Tom Callaghan - A Spring Betrayal

Graves smiled, lit a cigarette. The smoke wreathed around his head and for a moment he looked truly demonic.

“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Inspector,” he said, the amusement and contempt in his voice obvious.

“You’ll know about Albina Kurmanalieva?” I said.

Graves was instantly alert, his eyes moving between Tynaliev and myself.

“A potential business partner,” he said. “I have various interests in Tashkent, and we’ve been discussing ways to maximize our investment and profit there. You’ve met her, I think, Mikhail, as a guest at my house?”

Tynaliev nodded, but said nothing.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to revise your plans, Mr. Graves,” I said. “Ms. Kurmanalieva was found dead in Panfilov Park earlier.”

Graves’s face gave nothing away. For all the emotion he showed, I might have been discussing the price of horse meat.

“This is terrible news, Inspector,” Graves said. “Was it her heart? I always thought she was very fit.”

“In a manner of speaking,” I said. “Her heart didn’t have any blood to pump around her body. She’d been stabbed and bled out on the spot.”

“Murder? Do you have any suspects?” Graves asked.

I hesitated before replying. I didn’t know how much Tynaliev knew, and I certainly didn’t want to draw his attention to Saltanat as a possible suspect.

“My colleagues will be investigating her death, and I’m sure they’ll keep the minister fully informed. But I’m here about a number of other deaths.”

“However I can help, Inspector. But I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about the rape and murder of young boys and girls, here in the cellar of this villa. About filming them for rich sick perverts like yourself. For illegal trafficking of young children. About murdering and dumping the ones you had no use for.”

Graves laughed, the sound of a cut-throat razor scraped across brick. He stubbed out his cigarette and a smile crossed his face, to be quickly replaced by anger.

“This is absurd,” he said, turned to Tynaliev. “Are you going to allow this nobody prick to talk to me like this?”

“I’m sure there is no basis for his claims, Morton,” Tynaliev said, “but I’m sure you’d prefer to have his allegations thoroughly crushed.”

Graves spread his hands in a gesture of resignation.

“Very well, Inspector, what do you suggest?”

“We should take a look in your cellar, Mr. Graves. The torture chamber where you filmed all those rapes and deaths. Where your friend Albina Kurmanalieva tortured me.”

“My cellar? How do you even know I have a cellar?”

Graves feigned puzzlement for a moment, then nodded.

“We had a break-in here the other evening. Nothing was taken apart from a few unimportant papers; we surprised the intruders but they managed to escape. You wouldn’t know anything about that, Inspector?”

Now it was Tynaliev’s turn to stare at me. I shook my head, not wanting to take that path.

“How would a villa this size not have a cellar?” I said. “So I suggest we go and inspect it.”

“Morton?” Tynaliev asked.

Graves shrugged, led the way to the cellar door. On the threshold he paused, his hand on the latch.

“This really is unnecessary, Inspector, I don’t know where you got your information, but your sources are obviously either complete fantasists or business rivals of mine. I have nothing to hide.”

He opened the cellar door and switched on the light.

I felt sick as I limped down the stairs, the raw taste of bile and vomit suddenly sour in my mouth. I felt the pain in my foot, the tug of the stitches in my shoulder, the tightness of the burn scars on my hand. This was where my life could have come to an end, where my career might still collapse in a cover-up and money changing hands.

The bare bulb spat light out onto the walls and lit up the shelves. They were still there, but the whips, chains, belts? All gone. The floor was scrubbed clean, the walls newly painted, the smell of disinfectant heavy in the air.

Graves looked around, innocence hanging like a cloth over his face.

“Just a cellar, Inspector. Nothing sinister here, I’m sure you’ll agree?”

I didn’t know what to say. Of course Graves was intelligent, he wouldn’t have been such a successful businessman otherwise, but he’d second-guessed me. I could have sworn he wouldn’t be able to part with his trophies, his church, his acts of worship, but I was wrong. And I knew that in some other cellar, in some other quiet and secluded villa, the torture chamber was ready to start work again.

Tynaliev turned to me, raised an eyebrow.

“Inspector?” he said, the anger in his voice evident. He turned to Graves, offered his hand.

“Morton, I am most grateful for the complete cooperation you’ve shown us,” Tynaliev said. “I’m sure the Inspector will wish to apologize.”

Both men turned to look at me. I remembered the fear I’d felt strapped down and helpless. Of the smell of sweat and vomit that seeped out of the walls. Of the wide-open eyes of children who looked for help and were given only death.

“Gentlemen,” I said, and started to make my way back up the stairs, “you can both go fuck yourselves.”

I waited by the car while Tynaliev said his goodbyes, a handshake, a brief hug, then he was with me. He pointed to the rear seat of the car.

“In,” he ordered, and I obeyed.

“I think you’ve just about used up the last of my favors, Inspector,” he said. “I’ve persuaded Mr. Graves not to insist on your badge. I’ve also told him he no longer plays a part in our investigation. And nor do you.”

I said nothing as we drove off in the center of the convoy.

“I told him I had every confidence in his integrity and honesty,” Tynaliev continued. “I also said we intend to stamp down very heavily on such antisocial activities as the manufacture and distribution of pornography.”

“So you believe me, then?” I said. “About the cellar, about Graves’s involvement.”

Tynaliev gave me a world-weary look, settled back in his seat.

“It doesn’t matter whether I believe you or not,” he said. “You have no evidence, no witnesses, nothing. And even if you did, think of who Graves is. A businessman who’s brought a lot of wealth to this country. Who employs hundreds of people, if not thousands. Who puts plov and kleb on a lot of tables. Weigh that up against, what? A few dead orphans no one knew, cared for, wanted?”

“Rather cynical, Minister,” I said.

“No, Inspector, it’s practical. Without evidence, you can’t put him on trial. Continue to make allegations, and he’ll leave Kyrgyzstan, and take his wealth, his jobs, with him. What good will that do? Do I think he did all the things you say? I don’t know. But he’s not stupid. He’ll see this as a warning, a hint not to stray from the path.”

“That’s not enough, not for those dead children.”

Tynaliev’s voice was soft, almost paternal, explaining the realities of the world.

“Perhaps not. But it’s as good as they’ll get, you know that.”

He turned, opened the window, lit a cigarette, watched the smoke spin out into the air, snatched into nothingness.

“This is an end to it, do you understand? Finished. And one more thing. I’d advise your friend to head over the border in the next twenty-four hours, before anyone connects her to the Panfilov Park murder.”

I stared out of the window, the breeze stinging my eyes, turning everything blurred, indistinct.

“What do you mean, that’s it?” Saltanat said, her face harsh with disbelief.