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

‘One of the Petrogradsky District boys found it behind the woodshed. There was a metal pin in the pit and burnt fabric so my guess is the rest of her shoes burned with her.’

She thought of Yulia’s description. ‘What about her clothes? Zena was wearing a silk dress.’

‘Didn’t see anything like that. They used an accelerant, maybe petrol or kerosene.’

‘So nothing left?’

‘No.’

‘I doubt her father will survive it. No one gets over their child being murdered, but when it’s just the two of them…’

‘What about Dahl’s wife?’

‘Never married; Zena was adopted. Her biological parents died when she was a baby. Sad, but it’s a relief… telling a mother they have a dead kid is the worst part of the job.’

Primakov took the camera from her and flicked through the pictures before passing it to her. ‘OK, you need to look carefully at this. We know the contractors trampled on everything, but I found these coming from the opposite direction.’

The image was an expanse of green. ‘I don’t see anything.’

‘Wait.’ Primakov handed the camera to her. ‘Try this one’.

She stared at a semi-circular heel print. ‘Zena’s?’

‘It looked fresh so it’s likely, though it doesn’t match the heel the Petrogradsky boys found.’

‘So where do you think she was going?’

‘The Southern lake is on the other side, maybe she was cutting through.’

‘To…?’

‘There’s the Karl & Friedrich , a German restaurant that sells sausages and beer. They have a huge windmill. I’m surprised you haven’t been there.’

‘For Christ’s sake, I only lived in Germany for four years. Besides’ – she sniffed – ‘Windmills are Dutch. I’ll ask Rogov to find out if anyone had a reservation today but didn’t show.’

‘And I’ll get the tip checked for DNA but there’s a six week backlog. The lab is swamped with requests from the Israeli consulate. The mafia have been forging birth certificates for Russian citizens so they can emigrate there.’

‘And let me guess, they aren’t Jewish.’

‘About as much as Easter cheese.’

‘Did you find any other footprints besides hers?’

Primakov switched off the camera and laid it on the table. ‘None.’

She frowned. ‘She was on her own?’

He nodded.

‘So Zena was going somewhere, maybe to the restaurant or the lake,’ Natalya finished the wheat beer. ‘But it’s Sunday now and she’s been missing since Thursday night.’

‘Maybe she wasn’t going anywhere. What if she was escaping?’

‘On Krestovsky Island?’ Natalya shook her head dismissively, ‘Too many people; someone would have saved her or called us.’

The woman behind the counter was reading a novel and Natalya made eye contact to order another beer, then decided against it and shook her head.

‘What if she was dead already?’ asked Primakov.

‘Then the footprints aren’t hers.’ She switched the camera back on and examined the photograph. ‘How fresh were they?’

‘Impossible to say without recreating the conditions… maybe a few hours.’

‘The lieutenant at the scene – Gorokhov – he said people noticed the smoke around 5 p.m. Let’s say it took the killer an hour to kill Zena and build the funeral pyre. If someone else had made those footprints then they must have seen Zena being killed and we’d be dealing with a distressed witness or another body.’

Primakov drained his coffee. ‘That makes sense.’

‘So let’s say they were hers. Where was she coming from?’

‘The South-East. I’d guess she came through the main gates.’

‘That was the same direction as me. If Zena took the Metro she would have been in Krestovsky Ostrov station.’

At home Mikhail was watching a couple of pundits on television who were discussing in ridiculous detail how an upcoming football match might unfold. One time, she’d made the mistake of sneering at a game he was engrossed in, and during the break he’d explained the psychology of team sports to her. How the players were the warriors of ancient times and the fans the tribe who cheered or suffered through each conquest or capitulation. After his lecture, she thought that as far as sports were concerned she was an unaffiliated nomad, perhaps a Siberian witch, who looked on bemused while the locals hacked and stabbed each other for no obvious reason.

Mikhail had an Ochakovo in his hand and drank from the bottle before putting it down on the table to join its two other friends. The room was full of cigarette smoke but she could tell by his lack of eye contact that he was in no mood to be lectured about smoking indoors. She had a sudden glimpse of Mikhail as a middle-aged man, the drinking day starting earlier with each passing year; she resolved to get him into a gym.

She asked, ‘Good evening?’

His eyes flicked to hers and he stabbed at the pause on the remote control to emphasise the fact that she was interrupting his viewing pleasure. ‘No, and you?’

‘Mixed. Tired and hungry.’

‘You get anywhere with the girl?’

‘Primakov found footprints and a broken heel. I’ll get the footage from the Metro station to see if she came through there. Got any beer left?’

‘Sorry.’ He raised the beer to indicate that it was the last one.

‘OK, I’ll get some wine.’

‘Is Anton in?’

Mikhail grunted.

‘What’s wrong?’

He picked up the Ochakovo and swallowed a mouthful. ‘Tanya’s father called, he was worried about her. It’s been on TV about the dead girl in the park.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I told him to wait on the line while I checked.’

Mikhail took another swig from the Ochakovo and stared at her. ‘When I went in they were drunk and she was pulling on her clothes. Anton told me it was OK because you said it was OK.’

‘Wait. I didn’t tell him to have sex. Besides, weren’t you doing the same things at that age? I know I was.’

He ignored her so she continued, ‘What did Tanya’s father say?’

‘He accused us of being irresponsible and threatened to go to the police. When I told him we were both menti he backed down fast, but… Jesus, Natasha, he told me she’s only fifteen. Anton could go to prison for that.’

‘I’ll speak to him.’

‘Don’t bother, I’ve done it already.’ He tapped the pause button and the sound returned to signal the conversation was over.

She knocked on Anton’s door but there was no answer and she pushed it open. The light was off but she could see his shape in the bed, the sheets wrapped around him like a shroud. She touched his shoulder and he pulled away.

‘Anton, it’s me.’

He was still when she rested her hand on his shoulder a second time. ‘I found a body today,’ she said softly. ‘A girl was murdered. When these things happen people worry about their own children.’

‘Natasha…’ he began, still huddled under the shroud. ‘Natasha, I didn’t know.’

‘That she was fifteen?’

The sheets around his head moved as he nodded. ‘Tanya lied. She told me she left Secondary School 317 last year. I don’t know any of her friends, we met at a party.’

She smoothed his head with her palm. ‘It’s OK, Anton. It hardly makes you a paedophile. I thought she looked older too.’

‘I love her, Natasha,’ Anton burst out. ‘He told me never to see her again. I told him to get lost, I’ll stay with Mama from now.’

‘Don’t say that. Things will be OK.’

She was on her feet and moving through the apartment; Mikhail was slumped in the chair. ‘Do you want him to hate you?’ She snatched the remote and switched off the television.