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

The floorboard under her foot creaked. She threw herself down the steps as a bullet zipped past her ear, embedding in the wall with a puff of plaster. The stairway exploded, sending splinters sharp as needles into her right shoulder. She lay sprawled on the landing and edged towards the bannister for cover.

‘Police!’ she shouted.

She heard Nahodkin’s voice. ‘I thought you were one of Volkov’s.’

He was half-hidden by the door, holding out a gun on a relaxed arm. His Grach was tucked in his waistband and she noticed the pistol in his hand had a brown Bakelite grip. She knew with certainty that Nahodkin wasn’t her guardian angel – he had her Makarov.

She guessed the rest. She would be Nahodkin’s final victim and Major Belikova would label her a crooked ment who had killed Volkov and his wife because she liked Dahl’s money too much; it was a neat way of taking the FSB out of the picture.

‘Come on ment , I won’t shoot.’

‘I’m unarmed.’ she called.

He tracked her voice and more plaster exploded over her head. Another bullet cut through the balustrade and embedded in the wall to her right. It was too close. She slid further down the stairs on her belly.

‘Stupid bitch.’

Nahodkin stepped out of the doorway and she heard a familiar click – the small, eight-round magazine of her Makarov was empty. He reached for the Grach in his waistband. She aimed at his wide torso and fired. One bullet missed, the other caught him in the gut and he staggered.

‘I lied,’ she called.

She ducked down as he fired repeatedly, sending splinters into her face and arms. There was a lull though she knew his clip would be far from finished. She raised her head once to check his position, then lowered it and emptied the Czech pistol at the doorway.

There had been the sound of a heavy body falling but Nahodkin was wily, and there was no guarantee he was dead, or even that he was alone. A full minute went by, then she crept slowly up the stairs, keeping low.

She found the FSB agent on his back, his body still twitching. She kicked his Grach beyond reach though there was little need when his face was already a ghostly white and a lake of blood was seeping through the floorboards beneath him. Beyond him lay Yuri Volkov, tipped out of the upturned wicker chair. The back of the gangster’s head was concave, and behind him a silk sheet was spattered with blood and grey matter. She hoped Nahodkin had delivered the coup de grâce but she wouldn’t lose any sleep if it had been her.

On the wall to the left of a vanity dresser was a print of an Amur tiger with its glass shattered and a gaping wound to the eye. The picture was swinging perpendicular to the wall, attached by a hidden hinge in the frame. Behind it, a safe with a number pad was exposed and empty. She was surprised Volkov had given up the code so easily. Perhaps, facing certain death, he’d decided to spare himself the pain.

A rucksack lay beyond Nahodkin’s outstretched arm. Inside, she found a plastic folder with certificates and a number of devices that looked like a cross between a stapler and a pair of pliers – presumably these were the presses used to create Thorsten Dahl’s company seals. She pulled it over her aching shoulders and fastened it in place. Her Makarov had been tossed to the floorboards; she bent down to tuck it in her holster, then pushed the empty CZ 75 in her waistband.

Looking around the bedroom, it was hard to reconcile Yuri Volkov’s psychopathic qualities with the petit bourgeois décor. Apart from the silk sheets, there were drapes with a bamboo pattern and a chandelier with electric candles. Above the vanity dresser there was a flower-bordered picture with the embroidered words “Visiting is Good but Home Is Better”.

She checked the other rooms on the landing then took the stairs to the top of the house; it was blocked by a single door. She tried the handle but it was locked.

‘Police. Open up!’

The house was silent now and she pulled a toothpick sized splinter from her forearm.

She counted ten seconds then put her shoulder to the door. The seal presses in the backpack rattled and a wrenching pain persuaded her not to do it a second time. She raised her foot and kicked at the lock. The door blew open.

The top floor was an attic room with framed black and white prints of Parisian street scenes from the Fifties and pictures of Hollywood stars of the same era. On the back of the door was a photograph of the members of One Direction wearing multi-coloured clothes.

By a bed interlaced with fairy lights was a wardrobe. She tapped on the door with her knuckles then stepped back. ‘You can come out now,’ she called in English.

There was a creak then a door opened. Zena Dahl stepped out of the wardrobe, her blonde hair was wild and there were lines on her face where tears had cut through her makeup.

‘It’s alright, Zena,’ Natalya said, continuing in English. ‘You’re safe. Are you hurt?’

‘No.’

Natalya nodded. ‘I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.’ She held Zena in her arms. The girl was stiff and unresponsive.

‘I’m a police officer. My name is Natalya Ivanova. Do you want me to take you back to Sweden?’

Zena Dahl mumbled something and Natalya had to ask for her to repeat it.

‘I can’t.’

‘It won’t be safe to stay here.’

Zena nodded slowly.

Natalya looked at the poster, ‘You like One Direction?’

Zena was silent for a long time then she said, ‘Yuri mistook me for a twelve-year-old.’

‘Your father?’ Natalya asked tentatively.

‘Yuri.’ Zena corrected her.

‘Was all this done for you?’

Zena nodded.

‘And it was like this when you first arrived here?’

Zena nodded again. ‘Yes.’

Natalya heard a car pull up then the sound of the garden gates creaking open. Heavy footsteps were on the stairs, along with heavy breathing.

‘Oh fuck,’ she heard Rogov call out from the floor below.

‘I’m up here,’ she called. ‘Don’t shoot.’

She heard him come up the stairs then he appeared in the doorway.

‘Shit, boss, I can’t believe it. Everyone’s—’

‘Dead.’ Zena finished for him.

Natalya glared at the sergeant then turned to Zena. ‘He’s right, a man killed Yuri.’

‘I heard it.’

Zena didn’t seem upset but her movements were slow and she wondered how much the girl could absorb.

‘What about Elizaveta?’

‘Yuri’s wife?’ Natalya asked.

Zena nodded.

‘She’s gone too. I’m sorry.’ Natalya put an arm around Zena to steer her out of the room then noticed she was shivering, most likely from shock. She took a blanket off the bed and draped it over the girl’s shoulders. By the bedside was a picture on a rosewood cabinet. It was a black and white photograph of a bride in a white lace wedding dress with the faintest of smiles.

‘Is this your mother, Kristina?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s beautiful… you look like her.’

‘Do you think so?’ Zena said.

‘Yes, I do.’

The air seemed to deflate from the girl. ‘My father – Thorsten – he lied to me.’

‘I know.’

Zena’s tears came. Natalya nodded to Rogov who brought over a box of tissues from the windowsill. She pulled one out and handed it to the girl.

‘Yuri said Thorsten killed my mother and took me away.’

‘What do you think?’ She squeezed the girl’s shoulder affectionately and winced with the movement.

‘I didn’t trust him… Yuri I mean. He wouldn’t let me go out. He said it was to protect me.’

‘Some men like to control. I heard he did that to your mother too.’

‘My mother.’ Zena’s voice was so quiet it almost a breath. ‘Did Thorsten kill her?’