Tom Callaghan - A Summer Revenge

“Did you sleep with her?”

This time I found my voice, hoped it wouldn’t betray me.

“No.”

He nodded as if I’d confirmed a suspicion to him, given his masculinity some kind of reassurance. Never underestimate vanity of any kind, especially the sexual variety, which lurks deep in powerful men, lying still but waiting to leap and seize your throat.

“It’s not everything I wanted,” he said finally, staring at me as if I were a schoolboy brought to his attention for stealing apples, “but I suppose you did better than most would have done. And the Dubai authorities don’t know of your involvement.”

“They have some dead bodies to deal with. Bodies of extremists, terrorists. I don’t imagine they’ll be overly upset.”

“You’ve no idea where the woman went?” he asked again, staring at me.

I shook my head, then pretended to reconsider. “Maybe South America? Mexico City? Lima? Rio?”

If Tynaliev decided to give me a questioning, I didn’t want to appear to be hiding anything. He continued to stare at me, drumming his fingers on the desk, and I watched them dance around the butt of his gun. Finally he reached some kind of a decision.

“I suppose you want your old rank of inspector?” he said.

“I’m a bit old to stand outside crime scenes all night,” I said.

“You’re a bit old to still want to solve crimes,” he replied as he returned his gun to the drawer. “Murders are like trams: there will always be another one along in a few moments.”

I smiled, felt my shoulders relax slightly. “All the more reason to make sure one doesn’t pass your stop.”

Tynaliev raised an eyebrow, considered, finally decided.

“Silence, Inspector, that’s what I expect. Otherwise all bets are off. And then you’ll know exactly what will happen.”

And with that, he turned away, my dismissal complete.

I could sense the approach of autumn as I walked through Panfilov Park past the Ferris wheel and the ice-cream stalls. The sun was still out, still hot, but there was a sense of transience hanging in the air. The days of summer dresses, sitting in the shade sipping a cold Baltika beer, watching the women from the villages selling buckets of plums by the roadside, were coming to an end. Before long the air would start to bite, a scattering of frost dazzling the morning, and winter just around the corner, sharpening its teeth.

But until then there was the procession of pretty girls and hopeful boys to watch, memories of my own time in the sun to recall, images of Chinara brought back as wistful pictures that brought a smile to my face. Death comes with such a final slamming of the door, the only way to continue is to look back, remember and then move forward, hoping to do your best by those who have left and those who remain.

I thought of the nine hundred thousand dollars I’d left for Natasha to access. Not the ten million she thought she deserved, but enough to start a new life away from Tynaliev. Away from me as well, for that matter.

I thought of Saltanat, how love seemed to elude us or just brush past us, close enough for us to turn as if the wind had touched our faces, our eyes watering as it rounded a corner and left. I hoped we’d meet again, but who knows, who ever knows for sure?

I sat down on a bench, finding a spot where sunlight broke through the trees, felt its warmth on my face, tender as a kiss. I looked up at the mountains, their peaks wearing their usual covering of white, gleaming like freshly uncovered bones. I sat there for a long time, not moving. I was back home, with all its faults and flaws, and I knew there was nowhere else I could ever be.

Finally, I stood up, hearing my knees creak, stretched, looked around, started to walk back to Chui Prospekt, to meet a money launderer I knew that I could bully into carrying out a criminal act for me. I had a hundred thousand dollars to send to an address in Ho Chi Minh City, an address I’d found in a dead woman’s handbag scrawled on the back of a creased photograph of an elderly couple standing behind two smiling, gap-toothed children holding hands.

As with A Killing Winter and A Spring Betrayal , the first two books in the Kyrgyz Quartet, A Summer Revenge owes much to many people.

Those I’ve already thanked in earlier books, I’d like to thank once more.

Again, Stefanie Bierwerth and her team at Quercus have given constant support and forbearance. In New York, Nathaniel Marunas and his people did the same. Encouragement came from Anthony Horowitz in London and Peter Robinson in Toronto.

My Kyrgyz family and friends have played a huge role in helping me finish this book.

My good friend Simon Peters has performed his usual exemplary role in pointing out all my flaws, spelling mistakes and grammatical errors: Spasibo, tovaritch!

Finally, I want to thank my agent Tanja Howarth, whose constant work on my behalf has earned my gratitude and love.

A note about Dubai. After almost two decades living in the UAE, I know Dubai is one of the safest, most crime-free cities in the world. Its rulers, police and people go to immense lengths to protect and serve everyone who lives there. No city, wealthy or poor, is entirely without crime, but Dubai serves as a model of safety and security. And of course this is a work of fiction.

A Killing Winter

A Spring Betrayal

© 2017 by Tom Callaghan

Desert photo © SuperStock

Dubai skyline © Alamy

Jacket design © www.blacksheep-uk.com

First published in the United States by Quercus in 2017

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, 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.

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