Tom Callaghan - A Killing Winter

The yard appeared empty, so I squeezed through the gap, and inched up the steps. Another surprise; the door was ajar. I stepped into the hallway and took stock.

Someone had commissioned an avant-garde mural on one wall, a seemingly random outburst of paint. Except this wasn’t paint. And the body that lay at the foot of the stairs wasn’t a statue either.

I could only tell it was Sariev by the uniform. His head was a watermelon that had been thrown down several flights of stairs. There was only one eye left that I could see, lolling on his cheek like a drunken afterthought. The other must have been under the mass of bone splinters and split flesh on the other side of his head.

His jaw rested almost under one ear, dislocated and then shattered. Fragments of teeth gleamed upwards, like yellow sweetcorn tipped out from a jar. Both hands had suffered multiple fractures, and his left leg lay at an angle that would defeat geometry. I didn’t need a doctor to confirm that Sariev wouldn’t be brutalising any more prisoners.

Searching the house confirmed what I already knew; Saltanat wasn’t there. Maybe her backup team followed her and waited for the right moment. Or perhaps she killed Sariev all by herself. Impossible to say and, right now, the effort of knowing hardly seemed worth it.

I sensed movement behind me, swung round and came within a tenth of a second of adding to the Department’s death toll for the evening. My young driver looked white, whether at the spatter of blood and brains everywhere, or at the realisation that his own might have added a fresh impasto to the scene.

I put the Yarygin away, told him to call it in. Outside, away from the body, I lit a cigarette, watched the smoke trail out of my mouth. I wished I could think of a reason to quit, but none came to mind. What’s one more death, after all?

I told the uniform I was taking the car back to the station, and eased myself into the driver’s seat. After a couple of complaints and grumbles, the engine turned over and I headed back towards Chui, taking it slowly, breathing deeply, wondering if this was finally the end.

I thought of the Chief, probably naked by now, cut, burnt, gouged, as Tynaliev watched, the expression on his face one of polite interest. No one would find him face down in a snowdrift, or floating down the Naryn in the spring. There wouldn’t be any forty-day toi , no gathering of friends and relatives to weep and reminisce.

Just a sheep dragged towards the waiting knife, the last sound it heard its own helpless bleat.

It was an hour or so after dawn when I left the station, my throat raw from too many cigarettes, too many explanations.

The threat of snow still hung over the city, but a thin smudge of blue over the mountains held a promise that winter might be drawing, at long last, to a close.

I walked back to my apartment, leaving fresh prints in the overnight snow. It crunched under my feet, the echo of fingers being broken in a basement room.

As I reached home, the morning was starting to emerge, with new hopes and as many fresh betrayals.

I paused and looked around. Just a few hundred yards up the road was where Yekaterina Tynalieva was butchered, nothing there now to serve as her memorial but tatters of crime-scene tape fluttering in the wind.

I thought of Chinara in the moments before her death, breath rasping in her throat, one thin hand gripping the sheet that would soon become her shroud.

And I remembered how tears stung my eyes as I pressed her grandmother’s wedding cushion down upon Chinara’s face, to take her away from a hard dying, to a place free from her pain and my sorrow. Her hands rose like startled doves from her sides, settled themselves upon mine, adding what strength she had left. I stared at the thin blue veins beneath the parchment of her fingers, willing them to fade and be still. And after her last breath had fled, I lifted the cushion from her face, wiped a few flecks of saliva from the lace, settled it gently beneath her head.

The end of a marriage, of a life – or rather, two lives.

Perhaps fragments are all that remain of us, fragments and the memories of those we loved and who loved us in their turn.

I wondered if Saltanat would be waiting for me upstairs, if she was already over the border, if I was now only a memory, or not even that.

I can’t say if we can create a life for ourselves, if desire can remain and grow into something else.

How long might we have together? Who knows?

I unlocked the door and stepped into darkness.

All the characters and events in this book are entirely fictitious, and any errors are mine: what is real is the kindness and generosity of the Kyrgyz people and the beauty of their country.

I owe much to many people.

In China: Zhou Min .

In the Kyrgyz Republic: Akyl Callaghan, Kairat Jumabaev, Aizat Jumabaeva, Elmira Kalmakova and Mike Atsoparthis MBE.

In Qatar: Charlotte and Richard Forbes-Robertson, Mirna Naccash, Natalie and Tim Styles.

In the UAE: Nick Adams, Valentina and Lyndon Ashmore, Chris Atkins, Scott Feasey, Brad Henderson, Liesl Maughan and Ryan Reed, David Myers, Roger Payling, Craig Yeoman.

In the UK: Stefanie Bierwerth and her team at Quercus, Morag Brennan and Steve Harrison, Helen Brindley and Chris Callaghan, Richard Callaghan, Carol Hannay and Marcus Wilson-Smith, Trevor Hoyle, Shân Morley Jones, Thomas Stofer.

In the USA: Jay Butterman, Andrew Cannon, Nathaniel Marunas, Peter Spiegelman.

The opening line was given by Mark Billingham.

Special thanks are due to Tanja Howarth, agent extraordinaire, and Simon Peters, for constant support and encouragement.

Finally, and most importantly, love and thanks to my late parents, Vera and John Callaghan.

Anyone visiting Kyrgyzstan will find a warm welcome at the Umai Hotel in Bishkek ( www.umai-hotel-kg.com), while Ecotours ( www.ecotour.kg) offers unrivalled opportunities to explore the country’s natural heritage.

Born in the North of England, Tom Callaghan was educated at the University of York and Vassar College, New York. An inveterate traveller, he divides his time between London, Prague, Dubai and Bishkek.

A Killing Winter is the first novel in a series featuring Inspector Akyl Borubaev. It will be followed by A Spring Betrayal .

To find out more, visit www.tomcallaghanwriter.comor www.quercusbooks.co.uk.

First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Quercus

This edition first published in 2015 by

Quercus Editions Ltd

55 Baker Street

7th Floor, South Block

London

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Copyright © 2015 by Tom Callaghan

The moral right of Tom Callaghan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Ebook ISBN 978 1 78429 018 4

Print ISBN 978 1 84866 975 8

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.