Tom Callaghan - A Killing Winter

‘Stay here if you want. Just pull the door shut behind you when you leave,’ I said, adding, ‘if you want to leave.’

‘I look that domesticated? Expecting to come home to an immaculate apartment and stew on the stove? Been there, got the divorce papers, didn’t get the apartment.’

I paused, waiting for her to tell me more, then ducked as she hurled a shoe in my direction. I was still grinning as I pulled the front door shut and clattered down the stairs.

It was one of those rare and stunning mornings we often get in the depths of winter, where the sky looks glazed, and the mountains to the north and south of the city gleam with fresh snowfalls. The peaks looked close enough to touch, empty and forbidding, with the farmers’ flocks brought down, away from the wolves that descend from the high plain in search of food. That’s when I would always remind myself that my country, for all its faults, is one of the most beautiful in the world.

It was early and the roads were still pristine, no tyre tracks scarring the snow. Nothing could look more peaceful. But in Kyrgyzstan, most of the wolves walk on two legs. And further up the street, the remnants of the crime-scene tapes spread around Yekaterina Tynalieva’s body still fluttered and twitched in the wind travelling down from the north.

Sverdlovsky Station hadn’t changed in the time I’d been away. A half-asleep uniform still lurked outside the door, Kalash drooping over one arm while he gripped a papirosh in the style of soldiers and policemen everywhere, glowing tip concealed by his palm. As I walked past, he glanced away, and I suspected the hot word had gone round the station that I was no longer the Chief’s golden boy.

I knocked on the Chief’s door and waited for him to bellow. But instead, the door was flung open, and Illya Sergeyevich jerked a thumb over his shoulder. I walked in, and saw he already had a guest, one considerably more important than me.

‘Good morning, Minister,’ I said, with the humble tone appropriate in front of someone who could ship me off to some shithole at the scrawl of a pen.

Mikhail Tynaliev turned round, stared at me, found my face in his mental card index.

‘I hear you’ve been busy, Inspector,’ he said, and gestured at the chair next to him. I was sure the Chief would have preferred me standing ramrod straight while he shoved a two-metre stick up my arse, but what Ministers of State Security want, they usually get. So I sat, got the Chief’s ‘pay for it later’ glare.

In deference to the Minister’s visit, there was no sign of the customary bottle, but I’d no doubt there was one quietly hidden away, not that I was likely to be offered anything wet other than blood from a smack in the mouth.

The two men stared at me, both looking as if they intended pissing on me from a great height.

‘The Chief tells me you’re not convinced that the case of my daughter’s murder has been solved.’

I could feel the Chief’s eyes boring into me, but I really didn’t have any option but to answer the Minister. The Chief could have me shipped out to the border, but I could always resign and become one of the little people again. With Tynaliev, I could simply disappear into a cell somewhere.

‘I greatly value the Chief’s opinion,’ I said, cautious to the point of stupidity, ‘but there have been too many crimes with a similar pattern over too great a set of distances, including in Tashkent, for it to be solely the work of Tyulev and Lubashov.’

The Chief scowled, and I did my best to appease him.

‘Even if the men I shot were responsible for the murder of your daughter, there is a motive behind it that goes much higher than two small-time razboiniki high on something and looking for kicks.’

The Minister dismissed my words with a gesture.

‘I told you to bring me Yekaterina’s killers. Alive. Instead, you gun down two men who may or may not be responsible. Now you tell me, they possibly didn’t do it. And even if they did, they were acting under orders.’

Technically, I hadn’t killed Vasily, but it didn’t seem a good idea to mention it. Tynaliev stood up, and again I sensed his power, his control over everyone who crossed his path.

‘But you still can’t tell me who did it?’

I decided it was time to placate the Chief and give up some of what I knew.

‘I have an informant, someone high up in the Circle of Brothers here in Bishkek. He says some criminal – and he was very careful not to tell me who – got asked to carry out a few simple requests. Of course, he means ordered to, or face the consequences for disobeying the Inner Circle.’

I turned to Tynaliev.

‘I very much regret, Minister, that your daughter was targeted by these people. Why, I don’t yet know. But he said the aim of the people who paid him was to spread terror and confusion. His exact words –’

The Chief held his hand up to stop me.

‘This mystery informant of yours; does he have a name?’

‘Chief, this station has more leaks in it than the Naryn Reservoir. I wouldn’t even file his name on a piece of paper, and expect him to be breathing by the end of the day. There’s always someone with their palm face up, looking for a few som to pay for his beer.’

Reminding the Chief of the force’s corruption didn’t divert him from the question.

‘You know Maksat Aydaraliev?’

‘The name, of course,’ I answered, all too certain where this was taking me.

‘More than just the name?’ the Minister asked.

‘I interviewed him a couple of times, when we had that little gang war a couple of years ago. Nothing stuck, of course. It’s been a long time since he got blood and flesh trapped under his fingernails – if he still had any, that is.’

‘You think you should interview him, see what he can cough up, maybe with a little persuasion?’

If anyone could have got answers out of Aydaraliev in his current condition, they’d be the smartest cop in history. But I pretended to think about my reply.

‘Chief, he had his hand smashed and his fingernails pliered out two floors below where we’re sitting now, and he didn’t sing then. I shouldn’t think he’s mellowed with the years.’

The Chief exchanged glances with Tynaliev, the sort of look that confirmed something they’d discussed earlier.

‘You’re right, he won’t be spilling his guts to you. Maybe his brains, what with having two bullets in his head.’

I did my best to look startled, then shrugged, trying not to let anything show in my face.

‘He was the old-school top boss. He made a lot of enemies. Or maybe his own people, impatient for the throne and a bigger slice. If you’re satisfied that we’re getting nowhere with the other murders, you’re giving me his case?’

‘I wouldn’t waste an hour of a rookie’s time on that piece of shit,’ the Chief said, then gave me the hard stare. ‘Don’t you want to know how he was killed?’

‘You said, Chief, two in the head. Execution-style, I guess.’

‘You don’t want to know where?’

I held my hands wide.

‘If I’m not handling the case, why should I care where he was dumped?’

The Chief’s eyes flashed; I’d blundered.

‘Who said he was dumped?’

‘The big guys have security wherever they go. His gang must have been taken out, then a torpedo takes Aydaraliev somewhere quiet, does him, dumps him.’

The Chief considered this, nodded, apparently satisfied.

‘He was found outside the Kulturny about five this morning. The funny thing is, someone rang in a call earlier, about one of Aydaraliev’s muscle boys, given a kicking outside that shithole. And while the uniforms were loading him into the patrol car, they found one of his pals nearby, with his neck broken.’