A Killing Winter

Chapter 24

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.’