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

‘He’s supposed to be with maintenance,’ he whispered, ‘but something isn’t right.’

The resemblance to the actor confused her momentarily, and stopped her from seeing him for what he really was – a gangster. He removed his cap in an easy-going manner.

Her hand went to her hip, reaching for her Makarov. She found it instantly but it was inaccessible beneath Mikhail’s raincoat. The Gosha Kutsenko lookalike pulled out a pistol from the pocket of his overalls.

‘Come with me, Detective.’

The gangster led her down the stairwell then pressed his ID badge against a door sensor. As she entered the enclosed courtyard at the rear, the building’s high walls blocked the wind while huge steel drainpipes directed torrents of water off the roofs and into gullies. There was no bad without the good, she thought, even if the only positive aspect to this miserable affair was a little protection from the driving rain. The bald man pulled her wrists behind her back and took out a cable tie.

‘You won’t get away with this.’

He fixed the nylon strip in place then yanked it tight. ‘I’ve heard that before.’ He patted her down, lifting the bottom of Mikhail’s raincoat to remove her Makarov from its holster and her iPhone from her jeans pocket.

There was a dirty white van in the courtyard, the doors were open and she could see the interior was bare except for a PVC-covered bench running lengthways on the right-hand side. He pulled a black hood over her head then shoved her forwards. Her shins caught the van’s metal step bringing tears to her eyes.

‘Get in.’

She stayed on the wet floor, ‘No.’

A gun was jammed in her face, the barrel grinding against her cheek bone.

‘Get in or I’ll put a bullet through you.’

She guessed he had killed Felix Axelsson, leaving the circular mark around the entry wound. It meant he wasn’t bluffing. She got to her feet and stood on the step that had caught her shins, then ducked inside.

She heard a door open. Someone had been sitting in the van’s passenger seat. There was a murmur of conversation then boots scuffed on the floor as he climbed in the back with her. The doors were slammed shut and the engine started. She took a deep breath to calm herself but it had the opposite effect – the hood had lingering traces of perfume and the iron of blood. Her fingers groped for the edge of the bench seat.

‘Not there. Get on the floor.’ It was a deep, rough voice and she wondered if it was Yuri Volkov.

‘Where are you taking me?’

He said nothing.

They travelled for ten metres or so, then stopped. The driver’s door opened and she heard the creak of gate hinges.

A shoe heel pressed between her shoulder blades.

She twisted against them. ‘Volkov, get off me.’

He laughed and the weight was gone. So it was him.

Riling him wasn’t going to help though. ‘You know I was trying to find Zena too. We’re on the same side.’

‘You stupid bitch,’ he said, ‘you can’t even say her name.’

The van drove over a kerb and her forehead smacked the metal floor. ‘Her real name is Ksenia Yuryevna Volkova.’

‘Who are you?’ he spat. ‘A ment out of her depth. You don’t know anything.’

The van turned right, then left. ‘Then tell me.’

‘Why should I? You were going to take Ksenia back to that prick Dahl.’

She slid back as the van accelerated hard then braked, pitching her forward. She was thrown to the left as the car turned right. The Gosha Kutsenko lookalike at the wheel was a native Pitertsy or else he favoured his chances in the Russia Rally Cup. At least his aggressive driving made it easier to work out the direction of travel. She was certain they were on Liteyny Prospekt heading north.

The van hit a straight patch of road and the high-pitched scream from its abused engine dropped to a whine. She pushed herself against the wall, opposite Volkov on the bench seat, splaying her legs to stop herself being thrown around. She took another breath, catching cheap perfume – after all these years he was still trafficking women. The hood was for the ones who fought back.

‘Why did you leave Ksenia with Dahl?’ she asked.

‘None of your fucking business.’

‘I know you’re going to kill me. You’ve done it before. Didn’t you get seven years in Krasnoyarsk? Seven years, that still left plenty of time to get your daughter. You could have come for Ksenia a decade ago.’

He paused. ‘Clever ment .’

‘So Ksenia was nine then.’

‘You’re questioning me, cheeky bitch? You know why I didn’t come for her and kill that Sven piz’da when I got out?’ Volkov snorted and spat noisily.

The moisture from her breath was bringing out the blood in the mask, it wasn’t a good omen.

‘It was on Defender of the Fatherland Day. I was stuck at the workshop in Krasnoyarsk taking this fucking GAZ-44 to pieces. One of the guards came up and told me my wife and daughter were dead – then he ordered me to carry on working.’

‘That was February the twenty-third, 2000?’

‘Yes… they’d been dead a few months by then. I hired a couple of bulls to look after Kristina and Ksenia when I was inside – they were killed for fucking up. The guard said the menti found my wife half-eaten and Ksenia’s body had been taken by wolves. I was trapped in a human sewer with their deaths for company. I couldn’t speak of it to anyone. Inmates love news like that – it’s a knife to them.’

The van accelerated, and over the stink of the hood she smelled the sea – they were crossing the Neva on Liteyny Bridge. She tried to remember the sequence of directions. The theory at least was clear – knowing the destination improved the odds of survival. But she doubted it had helped in more than a handful of cases. Instead of spending their final moments with memories of children or lovers, how many victims had wasted their time plotting traffic lights and turnings?

‘So you didn’t know Zena – Ksenia – was alive?’

‘No, but does it matter? She’s doing fine now. You know I was watching her?’ He laughed; it was a deep, unsettling sound.

Natalya tried to focus on Volkov as well as the road. ‘You were there the night Ksenia went missing?’

‘Dahl, that stupid cunt, what was he thinking letting her run around the city on her own?’ He exhaled heavily; it sounded like a pair of piston bellows. ‘It wasn’t how I wanted it. Two gopnik scum were on her… well, those roosters will be crowing soon.’

‘You saved her from them?’

‘The ungrateful bitch keeps whining about going home. I told her this is her fucking home now and she needs to get used to it.’ He snorted and spat. ‘I thought it would be different but she’s not a little girl any more. Nah, I’ve said enough.’

Maybe she would be the lucky one and knowing the route was going to save her. At the end of the bridge the E18 looped in a tight, three-quarter bend to the right if they were heading north. She felt the van turn and pushed her feet flat on the floor as she was squeezed against the bare metal wall. It was north – she didn’t know whether to be relieved or not.

‘What happened to Yulia Federova?’

‘That wasn’t me.’

In the darkness, Volkov was silent but he had to be lying. The Hermès Sellier Kelly – that powder blue handbag of Zena’s – hadn’t got to the murder scene on its own. It could only have come from him.

‘Then who did it?’

‘The driver.’

She was stunned by the casual admission. ‘The one who looks like Gosha Kutsenko? What’s his name?’

‘Where you’re going, ment , you don’t need to know.’