A Killing Winter

by Tom Callaghan

  I shook my head.

  ‘We’ve upped the stakes since then, my friend. If you’d sung before we came down here, you’d be back home having a little taste and wondering which one of your stable to fuck. Now, well, I’ve got other questions, and I want answers. And in case you’re wondering, I’m not an animal like my sergeant. I don’t like to just kick and smash and break.’

  I took hold of Gasparian’s jaw and wrenched his face round towards mine. His eyes dropped, avoiding contact.

  ‘Look at me, Khatchig. No, look at me.’

  He stared up at me, panic deep in his eyes. I narrowed mine, my face impassive, brutal.

  ‘I don’t like unnecessary pain. Make a note of that word “unnecessary”. But I promise you, any pain I think necessary will really hurt you.’

  I pushed him back on to his heels, sat down in the chair. I lit a cigarette, held the burning end up, as if examining some kind of instrument. Which, in a way, I was. I blew on the tip, watched the glow burn brighter. I could smell the sweat on him, the fear.

  ‘You’ve probably burnt yourself with a cigarette, by accident. Painful, but it heals. But not where I put it.’

  I blew on the cigarette again, gave him my best mirthless smile.

  ‘Left or right, Khatchig?’

  He shook his head, puzzled, uncertain.

  I explained.

  ‘Left or right? Which eye do you want to lose?’

  *

  As the plane made its descent into Osh airport, I wondered if I would have actually blinded Gasparian in one eye, felt the burning tip of the cigarette push past the resistance of the eyelid, heard the sizzle of the eyeball’s jelly, shut my ears against the screams. Of course, it didn’t come to that. I learnt a long time ago that it isn’t what you do, it’s what people think you are capable of. Sariev just knows brutality; God help me, I know psychology.

  As I’d expected, Gasparian gave up Gulbara’s address straight away. Nothing in it for him but pain if he kept his mouth shut. So he talked. And kept on talking.

  To my not very great surprise, it turned out he was a lightweight, at the very bottom of the Circle of Brothers, a foot soldier, expendable. He was terrified of the Circle. But the Circle weren’t there in the basement, and I was, with Sariev lurking outside with a fresh bag of fruit.

  I knew that before I left for Osh, I should have given Tynaliev the malenkoe slovo about the Circle of Brothers, the little word about their possible involvement in his daughter’s death. For those who don’t know, they’re our very own home-grown Eurasian organised-crime group. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, a lot of the criminal gangs in the former ‘stans’ grouped together in a loose collective called the Circle of Brothers. Each of the countries has their own crime boss sitting at the table with their foreign counterparts, doling out territories, alliances, joint operations in information, not just in Central Asia but in Europe, Africa, Latin America and the Middle East, the UAE in particular.

  Drugs are their big thing, as you’d expect, but they don’t say no to robbery, prostitution, counterfeiting, smuggling, or anything else that can make money and isn’t legal. And when it comes to ruthlessness, even the Russian gangs admit to being lightweight in comparison. Devotion is absolute, unquestioning, irrevocable; break any of the rules and there’s no question about what will happen to you, just how long it will take you to die, and how painfully. With the kind of power they wield, the resources they can call on, and the effect they have on the entire region’s stability and economy, the Circle of Brothers are a serious problem, and one that Tynaliev would certainly be watching.

  Which made my keeping quiet about Gasparian less than smart.

  But I wanted this case for myself. If it went over to the security forces, particularly with Yekaterina as one of the victims, that’s what the investigation would focus on. Nobody would give a fuck about a dead peasant girl or a butchered prostitute.

  Nobody except me.

  Not that I’m a holy guy. I’ve had my share of breakfasts bought by speeding motorists, known a bottle or two of good stuff come my way for a favour. But I owed it to the dead women, to Chinara. And of course, if I wanted to be sentimental, I owed it to myself.

