An Autumn Hunting

Chapter 48

The journey to Tashkent gave the sense of being trapped out of time in a miniature world, an identikit copy of every flight I’d ever taken. Saltanat was quick to fall asleep, her hands folded over her belly, protecting a child that wasn’t yet showing. I couldn’t spot any signs of her pregnancy, but then I wasn’t any kind of expert. I envied her the ability to simply shut her eyes and lose the world. I just stared out of the window and felt the minutes drag along like dying men. A seven-hour flight, followed by a long drive to Bishkek to put my head in the lion’s mouth, didn’t cheer me up.

We were picked up at the airport and driven into Tashkent by a burly man in his thirties, who, judging by his deference, was one of Saltanat’s junior colleagues. I’d been to the city before, but never spent time there. I wondered if I was going to get an insight into how Saltanat lived when she wasn’t on a mission. But it wasn’t to be.

‘Akram will drive you towards the border,’ Saltanat said as the car pulled up outside the massive Chorsu Bazaar. Even outside the blue-domed building, I could smell the perfume of spices and herbs in the air, the sense of being back among people I understood, whose food I ate, whose hopes and fears I shared.

‘Arrangements have been made for you once you’re across the border at Osh, and you’re booked from there on an internal flight to Bishkek. After that you’re on your own.’

‘I was wondering about staying with you for a couple of days,’ I said.

Saltanat shook her head.

‘I don’t want to upset Otabek,’ she said. I understood; when Saltanat and I rescued the little boy from the paedophile who meant to kill him, he’d been mute with terror. Seeing me might only revive memories best forgotten.

‘This is where you live?’ I asked, keen to find out more about her, but she shook her head.

‘I’m taking the metro home; it’s the fastest way to get around the city, and I have things to do. I’ll see you in Bishkek in two days’ time. Noon, by the statue of Kurmanjan Datka, not too far from the White House. I’ll text you to confirm.’

As always with Saltanat, there was no discussion, merely a statement of intent. I didn’t have any choice in the matter. I wound down the car window as she started towards the station, never looking back, determined as ever. I wondered if this was yet another of her ploys to ensure I knew as little about her as possible.

‘I love you,’ I called out as she plunged into the crowd.

I wasn’t sure if she heard me.

It’s an eight-hour journey from Tashkent to Osh, but we broke the journey at Angren, where I found a back-street barber, had my hair trimmed to a coarse stubble. It wasn’t much of a disguise but the best I could do. We crossed the border without any problems, my fake passport simply held up and waved through without even being examined. As we drove towards the airport, Akram spoke his only words of the journey.

‘She gave me this to give to you,’ and handed me an envelope. I opened it, finding nothing but a one-way plane ticket from Osh to Bishkek. No note, no message, no slip of paper with a mobile number. I felt as if I’d been summarily dismissed from her life.

At Osh Airport, Akram nodded a curt goodbye and drove away back towards the border. I felt more nervous on home soil and at an airport. Security is always more stringent there, and there was the chance a vigilant police officer patrolling the building might recognise me. It was only when we were in the air on our forty-minute flight that I was able to relax a little.

Outside Manas Airport, I looked around for the most dilapidated taxi I could find. The driver had been one of a handful who gathered outside the arrivals hall; international flights with their collection of rich and gullible tourists offered much better pickings. I gave him the address of my apartment on Ibraimova, haggled for a few moments over the price, with much swearing and threats to walk away, finally reaching an agreement. In some countries, haggling is almost a game; in mine, it’s done in all seriousness, the difference between a meal on the table or hunger.

It was only as I was getting into the taxi that I realised someone was staring at me from the pavement. Staring hard.

Kenesh Usupov.

I’d worked too many times with Bishkek’s chief forensic pathologist to have any hope he wouldn’t have recognised me. The look on his face was one of shock, even fear.

I made the ‘I’ll call you’ gesture with my fingers, looking back at him as we drove away. I only had one question: would he tell Tynaliev I was back?

We drove down Chui Prospekt, maybe not the quickest way home, but one that reminded me of how much I’d missed simply being able to walk around the centre of my city.

The apartment smelt musty, unloved, but as far as I could tell, there had been nobody watching the building. I put water on to boil for tea, remembering how Chinara would always have a cup ready for me when I came home from work and I hadn’t had too much vodka on the way. I took my tea into the main room and stared at the framed photo of her I’d taken at Lake Issyk-Kul a lifetime ago. Hers, and perhaps mine.

I wondered what she would have made of the news about Saltanat’s pregnancy, the disappointment at it not being our child, resignation at the thought I’d found someone else to love while she slept cold in her grave.

‘I never planned to meet someone,’ I said out loud. ‘I still miss you more than I can say. You’ll never leave me, I’ll never forget you, but life’s a river that carries you along.’ But in the silence, I found no sign of acceptance, heard no whisper of an answer.