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

Ahead, the myriad of lanes and groves of exotic tree species revealed no clue to the crime scene. There were happily oblivious tourists everywhere, thousands of them.

‘Damn it,’ she cursed out loud. The park was at least two square kilometres and Mikhail had given her little in the way of directions; it was going to take forever to search on foot. She pulled out her mobile to call him then stopped herself, wondering if he was expecting it. Vasiliev had given her the case yet Mikhail was always hovering in the background, ready to help out. She knew Misha cared and was looking out for her, ready to catch her if she fell; that made her oversensitive, paranoid even, that the other menti , like Rogov, didn’t take her seriously because she was married to a senior officer.

Her breathing became ragged. She slowed, following the path as it joined the central fountain, bordered by beds of marigolds and benches where the park cleaners sat in their blue plastic boots and waterproofs sharing a flask of something steaming. They were relaxed, their demeanour suggesting they were unaware a dead body had been found nearby.

She doubled over, placing her palms flat on her thighs to catch her breath. A uniformed policeman was observing her from ten metres away. She beckoned him with her arm and watched as he pinched out a cigarette then discreetly pocketed it. The armpits of his light blue shirt were stained dark with sweat and she was aware of the dampness on her own blouse. She held up her hand while she got her breathing under control, then reached inside her purse.

‘I’m looking for—’

‘The body?’ he said, scrutinising her ID. ‘Follow the central path for a hundred and fifty metres and look for a Cosmonaut.’

She held a hand over her eyes to block out the bright sun. ‘Thanks.’

In less than a minute she came across a bulky OMON officer in the standard camouflage blue. Because of the distinctive round helmets and padded gear they wore when attending demonstrations, the OMON Special Purpose Police were known as “Cosmonauts” – it made them sound benign, but many of them had performed counter-terrorist assignments in the Caucasus, leaving behind nothing but graves and grieving mothers.

He checked her card. ‘You can go,’ he said, despite the fact she was several ranks above him.

She followed a gravel path for fifteen metres until she reached a treeline where a uniformed corporal was laying out police tape. She watched him for a moment as he tied it to a Maritime Victory Park sign that said “Entry for Authorised Persons Only.” There was a haze in the air that smelled pleasantly of sweet wood smoke and barbecue.

She held out the card again. ‘Where are you from?’

He looked up and adjusted the peak of his cap. ‘Petrogradsky District.’

‘Where’s the body?’

‘You’ve got an interest?’

‘Missing person.’

He held the tape up for her. ‘Keep going, and good luck. You won’t see much.’

She ducked under it then straightened up. ‘Who’s in charge?’

‘Senior Lieutenant Gorokhov.’

‘Thanks.’

She looked down at her dusty shoes and worried about contaminating the scene; maybe Primakov’s prissiness was starting to rub off on her.

‘Don’t worry about those,’ the corporal sniffed. ‘Some workman found the body; there’s nothing they haven’t stepped on or pissed over.’

It was colder under the canopy of the trees and a light breeze brought goose pimples to her arms. Despite the corporal’s advice, she walked along the edge of the path, keen to avoid the mass of shoe and boot prints already on the ground.

She stopped at a clearing where six workmen were sitting cross-legged with their hands underneath their buttocks. They were all silently miserable under the shade of an ancient Siberian Oak; their darker skins and cheap clothing giving them away as immigrants. Another OMON stood over them, his rubber-coated steel baton poised at shoulder height, ready to lash out for the slightest infraction.

‘Go through there.’ The OMON officer tipped his head towards another path. ‘That’s where these baboons came from.’

She outranked him too but wasn’t tempted to reply. Following his instructions, she heard voices before seeing a group of three uniformed policemen standing around a fire-pit. Closer, the smell of wood smoke was damp and acrid.

‘Welcome to the party.’ An officer with a drawn face held out his hand. ‘Ilya Gorokhov, Senior Lieutenant.’ He smelled of a freshly smoked cigarette.

‘Senior Detective Captain Ivanova. I’ve got a missing person.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Not enough robberies and murders for you these days?’

She shook her head then ran her first two fingers against her thumb in the international sign for money: ‘Rich kid.’

Gorokhov flicked his eyebrows in a conspiratorial gesture. ‘That would do it I guess.’

‘Mind if I take a look?’

He stepped aside to give her a view of the pit. All traces of Gorokhov’s cigarette breath were soon obliterated by the stink of burnt meat and the damp, bitter smell of the extinguished fire that had smelled so pleasantly outside the clearing. Closer, there was something else too. ‘Petrol or kerosene?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘I’m a chain smoker – my sense of smell was taken out and shot a long time ago.’

She peered into the pit then walked around the circumference. ‘Where is it?’

‘Most of the logs are in place, we only moved a few to make sure it was human.’

‘How do you know?’

‘So you see’ – he extended a nicotine-stained finger and traced an outline over the pit – ‘this is the body.’

She leaned over, cupping a hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the sun cutting through the clearing. The logs were blackened and glistening ‘I can’t…’

‘Look closer.’

Then she saw it, half-covered in ash and curled grotesquely, the head almost touching the knees. She shifted position to get a better view of the face, of muscles and sinews shrunk against a black skull like a mummy’s. The fat in the lips was gone leaving a macabre grin on an eyeless skull. She turned away sharply.

‘There you go,’ he added, drily.

‘Any idea of gender?’ she asked, warming to the Lieutenant.

‘We’re waiting for the pathologist. Apparently you can tell by the hips. Women are designed for childbirth.’ He stopped and looked at her awkwardly. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘That’s OK, and you’re right, it is how they tell if the victim is female. That, and the larger brain capacity.’

Gorokhov grinned.

She stepped back. ‘Did anyone see or hear anything?’

He pulled on his jacket. ‘Potentially hundreds. The few we spoke to saw smoke around 5 p.m. We’re in a designated area for park wardens so no one cared to investigate.’ He pointed to a green metal shed with a smashed padlock. ‘Normally they use the pit to burn off excess foliage and lock up anything decent for seasoning in there.’

‘So no witnesses?’

‘None I found, but my instructions were to secure the scene.’

‘Who are the men sitting on their hands?’

‘Contractors building the new stadium. Got here an hour after the fire started. There’s a dispute over pay so they’ve been kicking their heels, refusing to work until their boss sorts the mess out. They brought food and drink for a picnic then saw the smoke and thought they’d take a look.’

‘What about the sign telling them it was off limits?’

‘Their supervisor said none of them read Russian. I doubt it though, they all learn it at school.’

‘What did they see?’

The sound of two men sharing a joke carried on the air; she recognised Rogov’s voice and hoped Mikhail was there too.