Tom Callaghan - A Summer Revenge

“Atanasov wasn’t much of a manager. He was loud and aggressive, scary. So he put a lot of the punters off. You’re out for a bit of illegal fun, you don’t need trouble, right? Because trouble brings the law, and then you’re in deep, with no lifebelt.”

She paused, took another hit on her cigarette as if it was pure oxygen.

“So the money didn’t come in as fast as he wanted, and of course it was never his fault. He blamed the girls. Not dressing sexily enough. Not working hard enough. Not smiling enough. Being choosy about who they fucked. All the usual.”

“He used his fists to back his argument up?”

“Usually. Leaving bruises where the customers would only see them when it was too late to back out. Loose teeth, maybe a clump of hair torn out. Standard, right?”

I said nothing. Maybe killing a man like that had been pretty easy for Natasha. But in my experience, it never is.

“I got friendly with this girl from Naryn. Nargiza. Country girl.”

I nodded. I knew the type. Came from a one-goat bump in the road, thought Bishkek was glamorous, believed all the dreams that the movies sell. Dubai must have blown her mind.

“She fell for the waitress-making-money line? ‘Just pay me back for the airfare and the visa when you can’ routine?”

Natasha nodded.

“She was an innocent. A sheep surrounded by wolves. Not too bright, but a decent girl, well brought up. So she was no good at the job. Used to cry when she was with a customer, beg them not to do it. And some of them didn’t.”

“But one guy got angry, wanted his money back, went to complain to Atanasov?”

“He showed up at the bar, dragged Nargiza out, screaming and raving about how no country cow was going to cost him money.” Natasha threw her cigarette butt to the pavement, ground it out with unnecessary ferocity.

“The next time I saw her was when she came round to my apartment. That bastard had beaten her up, knocked out a couple of teeth, split her lips open. But that wasn’t enough for him.”

I waited. It’s not easy to tell horror stories, and it’s not easy listening to them either.

“He held her down, told her she’d enjoy it when a real man was with her. Nargiza told me he couldn’t get an erection, so he slashed at her with a razor, cut her face, her arms, sliced off both her nipples. She came to me when the cuts became infected. Running a fever, too afraid to go to a hospital, too afraid to call the police.”

“What did you do?” I said. Bile rose to the back of my throat. In my time I’d seen a lot of bad things—people beaten to death over a bottle of homemade vodka, a woman who smiled at the wrong man, a debt unpaid—but you can never get accustomed to the kind of violence handed out to Nargiza.

“I got her face cleaned up as best I could, offered to buy her a ticket back to Bishkek, but she wouldn’t take it. She didn’t want to bring shame on her family.”

I nodded, unsurprised. If Nargiza went back to her village, everyone would talk, speculate about her scars. And people being people, the talk would take a nasty turn. No man would want to risk the shame of a tainted marriage; nobody would invite the family round for iftar to break their fast during Ramadan.

“So where is Nargiza now?”

Natasha lit another cigarette, puffed furiously, blowing smoke out of the corner of her mouth, fanning it away from her eyes.

“In the Welcare Hospital. I took her there myself, explained she’d been in a car accident, paid for her treatment.”

The anger in her face had turned into pure rage, like some demon unleashed from its chains, a fury willing to destroy everything to avenge her dead children.

“Have you been to visit her?”

“Not much point, Inspector. Nargiza hanged herself in the bathroom that evening.”

Natasha threw away her half-smoked cigarette, walked past me back into the cool of the coffee shop.

“She’s in the hospital morgue, enjoying the long sleep. And that’s why I shot him.”

I ordered a double espresso, my hands shaking slightly as I put the cup to my lips. The coffee was thick, bitter, and I wasn’t sure if my nerves would withstand the caffeine overload.

“You shot him, that’s all?” I said and wondered just how inured to violence I had become. I joined the force to prevent such things, not to condone them.

Natasha said nothing, simply nodded. I didn’t have any sympathy for a piece of shit like Atanasov, but I was glad that she wasn’t responsible for the post-mortem mutilation of his body. It made liking her a little easier, made helping her seem more possible.

“Have you told Mikhail that you’ve found me?” Natasha asked.

“Well, what with being drugged, handcuffed and photographed apparently having sex with his mistress—the one who’s run away with all his money—I haven’t really been able to find the time,” I said.

“What are you going to tell him?”

No fear in her voice. Maybe Tynaliev had always been kind, romantic, courteous when he was with her. I knew the other side, the one that used bare hands to bloody the tiles in the soundproofed basement.

“I’ll tell him you want to return the money.”

“Not all of it. I didn’t do this to end up with nothing.”

I shrugged, put down my coffee cup.

“You get to keep your life. Isn’t that worth something?”

“If he gets all the money back, then he wins. And if he wins, what’s to stop him getting rid of me anyway?”

I said nothing, saw the determined set of her jaw.

“There’s one other thing you should consider, Inspector. He isn’t going to want any witnesses who might be persuaded to testify. And that includes you.”

I nodded. That had occurred to me as well. There are lots of ways a Murder Squad inspector could die in the line of duty. And who wants to live constantly wondering about cross hairs seeking out the back of their skull?

I was still working out how best to deal with Tynaliev when my phone rang. The number was blocked, but I answered it anyway.

“Borubaev?”

The voice hoarse from two packs a day, a grating Chechen accent.

“Kulayev.”

“Have you found the girl? The minister is getting impatient. And he’s angry that you haven’t given a progress report.”

“He’s a busy man, important. I don’t want to disturb him with trivial details.”

I heard Kulayev sigh. I seem to have that effect on a lot of people.

“I’ve found Miss Sulonbekova.”

“So where is the bitch? And does she have what Tynaliev wants?”

“Actually, she’s sitting opposite me. And yes, she does. So it’s probably time for me to contact the minister.”

“That’s not necessary, Borubaev. Just get the information, and I can have you on a plane back to Bishkek tonight.”

Now it was my turn to sigh. “I’m afraid it’s a little more complicated than that.”

“What do you mean? If she won’t hand it over, just put two in the back of her head, get the stuff and we’ll meet.”

“No, we won’t.”

I ended the call, looked over at Natasha. She raised an eyebrow.

“I’m supposed to get the memory stick from you, maybe kill you at the same time, and hand it over to Kulayev. And then he probably kills me, goes to Bishkek, gets all the glory and a pat on the head from Tynaliev.”

Natasha shook her head.

“Or he might use the stick to put pressure on Mikhail. We’re out of the way and he can link our deaths to Tynaliev.”

“You have a very devious mind, Miss Sulonbekova. I’m not sure I like that in a woman.”

Natasha gave one of those feminine dismissive gestures that mean men don’t realize just how stupid and easy to manipulate they are. I think she included me in the club.