Tom Callaghan - A Killing Winter

‘But that was a while ago, and the ruins of your house are still warm. So, again, what happened?’

Gulbara looked over at Saltanat, but there was no help coming from that quarter.

‘I’ve been staying there since I left Bishkek. A couple of nights ago, I’d gone out. Working.’ She looked at me, defying me to criticise. ‘I have to eat, don’t I?’

I nodded. Whores get hungry too.

‘I got back about midnight, and the place was alight. Nobody round here is going to do anything to help. I’m just an Uzbek slut, as far as they’re concerned. Probably my fucking next-door neighbours. Some dickhead who thinks Osh belongs to the Kyrgyz.’

I didn’t ask about insurance; it’s as rare here as diamonds in the street.

‘You don’t think it had anything to do with what happened to Shairkul?’ I asked, as gently as I knew how.

Saltanat flashed me a warning look, but Gulbara was too busy thinking about the misery of her future to notice. I could see that she could use a kosiak right now, home-grown and hand-rolled, just to take the edge off things, but I didn’t come all this way to listen to stoned ramblings. The thought that the fire might be a hit rather than some racist act wasn’t the best thing to put in her mind, but better that than her stumbling into the sights of a Makarov.

‘But I don’t know anything,’ she wailed, tears starting, face twisted, ‘I swear I don’t.’

‘You’ve got somewhere to stay?’

‘With my uncle and his family, near Gulcha.’

I nodded. Down south towards the Tajik border, far enough away from Osh to give her relative safety, I hoped.

‘I’ll see she gets down there without any trouble,’ Saltanat said.

One last question.

‘Your friend Gasparian? The fat hairy guy I caught teasing the monkey?’

‘Him? Pays the rent on the apartment, keeps the local uniforms in breakfast money, we give him a slice of what we make. He visits me every couple of weeks. Can’t get it in without swearing and yelling and calling me names. Not that there’s a lot to put in.’

‘Did you say anything about the first murder to him?’

She scrounged another cigarette off Saltanat. The air above the table was thick and blue, and I wondered if the café owners had ever considered turning it into a cancer ward. She sparked up, and blew smoke in the general direction of the kitchen.

‘He mentioned it. Had I heard about it, was she a working girl, did I know her? That sort of thing. And then he got hard and climbed on. I didn’t pay too much attention, too busy trying not to get crushed. And then you spoilt his party.’

I excused myself, and headed out into the relatively clean air outside. I called Sverdlovsky to tell them to hold Gasparian for further questioning, but he’d already been released. They asked if I want him picked up, but he’d either be laughing from the other side of a border, going about his daily routine, or dead. It could wait until I flew back.

Saltanat was making arrangements for Illya to drive Gulbara down to her uncle’s farm. It was quite a drive, over two mountain passes that were going to be dense with snow, but the BMW should make it, if he took it slowly.

I scribbled my mobile number on the back of my card and gave it to Gulbara.

‘If you think of anything more, call.’

But she probably wouldn’t. And I was pretty sure I wouldn’t see her again, unless it was round by the dark side of Panfilov Park, near the Lenin statue, or on Kenesh’s morgue table.

Saltanat surprised me by kissing Gulbara on both cheeks, then hugging her; I had her down as an ice maiden. We watched as Gulbara walked down the street, Illya two paces behind. Alone, I turned to Saltanat. The sunglasses were back in place, even though it was now night outside. I reached over and removed them. She stared back at me, expressionless. It was clear that I wasn’t going to get any information that she didn’t want to give.

‘I’ve got a few more questions,’ I said.

‘I rather thought you might.’

‘Questions like: what’s your involvement in all this? Who are you working for?’

I poured out the last of the tea into our two cups, added sugar, took a mouthful, savoured the flavour and the warmth.

‘I’ll answer your questions. Maybe. But first of all, I want a proper drink.’

It was still dark when I woke up. But in a Kyrgyz winter, that can be almost any time before noon and after three. Out of habit, I reached over and checked that the Yarygin was still on the bedside table. A chair was propped against the door handle; I don’t trust any of the flimsy locks in the kind of places I can afford. The guesthouse was not far from the city centre, just off Ak-Burinskya Street. I’d stayed there before, and the price was right, if you’re law: free. Sure, I might have had to strong-arm an alkash if he’d been causing trouble, but it hadn’t been a problem so far.

My piss smelt sour, and I could taste the pickled vegetables that had accompanied the chai I’d drunk while Saltanat made do with vodka. I remembered getting some straight answers from Saltanat, which made a refreshing change, until the tiredness creeping up on me slammed my head down on to the table. What I didn’t remember was how I’d got back from the bar, exhaustion wiping my memory clean as effectively as a bottle of the good stuff would have done.

Or how Saltanat had ended up in my bed.

I’d still got my socks and underwear on, so maybe I’d played hard to get. There was no sign of any condom wrappers by the bed, and she didn’t seem the kind of woman who took unnecessary risks about anything. I sniffed my fingers, but they stank only of gun oil and nicotine. I decided to postpone any sexual post-mortem for when I was feeling better, and settled down with a cup of tea.

Outside, a disillusioned sun was doing its best to struggle through a winter hangover. My watch said it was just after ten in the morning; time to work out a plan for the day, reprise the night before.

‘You’re going to offer me some?’

I turned round. Saltanat was sitting up in bed, braless; no modesty there. Small but perfect breasts, darker nipples than I would have expected. She pulled back the sheets and swung her legs out of bed. Black G-string, so I guessed we’d behaved like brother and sister last night. I didn’t know whether to be stupidly grateful or truly pissed off.

‘ Chai , or…?’ and I held the vodka bottle up.

She gave a dramatic sigh, and ran her fingers through her hair. Whether or not she was intending me to see her breasts rise up, the effect was unmistakable.

‘ Chai . I’m not one of those cops who’s half drunk most of the time, and all drunk the rest.’

I tried to look nonchalant as she swivelled round and hooked herself into her bra with practised ease, as if she was alone at home. I pretended not to look; she pretended she didn’t notice.

‘So I’m the first woman you’ve slept with since your wife died.’

It wasn’t a question. I rummaged through the blur of last night, wondering what exactly I’d said, how much of a fool I’d made of myself.

‘No, don’t worry, you didn’t mention her, no tearful memories. I’ve seen your file. But it’s hardly a state secret, is it?’

I wondered what this file was that she’d seen about me. Sverdlovsky’s personnel file? A State Security dossier compiled by Tynaliev? Something the Uzbek police had put together? With both a Russian and a US military base in the country, the world and his mistress probably knew how many spoonfuls of jam I took in my tea. I thought about spy satellites tracking me, about people far more powerful than me with something to hide and no problem getting rid of me to do so. And just how much could I believe of what Saltanat had told me?