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

‘Hey,’ she kissed Mikhail on the lips.

His eyes remained closed. ‘You’re up,’ he mumbled.

‘It’s already after eight.’

He dragged his fingers over his face as if he was rubbing his skin off. ‘Jesus. What day is it?’

‘Friday.’

‘Come back Tasha.’

‘To bed?’

‘Yes, and all of it.’

‘Give me a reason.’

Mikhail opened his eyes. ‘The pawnbroker’s widow.’ He stretched like a child with his arms extended. ‘I found her yesterday. She lives in Poselok Lenina.’ He sat upright, showing his almost hairless chest. ‘I’ve been thinking about it. When this is over, I’ll give her the money I was paid to keep the two bratki out of prison… I’ll tell her the truth.’

‘She won’t forgive you.’

He fixed her with his grey-blue eyes that for once didn’t seem wolfish. ‘I’m not looking for forgiveness,’ he said; she wasn’t convinced.

‘You’ll do that if I come back?’

‘I’ll do it anyway.’

She kissed him again. His hand worked its way under her shirt and cupped her breast; his left arm slipped around her waist to pull her closer to him. She put a hand on his chest to stop herself falling. ‘Misha, I have to go.’

Outside, there was a heavy squally rain and she stole a raincoat from the back of the apartment door; it was Mikhail’s and came down to her knees but she took it anyway. In a pocket she found a pack of his cigarettes and a lighter. She caught her breath at the bottom of the stairs then put one of his Sobranies to her lips. If the FSB or Volkov killed her, at least she wouldn’t have to go through weeks of torture to break her reignited nicotine addiction. She smiled grimly at the thought as she pulled the coat’s hood up before running for cover to her Volvo. For part of the journey she sang along to her Leningrad CD, hoping it would hide the foreboding she felt, or at least drown out the monotonous screeching of her worn wiper blades; it did little to mask either.

The downpour caused the morning traffic to be heavier than usual on Nevsky Prospekt but she was still able to observe a Mercedes SUV sticking close to her, even after she had slowed down and given it an opportunity to overtake. She presumed it belonged to Nahodkin, but the rain and tinted glass made it impossible to know for sure. His role, she figured, was much like that of his NKVD predecessors: to hold the front line and stop deserters by any means necessary.

She parked and got out, feeling the calves of her jeans grow damp and stiff as they absorbed the horizontal rain. At Vosstaniya, she kept her head down and her body tensed to buttress herself against the spray that came with every gust of wind. As she passed Dahl’s headquarters, she tilted her head to see under the oversized hood of the raincoat. The exterior glass was water-smeared and she had to squint to see the man in the moon, the red-haired security guard at the crescent-shaped reception desk. He was there, in his brown uniform, and staring at his phone looking bored.

She kept on walking. At the end of the block was a padlocked metal gate that led, in all likelihood, to the back entrances of several buildings like a lot of the older streets in Piter . The archway above the gate looked as though it might provide some cover from the deluge and she took shelter under it, feeling for the soggy packet of Mikhail’s Sobranies. She examined them one-by-one until she found a dry specimen then blew on the lighter to clear it of water.

The cigarette lit first time and she puffed on it while re-examining the reasons that had brought her to the building. In the 1990s the mafia took over most of the major industries; they stole company documents and seal presses, and had tame politicians and korruptsioner in the Federal Tax Service ready to sign everything over to them. Anatoly Lagunov had spent eighteen years hiding Dahl’s businesses in plain sight; that took a lot of skill and he would have a good idea of which corrupt government officials needed sight of the documents to legitimise Volkov’s takeover.

She sucked on the Sobranie, feeling the hit from the nicotine. Above street level, the blocks rose five storeys. She felt vulnerable and leant against the archway wall while she studied the rows of balconies with stone balustrades and windows in shade. Apart from those administrative formalities, the company was as good as Volkov’s and it was inconceivable that he wouldn’t have someone here, keeping an eye on his new acquisition. Perhaps they were already watching her, their curiosity drawn to a woman loitering in the pouring rain. On the opposite street an old woman cradled a small dog in her arms while queueing on the steps of a bakery. A mixed group of four office workers approach her in a diamond formation; they hurried past with their shoulders hunched and heads down, paying her no attention. There was no one who remotely fitted the profile of a gangster. She shook her head quickly – she really was becoming paranoid.

In her experience, criminals tended to favour luxury cars or SUVs. She scanned the street but the rain had made all but the dirtiest and most decrepit vehicles look like possibilities. Still, to see none had a crew or even a driver at the wheel was reassuring.

Satisfied there was no obvious danger, she stubbed the cigarette on the pavement then doubled back. At Dahl’s headquarters she pressed the buzzer, disturbing the security guard who looked up from his phone. Natalya pulled out her ID card and pressed it against the glass. The door clicked and she went inside. ‘Senior Detective Ivanova,’ she called out, wondering briefly how many more times she would get to say it. She approached the desk. ‘Oleg isn’t it?’

He nodded.

‘Is Mister Lagunov in?’

‘He’s clearing his desk.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know anything… he doesn’t speak to me.’

As a direct employee of Thorsten Dahl it made sense for Lagunov to get out. She was surprised he hadn’t left on Wednesday when Dahl gave away the documents and presses.

‘What about other idle chatter, Oleg? What have people been saying?’

He leaned towards her and lowered his voice in the faux-reluctant manner of a practised gossip. ‘Daria, Mister Lagunov’s secretary, well… she told me the new owners didn’t want him. I always thought he was in charge but Daria told me it was that Sven on television.’

‘Yes, Daria’s right. His name is Thorsten Dahl.’ It was hardly a state secret and might buy her a little grace.

‘It was in the papers this morning about how he took that girl. He pretended she was his daughter.’

‘I can’t talk about it.’

‘Well, it’s sick. He’s a paedophile if you ask me.’

She shook her head, there was no point arguing with someone who believed what they read in the newspapers. Besides, with Oleg, any defence of Dahl she offered could be halfway around Piter before the day was out.

‘I saw her,’ he blurted out.

She turned, catching a guilty expression on his face for gossiping. ‘Who?’

‘That girl on television.’

‘You mean Zena?’

‘That was her Swedish name. You can’t call her that—’

‘You saw Ksenia Volkova here?

He nodded.

‘When?’

‘Not for a long time.’ Oleg glanced at the sun chandelier. ‘Maybe September last year. I remember she came when they were replacing the bulbs. She only came once and Daria was waiting for her. She said…’

Oleg trailed off.

‘What did she say?’ Her voice came out sharper and louder than she had intended but Oleg was distracted. He twisted his head then flicked his eyes to her to indicate she should follow his gaze.

Over her shoulder she saw a man wearing a leather cap and a leather jacket; he was bald and had a long, straight nose, reminding her of the actor from Day Watch, Gosha Kutsenko. There was an ID badge hanging over his neck and he held it up.