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

– would be hidden. I considered asking the
ment
to stop so I could get a hundred grams of vodka to warm me up. But then we were pulling into the forecourt, waved in by the officer on guard, stamping his feet for warmth, gun slung over his shoulder.
    It was no warmer inside the building than it was outside, one more thing that wasn’t going to endear me to the Chief. I made my way up the chipped and cracked concrete steps and along the corridor to his office. I passed Urmat Sariev, one of the old guard, famous for being the clumsiest cop in Bishkek: at least, more prisoners had accidents while in hiscare than anyone else’s. We’d never been openly hostile to each other, but Sariev knew I thought he was a shit-sucker. And when he wasn’t doing that, he was pouring it on the heads of everyone else. Being better at politics than policing gave him the inside track on what was going on.
    He gave me a gold-toothed grin.
    ‘It’s the Clever Wolf, come to teach us all how to catch the bad guys!’
    I should explain: my given name is Akyl, which means ‘clever’, and my family name contains the word ‘boru’, Kyrgyz for a wolf. So Clever Wolf is the joking name I’ve carried around with me ever since rookie days at the academy. Pretty much a job description, I suppose, if you’re planning to survive in a job where even the people on your side might be enemies.
    Sariev smiled again and drew a finger across his throat, so I knew it wasn’t good news. I gave him a wink of confidence that I was far from feeling, and rapped on the wooden door.
    The rest of the station may have been a shithole, but no one could have accused my boss of lacking civic pride. He knew that he had the spotless reputation of the police to uphold. That explained the colourful
shyrdak
felt rug on the wall, the polished wooden floor, the car-sized desk with a bronze half-size hunting eagle perched on one edge. Of course, it helped that it was all paid for out of the police budget, probably with a little extra commission in place for him.
    As I walked in, the Chief was pouring himself a drink. I noticed that there was only one glass. He threw it back, poured another one.
    ‘
Zatknis’ na hui!
’
    Told to shut the fuck up, before I’d even opened my mouth. Not a good sign. The Chief sat back in his chair and lookedat me disapprovingly with red-rimmed eyes. A big man, a champion wrestler once, running slightly to fat after too much
plov
stew and Kyrgyz-brewed
pivo
. The round moon face of a Tatar, black eyes impassive, unwilling to give anything away. But he was shrewd, a tough bastard and a good cop. He wasn’t a political appointment either, so his tongue wasn’t lodged up any politico’s arse.
    He’d seen out both revolutions since independence, even managed to get promotion after the second one. He knew where the bodies were buried, had probably put a few there himself. He was a survivor. But I didn’t know whether I would be, once I told him what I knew.
    ‘Two o’ fucking clock in the fucking morning, this had better be important. Otherwise, they’re looking for traffic cops up on the Torugart Pass.’
    Torugart. Four thousand metres up in the Tien Shan Mountains down in the south, the border pass into China, impassible in the winter, through snow or avalanches or both. The arse end of nowhere, with nothing to do but watch lorries crawl past, laden down with cheap Chinese furniture. With the Chief, it wasn’t an empty threat. It never was with him. He always made sure to get his retaliation in first; it was what made him a force to be reckoned with.
    ‘Illya Sergeyevich,’ I began, hoping to appease him by using his patronymic, ‘we’ve had some major developments in the Ibraimova case and, since you’re the most senior and experienced officer we have here, I considered it best to keep you informed at all times.’
    He grunted, and took a sip of vodka.
    ‘I have some good news: we’ve managed to make a tentative identification,