Spring Betrayal Read online

  It was clear to me that whoever had killed my friend wasn’t too bothered about making it look like a convincing suicide. Probably relying on the stupidity or indifference of the local officers. And that was maybe a clue in itself.

  I sat down and looked around the room, open as to what I might find. Clues to a murder are usually all too evident; the bloody knife, broken bottle, bruised throat. But sometimes you have to stare, unthinking, simply letting the scene whisper its secrets. You have to hear the full confession before you can start to separate truth from the lies.

  The apartment was almost obsessively tidy, the bed neatly made, plates washed and stacked on the sink. Three chairs stood shoulder to shoulder against the far wall, a table with neatly piled paperwork, a battered coffee can holding pens and pencils.

  In the bedroom, the half-empty wardrobe housing a dozen unused clothes hangers was a reminder of Oksana’s absence, of the same emptiness in my own home. A well-thumbed copy of Chyngyz Aitmatov’s The Day Lasts More Than a Hundred Years lay open on the bedside table. Not when it’s your last day, I thought, and closed the book. A torn sliver of paper, used as a bookmark, fell from between the pages. I recognized Gurminj’s handwriting; a single word: balance.

  Between life and death? Good and evil? Sweet and sour? No way of knowing. I remembered our final conversation, and the note Gurminj left behind. But nothing in my life was in balance. Everything was slightly off, a badly hung door that sticks when you try to close it, a window that never quite latches. I checked the jackets in the wardrobe, rummaged through the drawer of the bedside table, lifted the thin mattress. Nothing.

  Back in the main room, I leafed through the papers on the table. They were all to do with the running of the orphanage, nothing personal. A small shelf on one wall held a selection of books. Some work books, a couple of popular mysteries, and a thin volume whose spine looked familiar. Selected Poems of Anna Akhmatova. The same edition Chinara had owned, one of her favorites that she read over and over, even when the wolf of cancer began to devour her.

  I read a line at random: Here is my gift, not grave-mound roses, not incense-sticks. Who knows what gifts the dead will accept from us, as we hope to do more than appease our guilt at remaining behind? An imam or a priest might be able to tell you, a philosopher could define the problem, but I’m just Murder Squad. There’s only one thing I know how to give the dead. Justice.

  I walked back into the kitchen, held the bowl of chai under the tap, watched the dark tea leaves swirl and pattern the sink. Some people think they can foretell the future that way, and they might be right. As long as you believe the future is dark, messy, easy to simply rinse away.

  I turned the cup upside down to dry, ran a finger over the counter top. No dust yet, but only a matter of time, like everything else.

  An old-fashioned brass weighing scale was virtually the only piece of equipment in the kitchen, apart from a frying pan and a three-layer pelmeni steamer, presumably a souvenir from Oksana’s time. The different-sized weights were cold in my hand as I dropped them into the left-hand pan and watched the right-hand one rise. And then I understood the meaning of Gurminj’s note. Balance is where answers might be found.

  I tipped the weights out of the pan and picked up the scale, turned it upside down, found the paper taped to the underside. I peeled away the tape, looked at what was written on the paper. A cell phone number, with an international code. A number I already knew.

  I poured a glass of water, sat down, and sipped, wondering why Gurminj would have this number, or use such a roundabout way of letting me know. Whoever murdered my friend would have forced him to write the “suicide” note, but his final sentence was a last act of defiance, knowing I would understand and follow the clue wherever it led.

  I splashed cold water on my face, sat back down. Sunlight spilled through the window, bouncing off the brass balance and throwing a small spot of light against the shadow on the wall.

  I read the paper again, knowing the number was already stored in my cell phone. My hand trembled slightly as the dialing tone began and was answered.

  A voice said, “Inspector.” A woman’s voice, unsurprised, even slightly amused, honey drizzled over ice cream.

  Chapter 12

  “Saltanat. Kak dela?”

  I heard the snap of her lighter, the sharp inhale, the long breath out. I could see the cloud of gray-blue smoke rising in the air.

  I remembered unreadable black eyes, a thin white scar running through her left eyebrow.

