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

Primakov put his hands over his eyes as if trying to blot out what he had done. ‘I’m so sorry, Captain. She made me do it. She told me they only wanted to talk.’

‘You should know homos can’t be trusted,’ said Belikova. ‘One threat to tell Papa and’ – she snapped an imaginary biscuit between her fingers – ‘this one turned into Tula gingerbread.’

‘Hey, Demutsky, get moving.’

‘Major.’ The young agent helped Kuznetsova to stand then escorted her and Primakov out. Nahodkin closed the door behind them.

‘I need to try this.’ The Major leaned over the table to examine Dahl’s whisky. ‘Nahodkin, get me a glass. While I remember, Detective, here’s your phone. You don’t want to hear what Nahodkin said when he found it on the elektrichka .’

Natalya took it. ‘You charged it.’

‘All part of the service. I dare you to lose it again.’

Nahodkin returned with two glasses.

The Major poured a shot of whisky and sipped it. ‘Yeah,’ she sniffed, ‘I don’t like this foreign shit. You say potato, I say pass me the fucking Stolichnaya.’ She tilted her head back to finish the glass.

‘Hey, Nahodkin, I didn’t ask for vodka. It was a figure of—’

Major Belikova froze in mid-sentence and stared past Natalya. ‘Sweet sinless fucking Mary, was that…’

Natalya followed her line of sight. On the television screen, a reporter was outside a white-walled clinic with a luminous red cross on the side; he was interviewing a stocky man with grey, bristly hair. There was light scarring on the man’s face and he had the cocksure swagger of a gangster. A woman was in the background, her head twisted away from the camera. The man beckoned her to join him, then, when she resisted, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into view.

‘Someone turn the sound on. Now!’ shouted Belikova.

Nahodkin’s gun tracked Natalya as she dashed for the remote control on the armchair. She fumbled it, dislodging a battery that had been held in place by sticky tape. The battery dropped to the floor.

‘Hey, ment ? Get out the way!’ Nahodkin shouted.

‘What’s going on?’ demanded Dahl.

‘Quiet everyone,’ ordered the Major, though the volume was muted.

The girl on the television was approximately twenty years old, had thick, blonde hair and looked dazed. Natalya saw her mumble something in reply.

‘Hey, isn’t that your daughter?’ asked the Major. ‘I have to say, for a corpse she looks fresh.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ muttered Natalya.

The outside broadcast cut to the studio where a balding news reader raised his eyebrows to emphasise a joke that was lost on the people in the room. Behind him, on a brilliant blue background, a photograph of Thorsten Dahl appeared; he was standing on a dais in an auditorium and looked a decade younger.

‘You must be famous. Can I have your autograph?’ Nahodkin asked.

Along with the time, there was a news ticker at the bottom of the screen, and Natalya read a bulletin as it drifted past:

Dead Swedish Student Is Alive! Local businessman taking paternity test.

Dahl’s mouth was gaping, showing white, capped teeth. ‘Volkov,’ he uttered, finally.

The Major took Primakov’s chair then clapped her hands in delight. ‘I can’t wait to hear this. It’s going to be fantastic.’

‘Thorsten, what the fuck is going on?’ Natalya asked.

Dahl’s voice was distant. ‘Natalya,’ he managed, ‘I haven’t told you the truth.’

‘Wait. I need to get comfortable.’ Belikova helped herself to one of Lyudmila’s cigarettes before pouring a vodka. She had a malicious grin. ‘I’m ready.’

Natalya slumped in her chair, anger and fear turning to despair. She was used to being lied to but Zena wasn’t a runaway being abused by her father. Thorsten had no excuse to hide anything from her. ‘Tell me the truth now,’ she said in a controlled voice.

Thorsten Dahl held his glass in one hand and stared at it morosely as if the crystal had revealed his destiny. ‘We missed someone out.’ He held his drink up in an outstretched arm. ‘To Kristina, and what might have been.’

He brought his arm back and finished his whisky alone.

‘Who the hell is Kristina?’ asked Natalya.

He exhaled heavily. ‘She was a receptionist at the Astoria hotel. I had a suite there for most of 1999. One evening she found a pretext to come to my room. She was married, I’m not proud of it.’

‘What happened?’

‘We saw each other until the end of September then she left. At first I thought she had gone on holiday then one of the chambermaids told me she had quit.’

The Major rolled her sleeves back and stuck her elbows on the table. ‘Did you know Hitler planned to have his victory celebration in the Astoria? I heard they had menus printed.’

‘Maybe now’s a good time to dust them off,’ said Natalya.

The comment riled Belikova. ‘You call us fascists but do you see any camps?’ She took out her Grach and laid it on the table.

Dahl took another breath and puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled: ‘Have you ever been in love, Natalya?’

She bristled at the question. He may be drunk but it was still damned insulting. ‘It’s a psychosis brought on by hormones.’

Belikova lifted a glass of vodka to her. ‘Bravo!’

Natalya took one of Lyudmila’s cigarettes, holding it in two hands to stop it shaking. Dahl leant across the table to light it. He seemed calm, presumably thanks to all the vodka and whisky.

Belikova cracked her knuckles. ‘So when do we get to the part where you tell us this hotel receptionist is Zena’s mother?’

Dahl ran an index finger along the rim of his glass.

‘Thorsten?’

‘The Major is right.’

‘You said she was an orphan,’ Natalya said, barely suppressing her anger. ‘Was Kristina the real reason Zena came here?’

‘No, it can’t be – I told Zena both her parents were dead.’

Belikova inspected her fingernails. ‘Nice story to tell a little girl, considering you pulled it from a chicken’s arse.’

Natalya puffed on the cigarette, feeling disgusted with herself for smoking again. ‘So you let her come here without any security?’

‘I forgot Dahl’s a billionaire? How much are you really worth?’ Belikova tapped her cigarette again.

Natalya gave the Swede a warning glance not to say too much. Nahodkin saw it and he swiped her face with the back of his hand knocking her to the floor. Her chair clattered against the tiles. She got up, glaring angrily at him as she righted the chair and sat down.

‘You want to take on someone your own size?’ growled Dahl.

A smile twitched on Nahodkin’s lips. ‘Anytime.’

She rubbed her cheek. ‘Why did you let Zena come here without any security?’

‘It wasn’t a risk. She hated being in the public eye so no one outside of a few small circles knew who she was.’ Dahl topped up his glass with whisky.’

‘You need to stop drinking.’

He laughed to himself and prodded his chest with the glass. ‘It doesn’t matter. He’s going to kill me.’

Major Belikova sucked deeply on her cigarette then tapped off the ash. ‘This is going to be interesting.’

Natalya leaned forwards in her seat. ‘Who?’

Dahl held his glass in the air as if expecting someone to appear at his elbow and refill it for him. He withdrew it awkwardly. ‘The man you saw on television. I’ve never met him but I saw his picture a long time ago. His name is Yuri Volkov.’

Natalya let out a sarcastic laugh. Dahl didn’t need to answer; everything had fallen into place. ‘He’s Kristina’s husband, isn’t he? You fell in love with a gangster’s wife. Thorsten, you fucking idiot. I’m surprised you’re still alive.’