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

He snorted and pulled out a packet of Sobranie Classics. ‘It’s been two days now and I still can’t get the damned smell of iodine out of my nose. Jesus, Tasha, have you ever seen kids on krokodil before? When Bezzubtsev put his hands up I could see his actual arm bone moving inside – the phosphorous rots their flesh. It was the freakiest thing I’ve ever seen. Don’t be surprised if he’s dead before trial.’

Mikhail tapped the end of his cigarette and looked around; she pointed to the balcony door.

He frowned. ‘You’re banning me from smoking in my own apartment?’

‘Just clearing the air.’ She followed him out and pulled the handle behind her to keep the smoke out. ‘So who was his friend?’

‘Stanislav Stanislavovich Mamanov. Called himself Stas. He has a juvenile conviction for indecent assault.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Looks like they had a charming double act going – one robbed and the other raped. Poor Zena, it’s terrible to think they were her last experience on Earth. The two of them stank like railway tramps too… they hadn’t washed in weeks.’

‘What did they smell of?’

‘Just unclean, why?’

She watched him tap the ash of his cigarette over the balcony and waited until she had his attention. ‘You didn’t notice wood smoke or petrol?’

‘Don’t think so, why?’

‘Misha, if they hadn’t washed in weeks how did they get the smell of wood smoke and petrol off without washing away the rest of their stink?’

‘You got a better idea?’

She leaned on the railings and stared at the street below. The light was sharp and it brought a pain behind her eyeballs.

‘So why did they kill her?’ she asked.

Mikhail stared into space and puffed on his cigarette thoughtfully. ‘Prison rules, perhaps? Raping a stranger carries a death sentence inside. By killing her then burning the body I guess they wanted to improve their chances.’

‘What’s the timeline? Where did they hold Zena between Friday morning and Sunday evening? Did you check with the others at the squat to account for their movements?’

‘We don’t need to. Are you saying they didn’t do it?’

‘Anything’s possible,’ she said, realising how absurd it sounded.

‘Sure, so is teaching a dog to tap dance.’

‘So they raped and robbed Zena, kept her for three days, then took her to one of the most public parks in the city. They got the fire going with petrol, threw her on, and then hurried back to their squat. Right?’

He nodded. ‘If you’ve got more questions you can file them under “Who gives a shit about a pair of gopniks ?”. The prosecutor has the case and Dostoynov won’t thank you for interfering. That’s why I’m here.’

He looked at her so gravely she wanted to burst out laughing.

‘What is it, Misha?’

‘You remember asking me to find out about Dahl’s visa?’

‘Sure, you said you knew someone from law school at the Big House.’

‘Viktor.’ He puffed on his Sobranie and stared thoughtfully at the pedestrians posing for photographs by the stone lions on the opposite side of the Griboyedov Canal. ‘He was waiting for me outside the car park this morning. There was this look on his face you don’t often see outside an interrogation room. Like a tough guy who knows he’s in the shit. Only when these guys get in the shit it can end very badly for them.’

‘What did he say?’

Mikhail took another drag. ‘A woman – an FSB major from the Economic Crimes Directorate – called him from Moscow.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Basically, thieves. She wanted to know what business he had checking the manifest of Dahl’s Gulfstream. He made up some excuse but he could tell she didn’t believe him. Natasha, if the FSB have an interest in the Zena Dahl case then wash your hands of it, and don’t look back. I’m telling you’ – he gave her the earnest look again – ‘for all our sakes.’

‘Did Viktor warn you off?’

‘That’s why I came here. I assured him the case was already closed and I was the only one asking, but… for Christ’s sake, Natalya, leave it alone.’ He stubbed the cigarette out on the underside of the railing then held it in his palm and flicked it into space.

She parked her Volvo on Vosstaniya Ulitsa and strolled past the street’s shop fronts inhaling deeply the fresh, if fume-tinged, air to help shake off her hangover. Officially she was off duty until Thursday but she owed it to Zena to find a few more answers and put the case to bed. The FSB involvement intrigued her as much as it scared her, but she reassured herself that they would have no interest in a police murder investigation. Most likely it was high politics that had drawn them in, and she could keep her distance from anything that smelled dangerous.

The business card Anatoly Lagunov had presented to her in his BMW displayed no company name or logo, and neither did Thorsten Dahl’s headquarters – there was only the number etched in black on a brass plaque. The doors were locked and she noticed a slot where a swipe card allowed the employees to gain entry. She rang the bell then heard a click and went inside.

As much as the building was anonymous on the outside, inside it was stunning. An atrium extended to the full height of the six-floor edifice. Under her feet there was an ancient map of the heavens tiled in brown and blue marble. Ten metres above her head hung a chandelier, its yellow and orange crystals forming a sun. Even the reception desk was a greyish-white and shaped to resemble a crescent moon. A security guard-cum-receptionist watched her calmly from it. His fine hair was red and she wondered how much he must hate putting on his chocolate-brown uniform each day.

She pulled out her ID card. ‘I’d like to speak with Anatoly Lagunov.’

While he picked up the phone she examined an aluminium wall mosaic of Yuri Gagarin peering through his Vostok-1 porthole from half a century ago.

Two minutes later, a set of Art Deco varnished doors parted, and a woman exited a lift on the far side of the crescent-shaped desk. She had a blonde bob and curves accentuated by a tight red suit, making her the image of an Aeroflot flight attendant. A swipe card hung on a lanyard and swung between her breasts,

‘Hello, I’m Daria, Anatoly’s secretary.’ She held out her hand to Natalya.

They crossed the expanse of marble to the Art Deco lift. ‘Nice place.’

‘We like it here.’

The lift opened on the second floor into a large office where around fifty people, mostly men, were sitting in cubicles staring at computer screens or talking.

‘Who are they?’

‘This floor it’s the accountants; above us is marketing, below is IT. Don’t ask more than that, I couldn’t tell you.’

They weaved through the cubicles to a smoked glass wall and Daria pulled on a door handle. Inside was a narrow reception area containing a small desk and three swivel chairs. Beyond it, there was a closed door. Daria knocked on it lightly and Anatoly Lagunov emerged, beckoning Natalya inside.

On the wall was a framed certificate of a law degree from Leningrad State University that dated Lagunov’s student days to the premiership of Yuri Andropov, the Butcher of Budapest.

‘I can barely remember my time there,’ Anatoly Lagunov said, noticing her gaze at it. He held out his hand.

She shook it and studied the lawyer, realising he must be older than he looked. A grey silk shirt showed off the contours of his physique and she felt his sharp eyes study her in return, no doubt reaching a less favourable conclusion after a night of drinking fine Georgian wine.

‘Captain Ivanova, it’s nice to see you.’ Lagunov flashed those small teeth. ‘Something to drink?’