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

‘Are we good, Angel?’ he asked.

There was a sting of histamine and she sucked in air to stop the tears welling. ‘No, we’re not.’

The old school house stood on the opposite side of the road. It was a two-storey block of concrete with plywood for windows, surrounded by a tall brick wall that, perversely, looked like the only part of the building made with any real affection. She instantly pitied the poor children who had passed through it, then wondered if the squatters occupying it had once been students there; now returning, subconsciously or otherwise, to wreak revenge on the place.

The wall wasn’t high enough to obscure the OMON truck but subterfuge wasn’t necessary when the open fields surrounding the schoolhouse would merely provide sport for the police if the squatters ran for cover. She disengaged the safety on her Makarov then tucked the gun back in her holster. It wasn’t the way she’d been taught but the guard was good enough to prevent an accidental discharge.

Next to a lamppost in the shape of a dandelion seed, a too-thin, too-pale boy was fidgeting with his phone. She took out her mobile and called the number the conscript had given her.

The boy was startled when his phone rang and he stared at it for a full two seconds before answering.

‘Petya?’

‘Yeah?’

‘You see a woman waving?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s me. Come over.’ She saw a couple of OMON officers taking an interest as they clipped their batons in place. ‘And don’t go anywhere near the thing that looks like a tank, you’ll regret it.’

She watched him walk briskly across the road and saw his face was covered in yellow-pitted acne as he came closer.

‘Are they still there?’ she asked.

He frowned then rubbed his nose with the back of his forearm leaving a glistening trail on it. ‘Yeah, Stas and Dima are cooking.’ He sniffed, ‘You got the reward?’

‘Don’t be stupid, son.’ Mikhail appeared, grabbing the boy by the wrist before he could run. ‘You think we’d give it to a junkie.’ He pulled out a nylon tie to fix the boy’s wrists.

‘Leave him, Misha. Give me the keys, I’ll take him back.’

He shook his head. ‘You can’t. This is your case. It’s a major arrest, Natalya, and it’s all yours. Everyone else is here to support you, even Dostoynov and the Cosmonauts.’

‘I’m not going in there.’ She re-engaged the safety on her Makarov. ‘Make sure you get to them before Dostoynov realises what’s happening – it’ll make you even with him.’

She heard a motor and expected to see the police car that had burst a tyre; instead, a van drove past with an outsized satellite dish fixed to the roof and a blue “1” on its side for Channel One. They either had a supernatural sense that a major arrest was about to happen or someone was feeding them information; Dostoynov, she imagined.

‘Angel, I don’t care about that.’

‘You should. I’ll see you at home.’ She couldn’t focus on his eyes, couldn’t bear to.

The OMON had split into two rows and Dostoynov was addressing them.

‘You let him make the arrests and you may as well resign – he’ll make your life miserable. Give me your car keys, you can go back in that stupid troop carrier.’

His voice sounded distant. ‘In the ignition… I’ll see you at home, right?’

She mumbled a reply then removed Mikhail’s blue jacket from the back seat and tossed it to him. ‘Put this on. You look handsome in it.’

Turning to the boy, she said, ‘Get in the car, and if you leave any bodily fluids behind then he’ – she tilted her eyes at Mikhail who adopted a menacing look on cue – ‘will do bad things to you.’

She watched Mikhail pull on the jacket, then take out his Makarov and hold it in a two-handed position at the ground. He crossed the road, hugging the contours of the wall before disappearing from view. A Channel One reporter she vaguely recognised chased after Mikhail followed by a flustered cameraman.

‘Right, Petya,’ she said, climbing in, ‘let’s go find your mother and see what she wants to do with you.’

Natalya glared at her alarm clock before realising the harsh buzzing sound was coming from her intercom. She ignored it, assuming a caller had pressed the buttons to several apartments in order to get past the block door. The noise stopped. She frowned. A bottle of Satrapezo to wash down a family-size packet of mushroom and sour cream crisps had seemed like the perfect formula last night. Then she remembered her first glass had been early evening and it hadn’t been one bottle of Satrapezo either. At least she got the flavour of the crisps right.

She contemplated going back to sleep but had no desire to return to her dark dreams, so she got dressed. It was already Wednesday, the last of the two days’ compassionate leave Colonel Vasiliev had authorised. Early on Tuesday morning, when Mikhail had got home after the arrests at the old schoolhouse, she had told him to leave. She arranged for him to stay with Rogov and Oksana until he was ready to tell her the truth. He had protested meekly but nevertheless had packed a bag before work – another indication of his guilt considering it was his money that had bought the apartment and, by rights, she should have been the one to move out. Unfortunately, on the few occasions she had spoken to him on the phone, Mikhail had stuck rigidly to his story and she had to make a decision soon whether to take him back and ignore his dishonesty or make the separation permanent.

The buzzer sounded again. This time, it was the one on her apartment door.

She squinted through the eyepiece to see Mikhail wearing a suit; he had also shaved. After a quick check in the mirror, she smoothed her unironed checked shirt before opening the door.

‘Misha, what a surprise.’

‘I left my keys.’ He looked around and rocked on his heels awkwardly.

She let him in. ‘Take off your shoes, you’re making me nervous.’

He did, then craned his neck as he looked around. ‘I like what you’ve done with the place.’

After two days, the sink was overflowing with dirty dishes and there was a heap of clothes piled up on the sofa near an ironing board. Mikhail was the tidy one in their relationship. ‘I’ve been busy.’

‘I can tell.’

She stared at Mikhail’s discarded shoes; a hint that he was beginning to outstay his welcome. ‘How can I help, Misha?’

‘Did you see Channel One?

‘Last night and yesterday. You looked a real hero. I reckon they might offer you the Medal for Valour.’

Somewhere between her first bottle of Satrapezo and an old episode of Spets, a news item had shown him shoulder-barge the kitchen door of the schoolhouse. Inside, he confronted two teenage boys in their underwear cooking up the dirty opiate junkies call krokodil that was supposedly more addictive than heroin. The report had included a slow motion action shot of Mikhail pulling out his gun and forcing the two boys to the floor. The camera panned to show packets of codeine pills and industrial chemicals.

‘Thanks… reports going to the prosecutor’s office. I can’t see them objecting. Early this morning they both confessed to killing the Sven.’

‘Did Rogov handle it?’

‘Yeah, but don’t get down on Stepan. We found pictures of Zena Dahl on one of their phones with her dress around her waist.’ Mikhail’s mouth twisted into a grimace. ‘You can only imagine what the sick fucks did to her.’

‘Still, I’d like to read their confessions.’

She thought of the two boys withdrawing from the krokodil and Rogov offering to give them whatever they craved as long as they put their names to a statement – one that he’d probably written himself. Mikhail had a point though, suspects were convicted on less and they were a pair of nasty shits that the world wouldn’t miss.