Tom Callaghan - A Killing Winter

He sighed; we both knew he didn’t do it.

‘Why would I kill her?’

‘Maybe you couldn’t get it up? Maybe she started laughing? Maybe you lost your temper?’

He looked at me as if I was a peasant straight out of the village.

‘You got money in the bank, Inspector?’

‘I hope that’s not an attempt to bribe an officer of the court, Gasparian.’

He looked alarmed, held up his hands.

‘No, no. Just, you keep your money there so it’s safe, so it earns you more money, right?’

‘Go on.’

‘Shairkul made me money. Why would I empty my bank account?’

I shrugged.

‘Here’s how it was. I was out with Gulbara. She was giving an American soldier a blow round the back of Panfilov Park, near the statue of Lenin. She gets a call on her mobile, answers it, which pisses the Yank off, what with her being paid to use her mouth for other things besides gossip. She gets up off her knees, comes over, says Shairkul’s in trouble, we need to get over there. We leave the Yank swearing and pulling his pants up, and I drive over.’

He paused, and pursed his lips, remembering the scene in the apartment.

‘Well, you saw her. You know what state she was in. We never touched anything, I swear. I wouldn’t even let Gulbara see the body. That sort of thing, it can put a girl off her work for ever.’

‘You’re all heart, Khatchig,’ I said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and stamping it out on the concrete.

He didn’t recognise the anger in my voice, and nodded agreement.

‘Someone has to look after these girls,’ he said, a defensive note in his voice.

‘Well, you did a fucking bad job with Shairkul, didn’t you?’

‘You’re the law, you’re supposed to keep the maniacs off the streets.’

I didn’t have an answer to that, so I tugged on the chain, forcing his head down on to the table.

‘So where’s Gulbara?’

‘Don’t have a fucking clue. That slut was down the stairs faster than piss down a drunk’s leg.’

‘What were you just saying about keeping your money in a bank?’

‘So?’

‘Gulbara and her performing monkey keep you in the good life. You’re going to let her disappear?’

He shrugged, the timeless Levantine answer to any difficult question.

‘She’s gone back to Osh? Or you’ve stashed her away, ready to get back on her knees when this all blows over?’

No answer, just an insolent stare. Both made me decide it was time for more forceful measures.

‘I think you could be more helpful than this, Khatchig,’ I said, and tugged on the chain again.

‘I told you all I know. I’m just an ordinary citizen.’

I heaved a deep sigh, to show Gasparian how disappointed I was.

‘That law you punched when we tried to bring you in?’

‘Plain clothes, how am I supposed to know he’s one of yours? Self-defence, plain and simple.’

‘Well, you bounced his head off the wall, and now he’s in the hospital, in a coma.’

‘And that’s my fault?’

‘Well, his uncle thinks so.’

Gasparian sneered.

‘So get his uncle to sue me.’

I smiled, mirthless, stood up, put my cigarettes back in my pocket, crushed his pack in my fist.

‘He might want to be more direct than that. I’ll be upstairs if you suddenly remember where Gulbara’s hiding out. You talk things over with his uncle.’

I paused, my hand on the door, turned back to face Gasparian.

‘The officer you hit is called Kairat Sariev.’

I opened the door. Urmat Sariev was standing there, smiling at the prospect of a brief encounter with the man who put his nephew in hospital. Usually he uses a bag of apples; leaves lots of spectacular bruises, and you can rupture a spleen with one swing. But nobody would be too worried about Gasparian having a bruise or two. Not in his line of work.

As I trudged upstairs, I heard the flat thud of the first blow.

That’s usually all it takes.

The winding mountain road to Osh climbs to almost 4,000 metres between Bishkek and Jalalabad. I’ve done the journey countless times; I don’t trust the flights between the two cities, and the driving relaxes me, lets my mind dig around for answers while being half distracted. The uncoiling road is a kind of hypnosis, using all my concentration while the pieces in my head form patterns of their own accord. But doing that journey in the heart of winter would be suicide, quick or slow, depending on whether you skid over the first bend or spend the next three months snug and immovable in a snowdrift, getting further buried with each snowfall.

So I flew, using all my energy to concentrate on keeping the plane aloft, which was more than I suspected the flight engineers had done.

Finally, I thought I might be getting somewhere on the case, thanks to Urmat Sariev and his fruit persuaders. I hadn’t even stubbed out my first cigarette before they called me down to the basement. Gasparian was sitting on the floor, manacled hands shielding his head, back to the wall to protect his kidneys. He’d been crying, and there was a thin river of blood dribbling from one nostril. Sariev wasn’t even breathing heavily.

‘This bitch won’t last five minutes in Number One before some cell boss splits his arse with a big yelda ,’ Sariev said, and gave Gasparian shoe leather to reinforce the insult.

Gasparian started to mutter something, but Sariev has only ever been interested in coaxing a confession, not in actually listening to it.

‘ Zakroy svoy peesavati rot, sooka! ’ he screamed, spit landing on Gasparian’s head.

‘No, let the bitch keep his fucking mouth open,’ I said. ‘He knows what I want from him. Don’t you?’ And I gave a gentle toe-prod to Gasparian’s ribs. It’s a bad cop, worse cop thing.

Sariev shrugged, reached into the bag, selected an apple and took a massive bite. As an afterthought, or maybe as thanks for giving him the opportunity to dance in the basement, he offered one to me. I shook my head, and squatted down next to the prisoner.

‘Khatchig,’ I said, in my mildest tone, ‘this could all have been avoided. We can stop it right now, or the sergeant can treat you to some more fruit. All I need is where you’ve stashed Gulbara. Just an address, that’s all. For her own good, you know. We can protect her.’

Gasparian muttered something indistinct about us not having helped Shairkul, and Sariev gave him another piece of fruit. Still in the bag.

Gasparian spat out a tooth, and looked up at me.

‘You know you’ve got a squealer here in the station, don’t you? Shit, you’ve probably got a dozen little birds all singing sweetly, the pay you get.’

‘So?’

‘Well, I’m not saying anything with anyone else in the room but you. Word gets round that I sing and I’ll end up in the drawer next to Shairkul.’

I thought it over, and gave Sariev the nod to leave. He wasn’t too happy about the idea, but headed for the door. He swung the bag at Gasparian’s head one last time, pulling back at the last minute, so that the apples whistled harmlessly an inch from Gasparian’s face, and grinned as Gasparian flinched.

‘Just off down the bazaar, Inspector, pick up some apples. Nothing like a healthy diet, eh?’ and he was gone.

I helped Gasparian to his feet and steered him towards the chair. He sat down, and blew a long string of bloody snot on to the floor. His wrists were raw and bleeding from where the chain had cut into him. I didn’t feel proud of what I’d done, but there were three dead women who deserved answers, even if they weren’t around to hear them.

‘You know this is nothing, don’t you, Khatchig?’ I said, in my most soothing voice. ‘If I let him loose, there’s no way he won’t put you in intensive care, ruptured spleen, crushed testicles, burst eardrums, just for starters. Or he’ll just dump you in the morgue, next to your two-legged bank account. You’ve hurt one of ours; you think anyone gives a shit what happens to you?’