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backstreet abortionist’s garbage can.
    The only thing I didn’t tell him was how the snow had settled on her face like the veil of a bride, how quiet the night was beneath the birch trees, how I thought of my own dead wife newly laid in her grave.
    Tynaliev gave a long sigh, of resignation almost, at the prospect of a difficult but necessary task about to be undertaken.
    ‘You’ll bring him to me.’
    Not a question, not a request. An order. I put my glass down, untouched.
    ‘As yet, we don’t have a suspect –’
    ‘This is not a matter for the security forces, Inspector. But I don’t want every incompetent
myrki
policeman stumbling his way through this. I want you to handle this case personally, no one else. When you catch him, you bring him to me. Don’t worry, I’ll clear it all with your Chief, and tell him you’re handling the case alone. I’ll see you have your back covered, a roof over your head. And I’ll owe you.’
    I understood why the Minister didn’t want the department involved; a hint of weakness and his image as a hard man would be threatened. In Kyrgyzstan, to be seen as weak is to invite your fall, from power, from office, perhaps even from life. And political protection from a man like Tynaliev wasn’t something to be tossed away lightly. But at the same time, I knew that handing a suspect over to him would mean taking part in torture, agony and, only after a long time, death. Then the remnants to deal with: a couple of torn fingernails, splintered teeth, a puddle of blood for the cleaners to mop away.Tynaliev might owe me, but he’d also own me, and I knew enough about how things worked to know it all gets called in, sooner or later.
    ‘We’ll obviously keep you informed of the progress of the investigation. But right now, I must ask you to come with me. For formal identification, you understand.’
    ‘Now?’
    ‘I’ve had the morgue opened for you. At a time like this, the family’s wishes are paramount.’
    I didn’t mention his wife, Yekaterina’s mother. It was common knowledge in the department that she lived in the
dacha
, the country cottage near Talas, while Mikhail Ivanovich occupied himself with an ever-changing line-up of ambitious young women.
    ‘Very well.’
    He paused, placed a hand on my shoulder, gripped it uncomfortably tight.
    ‘But let me repeat, Inspector, you bring him to me.’
    This time, not an order. A threat.

Chapter 9
    Impassive,Mikhail Tynaliev stared down at the face of his dead daughter. I’d warned Usupov of our visit, so the body was laid out in the inspection room rather than tucked away in a refrigerated drawer. A sheet covered the body, so that only her face was visible, but nothing hid the sour stink of dried blood, the harsh smell of raw meat.
    I cleared my throat, gave a preparatory cough.
    ‘Mikhail Ivanovich Tynaliev, are you able to make a formal identification of the deceased?’
    ‘This is my daughter, Yekaterina Mikhailovna Tynalieva.’
    His voice level, unwavering. My God, this bastard was strong. I’d seen some of Bishkek’s toughest break down in this room, scream, yell, weep, threaten the world with blood and fire. But not this man.
    He reached out for the sheet, and I took him by the wrist.
    ‘Honestly, Minister, there’s nothing to be gained by that.’
    He looked at me, his eyes as blank and unstoppable as a rockfall, and I had to turn away from his gaze.
    ‘She’s my daughter.’
    ‘The courts will be very severe with a case like this. The maximum sentence.’
    I paid lip service to law and order, but we both knew that was never going to happen.
    I left the room, left him to the carcass and ruin of a daughter he had once cradled and bathed, sung to sleep, kissed, dancedwith at her graduation, where she wore the class sash and rang the last bell.
    In the lobby, I tried not to hear Tynaliev’s howl of pain and anger. When he emerged, ten minutes later, he was all business, calm, efficient. The autopsy completed, I