A Spring Betrayal

Book 0: An Inspector Akyl Borubaev Thriller

by Tom Callaghan

Genres: Police Procedurals; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Political Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

We uncovered the last of the bodies in the red hour before dusk, as the sun stained the snowcaps of the Tian Shan mountains the colour of dried blood and the spring air turned sharp and cold ...

Inspector Akyl Borubaev of Bishkek Murder Squad has been exiled to the far corner of Kyrgystan, but death still haunts him at every turn.

Borubaev soon finds himself caught up in a mysterious and gruesome new case: several children's bodies have been found buried together - all tagged with name bands. In his search for the truth behind the brutal killings, Borubaev hits a wall of silence, with no one to turn to outside his sometime lover, the beautiful undercover agent Saltanat Umarova.

When Borubaev himself is framed for his involvement in the production of blood-soaked child pornography, it looks as though things couldn't get any worse. With the investigation at a dangerous standstill, Borubaev sets out to save his own integrity, and to deliver his own savage justice on behalf of the many dead who can't speak for themselves...

Release date: April 21, 2016

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 252

Sample

We uncovered the last of the dead children in the red hour before dusk, as the sun stained the snowcaps of the Tien Shan mountains the colour of dried blood and the spring air turned sharp and cold.

Seven small bundles, tightly swaddled in plastic bags, all buried in a hurry, just a few inches under the soil. They lay huddled together as if for warmth or comfort, at the foot of an apple tree, one of three bunched in the north corner of a potato field next to the canal. Not a clever disposal: the bags were swollen with the gases of decay, elbowing their way through the sour earth like a crop of misshapen mushrooms.

It was the rancid smell loitering in the dawn air that caught the attention of the farmer who found the first corpse. To begin with, he thought it was a dead hare, wondered why anyone would bother to bury it. A closer look revealed a clump of thick black hair and one small hand, fingers curled into an ineffectual fist. Then he noticed a couple more waxen bundles, decided to go against all his myrki peasant instincts and contact the authorities.

He called the menti, the local cops, who contacted Murder Squad, asked for an inspector. Since there’s only one Murder Squad officer in Karakol, that meant me.

I’d been in Karakol for three months, serving out an unofficial internal exile in the far east of Kyrgyzstan, payback for the chaos I’d caused the previous winter, investigating the brutal killings and mutilations of several young women. A lot of blood and trouble had been splashed around in my attempts to head off a potential coup by the politicians deposed in the last revolution. The local head of the Circle of Brothers mafia ended up face down in a snowdrift, and I helped the Minister of State Security ‘disappear’ the man who’d ordered his daughter’s murder and mutilation.

The man who also happened to be the chief of Sverdlovsky police station, and my boss.

The public were sold some nonsense about a tragic car accident that claimed the life of one of Kyrgyzstan’s top policemen; there was talk of posthumous medals, even a state funeral. Being Kyrgyz, everyone greeted the news with the indifference for which we’re famous. Truth is, unless it affects our lives or our pockets, we’re not too interested in who sits at the big desks, collecting the bribes for favours done. There’s always someone who’ll do that, whoever’s in power. We’re too busy wondering how to put plov on our plates and vodka in our glasses.

The guys at the top decided it was best if I was out of Bishkek, the Kyrgyz capital, for a while, and Karakol was the ideal spot, being as far away as you can get in my country without a visa. And there are worse places than Karakol; at least I hadn’t been posted to the Torugart Pass, the desolate mountain crossing between Kyrgyzstan and China.

There’s not a lot in Karakol for an ambitious cop; arresting a few locals overwhelmed by vodka after the Sunday morning animal bazaar is the highlight of most weeks. But my ambition had pretty much died the day I buried Chinara, my wife.

Until the call came in.

I was an hour’s rough drive north of Karakol, outside Orlinoye, one of the small villages that cling to the landscape like burrs on a sheep’s wool. Faint evening mist spilt over the edges of the irrigation canal, a half-transparent shroud over the damp grass and the relics of seven lives ended before they’d really begun.

I’d called Kenesh Usupov, Bishkek’s chief forensic pathologist, when I heard there were ‘multiple objects of interest’. It’s a ten-hour drive from Bishkek, but by late spring the roads are clear of snow and any rockfalls. With the police flashers on all the way, he’d have no problem making the journey.

Even so, I was surprised when I saw an ambulance making its way up the rutted track towards the nearby farmhouse, stopping in the yard beside the police car that had brought me here earlier. Usupov got out of the back, clutching the black leather briefcase he takes whenever he’s called out on a case. It contains the basics for a scene of crime investigation; basics because that’s all we have in this country.