  “You know me, Inspector, I’m a survivor. Like you.”

  A pause.

  “That’s what we do, Inspector, survive.”

  Shoulder-length black hair, high slanted cheekbones, a mouth generous with silence and evasions.

  “I’ve been wondering when you’d call me.”

  I tried to speak, realized my mouth was dry, took a sip of water.

  I hadn’t expected to hear from Saltanat after she crossed the border back into Uzbekistan. We’d been untrusting partners of a sort in the Tynalieva case and, just once, lovers. She’d come to Bishkek to kill me, but decided we were more or less on the same side. While trying to solve the murders of young women across Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan, we’d been taken captive by the killers, sent by my boss, the chief. I’d been tortured, my hand half-cooked on a grill. Saltanat had been raped, before killing two of our captors, while I dealt with the third. While I confronted the chief, she’d escaped from his safe house by killing a corrupt policeman. I hadn’t seen or heard from her since then, but she’d remained a presence as constant and terrifying as a loaded shotgun.

  “How’s your hand?”

  “Scarred. But working.”

  “I take it you’re not calling to ask how I am?”

  “You know Gurminj Shokhumorov.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes.”

  Her voice was flat, empty, giving nothing away.

  “Gurminj is dead. A single gunshot to the head. Suicide, supposedly.”

  “But?” I could hear the suspicion in her voice.

  “Not many one-armed men shoot themselves on the other side of their head. Single-handed, you might say. Whoever killed him didn’t really care what I thought.”

  When Saltanat spoke, the dismissal in her voice was absolute.

  “So why did you call me? For the pleasure of breaking the news?”

  I paused, marshaling my thoughts, wondering at her hostility.

  “I’m working on a murder case. Seven small children, buried together in a field. I don’t know if Gurminj knew something about it, but if he did, he didn’t tell me.”

  Saltanat laughed.

  “You’re not the easiest man to trust with secrets, Inspector. You have your own agenda, and it doesn’t always tie in with the law. Or the safety of other people.”

  “I never knowingly put you in danger.”

  She paused, the lighter snapped once more, the inhale and exhale.

  “You weren’t the one who was raped, Inspector.”

  I thought back to that evening in my apartment, after we’d escaped, after she’d showered for hours until the water ran cold. We’d watched the sky darken and turn all the different shades of blue into night. Now, as then, I had no words to give her, no comfort. Then, as now, the cruelties people do to each other can’t be washed away or justified in words. All we can do is survive as best we can.

  “Gurminj hid your number for me to find. A clue, you might call it. So I know he wanted me to contact you. The only thing I don’t know yet is why.”

  When Saltanat spoke, the hostility in her voice was softened by a kind of sorrow.

  “I’m sorry about Gurminj. He was a good man. He was helping me with a case.”

  “To do with the dead children?” I asked.

  “Perhaps. In a way,” Saltanat replied. “We should meet.”

  Now it was my turn to be silent. We’d never been able to completely trust each other, except with our lives.
And I still carried a smudge of guilt about sleeping with her so soon after Chinara’s death.

  “Where? You want to come here?”

  “Karakol? No.”

  I saw the logic behind her refusal. It’s about as far from Tashkent as you can get in Kyrgyzstan, and there’s only one road in and out. All too easy to get trapped, the mountains on one side and the lake on the other.

  “Then where?”

  “Remember where you last saw me? No, don’t say it, but there. Tomorrow. Noon.”

  “I remember,” I said, suddenly wondering if my phone was being tapped.

  “Be careful, Inspector. And silent.”

  Then she hung up, leaving me to wonder just what the hell was going on.

  Chapter 13

  On the long journey back to Bishkek, I reviewed Gurminj’s death. Or rather, his murder; I knew Gurminj wouldn’t kill himself, after all he’d survived. The note was in his handwriting, but there was something off about the tone. A gun to his head as he wrote? I remembered our evenings spent demolishing a bottle of vodka, his outrageous snores as he’d slept on the sofa in our little apartment. Chinara had never complained; she adored him, and constantly tried to match-make him with any of her friends who were currently unattached. Pointless really, since Gurminj was as devoted to the memory of his Oksana as I was to become to my Chinara. He and I had both discovered that the death of the one you love is the final snapping of the chain that binds you to the rest of the world.

