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

Behind her she heard footsteps and turned to see Primakov clutching his silver case. ‘You want a drink? I need one,’ he asked.

‘Did you drive here?’

‘Yes, I’m parked near the athletics arena. Do you want a lift?’

She’d been hoping they could have taken the Metro together. Primakov’s Samara was an ex-police car he’d bought at an auction last winter. It was only as the weather improved that the urine and vomit embedded in the upholstery became apparent. Augmenting the bitter odour of Zena’s body with a trip in his Samara wasn’t an attractive thought.

‘I need to walk. There’s a café around the corner from Krestovsky Metro, I’ll see you there.’

The noise of the amusement park had drowned out her phone and she noticed it by the buzzing in her pocket. She pulled it out and saw a warning message that the battery was at ten per cent. She checked the display: the number was unknown but she answered it anyway.

‘Is that Captain Ivanova?’

She recognised Thorsten Dahl’s nervous voice and held up her hand to Primakov with the fingers splayed to indicate she would meet him in five minutes.

‘Mister Dahl, there has been a development.’

The screams from the amusement park in the background were inappropriate in the extreme but there was little she could do about them.

He exhaled heavily. ‘Tell me what it is, Captain.’

‘Mister Dahl—’

The phone beeped to warn the battery was at five per cent.

‘Thorsten.’

She had never broken the news to anyone on the phone before. ‘Thorsten, have you got someone with you?’

‘Yes, just tell me… please.’

She cupped a hand over the receiver to shut out the shrieks of glee as the rocket ship passed overhead. ‘Mister Dahl, I’m in the Victory Maritime Park on Krestovsky Island. Some workmen discovered a body here this evening.’

His voice had dropped to the level of a whisper. ‘Is it her? Is it Zena?’

‘I think so, yes.’ Don’t say think , that gives him hope. ‘We found a handbag near the body. It matches the description of the one we believe Zena had when she went missing.’

‘Do you need me there… to identify her?’

‘There’s something else, Thorsten.’

She heard the heavy breath again as he steeled himself to take whatever she was about to say.

‘The body was burned, Thorsten. It wouldn’t be possible for you to identify her.’

‘Will you find whoever did this?’

‘I’ll do everything in my power to get them.’

‘What can I do to help?’

She thought for a moment. Zena had been adopted, so a DNA match was no good. ‘Thorsten, you really don’t know Zena’s natural parents?’

‘No.’

‘Then can you send me her dental records?’

The pause was so profound she thought her battery had died. ‘Thorsten?’

‘May I call you Natalya?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you believe in God, Natalya?’

It was an odd question but appropriate given the circumstances. She remembered attending a ceremony in St. Isaac’s where her mother crossed herself as if she had been doing it all her life instead of practising it for the first time that morning.

‘No,’ she replied.

‘“The darker the night, the brighter the stars. The deeper the grief, the closer is God.”’

‘That’s beautiful.’

‘One of yours… Dostoyevsky,’ he said. There was another silence and she checked her phone to realise the battery had died.

In the café near Krestovsky Metro, the plexi-glass counter was decorated in bank notes from half the countries of the world. Natalya stared at them half-heartedly. Had she agreed to meet Leo Primakov in order to delay going home? She didn’t want to confront Mikhail, not yet; not until the keylogger could get to work and invisibly steal his passwords. Then, she would know the extent of his corruption. What she did with the information was more of a problem.

While the bookish girl with braces poured her wheat beer, she examined a cork wall covered in photographs of smiling teenagers. In one of them, a group of kids with puffy eyes were eating breakfast wearing thick pullovers and she guessed they’d gone there after pulling an all-nighter. One of them could have been Zena; she had the same shade of blonde hair and appeared to be tagging along with a group of five or six others. The automatic focus of the camera had been attracted to a candle flame, though, and the girl’s face was blurred as a result.

The coffee shop appeared to be a place for rich kids to hang out. Her theory was confirmed when a five-hundred-rouble note bought her a half-litre of beer and no change.

‘You look good,’ she said as Leo Primakov entered. He was wearing a brown leather jacket over blue jeans and, apart from the silver case, looked as if he’d just stepped out of a menswear catalogue. She guessed he’d kept a change of clothes in his car.

‘Thanks, you too,’ he said automatically, though she knew it was a lie. One look in the mirror of the café’s unisex toilet had confirmed there were yellow armpit stains on her shirt and her hair was greasy with neglect.

She listened to Primakov order a decaffeinated Ethiopian Chelba, then waited for him to join her.

‘Did you get that email I sent?’ he asked.

‘Thanks,’ she said, not wanting to elaborate.

‘Good. Whatever happens, that stuff is illegal. I don’t want it to ever come back to me.’

‘It won’t, I promise. Do you still take pictures?’

He ladled sugar into his cup of coffee. ‘Yeah, you know how it is.’

‘I do,’ she touched his arm.

Under the Medvedev reforms, the menti were better paid than they used to be but it still wasn’t enough to survive in the city. The honest ones lived on the outskirts in high rises or had second jobs; the dishonest, well, that depended on where you were in the hierarchy. Primakov had a photography business on the side but things weren’t working out for him. Earlier in May, she’d tried to help out by ordering some family portraits. The results had been excellent.

She drank a quarter of her beer in one go. ‘Did you find anything?’

A bell above the door rang and they both looked up to see a young woman wearing the student uniform of jeans, T shirt, and an expression of casual indifference. Primakov opened his case and removed his camera.

He passed it to Natalya. ‘Have a look.’

She leaned over, cupping her hand to shield the camera’s display from an overhead light.

‘The last ones are from the pit.’ She flicked through them, not seeing anything new, then saw a close-up of Zena’s head.

‘I’ve taken some of her teeth. One of the upper incisors is chipped but the heat from the fire could have done it.’ He sipped his coffee.

The door buzzer rang and Natalya glanced up to see the young woman leaving the café; she had been looking for a friend.

‘Go back a few more, there’s something interesting.’

She scrolled to pictures of Zena Dahl’s handbag, its baby blue colour would soon have a brushed aluminium finish from the fingerprint powder. ‘Mikhail said Popovich found some prints.’

Primakov sipped his coffee. ‘He’s discounted the ones belonging to Rogov and the immigrant who took the bag. Zena Dahl’s are due tomorrow morning.’

‘From the Swedes?’

He shook his head. ‘Federal Migration Service. They recorded her biometric data when she applied for a visa. I have some from her apartment too but we may as well do it right. Popovich is putting what’s left through the AFIS computer.’

She nodded. ‘You said you found something interesting?’

Primakov took the camera from her and flicked through the images then passed it back. She stared at an enlarged picture of a broken heel on the forest floor.