As Usupov walked through the field towards us, the last of the sunlight flashed and glinted off his glasses, making his usual impassive expression even harder to read. His sense of humour is best described as dry and rarely used, and spending an evening together over a few drinks wouldn’t be my ideal night out, but he’s good at what he does, methodical, and honest and incorruptible, for what that’s worth. Like me, he thinks the dead deserve better than a supporting role as chess pieces for the living, that we owe them the dignity we never bestowed upon them when they were alive.

I smiled when I saw the two plastic shopping bags Usupov had tied over his shoes, to protect them against the elements. And then my smile faded into a scowl as I looked down at the other plastic bags by my feet.

‘Inspector.’ Usupov nodded as he joined me. He didn’t offer to shake my hand: the burns I carried from my last case were pretty much healed now, but the scarring still looked bad, as if I’d been bitten by one of our mountain wolves. He looked at the two junior police officers, watching from a few feet away, and raised an eyebrow.

‘They were here before me,’ I explained. ‘They’ve heard what a great crime scene expert you are, and they wanted to trample all around, give you more of a challenge.’

Usupov only grunted in response; my own sense of humour is a little too frivolous for him. He squatted down on his heels, plastic bags rustling like the leaves on the boughs above us.

‘How did you get here so quickly?’

‘An ex-US helicopter,’ he said, ‘from Manas Airport. Then ambulance from Karakol. I thought it made sense when I was told there were several bodies to transport.’

I didn’t tell him a large suitcase would have been enough, did my best not to show I was surprised about how he got there. Although America has had an airbase in our country for several years, a vital part of keeping the army in Afghanistan supplied, they’d operated a strict hands-off policy in our internal affairs. They’d left lots of equipment behind when they finally pulled out of Kyrgyzstan, including helicopters, but we had very few pilots who could fly them. Which made me wonder what was so special about a report of finding some bodies the other side of Kyrgyzstan, and who had the pull to respond so quickly.

Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow, but Usupov simply lowered one eyelid in an almost imperceptible wink, turned his attention back to the bodies. He reached into his briefcase, put on a pair of latex gloves, and with fingertips that barely skimmed the surface of the soil, began to brush away loose earth from the nearest corpse. His delicate, precise touch was more like that of a lover than an explorer of the secrets of the dead.

‘Did you find the girl?’ he asked.

‘Girl?’ I said, wondering what he meant, what clue he’d spotted that had eluded me.

‘Snow White,’ he said, never taking his eyes off the ground. ‘You’ve found her seven dwarves, so she must be around here somewhere.’

A grim sense of humour may not be essential if you’re a forensic pathologist, but it’s not a handicap either, if you don’t want death to overwhelm you.

‘This is where they were found? In the same position, I mean?’

I nodded.

‘We uncovered them one at a time,’ and I pointed out the order in which the bodies came out of the ground. ‘All buried at the same time, do you think?’

Usupov got to his feet, and I heard his knee joints crack. Like me, he was getting too old to expose other people’s cruelties and betrayals.

‘Hard for me to say here, better to get them back home and on the slab, but I don’t think so. See for yourself.’

He pointed at the smallest package, prodded it with a gloved finger. A viscous squelch made my stomach turn.

‘They all seem to be at different stages of decay. But that could be due to having previously been buried in different locations, in soils with different levels of acidity. Tightly wrapped until the bags split, so we won’t get a straightforward timeline from insect and predator activity. But if they weren’t transported here all at once, I’d guess they’ve been buried here one by one, over time.’

That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. Seven bodies suggested intent, determination, maybe some ritualistic choice behind the location. It also pointed the finger at a local, and village people are infamously close-mouthed. ‘Mne do lampochki,’ they say. ‘I don’t care.’

‘Murdered?’ I asked, knowing what his answer would be.

‘Can’t say. Cot deaths? Stillborn? Who knows, the way infant mortality is around here? But certainly disposed of in suspicious circumstances.’

Usupov turned to the nearest ment, beckoned him over. A burly man, with the brown face and hands of a local farm boy, he didn’t seem keen to approach until Usupov frowned.

‘I want plastic sheeting and tent poles to cover the site, a guard here overnight, and the use of a room in your station, understand?’

The ment looked puzzled, as if Usupov had asked for a magic carpet and a dozen Kazakh dancing girls.

‘You’re leaving them here overnight?’

Usupov sighed; like me, he’d spent a career explaining himself.

‘They’ve been here for quite some time, officer, another night won’t hurt if we cover them carefully, and we can examine the scene when there’s enough light to do the job properly. Uproot them fully now and we might destroy vital evidence. And it’s almost dark.’

The last of the light reflected on the snow was dissolving into darkness, as wind whipped the branches above our heads. It wasn’t a spot where I’d like to spend a long moonless night, alone but for the company of seven dead children.

We left one unhappy ment to his overnight vigil and trudged back down to the farm courtyard. I was staying at the Amir Hotel in the centre of Karakol, and I’d booked Usupov in there as well. It wasn’t the Hyatt, but there was hot water most of the time. Right now, washing off the stink of the dead was the least of my concerns.

