Tom Callaghan - A Killing Winter

Saltanat came back to our table, her face grim.

‘That was my Bishkek contact.’

‘And?’

I searched her face for clues, but she remained impassive.

‘Your pal, Gasparian. Your colleagues released him, took him up to Ibraimova Street, to the scene of the Tynalieva murder.’

I shrugged; nothing too unusual about that.

‘For what it’s worth, I don’t think he did it; doesn’t have the balls. I don’t think he did Shairkul either. He’s a liar and a pimp, sure, but he’s no killer.’

Saltanat stared up at the stained and nicotine-yellow ceiling, watching her cigarette smoke ascend and melt into the general fug.

‘Well, if he was, he surely isn’t now.’

I got a sinking feeling. Maybe I shouldn’t have left him in the loving care of Sariev. A shitty day might be about to get shittier.

‘What’s the story?’

‘Some genius decided that taking Gasparian to the “scene of his brutal crime” might spur a little remorse, perhaps even a confession and a plea for mercy. So they threw him in the back of a police car, headed up towards the Blonder Pub, and marched him down to where the body was found. He must have been guilty, because he headbutted his escort, put him on the ground and started running away through the trees.’

She paused, gave me one of her trademark hard stares.

I swallowed; I had a pretty good idea of what was coming.

‘The enormity of his crimes must have driven him insane, because he ran all the way to the bridge over the carriageway. You know, the one with the two-metre fence on either side? And that’s where he decided to end it all.’

I pulled a face. It’s a long way down to the road, and nobody bothers too much about the speed limit there.

‘On to the road below?’

‘They’re still scraping him off tyres between there and Tashkent. But he must have been really determined to kill himself. How many people do you know who could climb a two-metre fence with their hands cuffed behind them?’

I winced and ground out my cigarette, then waved to the waitress and pointed at my cup. I wanted something stronger, but I felt at enough of a disadvantage as it was.

‘Sariev?’

Saltanat shrugged.

‘Or Tynaliev’s men, maybe,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine he’d be too happy with his daughter’s killer getting three meals a day for the next fifteen years.’

Clearly Saltanat had never seen the inside of a Kyrgyz prison; a few months ago, the entire prison population of Kyrgyzstan sewed their lips shut with wire, protesting about the conditions inside. If the gangs didn’t get you, the beatings or the TB would. But it still had to beat making a final Nureyev-style pirouette through the winter air before ending your days as roadkill.

I could see how the authorities would think it better all round if Gasparian was the killer, even if there was no evidence to link him to any of the crimes, let alone the ones in Uzbekistan. My boss would be happy, the word could go out that the guilty had been punished, and everyone could go back to filling their pockets. Unless the killings continued, of course, in which case, heads would roll – and I had a pretty shrewd idea whose.

I turned my mobile back on and, as if he’d read my mind, a flock of calls from the Chief scrolled upwards. I didn’t need to read them to know what he’d be saying. Fortunately, reception is pretty bad this side of the mountains, and my finger accidentally hit the ‘delete all’ button.

‘What’s your plan?’ Saltanat said, watching me erase my career.

‘I rather think it’s time to call in professional help,’ I replied, and sat back as the waitress poured more tea.

‘If you don’t sort this shit out soon, the last massacre down here is going to look like a cultural visit from the fucking Bolshoi,’ Kursan told me, and looked over at Saltanat for confirmation.

As ever, she looked non-committal and blew smoke into the air. We were sipping tea in our usual chaikana tea room. Or rather, Saltanat and I were; Kursan didn’t believe in non-alcoholic refreshment.

Kursan had flown down at my request. No one had his ear closer to the ground for any whisper, or kept better contacts throughout the underworld of the thieves of law. I knew that the usual investigations wouldn’t get me very far, and it was a case of grasping at any thread that might turn into a rope. It might end up hanging me, but I was willing to risk it.

Kursan looked around the chaikana and pulled a look of disgust.

‘Osh. I fucking hate it here. Nothing but stupid myrki , ugly women and shit food. You owe me for dragging me down here.’

I shrugged; I’d never known Kursan not to complain about anything and everything, and if there was nothing to moan about, he’d complain about its lack.

‘There was a riot in Talas last night,’ he told us, in between gulps of vodka, mouthfuls of plov and lungfuls of smoke, ‘with people marching on the police station, demanding that the “baby killers” be brought to justice. No shooting, just shouting, but it’s only a matter of time. Same thing down here in Naryn. We’re blaming the Uzbeks, and for sure they’ll be blaming us. A couple more killings and the whole country explodes.’

That was worrying. Talas is where the last revolution began, and Naryn’s the far side of the country. If Saltanat was right and this was a coordinated attempt at unrest, whoever was behind it was well funded and well organised. Forget mobiles or the internet; rumours carry between villages here within minutes, and they swell and get more impressive along the way. What’s being gossiped about in Tokmok becomes eyewitness accounts in Tash Rabat the next day.

‘So what are people saying?’ I asked.

‘Nothing in the papers, or on TV, of course. The White House won’t want to start a panic. And those poor fuckers in Tashkent only get to hear about the President’s latest exploits. Nothing as worrying as news for them.’

Saltanat nodded. Throughout Central Asia, you only get told what the bosses want you to hear. Kyrgyzstan’s a little more liberal, but I wasn’t expecting to read a report of foreign baby killers any time soon.

‘You know all this shit about baby pills from China turning up in South Korea?’ Kursan continued.

I nodded. The story going around was that thousands of capsules from China containing powdered baby foetuses were being sold around the Far East as general ‘cure-all’ medicine. The story was given extra credence thanks to China’s strict one-baby policy. Testing of the capsules was supposed to even tell you the gender of the foetus – usually female, since all Chinese families want to have sons rather than daughters. Naturally, we Kyrgyz are willing to believe anything bad about our neighbours. Was it true? Who knew? What mattered was who believed it, and what they would do about it.

‘Well, they’re saying that Kyrgyz boy babies make the best medicine. I told you that, right?’ Kursan said.

I nodded again. I supposed the Uzbeks were saying the same about their sons.

‘So this is a plot by the Chinese?’ I asked.

Kursan looked at me as if I was half-witted.

‘It’s the Uzbeks doing it, and blaming the Chinese,’ he said, ‘stirring the shit until it’s ripe, like they always do. So the trouble starts, and when the Uzbeks start shooting, it’s all in self-defence.’

‘Or it’s the Kyrgyz doing the killing, and claiming we’re doing it to discredit the Chinese,’ Saltanat said, clearly not happy about Kursan’s conspiracy theory.

‘I’m not saying that your murders are trivial,’ I replied, looking over at Saltanat, ‘or that ours are. But are they really going to stir up a war?’