  Before I left, I’d interviewed the orphanage staff and older children; no one seemed to have heard anything. I asked about the silent boy, Otabek; was told that he hadn’t been seen all afternoon, no one knew where he was. Maybe a runaway, I thought; after all, I’d been one myself. Or maybe he was something else, a witness perhaps. Or a murderer.

  For the first few kilometers, I half-expected to see him trudging along the side of the road, but there was no sign of him. I didn’t think he’d shot Gurminj, but I’ve learned never to rule out any possibilities when it comes to murder.

  One of the delights of spring in Kyrgyzstan is the way our rivers come to life, having been silenced throughout our long winters. Snowmelt dances and splashes, refreshing the fields, and the first hint of leaves and new grass begin to appear. What we lack in wealth, we make up for in beauty, with the Tien Shan mountains reflected in the mirror of Lake Issyk-Kul. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a good trade-off.

  I reached the center of Bishkek, parked next to the Metro Bar, crossed Chui Prospekt and began to walk down Tureshbekov toward Frunze. The air was still cold, with a sour hint of coal smoke, but the trees lining the street were starting to bud, the promise of winter’s end and the start of spring. I didn’t look behind me to see if I was being followed; that’s a certain way to tip off your pursuers you know they’re there.

  I turned off toward the Dragon’s Den restaurant where I’d last seen Saltanat, but stopped when I saw the SOLD sign outside. A sense of regret swept over me, for times past, opportunities lost, melting snow suddenly cascading from a roof. From the look of the restaurant sign, faded and rusting slightly at the edges, the place had been closed for a while. I wondered what had happened to the long wooden bar, the elegant photos of traditional Kyrgyz nomadic life. I hoped they’d found a good home, that people were still sitting at the bar sipping Baltika pivo or vodka, admiring the ornate dresses of the pretty girls in the photos. I like to think some things don’t fall apart with the passage of time, that what we make can sometimes survive us.

  I was shaken from my reverie by the blare of a horn. A black Lexus with tinted windows was parked across the street, outside the inaccurately named Grand Hotel. The driver’s window was open, Saltanat Umarova waving to me to hurry up.

  I clambered into the passenger seat, making sure the back seat was empty. I might have been in partnership with Saltanat once, but that didn’t mean I trusted her. I hadn’t closed the door when we took off with a screech of tires that could have been heard in Talas.

  As always, Saltanat wore black, a long leather coat, jeans tucked into shin-high lace-up combat boots. As she changed gear, I noticed that her crimson fingernails matched her lipstick. Her eyes were hidden behind wrap-around mirror sunglasses, the sort that conceal your thoughts, balanced on cheekbones that could etch glass. She’d cut her long black hair since I’d last seen her, cropped back to almost boyish length, emphasizing her elegant neck and jawline.

  “You couldn’t live without me?” I said.

  “Fuck off,” she explained, and pressed down on the accelerator.

  “I’d love to, but first, where are we going?”

  Not bothering to reply, Saltanat threw the Lexus down a series of narrow alleyways, left, right, straight ahead, until I was completely lost.

  “I think you’ve shaken them off,” I said. “If they were ever there.”

  “They were. Count on it.”

  I hadn’t seen anybody; if we were being watched, it was by professionals.

  “You’re going to tell me what this is all about.”

  “Eventually,” she answered, steering the Lexus at high speed toward a metal garage door, opening the door with a remote control. I winced as we scraped through the gap, braced myself against the dashboard for the inevitable crash. The abrupt halt threw me forward and then back, as Saltanat drove in and slammed on the brakes.

