A Killing Winter

Chapter 13

It was a long drive back to Bishkek the next day, but the snow had stopped, and the light was dazzlingly bright, splashing off the Celestial Mountains over on the far side of Lake Issyk-Kul. I’d spent the night dozing on a shyrdak carpet while Kursan drove some elderly lady to vocal heights of delight in the room across the hall. The daylight might have been clear, about the only thing in this case that was. For a moment, I wondered why I put myself through the shit of trying to improve a world beyond redemption or relief. Then I remembered Yekaterina Mikhailovna, forever without a child of her own, snowflakes settling on her upturned face, her belly opened to an indifferent world. Her father, sitting behind a walnut desk that no longer had any grandeur, nor the power to bring his daughter back, cognac after cognac failing to blur the memory of her frozen face on the morgue slab. And fast following, like an autumn storm battling across the Tien Shan Mountains, I thought of Chinara and her last dreadful days in hospital, soiling the bed linen I carried in to replace the hospital’s threadbare sheets, recalling the soup and lepeshka flat bread I took every day that she was too weak to eat.

Towards the end, as she asked, I brought the embroidered cushion that her grandmother had made as a wedding gift for us, the vivid colours and traditional pattern a dramatic splash against the white sheets and Chinara’s equally pale face. She would run her fingers over the intricate needlework, as if tracing our history together, tentative, the way a child or a blind man touches an unfamiliar face. It seemed to offer a comfort I was unable to provide.

Every day of her final week, I held her hand, hoping she would squeeze mine, show that she knew I was there, that she recognised me.

That she loved me, remembered me, even as she slid from her life into my memory.

It crossed my mind to find the killer, watch his brains turn to fine red mist from a bullet in the back of his head, then turn the gun on myself, put an end to all this. But there’ll be other Yekaterinas, other Chinaras, other unnamed children. And if I’m dead, who is there left to speak for them, to fight for them?

‘You need to find yourself a woman,’ Kursan announced, unexpectedly, after an hour of silent driving. ‘It’s not good to be alone for too long.’

‘And what would you know about that? Half the children in Tokmok are probably yours.’

Kursan grinned at this compliment to his virility, then turned serious.

‘Chinara wouldn’t have wanted you to stay single. A man needs a woman, more than a woman needs a man.’

‘Enough.’

‘I’m only saying.’

‘OK, and now you’ve said.’

My temper wasn’t improved by the landscape we were passing through. On our right, empty fields stretching towards the Kazakh border; on our left, the cold slab of the lake. Dotted every few miles were the graveyards that served long-abandoned villages, the memorial stones and brick arches slowly crumbling under the assault of summer heat and winter cold. Sepia photos of babushki in headscarves and old men in black and white felt kalpaks fading under glass roundels, thin strips of weather-faded cloth flapping in the wind. Most of the graves were surrounded by railings, a small metal crescent moon at each corner. Chinara was buried in just such a place, on the outskirts of her village, on a stony outcrop overlooking the river below and the valley that stretches out before rising into the mountains separating Kyrgyzstan and China.

A peaceful place, if you chose to see it like that.

Kursan dropped me off at Sverdlovsky Station, but it was well after nine, so the Chief wouldn’t be in his office, and I’d nothing much to report anyway. A dead daughter of one of the top nomenklatura trumps a dead peasant girl from Oblast Issyk-Kul any day. The Chief wasn’t a bad cop in his time but, at his level, the only thing that counts is politics. I didn’t want a drink, but I also didn’t want to be alone. The Metro Bar was too far, and I didn’t want to go to the Kulturny, in case I met Vasily and his crew, and gave them a couple of smacks. But tiredness kicked in and I decided it was time for home, then bed. One thing about the winters here: everything stays preserved, not just the corpses. I knew that, in the morning, I’d drag myself out of bed, hope there was enough hot water for a shower and a shave, reluctantly pull on all the layers of clothing I could find, and set out once more. Or I would if I knew where to go.

I was halfway along Chui Prospekt, walking in the road, when the black BMW pulled up. That kind of car, that time of night, I knew it wouldn’t be a myrki lost in the big city and looking for directions. My Yarygin was hopelessly inaccessible, under two layers of tightly buttoned clothes, so I didn’t even think of making a move for it. Instead, I took two quick paces back and threw myself over the piled-up snow at the roadside. At least, that was the plan, but my foot skidded and, instead of an acrobatic leap, I tumbled and lurched into the slush by the pavement. The snow softened my fall, but not by much, and a massive flash of white light burst inside my head. For a split second, I wondered if I’d been shot, if I was dead, but the icy dampness against my face reassured me.

What was less reassuring was the diplomatic corps number plate about three feet from my head. Or the slam of the car door and the big black boots that halted next to me. Expensive boots, thick military soles, steel-capped footwear that could administer a terminal kicking. I shut my eyes and screwed my face up against the blow that would smash my nose and cheekbones into a bloody mass.

‘Not much of an ice-skater,’ a voice said from somewhere above me. ‘Not much of an inspector, either.’

I cautiously opened one eye and looked up. The legs went on for ever, and they were wearing army camouflage. Summer pattern, though, so they stood out like an accident in a paint factory. Or brains on snow.

I levered myself up on to one elbow, shook some sense into my head and the snow out of my hair. No damage done, not yet. I was halfway to my feet when Army Camouflage stepped closer and pushed me back down.

‘Not planning anything foolish, I hope, Inspector? I hear that Yarygin of yours has a very light trigger.’

The previous year, I’d had an unfortunate exchange of words with a murder suspect, followed by a fortunate exchange of bullets. Fortunate in that he missed and I didn’t. He was fortunate too; my bullet only clipped his spine. So now he’s spending the next fifteen years lying in the bottom bunk of a communal cell in Bishkek Number One, a cell bitch waiting for the block boss to choose the evening’s hole.

I raised my hands to show that my intentions were pure. A meaty paw grabbed my arm, hoisted me to my feet, pulled me towards the car. It was the second time in twenty-four hours that I’d had to deal with a stranger in an expensive car, and I was beginning to dislike the experience.

‘Turn round, face away from the car.’

I was reluctant to do so, but Army Camouflage twisted my arm around and the rest of me followed. The window hissed down, and I braced myself for an execution bullet.

‘You’d be well advised to take some compassionate leave, Inspector. It’s been, what, three months since your wife died? And not a day off since then? The mind needs time to rest, to forget about the everyday stresses of work, and to focus on healing, repair, recovery.’

I’d been expecting threats, bribes, pain, not advice and consolation. Or a voice like honey poured over ice cream.

A woman’s voice.