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

‘Documents?’ he demanded, casting a disdainful eye on her car.

She peered at the rank displayed on his lapel – a private – then took her time pulling out her wallet and showing him her ID badge.

He straightened. ‘Sorry, Captain.’ His eye twitched with a facial tick. ‘Criminal Investigations Directorate? Why did they call you?’

She ignored his impertinence. ‘What’s going on?’

He spoke in a staccato fashion, ‘Fourth floor, third on the left. Renata Shchyotkina. Boyfriend slapped her around. She asked me to wait here in case he came back. Refused to speak to me. Wanted a woman.’ He took a breath feeling that he’d given her the salient points. ‘This isn’t police business, Captain, if we made a criminal of every husband who knocked his wife about there’d be no one left.’

‘You’re wrong,’ she said, giving him a hard stare. ‘You represent the state. By doing nothing, you give the cowards permission to continue. And next time you speak to a citizen follow the rules: give them your surname and rank first.’

She brushed past him and steeled herself for four flights of stairs. The private had a point, she thought, even if it was a technical one. There wasn’t an offence of domestic violence in the Criminal Code. Worse, a bill had been recently introduced in the Duma to downgrade assaults within the family to an administrative crime. The last time she’d tried to charge a man for beating up his wife he’d been let off with a stern warning, and only one of her cases had resulted in a successful prosecution – then, the sentence of twelve months for disfiguring the poor woman with a hot iron had been unduly lenient.

At the fourth floor she pressed the buzzer on the third door to the left; it was opened by a tall woman, almost one metre eighty and model-slim. One of her eyes had been reduced to a slit and the skin on the upper-part of her face was swollen and already turning blue.

She introduced herself: ‘Senior Detective Ivanova.’

Renata Shchyotkina lay down on a white, leather sofa while Natalya took in the apartment. The slate-grey walls and pictures were modern, as was the chandelier with its dozens of filaments glowing orange above an elaborately laid dining table.

‘Miss Shchyotkina, you should go to hospital,’ she said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves to examine the woman’s face. The damage looked superficial, if painful; she’d seen worse. ‘Shall I put some ice on that? Or frozen peas?’

‘No, leave it like this.’

She understood: Renata Shchyotkina wanted a record of her injuries before they started healing. ‘Don’t worry about that, in a few days your face will look like you took on Wladimir Klitschko.’ She went into the kitchen, gathered ice in a towel then handed it to her.

‘Thank you.’

Natalya took out her notepad. ‘Does he live with you?’

Renata Shchyotkina pressed the towel over her swollen eye. ‘It’s his place.’

This was the moment she hated. ‘Move out if you can. What’s that saying men are so fond of: “If he beats you he loves you”? He’ll come back and apologise but he won’t change; they never do.’

Natalya’s iPhone started buzzing. She glanced at it, saw Mikhail’s name, and tapped the screen to send the call to voicemail.

Renata Shchyotkina shook her head in despair. ‘You haven’t even asked his name.’

‘If I was in charge I’d have all these cowards take a real beating, but I can tell you for certain that nothing will happen to him until he nearly kills you. Miss Shchyotkina, if you have the money start a private prosecution against him.’

‘That’s a pretty speech,’ the woman said, rounding on her. ‘Why do you even bother?’

Natalya often wondered the same thing herself. For fifteen years she had worked on serious, violent crimes, and then her career had stalled as less experienced colleagues were promoted over her. There were suggestions in the station that she should put on more makeup or at least wear skirts occasionally. There was even a beauty pageant, Miss Russia Police, and some of the very feminine contestants reached the highest ranks, so undoubtedly she was getting good advice. In return she told her male colleagues to smoke and drink less if they wanted to be sharper and more able to catch criminals.

‘Listen to me. Fourteen thousand women are murdered every year by their partners,’ she said.

Her phone started buzzing again.

‘Why don’t you answer it? There’s no point you being here anyway.’ Renata Shchyotkina said acidly.

Natalya glanced at the screen: it was Mikhail again. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, and pressed the green circle to accept the call.’

‘Hey, Angel.’

‘Hello,’ she said, guardedly.

Mikhail let out a full yawn. ‘Rogov just called me from the station. He heard you were out on that call at Vasilyevsky Island.’

She turned away from Renata Shchyotkina. ‘So why didn’t he call me directly? Rogov is my subordinate, even if he keeps forgetting.’ she said, piqued.

‘I’m going out for drinks next week with him. He wanted to tell me about this new sports bar. We are friends, after all.’

She sighed, making it deliberately loud for his benefit. ‘So what’s the message?’

‘Rogov’s has been speaking with a duty sergeant from Vasilyevsky District. A girl there has just reported her friend missing. She hasn’t heard from her since late Thursday evening.’

Two nights was hardly an emergency unless she was a minor. ‘How old?’

‘Nineteen.’

So it wasn’t important, but Mikhail knew better than to waste her time – unless he was still in bed and half asleep. She looked up to see Renata Shchyotkina roll her open eye in irritation. ‘Misha, I can’t talk now. Why doesn’t Rogov tell him to complete a Missing Person’s report?’

Mikhail yawned again, this time loud enough to earn a frown from Renata Shchyotkina. ‘Because, my darling, the duty sergeant had the good sense to check out the girl. It turns out her father is seriously rich. Listen, are you still at the address on Vasilyevsky Island?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then do us all a favour and take a look. The missing girl lives only a few streets from you. Her name is Zena Dahl.’

‘Norwegian?’

‘Swedish; she’s a student at the university and lives on Veselnaya Ulitsa – block eight, apartment two. Can you find out if there’s something to it?’

‘What about Article 15?’

Mikhail snorted, ‘If she’s not there make something up. Say you were gaining entry to prevent a crime. Rogov is tracking down her landlord and only a fool would make a fuss. Get back to me as soon as you can, the local menti are holding off for now.’

‘Mikhail, I can’t leave.’

She looked up at Renata Shchyotkina who, judging by the hands on her hips and the scowl on her face, had heard something of the conversation. ‘I have to go. I’m really sorry.’

‘Just get out,’ she spat.

Mikhail had been right, the missing girl’s apartment was only two streets away. She picked up an apple-filled pastry from a Teremok stall at the end of Veselnaya Ulitsa and was still brushing the crumbs off her fingers when she reached Zena Dahl’s block. The building was six storeys of Vyborg granite with an impenetrable red metal door. Natalya climbed two stone steps to reach it and pressed all the buzzers next to the keypad. She tapped her foot, anxious to file the report on Renata Shchyotkina’s assault then return home before the morning was lost.

There was no answer.

She retreated to the street level and looked around. With these old buildings there was often a courtyard to the rear. She knew, though, the metal door at the back would be equally impenetrable and the lower windows barred. Distrust for banks meant most people kept their jewellery and cash hidden at home; as a result, apartments often had formidable security.