Minister simply stared at me, his face unreadable.

‘I very much regret to tell you that our inquiries suggest that the young woman may be your daughter, Yekaterina Tynalieva.’

The Minister looked at me.

‘On what basis do you suggest it’s her?’

‘We recovered an ID card in her name, in a handbag taken from the scene of the crime.’

‘So it is a crime, then? Not an accident?’

‘I’m afraid not. We’re treating it as murder.’

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the dead woman’s ID card. He stood up and took it from me. He stared as if unable to make sense of what he saw, and I reminded myself that, right then, he wasn’t one of the most powerful and dangerous
men in the country but a man faced with what must be the most terrible news a father can receive.

‘That’s her, that’s my Katia. But there must be some mistake. Her handbag stolen, or . . .’

His voice trailed away. I said nothing but took out the head shots that Usupov had prepared for me in the morgue a thousand endless hours ago. She looked calm, no expression of surprise or terror, just that indefinable stillness that separates the dead and the living. He took them from my hand, looked at them, nodded.

‘
Da
.’

One of the photographs fell to the floor, but neither of us moved to pick it up. When he spoke, his voice had aged, suddenly weary, an exhausted man at the end of his tether.

‘Did she . . .?’

‘As far as we can tell it was very quick.’

I chose my words carefully. The normal phrases of condolence seemed less than adequate, an insult almost.

‘Was she . . .?’

‘We don’t think so. But the pathologist was unable to tell if she’d been raped. There were . . . post-mortem wounds.’

Tynaliev pursed his lips, a gesture so slight he might almost have been turned to stone. He reached for a crystal decanter on a nearby table, poured a drink, downed it, poured another, and then, after a moment’s thought, one for me. I nodded my thanks and took the glass.

‘Tell me.’

‘I don’t think that we need to go into details, Minister. I realise this has been a terrible –’

‘Tell me.’

His voice cold, flat. An order.

So I did.

I hid nothing, not the hacking away of his only daughter’s vulva, the gouging out of her belly and womb, the uncoiling and unwinding, the final insult of the foetus dumped inside her like some backstreet abortionist’s garbage can.

The only thing I didn’t tell him was how the snow had settled on her face like the veil of a bride, how quiet the night was beneath the birch trees, how I thought of my own dead wife newly laid in her grave.

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.

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 home.

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.’