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

In the study she switched on the computer. While it powered up, she flicked through her notepad for Thorsten’s company, then typed “GDH Dahl Engineering” into Yandex. There were pages of links even after she used the advanced options to exclude everything except news items. She applied a filter to restrict the results to the last week. First on the list was a Swedish business site and she clicked to read the rest of the item, then clicked again to translate it into Russian. The corporate language had been rendered almost unintelligible by the online translator but she managed to understand the gist of the article.

At first, the journalist expressed sympathy for the loss of Zena Dahl (“a tragic defeat”), then having established that his motives were pure, he proceeded to drag Thorsten’s reputation through the dirt. Dahl, he claimed, owned a portfolio of Russian companies that he was having difficulty selling to an unnamed buyer (“a mysterious shopper”) for eight hundred million euros. Yesterday, the price had been lowered to six hundred and fifty million to stop them walking away. A lawyer representing the company, one Anatoly Lagunov, denied the figures were correct then accused the journalist, according to the translation software, of making “obvious, prodigious falsifications.”

She sat back and puffed on the remainder of the cigarette. So that was the mystery of Lagunov and his generous bribe. Fifty thousand dollars was nothing compared to the money Dahl was losing each day to a jittery buyer. The last thing they needed was a detective calling at the office unannounced asking awkward questions.

Her mobile rang and she saw another picture of Mikhail’s Ducati; this time from a road trip to Finland. She muted the television and accepted the call.

‘Angel?’

It felt trivial to correct him. ‘Misha?’

‘As we speak I’m watching them wheel the Sven away. You know who I’m talking about.’

‘Yeah, Felix Axelsson.’

There was an uncomfortable silence and she got the feeling Mikhail wasn’t entirely happy about hearing the man’s name being spoken on an open network. ‘Well, I never said anything so he’s an Ivan Ivanovich now. Did you tell Primakov?’

‘No, I didn’t want to get him in trouble.’

On her laptop she typed the name of Felix Axelsson into Yandex. It brought up his company website: ‘Axelsson Logistics.’

‘You there, Angel?’

‘I’m here.’

There were tabs at the top of the page, and she clicked on the one displaying Axelsson’s qualifications. A list appeared, headed by recent experience as a contractor in Afghanistan; all in muted language to suggest his real role had been far more dangerous.

‘Anton called, he’s upset. He said you’re moving to Germany.’

She clicked on another tab that listed testimonials from Axelsson’s happy clients with blanked out names.

‘That’s just Claudia. You know she’s always wanted us to emigrate. Anton heard a message she left and overreacted.’

‘I’ll tell him it’s nothing to worry about. We can still sort this out, Angel, whatever it is.’

‘You know what it’s about, and don’t involve Anton next time. It’s not fair.’

There was a pause and she thought he was going to deny it. ‘OK, Angel, I won’t. Just tell me how I can make everything better.’

Another tab on Axelsson’s site was headed “Contact Details”. She clicked on it and saw an address in Stockholm along with a phone number.

‘Women hate the lie more than what it conceals – did you know that, Misha? We can handle the odd obstacle on the road but we don’t like driving in rough country. Men are different. You just keep on blindly and pretend everything’s fine until your head smashes through the windscreen.’

‘So what do you propose?’

‘Just tell me the truth. I can’t do anything until I know that.’

‘I’m not,’ he began, then stopped himself. ‘We’ll do that another time. I’m calling to warn you Dahl’s lawyer has complained to Colonel Vasiliev about you. Lagunov said you went to see him this morning. He’s accusing you of harassment.’

‘He offered me fifty thousand dollars to go away.’

Mikhail chuckled. ‘The sly bastard. Then I guess that means you turned him down.’

‘Of course. And I taped it.’

‘Well, aren’t you the Young Pioneer? I’ll let Vasiliev know.’ Mikhail paused. ‘Listen, Angel, whatever happens to us, do this one thing for me. The FSB have got an interest in the Dahl case, get far away from it.’

‘Don’t you ever get tired of it, Misha?’

‘What? Breathing?’

‘The FSB are criminals. Why do we roll over each time and let them do what they want?’

‘Because they kill people and they are above the law.’

‘Then why are they sniffing around my murder case?’

‘Does it matter? Leave it alone. Do it for Anton if not for yourself.’ He hung up.

On the computer, she stared at the office number for Felix Axelsson for a full minute then found her house phone and dialled it.

Her call was answered instantly by a woman with a deep voice: ‘ Hos Axelsson .’

‘Do you speak English?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ she heard in a heavy, Swedish accent.

‘My name is Captain Natalya Ivanova. I’m from the Criminal Investigations Directorate in St. Petersburg.’

There was a pause. ‘Yes, how can I help you?’

‘I am trying to find Mister Felix Axelsson.’

‘He is my husband. Is he in trouble?’

In the background, Natalya could hear the high energy sounds of a television cartoon show. She hadn’t expected his wife to answer the office number he had provided on his website or to discover he had young children. She softened her tone. ‘I understand Mister Axelsson is working with Thorsten Dahl.’

Mrs Axelsson sounded surprised. ‘For Dahl?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wait one moment.’ The sound of the television went quiet and there was the moan of a disappointed boy.

She came back on the line. ‘You are the police?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is there a problem?’

She hated using subterfuge but telling the truth often raised more questions, and Axelsson’s wife didn’t deserve to hear about her husband’s death this way. ‘Only with his visa. Does he have a mobile? I need to contact him.’

His wife recited a number and Natalya wrote it down then thanked her.

After hanging up, she called Rogov.

‘Boss? I thought you were on holiday.’

‘I am. If I text you a number, can you contact Telecoms and tell me where it is.’

‘Which case?’ he asked too quickly.

So Rogov had also been warned to leave the case alone, either officially from Dostoynov, or via a friendly word from Mikhail.

‘Renata Shchyotkina.’ She gave him a plausible lie in case he checked up. ‘It’s a domestic abuse case. The number is a Swedish mobile because her boyfriend is a Sven. She thinks he’s stalking her. Can you get back to me immediately?’

‘Sure, boss.’

She ended the call, then turned up the sound on the television news in case Axelsson’s murder had been picked up. She caught the end of an item about how sanctions hadn’t affected the economy. “Nope”, the reader could have said, “it doesn’t bother us; not one little bit.”

She filled a steam iron with water then set about clearing the mountain of clothes. After an hour, a row of neatly pressed dresses and shirts were on hangers and she contemplated starting on the mess in the kitchen when the house phone rang.

‘Boss, it’s Rogov. I’ve got the details for that number.’

‘That was quick.’

‘I called in personally. Your woman has got nothing to worry about. They traced her piece of shit boyfriend to some place in Stockholm.’