Tom Callaghan - A Killing Winter

So the new question: where was Gulbara? On the run, in hospital, or reduced to bones and melted fat beneath my feet?

I was wondering what my next move should be, when an unmistakable sound interrupted my thoughts.

The tap of a gun barrel against the car behind me.

I raised my hands, shoulder height, turned round slowly, no hasty movement that could be misinterpreted. Alisher was already out of the car, his hands palm down on the hood, face turned away so as not to be able to identify anyone. The black eye of the Makarov pointing in my direction held my complete attention. Suddenly the air tasted extra clear and crisp, the sounds of traffic ringing in my head. I was about to die, and I couldn’t even find it in myself to picture an alternative. A thought: would they bury me beside Chinara? Followed by: would there even be a body to bury, or would I end up in a ditch, a stream, a wood, unnamed, unmourned, a skeleton gnawed clean?

The black eye didn’t blink. Whoever was holding it knew what they were doing. The hand didn’t shake, its wrist supported by the other hand, classic military training. Or maybe police. A small hand, slim fingers, the nails a vivid red, the same red that would spurt from my chest if the Makarov’s bullets tore into me. A woman’s hand.

‘Clasp your hands together behind your head, Inspector.’

The same honey-over-ice-cream voice. The same impersonal tone, cold, calculated, as warm as the dirty snow piled against the roadside. One consolation: I’d lived too long to die too young.

I tried to keep the tremor out of my own voice.

‘It’s my aftershave, right? So irresistible you decided to follow me all the way here?’

‘Always the joker.’ Her voice took on a faintly amused air.

But I still kept my hands tightly gripping the back of my neck.

‘Not always,’ I admitted, ‘only when someone’s planning on using my chest for target practice.’

‘Use the thumb and forefinger of your left hand to take out your gun and – slowly – place it on the ground in front of you.’

I obeyed, the metal cold against my fingers.

‘Now take three steps to the right.’

Smart thinking. Even if I’d been foolish enough to attempt one of those somersault rolls that you see in the movies, the gun was on my wrong side, giving her a lifetime to pull the trigger.

In one of the nearby houses, someone was cooking pelmeni dumplings, and the sweet scent filled my mouth with saliva. For the first time since I helped spade the earth over Chinara, I realised that life is sweet, that I didn’t want to die.

The single eye of the Makarov blinked, turning its unrelenting gaze away from me.

‘Just a precaution, Inspector, my apologies. You’ve got fast reactions and a careful aim. I saw what happened to Lubashov. You can’t unpull a trigger, and I’d rather be safe than sorry. Or dead.’

I inspected the woman behind the gun. Slim, tall, long straight black hair falling to her shoulders. Eyes hidden behind wraparound sunglasses, crimson lipstick matching her fingernails. High, slanted cheekbones, and the kind of mouth the papers always describe as ‘generous’ – though, in my experience, lips like that are only giving when they want something in return. Long black leather coat, jeans tucked into shin-high lace-up combat boots. In a different place, at a different time, the type of woman it would be very easy to desire.

‘Now we’ve established we’re not going to shoot each other, I can put my hands down?’

I tried to give my voice a suitable air of amused nonchalance, but I wasn’t surprised by the tremor in my voice. She nodded, and I put my arms down by my side. I looked down at my gun, and raised an eyebrow.

‘I think we’ll leave it there for the moment. Call it a first-date precaution.’

I shrugged, and looked past her to the black BMW with the Uzbek diplomatic plates, Army Camouflage standing there, arms folded, in his signature camo pants and steel-capped boots.

‘You told me I was a shitty little uniform the last time we met. Doesn’t sound good for a first date, does it?’

She stared at me, then pushed her sunglasses up on to her forehead. Her eyes were as black as her clothes, and just as unrevealing. A thin white scar cut through her left eyebrow, easy enough to conceal with make-up. The fact that she hadn’t bothered made her more intimidating.

‘I underestimated you, Inspector. But I can assure you, we’re on the same side. Fundamentally.’

I puzzled over that for a minute, then shook my head.

‘You tried to warn me off. All that crap about foreign holidays. Which wouldn’t help me solve my case.’

‘I didn’t want you fucking up my case, getting in the way,’ she said, holding her hand out in a vague apology, and taking a couple of steps towards me. ‘I’ve put a lot of time and effort into this.’

There was a new scent in the air.

Perfume. Heady. Erotic. Maybe Kursan was right and it had been too long since I’d been anywhere near a woman.

‘If you’re Uzbek law, and I’m not sure about that, you’ve got no jurisdiction here in Kyrgyzstan. Not even here in Osh. And why would you be interested in these murders, anyway? The victims aren’t Uzbek.’

She nodded towards the limousine.

‘Let’s get out of the cold. We can talk there.’

I hesitated; there’s nothing easier than to shoot someone in the back of the head as they get into the back seat of a car. The Makarov’s 9mm bullet bounces around inside the skull, mashing up everything in its path and leaving only puree. If you’re very unlucky, you get to spend a couple of decades having an impatient nurse spoon just the same sort of puree into your drooling mouth.

She spotted my reluctance, and gestured towards my gun.

‘Pick it up, put it away, and I’ll do the same. Illya, go and sit with the Inspector’s driver, calm him down, keep him quiet.’

I took my time, using thumb and forefinger as before, but I felt a lot happier once I’d got the pistol snug against my body. And knowing that Army Camouflage called himself Illya didn’t make him any less threatening.

‘If it makes you feel any happier, Inspector, I’ll get in the car first. No surprises.’

Once we were both comfortable in the back seat, she offered me her hand. The same hand with which she could have killed me. I noticed the square-cut nails, slim fingers, no rings, her strong grasp at odds with the scarlet polish. Her perfume was stronger now, sweet but with an undertone of something astringent, lemon perhaps. Maybe that was a hint, or a warning.

‘You’re wondering whose side I’m on, Inspector,’ she said, never taking those eyes off me.

‘Point a gun at me, and I’m pretty certain you’re not on mine.’

She raised an eyebrow, and I watched the scar curve back on itself.

‘The facts: you’re Bishkek’s top murder specialist, investigating the deaths of three women, and two unborn males. Nothing to connect the three women; they didn’t know each other, they didn’t share the same social circles, even come from the same city. A politico’s daughter, a peasant girl, a prostitute. And you want to know what links them.’

Everything she said was accurate, but that didn’t mean I had to share what I knew; we’d left the playground a long time ago.

‘What I want to know is why you’re interested. You’re Uzbek, why should you give a shit about dead Kyrgyz? It’s not as if there’s much love lost between our two countries.’

While she decided what to confide in me, I pressed home my advantage.

‘The two dead wannabes, the ones shot outside Fatboys. What’s your connection to those two?’

She reached in the pocket of her jacket, smiled as I tensed, pulled out a packet of cigarettes, the cheapest, nastiest brand in all Central Asia, short of rolling your own papirosh from roadside tobacco.