A Killing Winter

Chapter 25

My Yarygin was on my hip, and I calculated how many bullets Saltanat could pump into me before I cleared my holster. About six too many to make it worth my while, and I suspected she would only need the one. I kept my hand well clear from my side, moved my arm slowly. If she was Uzbek Security, she’d have no hesitation in shooting if I made a threatening move. And if she was here to kill me, she’d have no hesitation at all.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. Chinara, her long hair now grey, playing with a grandchild, while I watched approvingly. Long walks through the foothills above Karakol once the last snows of winter had melted away and the spring melt was cascading through the gorges. Quiet summer nights listening to her sleeping beside me, watching the morning light come up through the window.

‘You wouldn’t be telling me this, unless I’ve got a reprieve.’

‘When we heard you’d been assigned to the Tynalieva case, we already knew of your reputation. Through Vasily.’

She nodded as I raised an eyebrow.

‘Surely you’re not surprised? He worked for us, for the Tajiks, the Kazakhs, for anyone who would slip a few thousand dodgy som his way. He said you were tough, reliable, good at carrying out orders. So we assumed you were on board to set this up as a race-hate crime: crazed Uzbek psycho slaughters Kyrgyz innocents, that kind of thing. While your government was also killing Uzbeks, to stoke the fires across the border.’

‘Why go to all that trouble? Simply burn a few houses down, and everybody’s ready to kick off, you know that.’

Saltanat shook her head, and I watched how the raven wing of her hair folded back across her cheek.

‘Accountability. A riot is one thing, a coup organised by a foreign government is quite another. You need something to stir up terror, not just hatred.’

‘That’s why the mutilations? And the dead babies?’

‘Of course.’

I lit another cigarette. There was a sort of mad logic to it, but I couldn’t see my government organising it. Not when it took us all our time to get the electricity working. A thought struck me: could this be disinformation? What if it was the Uzbek government setting things up, to reclaim Osh?

I was wondering if aspirin would help, or only make my headache worse, when Saltanat’s phone rang. She stubbed out her cigarette, and walked towards the door. Too cold to stand outside, but I was clearly not meant to listen. I passed the time by remembering the curve of her breasts, and wondering if I was ever going to see them again. To have the woman you woke up with announce that she’s been ordered to kill you is not a great start to the day. On the other hand, I wasn’t lying face down looking surprised on the bedroom floor.

Saltanat came back to our table, her face grim.

‘That was my Bishkek contact.’

‘And?’

I searched her face for clues, but she remained impassive.

‘Your pal, Gasparian. Your colleagues released him, took him up to Ibraimova Street, to the scene of the Tynalieva murder.’

I shrugged; nothing too unusual about that.

‘For what it’s worth, I don’t think he did it; doesn’t have the balls. I don’t think he did Shairkul either. He’s a liar and a pimp, sure, but he’s no killer.’

Saltanat stared up at the stained and nicotine-yellow ceiling, watching her cigarette smoke ascend and melt into the general fug.

‘Well, if he was, he surely isn’t now.’

I got a sinking feeling. Maybe I shouldn’t have left him in the loving care of Sariev. A shitty day might be about to get shittier.

‘What’s the story?’

‘Some genius decided that taking Gasparian to the “scene of his brutal crime” might spur a little remorse, perhaps even a confession and a plea for mercy. So they threw him in the back of a police car, headed up towards the Blonder Pub, and marched him down to where the body was found. He must have been guilty, because he headbutted his escort, put him on the ground and started running away through the trees.’

She paused, gave me one of her trademark hard stares.

I swallowed; I had a pretty good idea of what was coming.

‘The enormity of his crimes must have driven him insane, because he ran all the way to the bridge over the carriageway. You know, the one with the two-metre fence on either side? And that’s where he decided to end it all.’

I pulled a face. It’s a long way down to the road, and nobody bothers too much about the speed limit there.

‘On to the road below?’

‘They’re still scraping him off tyres between there and Tashkent. But he must have been really determined to kill himself. How many people do you know who could climb a two-metre fence with their hands cuffed behind them?’

I winced and ground out my cigarette, then waved to the waitress and pointed at my cup. I wanted something stronger, but I felt at enough of a disadvantage as it was.

‘Sariev?’

Saltanat shrugged.

‘Or Tynaliev’s men, maybe,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine he’d be too happy with his daughter’s killer getting three meals a day for the next fifteen years.’

Clearly Saltanat had never seen the inside of a Kyrgyz prison; a few months ago, the entire prison population of Kyrgyzstan sewed their lips shut with wire, protesting about the conditions inside. If the gangs didn’t get you, the beatings or the TB would. But it still had to beat making a final Nureyev-style pirouette through the winter air before ending your days as roadkill.

I could see how the authorities would think it better all round if Gasparian was the killer, even if there was no evidence to link him to any of the crimes, let alone the ones in Uzbekistan. My boss would be happy, the word could go out that the guilty had been punished, and everyone could go back to filling their pockets. Unless the killings continued, of course, in which case, heads would roll – and I had a pretty shrewd idea whose.

I turned my mobile back on and, as if he’d read my mind, a flock of calls from the Chief scrolled upwards. I didn’t need to read them to know what he’d be saying. Fortunately, reception is pretty bad this side of the mountains, and my finger accidentally hit the ‘delete all’ button.

‘What’s your plan?’ Saltanat said, watching me erase my career.

‘I rather think it’s time to call in professional help,’ I replied, and sat back as the waitress poured more tea.