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

Three cars, all with flashing lights, passed her at the boatyard entrance. She was about to pull out when Mikhail’s blue Mercedes joined them. He had a grim expression and was alone. Someone else was dead now. She didn’t have a clue what was going on and somehow the FSB were involved as well. She felt a surge of anger and opened her glove compartment to select the album For Millions by the rock group Leningrad . She pushed the CD into the slot below her radio and drove towards Tsentralny District as the ska-punk track “My name is Shnur” started playing. She twisted the volume control all the way and the first eight words of the song started as she accelerated along the highway. She screamed along to them: “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

Anton was sitting on the living room floor when she returned to her apartment. His back was resting against the sofa and his skinny legs were folded underneath him. He looked shifty and she noticed the balcony door was open where a faint smell of cigarette smoke was wafting inside.

‘Hey Natalya.’ He glanced casually at the Makarov that she had meant to check in on Monday. ‘You ever kill anyone with that?’

‘No,’ she lied for the second time in the morning, before offering a hand to pull him to standing, ‘usually my cooking is fatal.’

The smile he returned was thin and he looked stressed.

‘Have you been here long?’

‘Ten minutes. Papa told me you were on holiday today.’

‘I thought I was too.’

She watched his eyes flick from the mounds of clothes on the sofa. ‘I like what you’ve done to the place.’

‘Your father said the same thing. I’m thinking of spraying graffiti on the walls next.’ She noticed the red light flashing on her answer machine.

‘Natasha, how long are things going to be like this?’

‘I’ve got no plans.’

He stretched then bent to touch his toes. ‘Will Papa come home soon… do you think?’

‘It’s his decision. I just threw him out temporarily.’

Anton picked at a hole in the knee of his jeans. ‘He told me.’

She scowled. ‘What did he tell you?’

‘About the money.’

She shook her head. ‘Fuck it, let’s go outside. Bring your jacket, it’s wet.’

The balcony floor of the apartment above offered some shelter and she peered down into the swirling rain over the Griboyedov Canal.

‘Got one of those cigarettes you’ve been smoking?’

Anton smiled sheepishly and took out a crumpled pack of Sobranie Classics from his rain coat.

‘Interesting brand.’

‘Yeah, I went to see Papa at Uncle Stepan’s last night. They were both wasted; they didn’t see me take them.’ He lit his Sobranie and coughed on the first drag.

‘Haven’t had one in years.’ She took the lighter from him. ‘As your stepmother I am obliged to tell you that you will regret smoking more than anything else in your life.’

‘I know. I know,’ he said with the ennui of a hardened addict.

‘So you know they can prevent your penis from working when you get older?’

‘Natasha, stop now.’

‘I’m only saying.’ She lit hers and puffed on the cigarette. The nicotine made her light-headed and a little nauseous. ‘Do you know where he is?’

‘At work?’

‘He’s by the Malaya Neva. Someone was murdered there this morning.’

‘Really?’ he said, his voice rising in pride.

‘Really.’

She puffed on the cigarette then pinched it out and dropped it on the floor.

‘Hey, that’s a waste.’

‘Depends on your perspective. Now tell me what you want to say.’

Anton looked away from her. ‘I heard about the money back when Baboulya died.’ Anton sucked on his cigarette then looked away.

‘Does he know you’re here?’

He flicked ash on the balcony floor then smeared it with a twist of his foot. ‘Don’t think so. Does it matter?’

She could understand that Anton might feel excluded. When her own parents had separated, there had been no affairs to her knowledge, or cruelty, yet they hadn’t sought out marriage guidance counselling or even tried to be kinder to each other. It was as if she and Claudia had simply not been worth the effort.

‘So did he tell you or did you find out?’

He shrugged. ‘I told you it doesn’t matter? I’m just letting you know.’

She waited for him to stub out the Sobranie. ‘OK, thanks for letting me know.’

‘So things will be like they were before?’

She sighed. ‘I don’t want to make you feel bad but your father shouldn’t have made you come here.’ She opened the glass door for him.

Inside, Anton picked up a framed photograph resting on the television. In it, he had a beaming smile as he sat on his father’s red Ducati Monster . Mikhail had been so fond of the damned motorbike he’d cut down on his drinking so he could ride it more often. He’d even let Anton sit on it and click through the gears with the engine running and the clutch lever pulled in. A few months later, a car went through a red light and hit the Ducati side-on. The bike was wrecked, but Mikhail was thrown clear with a few minor scratches. The car driver had been unharmed; at least until Mikhail found him.

Anton put the photograph down. ‘I like this picture.’

‘So do I.’

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘Papa didn’t tell me to come here. I thought you should know the truth.’

‘How did you get here?’

‘The Metro.’

‘Then you must be a magician.’

‘What do you mean?’ he said warily.

‘You manage to walk a hundred metres in the rain without getting your coat wet.’

Anton adopted his default sulk. ‘OK, Papa gave me a lift but you wouldn’t believe me if I told you that. He didn’t tell me what to say.’

‘Let’s leave it there, I’m touched you came.’

‘So does the toilet still work or do I need to use a bucket?’

She smiled, glad at the change of conversation. ‘I’m in the middle of cleaning,’ she lied, ‘that’s why everything’s a mess.’

He closed the door and she pressed the button on the answering machine. “You have one message” it began, then she heard her sister’s voice with the same Russian accent despite all the years in Hannover. “Natasha, it’s Claudia. Do you remember I was going to ask my friend’s husband, the police sergeant, about working here? He told me all the states have their own rules and you have to apply for citizenship first. Basically, it’s complicated. Anyway, speak soon, kisses.”

The bathroom door opened. ‘You lied to me.’ Anton grabbed his jacket. ‘You told me you had no plans. You’re leaving the country.’

‘No, it was about all of us. I—’

He pulled on the door then slammed it.

She pushed aside a pile of clothes to slump in front of the TV, flicking through one channel after another. Too upset to focus on anything. She left it on a fake documentary about the rise of fascism in Ukraine and it made her feel even more dispirited. She retrieved her discarded cigarette from the balcony, then lit it off the stove. It was the last day of her compassionate leave and things were no clearer. Mikhail couldn’t stay at Rogov’s indefinitely and nor could her marriage carry on as before, not until she felt he was being honest with her. This last trick hadn’t helped. Mikhail had coached Anton to talk about the inheritance but it was a cynical move, a poor attempt to shift the debate from what it was really about – dirty money.

She stared into space. Her career of fifteen years in the Criminal Investigations Directorate was over if Mikhail took Vasiliev’s job. She puffed on the cigarette feeling the nicotine work on her brain. If Zena Dahl’s murder was going to be her last case, the least she could do was get some justice for the poor girl even if that meant ignoring Mikhail’s warning about FSB involvement. It was hard to believe the gopniks , as everyone else called them, weren’t involved in Zena’s murder but the official explanation left too many questions unanswered.