I needed to find out who was powerful enough to send a helicopter, what they knew, and why they weren’t telling me.

We excavated the site at dawn, to deter the curious. Usupov trowelled away the damp earth, a few grams at a time, while I stood behind him, taking photographs, using a collapsible ruler to indicate scale. I tried to ignore the smell, a sour confusion of rotting leaves and decaying meat, until I finally stumbled to the canal and vomited into its sluggish brown water, wondering once more what drove me to places like these, to such endings.

The sky was cloudless, the air fresh and clear with the promise of an untroubled future. A couple of red kites circled above us, riding the thermals, scouring the ground for prey. I could hear Usupov behind me, the scratch and scrape of his trowel unsettling and relentless, the echo of a grave being dug.

You never get used to the nearness of death. It taps you on your shoulder when you’re least expecting it, breathes a sickening whisper in your ear. ‘Could have been you,’ it whispers. ‘And one day it will be.’ You taste the familiar fear in your stomach as you examine the gaping knife wounds, the intestines draped like ropes across the unmade bed, the spatter from gunshots dripping from cheap wallpaper in dismal rooms. Nothing could make you more certain that we’re all just bags of guts and bones, whistling in the night to comfort ourselves as the wind mutters threats and the curtains flap like shrouds.

‘Inspector, we can take the bodies down now.’

There was no way we could get the ambulance up here, so we had to move the bundles by hand. Unearthed, they looked forlorn, reminders that cruelty is easily forgotten and time erases almost everything.

I picked up the largest bag, trying not to picture the body inside. Chinara was buried just a few miles away, and I pictured her wrapped in the simple shroud in which we Kyrgyz bury our dead, earth and stones gradually settling through her as roots weaved around her bones and mice colonised her skull.

I told the ment to take one of the bodies, but he simply folded his arms and stood motionless. I repeated the order, and he simply said, ‘Pashol na khui.’ If I’d been in his place, perhaps I’d have told me to fuck off as well.

It took the two of us the best part of an hour to load the ambulance, and by the end I was convinced the reek of rot and slime would never leave me. I wanted to go back to the Amir, hand over my clothes to be burnt, then shower until I’d stripped myself down to raw flesh. It’s easy enough to clean your body, harder to scrub images of dead children from your mind.

Usupov had turned the meeting room in the local police station into a makeshift morgue, long tables covered in plastic sheeting against one wall, and – a rarity in any Kyrgyz government building – working light bulbs in every socket, to give him the light he needed. I reflected there was something wrong when a pathologist had more clout than a Murder Squad inspector, then realised why. The local officers were afraid of the death that had entered their lives. A wife-beating, a fight over the last drops in the bottle or a row over a stolen sheep, that was in the nature of things. But dead children, gathered together and hidden where no one could mourn them, revealed an evil outside their experience. I would have liked to say the same.

‘I want you to take notes and photographs, Inspector,’ Usupov said, his sense of protocol undiminished by being away from his regular slab. ‘I’ll record my observations, naturally, but it may take some time to get them transcribed. And I’m sure you’ll want to press on with your investigation.’

We both knew this case would be mine and mine alone: no one back at Sverdlovsky station in Bishkek would be keen to drag this one along behind them. Dead children, no obvious suspects, all the makings of a career-breaker, one of those failures that outweigh any past triumphs. The chief had many friends before his fall, and they’d all be happy to see me stumble and break my neck over this case. I’ve learned over the years that every good deed earns you enemies.

The seven bags lay in a row, with the least decayed near the door.

‘Why not in the order we dug them up?’ I asked. ‘Or by size?’

Usupov polished his glasses, snapped on a fresh pair of latex gloves and moved towards the table.

‘The freshest ones will contain the most information; what I learn from them might shed some light on the others, where the evidence is less clear.’

He paused, gave me his death’s-head smile, thin lips forming a vivid scar, turned and set to work.

*

Usupov was nothing if not thorough. For almost seven hours we waded through an assortment of bones, skin and teeth, all the shapeless and unseen mechanics of life. By the time we reached the smallest and most decomposed body, all we could do was extract the bones from a mucus-grey soup, and hope that we hadn’t lost too many clues. The stench in the room was eye-watering, in spite of the open windows and the face masks we were wearing. We were no longer in a police station, but in a slaughterhouse in hell.

Finally, Usupov assembled the last of seven small skeletons, daubed here and there with cartilage, muscle, tissue, but relatively intact. He gave a half-smile, whether of satisfaction at a job well done or relief it was over, I couldn’t tell.

I walked to the window and thrust my head out, desperate for clean air. I was dazed by the carnage, by the knowledge I had no idea where to start this investigation. I turned back to Usupov, held up my cigarettes, nodded towards the door. I’ve always thought it disrespectful to smoke in front of the dead, though it seems unlikely they care. And anyway, what more harm could anyone do to them?

