Tom Callaghan - A Killing Winter

Shairkul smiled; there’d be a price for her information.

‘Is there a reward?’

‘For you?’

I stopped for effect, reached for my cigarettes. Shairkul grinned, the money already as good as in her handbag.

‘Let me explain. I saw the body of a young woman hacked up worse than I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty. Some other woman, if she’s still alive, is mourning the death of her unborn child. So my patience is not just wearing thin, it’s non-existent. And I’m in a hurry.’

I grabbed Shairkul’s jacket and pulled her to me, so close that anyone passing by would think we were lovers, oblivious of the cold. I lowered my voice to the gentle, persuasive murmur that I’ve always found more menacing than a shout or a snarl.

‘Unless you start talking, I’m going to tell Vasily just how talkative you can be. You know how pimps feel about girls that use their mouths for something other than giving a customer a blow. And then you won’t be talking at all, will you?’

I smiled with my mouth and not my eyes, and gently tapped her cheek.

‘Gulbara found her,’ Shairkul gabbled, face white under the caked prosti make-up. ‘She thought she might find some drunk up for a short time in their car, on the way home from the Blonder.’

‘Go on,’ I said, and tapped her cheek again to refresh her memory.

‘She saw the girl’s handbag. Good quality, designer. She figured there’d be money, a mobile, maybe even car keys.’

‘She didn’t think to be a good citizen and call us?’

Even terrified, Shairkul smiled. We both knew that nobody does anything to help the police in this town, unless there’s something in it for them.

‘So Gulbara’s got a fancy new handbag. What about it?’

‘It’s what’s in the bag that’s important.’

‘And now you’ll take me to Gulbara, as long as you get your piece?’

Shairkul nodded.

‘You want to get the bag sooner rather than later, da ?’

I couldn’t fault her logic.

‘We’ll go see Gulbara, and discuss it all later, OK? One hand washes the other.’

I used my mobile to call a patrol car. When we got in, Shairkul gave an address on the far side of Osh bazaar. The patrol car’s flashing lights bounced off the hard-packed snow, the colour of blood, the colour of death.

‘Stop here,’ Shairkul said, ‘I don’t want police shaming me in front of my neighbours.’

Which just about sums up how most Kyrgyz, decent or otherwise, feel about us.

‘You didn’t say you lived with Gulbara.’

Now it was Shairkul’s turn to shrug.

‘You didn’t ask.’

Having an idea what was in store, I borrowed a torch from the reluctant uniform, who grumbled about its return, and then we walked round the corner, towards a dilapidated khrushchyovk apartment block.

The city is full of these relics of our Soviet days, solid, durable, ugly and practical, named after the former Soviet premier who’d had them installed across the Union. You‘d never describe them as stylish, but they’re an improvement on the shacks or yurts that we lived in before, especially when the winter sets in and the snow descends from the Tien Shan.

The building’s five-storey cement prefabricated panels were stained and cracked, and some wit had spray-painted HILTON above the entrance. The metal door hung open, and we pushed through into the dark. You never find a khrushchyovka where the communal lights work, so I switched on the torch and we walked up the litter-covered stairs towards the lift. By some miracle, it wheezed into life and we rode in silence up to the fifth floor.

Outside the apartment, Shairkul started to speak, but I held my finger up for silence. I didn’t want any surprises on the other side of the door, and that meant not alerting whoever was inside. She unlocked the heavy-duty steel door, and then the ornamental wooden door inside, and I gripped the Yarygin.

We went inside.

Someone had been smoking travka ; the thick sweet smell was everywhere. But the apartment was clean and neat, cheaply furnished. Whatever failings Shairkul and Gulbara might have had, slovenliness wasn’t one of them.

The bedroom door was ajar and, from the sounds inside, Gulbara was obviously hard at work. Reluctant to interrupt anyone’s pleasure, I peeked round the door. Plain walls, a couple of worn rugs on the bare concrete floor, a couple of half-drunk beer bottles on a bedside table. The ideal setting for an erotic tempest. The bed was creaking like an old ship in a storm, and Gulbara was moaning and groaning as if about to be shipwrecked.

‘ Da, maloletka, da! ’

Gulbara might or might not have been a little slut, but the man thrusting between her legs was certainly a fat pig. Coarse black hair spread like a rug across his shoulders and down his back and on to the top of his arse. He was doing his best to push the bottle-blonde beneath him through the thin mattress, his head buried in her hair, nuzzling her neck.

Gulbara’s eyes widened at the sight of me, and I put my finger to my lips as I tiptoed to the bed.

I waited until the punter’s grunting accelerated, then placed the front sight of my Yarygin against his arsehole.

I didn’t know if that triggered his orgasm or simply gave him a heart attack, but he squealed, yelled and farted all at once. He rolled off Gulbara, at some considerable pain to both of them, and covered his rapidly dwindling erection with both hands. Gulbara was less modest, probably as a result of fucking strangers morning, noon and night, and simply reached for her cigarettes on the floor.

I did my best not to stare, and motioned Shairkul in the vague direction of the mattress. My smile was not guaranteed to inspire confidence in any of the trio.

‘Let’s all make ourselves comfortable, and then we can have a little chat.’

‘Let me put my fucking trousers on!’

This from the fat pig; Gulbara didn’t care who checked out her goods as long as there was a cash purchase. He reached for his clothes, and I shook my head, waved the Yarygin, and he sat back up. I’m not an admirer of the male nude, especially when it’s fat, furry and about thirty kilos overweight. But you never know what people have in their pockets; a four-centimetre scar down my right forearm taught me that the difficult way. Besides, being naked with a gun pointing at you loosens the tongue. Not to mention the bowels.

‘Name?’

‘Who the fuck are you? Don’t you know who I am?’

‘If I did, I wouldn’t be asking, would I?’ I said in my most reasonable voice. He was recovering now, and wondering what the play was. I could see him reasoning he’d already be dead, if this was a hit. Maybe he believed he was important enough not to get robbed by some street hood. And I wasn’t working the irate husband badger game with the girls. So just who the fuck was I?

I decided to confuse him a little further.

‘You’re a good citizen, right? Helping this unfortunate young woman back on to the straight and narrow, right?’

He answered by leaning over Gulbara and spitting on to the floor.

I leant forward and gave his kneecap a little tap with the Yarygin. His reflexes were OK, I had to give him that.

‘Dumb arsehole!’

I shook my head and looked disappointed.

‘I’m not dumb, I’m the one with the gun. And as for being an arsehole, well, we’ve all seen yours. So I’ll ask again. Name?’

He remained silent, and my patience was shrinking faster than his prick. We could have gone on playing tough guys all night, but I’d better things to do.

‘Relax, I’m law. Murder Squad. I don’t give a fuck if you get her to give you a blow in the centre of Ala-Too Square. I want to talk to her, not you. Your name, then you can fuck off.’