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

‘Why kill Yulia, she didn’t do anything.’

‘It was a favour.’ He brought up phlegm and spat noisily. ‘My wife, Elizaveta; she runs a business taking pictures for catalogues. I used her email to make that stupid little bitch think she had won a free fashion shoot.’

In the darkness of the hood it was easy to conjure up the image of Yulia leaving the Krestovsky Metro station in her designer clothes. She must have thought her luck had changed. ‘Why did your driver burn her and leave Ksenia’s handbag behind? Why did you want people to think Ksenia was dead?’

‘Enough. It’s my turn.’

The road straightened and the engine whined as they accelerated. She struggled to hear what Volkov was saying and twisted her head. ‘I hear that Sven prick is still in Piter . Tell me where he is and I’ll make it quick for you.’

They were on the E18, she was sure of it. The driver had discovered the gear stick and the ride became smoother.

‘Start talking.’

There were two distinct double-beeps. Her mobile had received a text message – the driver must have given Volkov her phone.

‘Shit,’ she muttered under her breath.

Volkov grabbed her feet and dragged her towards him. Her lips scraped against a bolt fixed to the floor and she cried out. He pushed her face down with a palm then yanked her arms up by the wrists until she screamed out. She felt him grip her right thumb; he pressed it against something flat. She squirmed, realising too late that it was her mobile’s fingerprint reader – he was in her iPhone. He let go and she fell on her face.

‘Thank you for your cooperation,’ Volkov said. ‘That message was from Stepan Rogov – your fat sergeant.’

How did he know so much about her?

‘Do you want to hear it?’ The derision in Volkov’s voice was unmistakeable.

‘Yes.’

‘He says the sixty-year-old virgin is putting out.’

The van braked hard and she jerked forwards. Her body folded against the metal wall. Volkov waited until she propped herself up.

‘Now what the fuck did he mean by that?’

The van accelerated and she had to shout to be heard over the whine of the engine. ‘Stepan is screwing a librarian.’

Volkov dragged her back to the centre of the van and turned her face-down. ‘I’m typing a reply. What shall I say? I know, how about: “Stepan, you are disgusting.”?’

He was quiet for a moment, then, ‘There, I’ve sent it. Let’s wait.’

She tried to calm her breathing and tasted blood on her lips from the bolt on the floor. The next woman to wear the hood would taste it too. Her phone double-beeped to indicate a new message had been received.

There was a crack of the seat as Volkov’s weight shifted. ‘Stepan agrees with your description of his character… Now for another one.’

He was leaning over her as he typed; his breath smelled of raw onions.

‘Stepan’, he recited, ‘where is Thorsten Dahl?’

‘There. Now let’s see who talks first – you or the sergeant.’

She felt a crushing weight on her hips as he sat on them, grinding her into the floor. Something hard cracked the back of her skull.

‘You bastard,’ she cried out.

In the blackness of the hood she saw white flashes; a split second later the pain followed – it felt as if her head had been ripped open.

‘Tell me where Dahl is and I’ll make it quick for you. Believe me, that’s a good offer.’

If she failed, the FSB would hand Anton to the Donbass People’s Militia. She pictured his corpse being tossed into a makeshift grave and fixed the image in her mind. She would die before she let that happen.

Her phone beeped again.

Needles of rain fell on the metal roof, sounding like ball bearings. Her cheek was pressed against gritty cloth, and she felt curiously refreshed. At least she did until her head exploded in pain, bringing with it the memories of her failed mission to save Anton. There was no feeling in her hands where the cable tie had cut off her circulation. She turned her face to wipe the blood from her lips onto the hood.

Before the van stopped there had been a long silence that lasted for thirty minutes or more, followed by an excruciating blow. It was good she could remember her head being smashed – less chance of brain damage – not so good that with every heartbeat a volcanic eruption went off inside her skull. She listened intently but could only hear the rain.

‘Volkov?’

He said nothing.

‘Are you there?’

Her head pounded for five explosive beats.

‘Hey, you with the shrivelled dick.’

There was no creak of boots. No kick. No punch. No onion breath. No crack on the head with the barrel of a gun or whatever he had used – she was alone.

She scrambled onto her front then brought her legs forward to manoeuvre herself to standing. At once, she felt dizzy, turning in time to slump on the bench seat. She tipped her head between her knees as ten thousand wasps swarmed in her body’s empty shell. A few stale perfume breaths and they started to fade. She gripped the top of the hood between her knees and slowly straightened her body. Her ears rubbed against the material as the hood came loose, then fell to the floor.

The windowless van was just as dark as before but the air was fresher and she sucked it in greedily. There was a lull in the rain; herring gulls squawked noisily above her.

Even if she could, she fought the desire to get out and run away – her arms were tied and she had little idea what was waiting for her. She rotated her shoulders to draw some circulation into them, then froze. There were footsteps behind the van. They stopped then she heard a twist of gravel behind her. A gun fired a metre from her head, its echo in the van the toll of a bell.

Frantically, she brushed her body against the walls, hoping to find something sharp to cut through the cable tie. She dropped to the floor and pushed herself under the bench, feeling with her cheeks for any metal with an edge. Her foot caught the bolt on the floor which had torn her lips. She scrambled to it and turned on her back to drag the cable tie over the bolt. She braced her feet against the base of the bench seat and strained. Her shoulders drew behind her like a bow, thrusting her pelvis in the air. A volcano at the base of her skull erupted and she knew she couldn’t go on. She collapsed to the floor.

The rain had stopped and the herring gulls were quiet too – no doubt alarmed by the gunshot. She’d made enough noise but Volkov or his driver hadn’t come for her. She used the bolt to work the cable tie into the narrowest part of her wrists. It bought a centimetre’s worth of space and she used the gap to work the tie with the bolt as far as it would go on the fleshy part of one thumb. She placed her feet against the bench seat again, and strained. Her back arched and her shoulder blades came together. The cable tie slipped, then she fell backwards as it came free.

Natalya crawled to the van’s rear door, rubbing her wrists urgently to bring the circulation back. There was heat, then a stinging pain, and she massaged and stretched her fingers until they were only half-numb. She patted the door until she found the release catch. Her fingers curled around a steel lever and the door groaned as it opened. She climbed out, squinting in the bright light. A spray of rain mixed with seawater caught her in the face, the salt finding its way onto her lips and scalp sending fresh electricity through her nerves.

The van was on a coastal road. Stretched ahead of her, a row of eight or ten grand houses with gates and private drives faced the agitated Baltic. Behind, kilometres of winding road hugged the shoreline. A spray of brine brought fresh knife jabs of pain. Escape wasn’t an option, however tempting, when she still had to find Dahl’s documents. Without them, Anton would never be safe.