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

She heard another retching cough.

The wallet with the four DVDs from the Krestovsky Island Metro was still in her handbag and she reached past it for her notebook. She flicked through the pages to find the entry with Yulia Federova’s number and entered it into her mobile. The phone in the apartment rang three times then stopped. In her ear she heard the girl explaining that she was out and to leave a message. Natalya hung up and banged on the door with her fist.

‘Yulia! Open up!’

A short, squat man appeared in the door opposite. He was wearing a white vest and smelled of fresh sweat that was at least an improvement on the cloying stench of tobacco in the hallway. She felt for her ID and held it out. ‘Police – have you seen your neighbour, Yulia Federova?’

‘Not for a few days,’ he scratched an armpit. ‘Last weekend… Saturday morning.’

The neighbour scratched his armpit again then surreptitiously sniffed at his fingers. ‘Seven forty-five; that’s when I get my Sport Express.’ He ran the same hand through the grey strands of his thinning hair. ‘She leaves for her dance class at the same time,’ he added, and Natalya had an image of him spying through his peephole then emerging to “accidentally” bump into his pretty neighbour on the way to buy his paper.

Natalya nodded thoughtfully and wrote the details in her notepad though there was little reason to when she had seen Yulia herself after the dance class had finished.

‘Is she in trouble?’

She gave him a tight smile to avoid the question. ‘Have you got some water?’

He left in a haze of sweat and she inserted her ID card between the jamb and door of Yulia’s apartment. It stopped at the strike plate and she pushed it firmly with the heel of her hand, feeling the lock part.

The neighbour appeared and held out a beer glass with a double-headed eagle logo.

She put her notepad away then took it from him. ‘Thanks, it’s not for me.’

After a minute, Rogov appeared, wheezing. He leaned heavily on the metal railing and she handed the water to him. ‘Here, drink this.’

His jowls shook as he nodded gravely, then poured the water down his neck in one swallow.

‘You want another? You don’t look too good.’ The neighbour asked.

‘Nah, I’m fine.’ Rogov returned the glass, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You know who her landlord is?’ he wheezed.

The neighbour shook his head.

‘Alright, you can go now. Thanks for your cooperation.’ Natalya said.

Rogov waited for the man’s door to close. ‘I take it Federova isn’t in?’

‘She is, but I thought I’d wait in case you wanted to beat a confession out of her.’

He grinned, then wheezed as he exhaled. ‘Seriously, what are we doing here? Every policeman in Piter is out searching for that Bezzubtsev piece of shit. You know, the one who actually killed the girl.’

‘Yulia lied to me, Rogov, that’s why. I asked her about Zena’s trip to ZAGS and she said she didn’t know anything about it.’

‘So? Federova’s got a record and doesn’t like talking to the menti . I bet the hairs on Misha’s balls, she’ll show up once we have Bezzubtsev in a pair of bracelets.’

Rogov’s cheeks were turning to their normal pasty colour. ‘Unless,’ he added, ‘Federova was stealing from Zena. Is that what you think? Did she hire Bezzubtsev to stop Zena turning her in? Someone with a taste of prison would do anything not to go back.’

‘No, Yulia reported Zena missing. If she had her friend killed that’s the last thing she’d do. When I spoke to her she was genuinely worried.’

Rogov scuffed the floor with his shoe. ‘Well, fuck this. She’s not here… shall we join the search for Bezzubtsev?’

‘Rogov, she was hiding something.’

His eyes took in the ID card sticking out of the door and shook his head. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Taking a look. Keep it quiet?’

‘Sure, boss.’

‘If anyone asks, we thought the girl was in danger.’ She twisted the handle and her ID card fell to the floor as the door swung open.

A kitchen drawer was wide open, scattering cutlery to the floor; assorted clothes were spilled over the bed. Natalya snapped on a pair of latex gloves and told Rogov to do the same.

‘I left mine,’ he said and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

The framed picture of Natalia Makarova performing a grand jeté was on the floor, smashed. To avoid the broken glass, she placed her feet carefully then flicked through the clothes on the bed.

‘Christ!’ Rogov ran a hand over his damp brow. ‘Looks like she left in a hurry.’

He stepped to the kitchen side of the bedsit. ‘There’s a knife-holder here with a gap where the big one is missing.’ He looked in the sink then squatted on the floor, nudging the cutlery with his foot. ‘Yeah. Can’t see it.’

She picked through the clothes. ‘When I was here before she had a navy blue trouser suit and a pair of sunglasses, both Ulyana Sergeenko.’

Rogov shrugged. ‘Who?’

‘Fashion designer. Rihanna, Lady Gaga, Kim Kardashian… they all wear her stuff. The sunglasses were in a pink box.’

He pulled open the wardrobe. ‘Nothing here. She emptied everything.’

‘OK.’ She watched Rogov lower himself to examine a cabinet, nudging the door open with an elbow to avoid leaving fingerprints. Leo Primakov would not have been impressed.

‘Anything there?’

‘No. Just old magazines.’

Sun broke through a cloud, sending a column of light through the balcony and illuminating motes of dust.

He asked, ‘What’s going on?’

‘Let me think.’

There was an obvious narrative: A fight had occurred and Yulia Federova had fled, grabbing what she could. Except, Natalya had seen the aftermaths of too many violent confrontations to believe it. There was nothing she could swear to but the spilt cutlery was scattered in too neat an area and rooms were usually in a worse state by the time they reached the picture smashing stage.

‘She believes her father was sent to prison on false charges.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘She staged it.’

‘Why?’

Natalya shrugged. ‘Maybe she was worried we were going to blame her for Zena’s murder and decided to disappear.’

‘Did you say anything to make her nervous?’

She didn’t like his insinuation. ‘That’s enough, Rogov. She made me a coffee and we spoke about Zena, I didn’t give her any indication the menti were taking a hard look at her. At that stage we didn’t know anything.’

‘And the way I see it, she didn’t need to run. With those bazookas, even Dostoynov would believe her – she could be a serial killer and get away with it.’ He held his hands out, palms facing her. ‘I’m only telling the truth.’

‘Rogov, I worry what’s in your head.’

‘You should, it’s disgusting in there… Natalya, do you trust the new major?’

‘Dostoynov?’ She shook her head instinctively. ‘If we tell him Yulia staged her own disappearance he’ll insist we charge her for wasting our time. For a murder case she’ll go to prison. It’s ridiculous, she didn’t need to run. If anything I was trying to protect her.’

‘Then we won’t say anything.’

‘No, we have to report it.’

‘Boss, it’s nearly five. I’m going back to HQ, where – with your permission – I will take a leisurely shit, then go home.’

She checked the time on her phone and heaved a sigh. ‘You’re right, Rogov, let’s get out of here.’

At Suvorovsky Prospekt, she remembered the Krestovsky Island Metro footage and checked it in as evidence, leaving Rogov walking in the direction of the toilet block. In the meeting room six desks had been pushed together; a conscript sat at each, looking almost identical with stubble for hair. She approached the one she had spoken to before, though she wasn’t sure it was him until she took a furtive look at his jug ears.