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

Two menti were gazing thoughtfully across the Malaya Neva river at the construction of the massive, half-finished, cable-stayed bridge to link the island with the tip of Krestovsky and then across the Bolshaya Neva to the mainland. Next to the policemen was a skinny, unkempt man with white hair who was sucking on a hand-rolled, broken exhaust of a cigarette.

She took out her notepad, ‘Did you call the police?’

The man jumped and twisted his head.

‘Me? Yes, I came here an hour ago to feed the dogs.’

‘You own this place?’

‘No.’ He stretched an arm in the direction of the two German Shepherds, ‘Kolya and Kazan do security. I look after the dogs.’ He rubbed two fingers together.

‘So not official. What did you see?’

‘I came by to feed them, also to take Kolya for a walk. He takes a shit at this time – there’s a spot by the river he likes. I saw a new mound of gravel. Kolya got excited and started digging at it… then I saw the hand.’

‘I’ll come to that. Tell me, when were you last here?’

‘Seven this morning. It wasn’t there then.’ He shifted the cigarette to a corner of his mouth.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘The landowner has a boat moored here. I check it every day at the same time.’

‘Thanks.’

One of the policeman standing near the dog owner glanced casually at her Makarov and handcuffs, then spent too long working his way up to her eyes.

‘Where is it?’ she asked.

‘Over there by the water with Grandfather Frost and the Snow Maiden.’ The policeman laughed to himself, and she smelled alcohol.

The Snow Maiden, Leo Primakov, was in his white, nylon oversuit taking pictures of the ground. Near his feet was Grandfather Frost, a grey-bearded doctor, who was pressing two fingers against the wrist of a hand poking from a low mound of gravel.

‘Dead?’ she asked.

The doctor looked up, seeing her for the first time, ‘As a Syrian peace negotiation.’

The two uniforms were still studying the bridge construction and she inserted her little fingers into the corners of her mouth and blew hard. The noise was piercing. ‘Hey, Holmes and Watson – Over here!’

Primakov pulled down his mask, ‘Captain. Thank you for coming.’

‘You said it was connected to Zena?’

‘I said it might be.’ He stepped back to let the two menti join the group. ‘The corpse has Scandinavian tastes.’

She addressed the two men, ‘Put on some gloves and start piling the gravel to one side. Anything you find – a dog end or a piece of fingernail – call me. Do not lean over the body. Do not touch the victim or his clothing. Understand?’

Turning away from them without waiting for a reply, she asked, ‘Leo, why?’

‘There’s a black sneaker… over there.’ She saw the shoe next to a small flag with a number one on it; no doubt something else he had ordered from the internet.

‘It’s a size forty-seven Axel Arigato.’

‘Who?’

‘Swedish designer—’

The policeman smelling of alcohol was at her elbow. ‘So? I’ve got an IKEA kitchen but that doesn’t make me a Sven.’

‘Are you still here?’ She frowned to convey sarcasm. The smile on his face faded and he slunk away to join his colleague.

For a minute she watched the two policemen scooping gravel with their gloved hands and depositing it in a pile between them.

Primakov shrugged, ‘Well, it was only a thought.’

‘And I’m not dismissing it,’ she mused, ‘with feet that big it could be Dahl.’

Primakov’s oversuit rustled in the wind, ‘I heard he’s built like a defenceman.’

She recognised the term from Mikhail’s love of ice hockey and her high estimation of Primakov slipped a few notches. ‘Either way, he was murdered. Suicides don’t bury themselves in gravel.’

‘No, obviously not.’ Primakov sounded offended.

‘Sorry, Leo, that was patronising.’

He shrugged it off, ‘I just thought those mafia days were behind us.’

‘Could be political.’

‘Is there a difference?’ he asked.

It brought back Mikhail’s warning about FSB involvement. If this body proved to be Thorsten’s she had definitely strayed into their territory.

The wind was whipping her hair and she tied it back.

‘So what do you think happened?’ he asked.

‘See that?’ She pointed to a concrete slipway. ‘There’s plenty of big rocks around. If the killer had brought rope and rolled him into the river, the eels would be the only ones to know.’

Primakov nodded thoughtfully, ‘So the killer improvised; he didn’t intend to kill him, or to kill him here.’

‘I agree.’ She watched the two uniforms for a moment; the mound of gravel had become human-shaped. ‘OK, stop there,’ she called out, ‘I’ll take over. One of you take a statement from the dog owner.’ They passed her without a word.

She pulled on her last pair of latex gloves before kneeling down, then scooped gravel from an area where, judging by the position of the hand, the head was likely to be. Every now and again she heard Primakov’s camera click. There was reddish-blond hair now and she picked away at the gravel, placing it in a new pile. A face emerged.

Primakov peered at the body. ‘The father?’

The hair wasn’t blood-tinged, it was red. The relief she felt was absurd when this man’s death would cause no less misery to his loved ones. At least there had been no wedding ring on the protruding hand. It was Felix Axelsson, Dahl’s security expert. She examined a handful of gravel then let it fall through her fingers to the new mound she had created.

‘No, it’s not him.’

There was another click of Primakov’s camera and she picked off a few more stones. ‘Doctor?’ she called, ‘I can see a bullet entry wound between the jaw and the left cheekbone. Can you take a look? Also I could do with an approximate time of death.’

The doctor’s bones cracked as he knelt beside her, ‘That’s definitely lead poisoning. If you want the time it’s best not to delay. I’ve got a thermometer if you can find me an arsehole?’

‘I can find one for you.’ She looked for the policemen; one was interviewing the night watchman while his partner, the joking ment , was staring at the bridge again. ‘Hey,’ she called. ‘Doctor’s got a job for you.’

She pushed the gravel off the torso then checked the pockets. There was no phone, keys, or wallet which meant the killer wasn’t a complete amateur or Axelsson had deliberately hidden his identity. She smelled alcohol as the uniformed ment and Primakov joined her. Together they heaved him onto his side, then she checked his back pockets. They looked empty and she rubbed a latexed finger along the inside seam to make sure. There was nothing.

‘You see that corona bruise?’ the doctor beckoned her over.

She crouched by him and watched him rotate a finger over Axelsson’s face. Whoever killed him had made it personal. They had jammed a gun into his face then pulled the trigger – using enough force to leave a ring-shaped mark behind. With his bodyguard dead Dahl must be in fear of his life. She needed to find him before anyone else did, assuming they hadn’t already.

‘Do you recognise him, Captain?’ Primakov asked. Had he picked up on the fact that she had stared at the body for too long? If the FSB were involved she didn’t want to put him in danger.

‘No,’ she lied.

There was a quizzical expression on the criminalist’s face. ‘Thanks, Captain. I’m sorry to waste your time.’

‘If anyone asks, tell them I was passing on my way home. Come visit when you’re done.’

She climbed into her Volvo and saw fat raindrops fall on the path. The amphibious vehicle with the broken tracks resumed its fight against entropy, and as she navigated around them, the dogs, Kolya and Kazan, finished spraying Primakov’s Samara to waddle back to their position by the concrete post.