Tom Callaghan - A Killing Winter

‘I’m afraid not. We’re treating it as murder.’

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the dead woman’s ID card. He stood up and took it from me. He stared as if unable to make sense of what he saw, and I reminded myself that, right then, he wasn’t one of the most powerful and dangerous men in the country but a man faced with what must be the most terrible news a father can receive.

‘That’s her, that’s my Katia. But there must be some mistake. Her handbag stolen, or…’

His voice trailed away. I said nothing but took out the head shots that Usupov had prepared for me in the morgue a thousand endless hours ago. She looked calm, no expression of surprise or terror, just that indefinable stillness that separates the dead and the living. He took them from my hand, looked at them, nodded.

‘ Da .’

One of the photographs fell to the floor, but neither of us moved to pick it up. When he spoke, his voice had aged, suddenly weary, an exhausted man at the end of his tether.

‘Did she…?’

‘As far as we can tell it was very quick.’

I chose my words carefully. The normal phrases of condolence seemed less than adequate, an insult almost.

‘Was she…?’

‘We don’t think so. But the pathologist was unable to tell if she’d been raped. There were… post-mortem wounds.’

Tynaliev pursed his lips, a gesture so slight he might almost have been turned to stone. He reached for a crystal decanter on a nearby table, poured a drink, downed it, poured another, and then, after a moment’s thought, one for me. I nodded my thanks and took the glass.

‘Tell me.’

‘I don’t think that we need to go into details, Minister. I realise this has been a terrible –’

‘Tell me.’

His voice cold, flat. An order.

So I did.

I hid nothing, not the hacking away of his only daughter’s vulva, the gouging out of her belly and womb, the uncoiling and unwinding, the final insult of the foetus dumped inside her like some backstreet abortionist’s garbage can.

The only thing I didn’t tell him was how the snow had settled on her face like the veil of a bride, how quiet the night was beneath the birch trees, how I thought of my own dead wife newly laid in her grave.

Tynaliev gave a long sigh, of resignation almost, at the prospect of a difficult but necessary task about to be undertaken.

‘You’ll bring him to me.’

Not a question, not a request. An order. I put my glass down, untouched.

‘As yet, we don’t have a suspect –’

‘This is not a matter for the security forces, Inspector. But I don’t want every incompetent myrki policeman stumbling his way through this. I want you to handle this case personally, no one else. When you catch him, you bring him to me. Don’t worry, I’ll clear it all with your Chief, and tell him you’re handling the case alone. I’ll see you have your back covered, a roof over your head. And I’ll owe you.’

I understood why the Minister didn’t want the department involved; a hint of weakness and his image as a hard man would be threatened. In Kyrgyzstan, to be seen as weak is to invite your fall, from power, from office, perhaps even from life. And political protection from a man like Tynaliev wasn’t something to be tossed away lightly. But at the same time, I knew that handing a suspect over to him would mean taking part in torture, agony and, only after a long time, death. Then the remnants to deal with: a couple of torn fingernails, splintered teeth, a puddle of blood for the cleaners to mop away. Tynaliev might owe me, but he’d also own me, and I knew enough about how things worked to know it all gets called in, sooner or later.

‘We’ll obviously keep you informed of the progress of the investigation. But right now, I must ask you to come with me. For formal identification, you understand.’

‘Now?’

‘I’ve had the morgue opened for you. At a time like this, the family’s wishes are paramount.’

I didn’t mention his wife, Yekaterina’s mother. It was common knowledge in the department that she lived in the dacha , the country cottage near Talas, while Mikhail Ivanovich occupied himself with an ever-changing line-up of ambitious young women.

‘Very well.’

He paused, placed a hand on my shoulder, gripped it uncomfortably tight.

‘But let me repeat, Inspector, you bring him to me.’

This time, not an order. A threat.

Impassive, Mikhail Tynaliev stared down at the face of his dead daughter. I’d warned Usupov of our visit, so the body was laid out in the inspection room rather than tucked away in a refrigerated drawer. A sheet covered the body, so that only her face was visible, but nothing hid the sour stink of dried blood, the harsh smell of raw meat.

I cleared my throat, gave a preparatory cough.

‘Mikhail Ivanovich Tynaliev, are you able to make a formal identification of the deceased?’

‘This is my daughter, Yekaterina Mikhailovna Tynalieva.’

His voice level, unwavering. My God, this bastard was strong. I’d seen some of Bishkek’s toughest break down in this room, scream, yell, weep, threaten the world with blood and fire. But not this man.

He reached out for the sheet, and I took him by the wrist.

‘Honestly, Minister, there’s nothing to be gained by that.’

He looked at me, his eyes as blank and unstoppable as a rockfall, and I had to turn away from his gaze.

‘She’s my daughter.’

‘The courts will be very severe with a case like this. The maximum sentence.’

I paid lip service to law and order, but we both knew that was never going to happen.

I left the room, left him to the carcass and ruin of a daughter he had once cradled and bathed, sung to sleep, kissed, danced with at her graduation, where she wore the class sash and rang the last bell.

In the lobby, I tried not to hear Tynaliev’s howl of pain and anger. When he emerged, ten minutes later, he was all business, calm, efficient. The autopsy completed, I saw no point in holding the body, and we arranged for its removal in the morning.

‘I want to thank you, Inspector, for the delicacy you’ve shown in this matter.’

I nodded. Only the Chief and I knew who the dead girl was, although Usupov must have had some suspicions, having seen the Minister arrive.

‘As I said earlier, you’re to handle this personally, no involvement from my department, official or otherwise.’

I nodded again. The Minister hadn’t survived two revolutions by not knowing exactly where power lay at any moment, and how best to use that knowledge. If his daughter’s death had any political resonance, he would keep silence until the best moment to strike and avenge her.

Tynaliev wrapped his scarf around his throat, pulled on his gloves, glanced over at the door where his driver and a bodyguard were waiting. He strode towards them, saying nothing. He didn’t need to. I had my orders.

The sound of their boots was still echoing off the walls when Usupov appeared. He cocked his head in the direction of the door, and raised an eyebrow. I nodded in answer.

‘Shit,’ he muttered, ‘you’ll have to dance carefully, Inspector. You’re amongst the wolves now.’

‘You think so?’ I asked, fumbling for a cigarette to soothe my nerves.

‘So now you know who she was?’

‘Not was. Is.’

He shrugged but, to me, it made all the difference in the world. Once her killer was caught, once her death was accounted for and laid to rest, then she could silently slip into the past. Until then, I wanted to think of her as an unseen presence, spurring me on, watching from the sidelines. Chinara always said that I wanted the world to be explained, understood, a place where the dead could rest appeased. I wanted to understand Yekaterina’s death, but I didn’t believe in the solace of explanations. Not any more.