  I hadn’t bothered to let anyone in Osh know that I was coming. If all this had a connection to the Circle of Brothers, then letting the cops know I was on my way was just setting myself up, either for a beating or a series of blank stares and shrugged shoulders. I clambered down the aircraft steps, setting my ushanka firmly on my head, turning up the collar of my coat. The Yarygin was cold and heavy on my hip; no need to check it into the hold if you’ve got police ID. Sometimes, amazingly, the system works for you. It was only a couple of hundred metres to the airport terminal, but still cold enough for me to catch my breath, and shuffle a little faster across the hard-packed snow.

  There’s no such thing as car hire in Kyrgyzstan, so Kursan had sorted out transport for me. I wandered out into the forecourt of the terminal and looked for the oldest, most dilapidated car I could find. A burly Uzbek man stood by a Moskvitch whose multicoloured bodywork told me it was, in fact, several cars cannibalised and held together by string and bad temper.

  After a series of grunts, we established that his name was Alisher, that Kursan had told him to take me wherever I wanted to go in Osh, and to find me somewhere to stay. I got in the front seat and strapped on the seat belt, which promptly collapsed around me. Not a promising start.

  I gave Alisher the address for Gulbara that I’d coaxed out of Gasparian; somewhere off Lenin Avenue, not far from the Sulayman Mountain. The Moskvitch sneezed its way forward, the engine picked up, and we made our way towards the centre of the city.

  It was the first time I’d been in Osh since the riots; the streets with their burnt-out buildings, only smoke-blackened walls still standing, did nothing to improve my temper. People hurried along what pavements there were, wrapped up against the cold, avoiding eye contact. With everyone wearing thick winter coats and scarves, I couldn’t tell who was armed and who wasn’t. Best to assume everyone.

  It was getting dark as Alisher steered us around the base of the sacred mountain. Everyone in Osh will tell you that Sulayman is buried there, near the mosque at the summit; good for tourism, I suppose. I climbed the mountain long ago, on a visit with Chinara. For a moment, memories came back: her long hair swept into turmoil by the wind, the same wind that snatched the words ‘I love you’ from her mouth and sent them scattering across the valley.

  Alisher turned off Lenin Avenue and down a quiet, tree-lined street of one-storey Russian-style houses, all whitewashed walls and window frames painted a pale sky-blue. Very few of the houses had numbers, but we found the address that Gasparian had given me. Or rather, we managed to find where it had once been. Now, it was nothing more than a heap of torched rubble, crowned by remnants of the roof, which had collapsed in on itself. A chimney stack still stood in the far corner, a solitary finger insulting the sky.

  I swore under my breath, and looked over at Alisher, who simply shrugged, opened his door and hawked phlegm on to the snow. A gust of cold air blew in through the open door, bringing an acrid stink with it of charred wood and gasoline. I got out of the car, picked my way through the fallen timbers and corrugated iron towards the chimney stack. I placed my hand against the brickwork; it was still warm. When I picked up a blackened remnant of window frame, the soot and charcoal crumbled under my fingers. Whenever this house burnt down, it wasn’t during the riots. Recently, not more than a day or so before my arrival.

  So the new question: where was Gulbara? On the run, in hospital, or reduced to bones and melted fat beneath my feet?

  I was wondering what my next move should be, when an unmistakable sound interrupted my thoughts.

  The tap of a gun barrel against the car behind me.

  Chapter 22

  I raised my hands, shoulder height, turned round slowly, no hasty movement that could be misinterpreted. Alisher was already out of the c
ar, his hands palm down on the hood, face turned away so as not to be able to identify anyone. The black eye of the Makarov pointing in my direction held my complete attention. Suddenly the air tasted extra clear and crisp, the sounds of traffic ringing in my head. I was about to die, and I couldn’t even find it in myself to picture an alternative. A thought: would they bury me beside Chinara? Followed by: would there even be a body to bury, or would I end up in a ditch, a stream, a wood, unnamed, unmourned, a skeleton gnawed clean?

  The black eye didn’t blink. Whoever was holding it knew what they were doing. The hand didn’t shake, its wrist supported by the other hand, classic military training. Or maybe police. A small hand, slim fingers, the nails a vivid red, the same red that would spurt from my chest if the Makarov’s bullets tore into me. A woman’s hand.

  ‘Clasp your hands together behind your head, Inspector.’

