Read Online A Killing Winter by Tom Callaghan - Free Book Online Page B

to get my breath back, listened. The TV was playing, which was strange since I live on my own. I took off my boots and unholstered my Yarygin, wondering why I always seemed to enter a room with a gun in my hand. I pushed the wooden door further open, and peeked in. The kitchenette was empty, but the steam rising from the kettle told me someone was making themselves thoroughly at home.
    I walked towards the main room, my stockinged feet making no noise on the wooden floor. I reached the door, and braced myself to dive through and start shooting.
    ‘Come in, Inspector, I’m in here. And put the gun away.’
    I decided to disobey the second part.
    ‘I know they pay you cops fuck all, but there’s no excuse for drinking this shit pretending to be tea. And surely you can afford a decent samovar?’
    ‘Hello, Kursan,’ I said, putting my gun away. ‘Since when did you become a tea drinker?’
    ‘Since I couldn’t find a proper drink anywhere in this dump.’
    Kursan Alymbayev grinned at me, his white felt
kalpak
hat tilted at a jaunty angle on his head, gold tooth glinting, stubble white along his jaw. A face as creased and stained as an old waistcoat, seventy something years old, still strong enough to lift a horse, punch a hole through a door, coax the dress off a reluctant
babushka
. First Tynaliev and now Alymbayev: it was my week for encountering hard men. But while the Minister is firmly on the side of law and order, Kursan hasn’t done anything legal since long before independence. Smuggling meat from China, marijuana to Uzbekistan, BMWs stolen to order from Almaty, Kursan knew every border crossing, every mountain pass, every corrupt guard. I couldn’t help admiring his talent for survival. And since he was Chinara’s father’s half-brother, he was family as well.
    Kursan jabbed a grimy thumb at his mouth and raised an eyebrow. I opened the window and brought in the bottle that had been sitting on the ledge. Kyrgyz hospitality always overrules tiredness. I handed him the bottle and a glass, and watched as he took a good shot, then lit a foul-smelling home-made
papirosh
.
    ‘You?’
    ‘Not this morning.’
    ‘Getting old, brother. This stuff keeps you young, strong. Ask the young girls.’
    He cupped his balls and leered, before pouring another shot to follow the first.
    ‘Word gets around fast. I assume you’re not just here to finish my vodka.’
    ‘Well, if you insist. Sure you won’t?’
    I shook my head. Seeing my face, Kursan’s expression changed to one of concern.
    ‘Of course. Forgive me. You don’t get over a death like that in a hurry.’
    The memory of the dead woman rose up before me, the unborn child curled up inside her, a question mark without an answer.
    ‘I know you loved her, brother. The way you love once in a lifetime.’
    I realised with a shock that Kursan was talking about Chinara, and felt sick to my belly at the way she’d been supplanted in my thoughts. Kursan walked over to the wall unit and picked up the one photograph of Chinara that I had on display. Taken a couple of summers ago, from the top of the Ferris wheel at Bosteri, by Lake Issyk-Kul. Laughing, her hair caught in the wind, sunlight dazzling off the lake. Joyous and carefree. Alive.
    Kursan stared at the photo for a moment, his face unreadable, and then carefully replaced it on the shelf.
    ‘I’m here to help you. About the Minister’s daughter.’
    First Vasily, now Kursan; they must both have a squealer at the station with a mouth working overtime. I sometimes wonder if I’m the only law not on the take.
    ‘It’s not what you’re thinking. It’s been a long time since anyone at Sverdlovsky told me anything other than to fuck off.’
    He grinned lopsidedly, and poured a small shot.
    ‘Well, Kursan, if it’s not a uniform looking for breakfast money, what do you know that I don’t?’
    He put the glass down, without taking even a sip, walked towards me, put his massive hands on my shoulders. I