Garry Abson - Motherland - A Gripping Crime Thriller Set in the Dark Heart of Putin's Russia

‘Lyudmila Kuznetsova.’

‘Mrs Kuznetsova, my name is Natalya Ivanova and I’m a senior detective. May I speak with you, privately?’

Kuznetsova turned without speaking and opened her apartment door as an invitation for her to follow. Outside Zena’s apartment, Natalya stopped and felt an impulse to knock on the door. She did, avoiding the buzzer where there might be fingerprints.

There was a pause, which she assumed was Primakov peering through the spy-hole. He emerged wearing his white nylon suit and blue overshoes.

He craned his neck in the direction of Kuznetsova’s apartment as the old woman’s television blared out. ‘She’s watching repeats of Take It Off Immediately . I can hear everything.’

Natalya shook her head disbelievingly. ‘Leo I’m in a hurry.’

He immediately sounded businesslike. ‘How can I help, Captain?’

‘I’m going to speak to the neighbour, can you brief me in a few minutes?’

‘OK, Captain.’

Lyudmila Kuznetsova’s door had been left ajar and she knocked on it loudly.

‘Come in.’

Natalya took off her jacket and shook it outside then entered. Kuznetsova muted the television as she brushed past the open box of matryoshka dolls. ‘I’m here because of Zena.’

The old woman showed concern. ‘Has she done something?’

‘She’s missing.’

Kuznetsova’s hand went to her mouth, then she crossed herself in the Orthodox style using three fingers from right to left.

‘Have you seen anything unusual over the last week? Any people going to Zena’s place?’

‘Mind if I sit down?’ Without waiting for an answer Kuznetsova eased herself back into the armchair facing the muted TV. ‘A man in a suit. I told you about him. He called me “ babushka ”.’

Natalya checked her notepad. ‘Grey hair you said. Was he balding?’

Kuznetsova shook her head.

‘Tall?’

‘Medium.’

‘Fat? Thin?’

‘Average. I’ll remember if I see him again.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘Only him.’ She dipped her chin and flicked her eyes to indicate Leo Primakov on the other side of the wall. ‘The one with bags on his feet. I was going to call the police then I figured that’s who he is. I watch Sled on Channel 5 – he looks like one of those people.’

‘Forensics?’

‘Yes.’

She smiled at how different the Russian version of CSI was to reality. ‘He’s with me. We don’t know if Zena’s gone away or if she’s had an accident. We just want to make sure she’s OK.’

Kuznetsova was distracted by the muted television showing the two presenters on Take It Off Immediately appraising a skinny woman in black underwear.

‘What about the apartments above?’

The old woman turned her attention from the screen, then shrugged with her mouth. ‘Students from the Mining Institute. They keep together… already gone for the holidays.’

‘Were they friendly with Zena?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Her mouth moved as if she was chewing on gristle. ‘No.’

‘What about a boyfriend?’

Kuznetsova shook her head emphatically, then added, ‘Unless he’s a vampire. I’m in bed at nine and up before six and I’ve never seen her with a man.’

‘What about anyone else?’

‘A girl, maybe once a week. Looked a bit like you.’

‘But younger and prettier?’

Lyudmila nodded awkwardly.

Her phone had been switched to silent mode and was vibrating. She checked it discreetly and saw Leo Primakov’s face on her screen. She thought for a second of answering it to find out why he couldn’t wait a few minutes, then tapped the phone to send it to voicemail.

‘When was the last time you saw this girl?’

‘Thursday evening. I was just getting ready for bed.’

‘And before then?’

The old woman frowned. ‘Maybe two weeks. She came. She left. Sometime in the afternoon. I remembered because Zena doesn’t get many visitors.’

‘Did they go out or stay in?’ It wasn’t important but helped to build up an image of their relationship.

‘Out.’

Lyudmila was transfixed by the television as the skinny woman reappeared with a new hairstyle and wearing clothes the presenters had selected. ‘These girls never learn, do they?’

Natalya thought it was a callous remark about Zena then realised she was talking about the TV programme. ‘No,’ she said, checking her watch, ‘habits are hard to break.’

She left Lyudmila Kuznetsova watching television and knocked lightly on Zena’s door.

Primakov appeared almost instantly, holding a pair of blue overshoes. ‘Captain, I’ve found something.’

She deposited her leather jacket on the stair rail then pulled them on, though it hardly seemed necessary when the department didn’t have the fancy equipment that justified it. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves then entered, observing grey fingerprint powder on the door handles and light switches, and a handheld device charging from a socket.

She pointed at it. ‘A UV lamp?’

‘For Luminol. I bought some off a website. I checked in the bathroom for blood.’

The tone in his voice told her he hadn’t found any. ‘What is it, Leo?’

‘Did you tell the neighbour?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I want to go in the hallway and see if it’s the same outside.’

He picked up a white pot with a fine brush resting on the lid; she followed him.

‘What is it?’

He dabbed the brush lightly in the pot then touched the door handle, twisting the brush so its delicate hairs produced a swirling motion. Particles of aluminium powder fell to the floor. He continued to whirl the brush, widening the area to cover a ten centimetre circumference around the handle.

‘Do you see?’

She peered at it intently. ‘No,’ she said eventually.

Her phone buzzed and she removed it from her pocket to check the name. It was Vasiliev. ‘Sorry Leo, I’ve got to answer this.’

She cleared her throat. ‘Colonel?’

‘Captain, I wanted an update by midday. It’s almost 2 p.m. Please make your report now.’

‘Colonel, according to her friend Yulia Federova, Zena Dahl was last seen around 1 a.m. leaving a bar on Ligovsky Prospekt. There are no signs that she returned to her apartment, moreover’ – Primakov tapped her on the shoulder and beckoned her to go inside – ‘there is a possibility she became stranded when the bridges were raised, preventing her from getting to her apartment on Vasilyevsky Island.’

She followed Primakov and watched him point to the inside of a door handle then a light switch on the entrance hall. Both had left a fine sprinkling of aluminium powder on the floor and she was careful to step around them.

‘I assume this is your way of admitting that you have found nothing to indicate a crime has been committed.’

Primakov squeezed the nozzle of an imaginary aerosol can then cupped his sleeve in his hand and rotating his wrist in the mime of a window cleaner. She blocked her mobile’s microphone with a thumb. ‘Who are you, Oleg Popov?’ she asked.

‘Captain, I need an answer,’ she heard Vasiliev squawk.

‘Sorry, Colonel. There has been a development… an indication of criminal involvement.’ She stared at Primakov who repeated the gesture and gave her a thumbs up sign when she nodded to show she had understood.

There was a longer pause and in the background she could hear the sounds of keyboards and muted conversations.

‘OK, come to headquarters. We’ll meet in the Zheglov room.’

‘Now, Colonel?’

‘Yes, now,’ he said with ill humour.

The enormous five-storey wedge of grey stone and double columns projected strength as well as continuity; ideal attributes for the St. Petersburg headquarters of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. The impression, she often thought, was marred by the air conditioning units that sprouted from every dirty window like alien fungi, lending it an aura of decay. Natalya parked her Volvo at the intersection of Suvorovsky Prospekt and Kavalergardskaya Ulitsa then walked along the main road. Light rain obscured the blue and white confection of Smolny Cathedral in the distance and made her walk faster with her head bent and the collar of her leather jacket turned up.