Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

‘It’s against the law for a start, Minister, and the destruction and misery it causes is a real threat to the stability of society, as well as funding criminal elements,’ I said, choosing my words with forensic care, as if reading from a departmental manual.

‘I thought you would say something pompous like that,’ Tynaliev said. ‘Maybe you should be teaching at the American University, telling the world how backward Central Asia is, how we’re nothing but ignorant shitheads who only know how to sell heroin to rich foreigners.’

I said nothing, but wondered if some of the nine million dollars I’d recovered from Natasha Sulonbekova had grown in Afghanistan’s poppy fields. Being even an unwitting accomplice is a burden on the soul.

‘It’s never been a business interest of mine,’ Tynaliev said, as if reading my mind. ‘Too much attention, too much pressure from the Kremlin, the White House and everywhere in between. And too many open beaks all looking to be fed with a constant supply of juicy morsels.’

He shook his head, as if dismissing a far-fetched business proposal.

‘Caution and cover work better in the long run, wouldn’t you agree?’ he said.

‘In my line of work, you don’t survive long without them,’ I agreed, wondering if Tynaliev’s caution extended to giving me an unmarked grave somewhere between Bishkek and Lake Issyk-Kul.

‘I’m surprised you’ve survived at all,’ Tynaliev said. ‘Particularly since the Circle of Brothers still think you put two bullets into Maksat Aydaraliev.’

A shockwave of nausea rose up into my throat, and I wondered if I was about to vomit.

Aydaraliev had been the pakhan , local boss of the gangsters who feed on Russia and Central Asia like starving wolves in the depths of winter. Investigating the murder of Yekaterina Tynalieva, I’d found myself working with an Uzbek agent, Saltanat Umarova. It was Saltanat who had arranged the bullets for the pakhan , one in the back of the head to show he’d been executed, one in the mouth to show he’d talked. My problem? He was shot immediately after meeting me, so I knew where the finger of suspicion pointed. It didn’t help that the finger was almost certainly tensed against a trigger.

I didn’t know if Tynaliev believed I’d executed the old man, or if he knew Saltanat and I had become lovers in a semi-detached sort of way, but silence was still my most likely escape route.

‘The world will know you’ve been kicked out of the force in disgrace. You’ll probably need to get out of the country before the prison bars slam behind you, and the people you put there welcome you with open arms,’ Tynaliev said.

‘You won’t have the protection of a badge any more, but that doesn’t mean you won’t still be useful to certain people,’ he added.

‘Which certain people in particular?’ I asked, increasingly worried this was leading to a deep hole in a cemetery and a marble headstone with an engraving of my face.

‘You never wondered why the Circle didn’t avenge the pakhan ’s death?’ Tynaliev asked. ‘Why you’ve survived with fingers, toes and brains relatively intact?’

‘Presumably the new leader is very happy someone cleared the path and helped him step up to the throne?’

Tynaliev nodded.

‘Still a detective, I see, if not in name any more.’

I ignored the sarcasm. Did Tynaliev really believe I’d think he was going to all this trouble simply for the benefit of the country and his fellow citizens?

‘Spend time in the Kulturny, make contacts you can use in your new career,’ Tynaliev said, and my heart sank like a rock towards my boots. The Kulturny is probably the roughest bar in Bishkek; they don’t let people in unless they have a portfolio of prison tattoos or at least one concealed weapon. Even the name is a joke; the place is as anti -kulturny as it’s possible to get. No welcoming signs, no neon lights, just a battered steel door scarred and scuffed from attacks with boots, pickaxes and, on one memorable evening, a Molotov cocktail. The door has no handle, and behind the spyhole that gets you admittance the bouncer is probably drunk or stoned, certainly armed. But I’d been there in the past; to pick up dirt on your shoes, walk where the mud is.

I was with Saltanat the last time I’d visited the Kulturny. There had been gunplay, with a couple of bodies to dispose of when the shooting stopped, so I’d decided I’d drink my orange juice somewhere else. If Tynaliev wanted me there, he’d have a good reason. Good for him, that is; probably bad for me.

‘New career?’ I asked, not looking forward to the answer.

Tynaliev jerked his head towards the exit, turned to his paperwork, dismissing me. As I reached the door, he looked up, hit me with his hardest stare.

‘You’re going to become a drug baron,’ he said, and his smile didn’t even try to reach his eyes.

I’ve never been particularly good at obeying orders, even when they come from as exalted and dangerous a person as the minister. So I walked into Sverdlovsky District Morgue just after dawn the next morning, to watch Usupov hone his scalpels and his skills on yet another corpse. Of course, I wasn’t investigating the case I’d just been fired from, merely popping by to see my old friend, the chief forensic pathologist, maybe enjoy a breakfast glass of chai . How could the minister possibly object to that?

The temporary occupants of the morgue don’t seem to mind the stained concrete walls, the flickering lighting, the ever-present scent of freshly butchered meat. Even the living in Bishkek can’t be too choosy about where they call home, and the dead never bother to complain. No rent or bills to pay either.

At first glance, you might think you were at the entrance to an underground car park beneath some dismal shopping mall, until you spot the small weather-beaten sign. The morgue doesn’t advertise its presence; not many people visit, and those who do usually arrive on their back rather than on their feet.

I walked down the broken-tiled steps and along the corridor, where the emerald-green stain of mould grows bigger every winter when the snows break in, looking for shelter. As always, every other light fitting was missing a bulb, but I could still see the metal doors at the far end, smell the stink of raw flesh.

Usupov was already hard at work, transforming the young woman I’d seen the day before into the leavings of a butcher’s shop. Spatterings of blood stained the steel slab, along with other juices I preferred not to think about. It’s a truth of my job that beauty often hides ugliness inside, and a truth of Usupov’s profession that he sees beauty and order in the internal coilings and twistings of the body.

I didn’t ask for an overall; I wasn’t intending getting close to the corpse, and I wasn’t wearing anything a decent second-hand shop would put in the window in pride of place.

‘Nothing unusual in the manner of death. Drug overdose,’ Usupov said, before I’d even asked the question. ‘Her blood pressure crashed, and she suffered the heart attack that killed her.’

He held up a hand for my inspection.

‘Bluish nails, all pretty standard, Inspector, exactly what I’d expect.’

Usupov inspects bodies for effects that he then uses to deduce their cause; I examine them for hints, clues, secrets. The girl’s nails were coated in expensive clear varnish, although the edges were chipped and torn. She’d still had enough pride in herself to make an effort to look good, which put her at least one level above the street prostis that loiter around Panfilov Park at night.

‘No tattoos?’

Usupov shook his head. ‘The only things that have ever been stuck in her are the needles that killed her.’