  The same honey-over-ice-cream voice. The same impersonal tone, cold, calculated, as warm as the dirty snow piled against the roadside. One consolation: I’d lived too long to die too young.

  I tried to keep the tremor out of my own voice.

  ‘It’s my aftershave, right? So irresistible you decided to follow me all the way here?’

  ‘Always the joker.’ Her voice took on a faintly amused air.

  But I still kept my hands tightly gripping the back of my neck.

  ‘Not always,’ I admitted, ‘only when someone’s planning on using my chest for target practice.’

  ‘Use the thumb and forefinger of your left hand to take out your gun and – slowly – place it on the ground in front of you.’

  I obeyed, the metal cold against my fingers.

  ‘Now take three steps to the right.’

  Smart thinking. Even if I’d been foolish enough to attempt one of those somersault rolls that you see in the movies, the gun was on my wrong side, giving her a lifetime to pull the trigger.

  In one of the nearby houses, someone was cooking pelmeni dumplings, and the sweet scent filled my mouth with saliva. For the first time since I helped spade the earth over Chinara, I realised that life is sweet, that I didn’t want to die.

  The single eye of the Makarov blinked, turning its unrelenting gaze away from me.

  ‘Just a precaution, Inspector, my apologies. You’ve got fast reactions and a careful aim. I saw what happened to Lubashov. You can’t unpull a trigger, and I’d rather be safe than sorry. Or dead.’

  I inspected the woman behind the gun. Slim, tall, long straight black hair falling to her shoulders. Eyes hidden behind wraparound sunglasses, crimson lipstick matching her fingernails. High, slanted cheekbones, and the kind of mouth the papers always describe as ‘generous’ – though, in my experience, lips like that are only giving when they want something in return. Long black leather coat, jeans tucked into shin-high lace-up combat boots. In a different place, at a different time, the type of woman it would be very easy to desire.

  ‘Now we’ve established we’re not going to shoot each other, I can put my hands down?’

  I tried to give my voice a suitable air of amused nonchalance, but I wasn’t surprised by the tremor in my voice. She nodded, and I put my arms down by my side. I looked down at my gun, and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I think we’ll leave it there for the moment. Call it a first-date precaution.’

  I shrugged, and looked past her to the black BMW with the Uzbek diplomatic plates, Army Camouflage standing there, arms folded, in his signature camo pants and steel-capped boots.

  ‘You told me I was a shitty little uniform the last time we met. Doesn’t sound good for a first date, does it?’

  She stared at me, then pushed her sunglasses up on to her forehead. Her eyes were as black as her clothes, and just as unrevealing. A thin white scar cut through her left eyebrow, easy enough to conceal with make-up. The fact that she hadn’t bothered made her more intimidating.

  ‘I underestimated you, Inspector. But I can assure you, we’re on the same side. Fundamentally.’

  I puzzled over that for a minute, then shook my head.

  ‘You tried to warn me off. All that crap about foreign holidays. Which wouldn’t help me solve my case.’

  ‘I didn’t want you fucking up my case, getting in the way,’ she said, holding her hand out in a vague apology, and taking a couple of steps towards me. ‘I’ve put a lot of time and effort into this.’

  There was a new scent in the air.

  Perfume. Heady. Erotic. Maybe Kursan was right and it had been too long since I’d been anywhere near a woman.

  ‘If you’re Uzbek law, and I’m not sure about that, you’ve got no jurisdiction here in Kyrgyzstan. Not even here in Osh. And why would you be interested in these murders, anyway? The victims aren’t Uzbek.’

  She nodded towards the limousine.

  ‘Let’s get out of the cold. We can talk there.’

  I hesitated; there’s nothing easier than to shoot someone in the back of the head as they get into the back seat of a car. The Makarov’s 9mm bullet bounces around inside the skull, mashing up everything in its path and leaving only puree. If you’re very unlucky, you get to spend a couple of decades having an impatient nurse spoon just the same sort of puree into your drooling mouth.

  She spotted my reluctance, and gestured towards my gun.

  ‘Pick it up, put it away, and I’ll do the same. Illya, go and sit with the Inspector’s driver, calm him down, keep him quiet.’