  “Out,” she commanded, impatient as I fumbled with the seat belt and then the door. She didn’t look to see if I was following when she strode through the side door of the garage. We were in the side garden of a small hotel, surrounded by high walls and with an impressive double-wide steel gate. A traditional felt yurt stood in one corner of the garden. Across from the yurt, a sloping roof sheltered an open-air wooden bar from rain and snow. Something about it looked familiar, and I realized it was the bar that had graced the Dragon’s Den.

  Saltanat took a bottle of Baltika out of the fridge, uncapping it and taking a good swallow. She pointed at her beer and raised an eyebrow. I shook my head, aimed a finger at a bottle of water. She shrugged, passed it over, no glass.

  “Still staying away from the vodka? Not even an occasional pivo?”

  I shook my head. I’d never told her, or anyone, but I knew that a single pivo, or a hundred grams of vodka, would send me hurtling down a slope of guilt that could only end in eating my Yarygin.

  Saltanat took another swallow, set the bottle down on the bar. The rings it made on the wooden surface reminded me of handcuffs. She looked over at me, as if assessing what she saw, not much caring for it. I do the same in the mirror every morning. A creased, worn face, cropped black hair silvered with the first hints of gray, black eyes under thick eyebrows. Tatar cheekbones, higher than the average moon-faced Kyrgyz. A flat, impassive stare, slowly changing from wary to merely weary. I’d always believed in keeping on keeping on, but increasingly I wonder why.

  “You didn’t have a problem getting here?”

  I shrugged.

  “You mean driving here, or leaving the case I’m on? I’m not flavor of the month in Bishkek, as I’m sure you know.”

  “I’d heard,” she said. “And about the infant murders, and what happened to your old boss. I guess a couple of years’ exile in Karakol is the price you pay for being a semi-honest cop.”

  I didn’t ask how she knew about the murders; as a member of the Uzbek security service she probably knew as much about what was happening in Kyrgyzstan as Mikhail Tynaliev. In my country, you can always find a little bird who’ll sweetly sing if you put enough som in his bowl.

  “You’re going to tell me why you wanted me to come all this way?”

  “We both want to track down who killed Gurminj, don’t we?”

  “So you think he was murdered as well?” I asked.

  “Sure of it. So are you,” she said.

  I nodded, looked at the hotel. All the windows were curtained, and the place had the air of being abandoned. But I knew Saltanat was not the sort to leave anything t
o chance. I guessed she would have reinforcements only a few seconds away. Or a marksman sighting down a rifle barrel, with me on the receiving end. My forehead itched, as if cross hairs were pressing down on me.

  “There hasn’t been an official report, so I’m wondering how you know.”

  Saltanat simply smiled, enigmatic as ever. I wondered for a moment if she’d been behind Gurminj’s murder, dismissed the idea out of hand. I couldn’t fathom any motive she might have had, and Saltanat has never done anything without a good reason.

  As if reading my mind, she turned the full intensity of her gaze upon me. I felt my breath catch in my chest.

  “When I first met you, Inspector, I wasn’t certain whose side you were on, whether I should kill you or not. I didn’t know whether or not you were wetting your beak with the help of the bad guys.”

  I tried to smile.

  “I hope I convinced you. And call me Akyl, no need for ceremony, surely?”

  Saltanat raised one impeccably plucked eyebrow.

  “Maybe. Later. But first, cards face up?”

  It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. Saltanat has never shown a full hand in her life. But if it gave me a lead to solving the case of the dead children and the murder of my friend, who was I to argue?

  She gave a smile that punched me in the heart. Who can name the exact moment when a woman’s smile reminds you of your dead wife? A woman who made the act of living worthwhile, whose breath you stole away, and buried on a snow-covered hill?

  “You’re the investigating officer, right?”

  “Officially? The dead children. Unofficially? I’m putting Gurminj’s killer on my to-fuck-someone-up-beyond-belief list.”

  I told her about the dead infants, the puzzle of the orphanage identity bands, Usupov’s belief that I’d been exiled to Karakol on the orders of Mikhail Tynaliev, the sham autopsy that Usupov had been forced to sign off. She nodded as I told her about seeing Gurminj sprawled dead at his desk, the apparent suicide note, her mobile number hidden beneath the balance.