Tom Callaghan - A Killing Winter

I was halfway along Chui Prospekt, walking in the road, when the black BMW pulled up. That kind of car, that time of night, I knew it wouldn’t be a myrki lost in the big city and looking for directions. My Yarygin was hopelessly inaccessible, under two layers of tightly buttoned clothes, so I didn’t even think of making a move for it. Instead, I took two quick paces back and threw myself over the piled-up snow at the roadside. At least, that was the plan, but my foot skidded and, instead of an acrobatic leap, I tumbled and lurched into the slush by the pavement. The snow softened my fall, but not by much, and a massive flash of white light burst inside my head. For a split second, I wondered if I’d been shot, if I was dead, but the icy dampness against my face reassured me.

What was less reassuring was the diplomatic corps number plate about three feet from my head. Or the slam of the car door and the big black boots that halted next to me. Expensive boots, thick military soles, steel-capped footwear that could administer a terminal kicking. I shut my eyes and screwed my face up against the blow that would smash my nose and cheekbones into a bloody mass.

‘Not much of an ice-skater,’ a voice said from somewhere above me. ‘Not much of an inspector, either.’

I cautiously opened one eye and looked up. The legs went on for ever, and they were wearing army camouflage. Summer pattern, though, so they stood out like an accident in a paint factory. Or brains on snow.

I levered myself up on to one elbow, shook some sense into my head and the snow out of my hair. No damage done, not yet. I was halfway to my feet when Army Camouflage stepped closer and pushed me back down.

‘Not planning anything foolish, I hope, Inspector? I hear that Yarygin of yours has a very light trigger.’

The previous year, I’d had an unfortunate exchange of words with a murder suspect, followed by a fortunate exchange of bullets. Fortunate in that he missed and I didn’t. He was fortunate too; my bullet only clipped his spine. So now he’s spending the next fifteen years lying in the bottom bunk of a communal cell in Bishkek Number One, a cell bitch waiting for the block boss to choose the evening’s hole.

I raised my hands to show that my intentions were pure. A meaty paw grabbed my arm, hoisted me to my feet, pulled me towards the car. It was the second time in twenty-four hours that I’d had to deal with a stranger in an expensive car, and I was beginning to dislike the experience.

‘Turn round, face away from the car.’

I was reluctant to do so, but Army Camouflage twisted my arm around and the rest of me followed. The window hissed down, and I braced myself for an execution bullet.

‘You’d be well advised to take some compassionate leave, Inspector. It’s been, what, three months since your wife died? And not a day off since then? The mind needs time to rest, to forget about the everyday stresses of work, and to focus on healing, repair, recovery.’

I’d been expecting threats, bribes, pain, not advice and consolation. Or a voice like honey poured over ice cream.

A woman’s voice.

‘No, don’t turn round,’ the voice continued. ‘I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt.’

‘Well, if you don’t want to hurt me, and you don’t want to show me your face, what do you want?’

‘For you to take the advice I’ve just given you.’

Army Camouflage tightened his grip on my arm. It was a very persuasive argument.

‘Everyone gets depressed this time of year. The cold, the snow, the dark. And of course, in your case, your unbearable loss. You should get some sunshine.’

I could recognise a hint, but that didn’t mean I would take it.

‘No fun going away on your own. And anyway, I can’t afford it.’

‘You should consider it. Head for the sun. Bangkok is very pleasant at this time of year.’

‘I’ve got sensitive skin. Ten minutes in the sun here and I burn. Thailand would fry me to a crisp.’

The voice took on an edge of steel.

‘There are worse ways to go. As you know.’

I decided it was time to remember I was an Inspector, Murder Squad.

‘I don’t know why you care so much, but you know I can’t come off this case. And maybe I should make it my business to find out why someone riding in an Uzbek Diplomatic Corps car is so concerned about my welfare.’

‘Inspector,’ the voice said, and this time there was a note of world-weary impatience, as if explaining to a toddler for the tenth time why he can’t have a biscuit, ‘you’re a shitty little cop who solves shitty little murders, nobodies killing each other over a half bottle of cheap home-made vodka, or who fucked who. You are so far out of your depth in this one. Believe me, you don’t want to solve this case.’

The voice paused, and I stiffened, thinking maybe the last sound I would hear was the snap of a trigger. Army Camouflage gripped my arm a little tighter, and kicked my feet further apart. He pushed his hand deep inside my coat pocket, took out my apartment keys, threw them into the snow.

‘Think about it, Inspector, how many more enemies do you need?’

Army Camouflage kicked my right leg from under me and, even as I tried to regain my balance, shoved me sprawling back into the slush. The car window whispered shut, the engine started up – a smooth purr that said money, and lots of it – followed by the crunch of tyres on snow as the car pulled away. Only then did I start hunting for my keys.

Back in my apartment, I fished what Kursan had left of my vodka from the window ledge and looked at the bottle for a long time. Harsh electric light reflected off the edges, reminding me of my decision not to drink, a test to overcome, like everything else in my life.

There’s no love lost between the Kyrgyz and the Uzbeks; we’ve had too many riots and too much killing over the last hundred years for that. But here in the north, we’re a long way from the Fergana Valley and Osh, where most of the Kyrgyz Uzbeks live. Blame Stalin; he wanted to keep everybody at each other’s throats, divide and rule, so he carved up Central Asia like a blind man cutting up a sheep. Everybody got a bit that they didn’t want, and somebody else got the slice that they did. And before independence, the Russians were top dogs anyway, so it didn’t matter what we ethnics thought. Once we got independence, it was all up for grabs, and you fought your way to the top of your particular pile any way you could. And like all wars, if there isn’t very much to fight over to begin with, the battles are all the bloodier.

The apartment wasn’t just warm, but hot; in the winter, all the old apartments are heated by an elaborate system of giant hot-water pipes a metre in diameter that criss-cross the city. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, and if you’ve fallen out with the babushka who manages your block, you might find your heating turned off, whether you’ve paid your bill or not.

I dug my hands deep into my coat pocket and found an unfamiliar shape, slim, cylindrical, evidently put there by Army Camouflage. I took it out: a bullet for a Makarov, wrapped in paper. These were not subtle people. I read the note scrawled in pencil.

You have a pain in your head from thinking too much. Here’s some strong medicine to clear your brains. Don’t forget that you’re in our crosshairs. So think this through.

At least it wasn’t signed ‘from a friend’.

I tossed the note on to the table, and weighed the bullet in my hand. A Makarov is the terminator of choice in our part of the world; light, reliable and virtually untraceable. I’d have more luck chasing snowflakes than ever tracking one down.