As I went out into the corridor, I read the health warning on the cigarette pack. None of the children had ever smoked, and they were the ones lying dead, about to be shovelled into a communal hole. Suddenly, I was laughing at the cosmic injustice of it all. A ment, one I didn’t recognise, scandalised by my reaction, swivelled his head round the corner, withdrew it at once when I stared back at him. Someone else determined to make sure they weren’t involved.

Nice to have had the option.

I finished my cigarette, thought longingly about the bottle of good stuff I would have had waiting for me in my hotel room in the days when I drank, suddenly discovered I was hungry, starving, in fact. Hunger is one way of pushing death back into its box and slamming down the lid. Feeding, fighting, fucking; they’re all shouts of defiance against our final unwanted visitor.

Usupov called me back into his makeshift morgue.

‘In their condition, it’s hard to tell the gender at such an early age, as you know, and the skulls are soft, with the fontanelle still unfused.’

I looked down at the skeletons, lined up as if for a school photo. I thought of the children Chinara and I had promised ourselves, of the child we aborted, and my eyes blurred.

‘The bleach you use could peel paint off a door,’ I said, and made a point of coughing. Usupov stared at me, a rare look of sympathy on his face.

‘You take it all too personally, Inspector.’

‘Someone has to, Kenesh,’ I said. ‘And if not me, then who?’

We were silent for a moment, and then Usupov turned back into his emotion-free pathologist persona, and I reverted to being Murder Squad.

‘No clothes, no papers, nothing. So tell me how I’ll find out who they were.’

Usupov said nothing, but held up several small evidence bags. In each one there was a thin strip of plastic, with some kind of writing on it. They were stained and hard to read, but I didn’t have any problem recognising what they were. After all, I’d worn one myself for two years.

‘Identity bands. From an orphanage,’ I said, and heard my voice splinter and crack.

I was twelve, the first time I stood in this room. It was just a few months after we declared independence while the Soviet Union collapsed in on itself, a brutal time for everyone in Kyrgyzstan. My father had gone to Moscow two years earlier to look for work, so my mother and I left Bishkek, to live with my grandfather and his second wife in his small farm north of Karakol.

The two women loathed each other with the endless simmering resentment that comes from bad food, cheap clothes and recognising something of themselves in each other’s failures. Long silences would settle over the three-room farmhouse the way rainclouds brooded over the mountain peaks to the north, then burst like thunder into a tirade of faults and grievances. Finally, my grandfather declared himself sick of the skirmishes, and my mother packed our cheap plastic suitcase with the split handle and set off to find work in Siberia. I didn’t see or hear from her for almost three years.

However, my mother’s departure didn’t calm her rival; instead she transferred the battle to me. And after the potato harvest, when I’d outlived my usefulness, she bundled me into the back of my grandfather’s ancient Moskvitch. Through the scratched rear window, I watched my grandfather shut the gate behind us, unable to meet my bewildered stare. That was the first time I realised just how quickly men will surrender almost anything for a quiet life.

During the twelve-mile drive into Karakol, I wondered if my mother had sent for me, and whether I would recognise her, or she me. Even then, I didn’t have much trust in memories.

I spent just over two years in the orphanage, during which I ran away three times. Very few of the children were there because their parents had died. We were known as ‘social orphans’; in the chaos of independence, our families had split up, gone off to Russia to look for a job, or simply disappeared. So what little remained of the state authorities got the task of caring for us. And because we couldn’t complain, didn’t have anywhere else to go and were only children, they took as little care as they needed.

*

‘Pashol na khui.’

It wasn’t the first time I’d been sworn at; it wasn’t even as if none of my superiors had ever said it to me. But I’d never had a one-armed man hug me, then tell me to fuck off.

I glanced around the orphanage director’s office. There had been some changes: the scuffmarks of children’s shoulders against the wall had darkened, and a different president scowled down from an ornate gilt frame. And there was a different man behind the desk from the last time I’d stood in front of it, waiting to be punished.

However, Gurminj Shokhumorov wasn’t your typical official. For a start, he was Tajik, a rarity in our government’s ethnic mix, and if you saw him in the street, you’d think he was a farmer, maybe a builder, who’d lost his right arm to an accident or a car crash.

It was shrapnel from an RPG fired by a mujahidin warrior in the Panjshir Valley north of Kabul that smashed Gurminj’s shoulder and arm into fragments, and ended his career in the Red Army. To Gurminj, it was a massive joke that the Panjshir is where the majority of Tajiks in Afghanistan live. As he always used to say, back in the days when we’d opened the second bottle of vodka and crushed the cap underfoot, ‘If you’re going to lose an arm, you want it to be a relati. . .