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

He appeared to be exhibiting signs of the infectious, anything goes atmosphere that overwhelmed the city during the White Nights but it was important to stay sharp; besides, despite Lagunov’s approval she found it distasteful, as well as unprofessional, to meet Zena’s father reeking of alcohol. ‘I’m good, Misha… thanks.’

The two men were being served champagne when the official with the red beard reappeared. Mikhail cupped his mouth over his flute and swallowed his drink in one mouthful; she noticed Lagunov had left his untouched.

‘Please follow me,’ the official announced. They were ushered along the concourse and past check-in, then stepped onto the concrete outside. Despite the late hour, the planes were still casting long shadows on the ground.

Natalya eyed two rows of ten business jets on the apron. ‘How much do these things cost?’

‘Fifty million dollars and up,’ the official said. ‘You should have been here during the G20 conference a few years ago; there were hundreds then.’

There was a vintage Mercedes, all headlights and sparkles, parked outside one of the planes and some bodyguards, no doubt ex-Spetsnaz or FSB, who eyed them as they walked past.

While mounting the steps to Dahl’s Gulfstream it occurred to her that she had never cared about being rich, not seriously rich anyway, but her experience so far suggested it was every bit as vulgar as she’d imagined, and at least as enjoyable. The pilot, a middle-aged woman with golden hair and Ray-Bans, and the co-pilot, a pale young man with an easy smile and a crisp white shirt, were waiting at the entrance to greet them. There was even a flight attendant too, a young woman who had dressed in a hurry judging by the brown shoes which didn’t complement her navy uniform.

She followed Lagunov inside, seeing a photograph fixed to an interior wall of a wooden jetty leading to a lake. There was a haze over the calm waters and a circumference of trees that reflected the low sun and gave themselves away as silver birch. Along the fuselage she saw Thorsten Dahl seated in a cream leather chair, one of four surrounding a veneer table. He stood up, stooping to avoid the low ceiling, and waved his arm, beckoning them over.

From the internet images, she already knew he was a large man, around two metres tall, but up close it was impressive. He wore a light blue, untucked shirt with the top two buttons undone, hung over worn jeans that had a hole in one knee. An austerity wardrobe for a man-of-the-people billionaire. Even with the advancing years, it was easy to see why the young Zena had called him a lion in the orphanage; his side-parted hair was still blond despite losing some of its colour and his solid frame bulged around the belly where he had developed a paunch.

Dahl’s eyes had deep bags and flitted nervously. He twisted his hands and stared at them as they approached. She’d seen it all before, the stages parents went through. It had been ten or twelve hours since Mikhail had left his messages – a long time to dwell on the possibilities, few of which would hold any comfort. He smiled at her awkwardly, giving the impression of a timid man which was at odds with his image as a wealthy industrialist.

She turned away out of awkwardness and saw another picture on a partition wall; it was of coal black cattle grazing on verdant pasture. A well-built farmer with a weather-worn face stood in front of them, his hands on his hips as he stared coolly into the camera’s lens. Lagunov twisted to follow the direction of her gaze. ‘Wagyu,’ he said. ‘Mister Dahl’s father keeps a herd.’

Dahl rose in his seat to acknowledge them. ‘Please sit down,’ he said in a voice softer than she had expected. ‘Abbie, can you get our guests some refreshments?’ The flight attendant who was standing near the entrance approached them.

‘None for us,’ she said, glancing at Mikhail.

‘Then please get me a large malt, and Anatoly…’

Lagunov shook his head.

‘Then just mine.’

She sat down, and Mikhail took the seat next to her; he was facing Lagunov who seemed tiny next to Dahl. They watched the flight attendant open a cabinet and pull out an ancient bottle before pouring a centimetre of whisky into a large crystal glass.

‘Your malt, sir,’ she said, serving it to him straight. Abbie’s face, with its hastily applied makeup, looked as inscrutable as a geisha’s.

Dahl stared again, unfocused, his thoughts taking him to some dark place. He shook his head slightly to dispel them. ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me,’ he said in English, ‘and forgive the unorthodox location. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Russia and I couldn’t get a visa at such short notice. Your FSB colleagues have promised not to throw me in prison provided I remain in the confines of Pulkovo airport.’

He held his hand out to her. ‘I’m Thorsten Dahl.’

‘Senior Detective Ivanova.’ She took out her notepad and laid it on a table.

‘And this must be your husband, Mikhail. You’re a detective too?’

Mikhail looked relaxed as if he regularly found himself on private jets. ‘Yes I am,’ he said in his staccato English.

‘Have you found her, Captain?’ His eyes darted to hers then flicked away.

‘No,’ she said.

‘Then, please tell me what you can.’

She preferred to dictate the flow of information from the start but it didn’t matter – cooperation was rarely a problem when a child was missing. ‘Of course.’

She shifted in the chair, finding Dahl’s nervousness contagious. ‘These are my initial findings and will no doubt change as we discover more. The indications are that your daughter was last seen leaving a bar in the early hours of Friday morning.’

Dahl picked up the whisky, swirled the glass, and then tasted it. He didn’t seem surprised and she guessed that Anatoly Lagunov or someone else had updated him. ‘What indications?’

‘Unopened mail, toiletries, and information provided by the female friend she was with that night.’

‘Zena mentioned a Yulia to me. I never met her.’ Dahl seemed to drift away again as he spoke and she smelled whisky on his breath; more than could be accounted for by a single sip. She would insist he stayed sober until they got his daughter back – one way or another.

‘Yulia Federova. She believes Zena may have been stranded by the raising of the bridges. Can I ask a few questions?’

‘Please.’ He waved his hand expansively.

‘Does Zena have any mental or physical illness where she needs medication?’

‘No.’

She flashed an annoyed look at Mikhail who was peering past Lagunov and along the plane’s fuselage to the cabin. It was unlike him to be so frivolous, particularly when a girl’s life was at stake, and she wondered what he was up to.

‘Are you aware if Zena had a boyfriend?’

‘No – no boyfriend.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes. We have a close relationship. She is shy with strangers so she tended to confide in me.’

‘Thank you. Do you know if Zena is taking a birth control pill?’

Dahl thought for a moment. ‘I do remember something.’ He rubbed a hand over his brow. ‘Our family doctor in Östermalm prescribed them for her period pains.’

She made a note in her pad. ‘And do you have any idea what she was doing at a ZAGS two weeks ago?’

‘Which is what?’

‘A civil registration office.’

Dahl had withdrawn again, until he noticed her watching him expectantly. ‘Oh.’ He thought for a moment. ‘No, I have no idea.’

Some people were just bad liars; they were defensive when they should be angry, or else they displayed micro-gestures that gave them away. Dahl’s head bobbed in an almost imperceptible nod. The movement was nothing more than a weak ‘tell’ in a poker game and it was possible she had it wrong, yet it was the same question Yulia had reacted to. She remained silent for a while to see if Dahl embroidered his answer but it was an old trick he was no doubt familiar with.