  I took my time, using thumb and forefinger as before, but I felt a lot happier once I’d got the pistol snug against my body. And knowing that Army Camouflage called himself Illya didn’t make him any less threatening.

  ‘If it makes you feel any happier, Inspector, I’ll get in the car first. No surprises.’

  Once we were both comfortable in the back seat, she offered me her hand. The same hand with which she could have killed me. I noticed the square-cut nails, slim fingers, no rings, her strong grasp at odds with the scarlet polish. Her perfume was stronger now, sweet but with an undertone of something astringent, lemon perhaps. Maybe that was a hint, or a warning.

  ‘You’re wondering whose side I’m on, Inspector,’ she said, never taking those eyes off me.

  ‘Point a gun at me, and I’m pretty certain you’re not on mine.’

  She raised an eyebrow, and I watched the scar curve back on itself.

  ‘The facts: you’re Bishkek’s top murder specialist, investigating the deaths of three women, and two unborn males. Nothing to connect the three women; they didn’t know each other, they didn’t share the same social circles, even come from the same city. A politico’s daughter, a peasant girl, a prostitute. And you want to know what links them.’

  Everything she said was accurate, but that didn’t mean I had to share what I knew; we’d left the playground a long time ago.

  ‘What I want to know is why you’re interested. You’re Uzbek, why should you give a shit about dead Kyrgyz? It’s not as if there’s much love lost between our two countries.’

  While she decided what to confide in me, I pressed home my advantage.

  ‘The two dead wannabes, the ones shot outside Fatboys. What’s your connection to those two?’

  She reached in the pocket of her jacket, smiled as I tensed, pulled out a packet of cigarettes, the cheapest, nastiest brand in all Central Asia, short of rolling your own papirosh from roadside tobacco.

  ‘Cards on table?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘let’s see your hand.’

  ‘You came down here looking for that prostitute? Gulbara?’

  ‘She’s a witness in my case.’

  ‘Well, there’s a problem.’

  She lit up, opened her window, plumed smoke through the gap. Considerate. She gave me a hard, appraising stare.

  ‘Do you want to fuck her?’

  The question took me by surprise, and so did hearing her swear.

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  She shrugged, and took another hit of nicotine. />
  ‘Lots of men do.’

  ‘Lots of men will fuck anything with a pulse, but I’m not one of them.’

  ‘How long since your wife died?’

  I didn’t know how she’d heard about Chinara, but a slow anger started up, at her death being thrown so casually into the conversation.

  ‘Being a widower doesn’t mean I want to fuck a krokodil-shooting hooker.’

  I didn’t make an effort to disguise my rage, and she nodded slowly.

  ‘She’s worried that if you don’t want to fuck her, there’s only one thing you do want.’

  ‘Which is?’

  She stared at me, unblinking, those black impenetrable eyes never leaving my face.

  ‘To kill her.’

  Chapter 23

  ‘See it from my point of view, Inspector.’

  Gulbara was sitting across from me, clutching a cup of tea as if it was the only thing stopping her freezing to death. But the café was warm, and her shivering was due to coming down off the drugs. Her hair was scraped back and tied in a loose ponytail; she looked much younger, but maybe that was because she wasn’t naked, and the track marks on her arms and thighs weren’t on display. I imagined the monkey was still clambering into her pizda, though.

  ‘I come back to the apartment, and I find . . . well, you saw what happened to Shairkul. The handbag led some very bad people to us. And you were the one who took the bag from me, who passed it on to someone. Who else knew about us, we were just working girls? The bag belonged to somebody rich, important. Someone who’d want their thousand dollars back.’

  ‘How does that make me the one who killed Shairkul?’

  Gulbara looked uneasy and sipped her tea.

  ‘Maybe not you, but someone who could make the police look the other way. A politico, maybe, one of the high-ups. What’s a dead hooker to one of them?’

  I sighed, and drank my own tea. Without asking, Gulbara added more to my cup, filling it halfway, the perfect hostess.

  ‘You found a body, hacked and mutilated, with a dead foetus in her belly. Then you find your flatmate and work colleague in the same condition. You think I keep a store of dead baby boys just in case I want to make a murder more interesting?’