A Killing Winter by Tom Callaghan

bones, that sort of shit?’
    Otkur laughed, and dropped his cigarette on to the snow, where it hissed for a second.
    ‘Shanghai? Beijing? Maybe you find the genuine article there. Urumchi? The arse-end of China, Inspector, so they make do.’
    I stayed silent.
    ‘Remember, people want to believe. Tell them somethingis good, it might even be true, if they believe it hard enough. And something they really want, they pay good money for.’
    ‘And they want what?’ I asked, having a good idea of the answer.
    ‘Remember what Genghis Khan said? “There is no greater joy than conquering your enemy, riding his horses, taking his wives and daughters.” Nothing changes; we all want long life, stiff dicks and many sons.’
    I looked over towards the mountains, where the last sunlight was turning the snow blood orange and red.
    ‘What has all this got to do with a murder in Bishkek?’
    ‘You can’t get rhino horn or tiger bones for sex, you go for the next best thing. Something you can harvest, with an endless supply, something that proves a man’s strength.’
    Otkur paused.
    ‘In the border villages, they believe nothing’s as powerful or as virile as an unborn baby boy. Energy untapped, undrained. Harvested fresh while the heart still beats, mother’s blood flowing through its veins.’
    I thought back to the morgue, the unborn child ripped from its mother’s womb, his eyes accusing me of betrayal, and my mouth filled with bile. When I spoke, I sounded weak, incredulous.
    ‘Human foetuses, you mean? Children?’
    He paused and spat. When he looked back at me, his face was grave.
    ‘Women don’t go missing around here. They’re always close to home. Unmarried, they could be bride-stolen. And once they’re wed, they’re a symbol of their husband’s strength, his property.’
    The thugs nodded in agreement. Kursan swore under his breath. Then silence, except for the wind.
    ‘A pregnant village girl goes missing. The other side of the country, the daughter of a member of the
nomenklatura
is murdered, and another woman’s dead child is dumped in her womb like so much trash. I don’t see the connection.’
    Otkur nodded his head, as if in agreement. The scar on his cheek stood out livid against the bitter cold. I blinked against the snowflakes and turned my collar up, but nothing could warm me against the sour feeling in my gut.
    ‘And you’d be right, Inspector.’
    Otkur’s face was unreadable, his eyes never leaving mine.
    ‘Except?’ I asked.
    ‘The village girl isn’t missing any more. But her unborn child is.’

Chapter 12
    Otkurtold me the story, leaving out no details, his voice calm, measured, but with anger apparent in his eyes.
    Her name was Umida Boronova. Nineteen years old, married just ten months, to Omurbek Boronov. He’d been at school with her, and had asked her out repeatedly, always being refused, unable to stop hoping. So one evening, he and his best friend drank a litre of home-made for courage, drove his battered Moskvitch to the edge of the village, waited for two hours until Umida appeared.
    They grabbed her, screaming and kicking, and drove to Omurbek’s house, where his mother and three sisters were waiting. The women helped Omurbek wrestle the girl out of the car, and dragged her into the single-storey house with the whitewashed walls and pale blue window frames. All evening, they told her what a good catch Omurbek was, how he’d inherit the farm when his father died, about his kindness to his sisters, his respect for his mother and aunts. All the time, Omurbek waited outside in the car, finishing off a second bottle and wondering if the scratches on his face would leave a permanent scar.
    Umida fought, wept, begged the women to let her go home. Again and again, they told her how lucky she was, tried to put the white scarf over her hair to show her acceptance of Omurbek as her husband. They pointed out the fine china, the white linen, the elaborate brass samovar. And finally,