by G. D. Abson
‘Is she pregnant?’ Natalya asked. ‘Please tell me you’re using something.’
Mikhail stared at Anton. ‘What is it?’ he growled.
She studied her stepson’s face, reading reticence. ‘Let’s talk about it later,’ she said, knowing Mikhail was calmer after dinner.
‘Whose son is he?’ Mikhail had overstepped a boundary and immediately looked contrite.
Anton studied her face. ‘Shall I leave it?’
‘Don’t look at me, apparently I’m not part of the family.’ She raised her eyebrows in a mocking gesture aimed at Mikhail. ‘But as I was asking’ – she picked dough off her fingers – ‘is Tanya pregnant?’
‘No,’ said Anton, sounding disturbed. ‘But it’s best if I show you. It came in the mail this morning but you know what Mama is like. She’s been happy this last week but anything can send her down. Will you sort it out for me?’
The damned dough was under her fingernails. ‘What is it?’
Anton put the roses next to the bottle then went to the hallway to retrieve the small rucksack he seemed to live out of – he revelled in his status as a nomad.
‘I’ve got it here.’ Anton unzipped a side pouch and pulled out a creased envelope then held it an equal distance between them as if to maintain his neutrality.
Mikhail immediately snatched the envelope and tore it open. ‘Shit,’ he said after scanning the letter inside.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Assuming I’m still part of the family.’
Mikhail scowled. ‘It’s from Professor Litovkin, the Head of Admissions.’
He was quiet as he read. ‘To paraphrase, he is informing us that Anton Mikhailovich Ivanov is not academic material.’
Natalya frowned and stared at the pelmeni dumplings that would need another hour of preparation. She took the paper from Mikhail. ‘I thought you had fixed it?’
Anton looked embarrassed. ‘It doesn’t matter Natalya, I can find a job. I don’t have to go university.’
‘I’m talking to your father.’
‘I thought I had done it,’ Mikhail said quietly.
‘What’s this about?’ Anton asked.
‘What do you think?’ She put the paper on a worktop and took a knife from the drawer to scrape under her fingernails. ‘You’re old enough to be conscripted. The only way you can stay out is if you get an exemption certificate; that means you have to be medically unfit or at university. You’ve heard of dedovshchina, right?’
‘Sure, the Rule of Grandfathers, I heard that doesn’t happen any more.’
‘Yes it does. You could be beaten to death, raped, or pimped out by the older soldiers.’
‘It’s not so bad.’ Mikhail put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it affectionately. ‘I did it.’
She shook his hand off. ‘You want to try telling Anton some of your war stories?’ She shook her head in wonderment that he’d even brought up the subject. ‘You were in Chechnya for Christ’s sake, it’s a wonder you came back alive.’
‘It’s different now.’
‘Right? So you can promise me he won’t get sent to Donetsk, South Ossetia, Syria, or some other place we shouldn’t be in. And what if something else starts? Every time the President’s popularity falls—’
‘Natalya, it won’t happen.’ Anton’s head flicked between the two of them.
‘It wasn’t supposed to happen. Your father was meant to be fixing it.’
‘What are you saying?’
She looked at Mikhail and he shrugged – permission to continue. She wiped dough from the knife onto a piece of kitchen roll. ‘Do you remember when you had that fever last year and the doctor saw you straight away?’
Anton ran a hand over his semi-shaved hair. ‘Yeah, but what’s this got to do with—’
Mikhail jumped in. ‘Natalya paid that dried-up bitch of a receptionist eight hundred roubles to jump the queue, that’s what.’
‘Nice language,’ she said.
‘Sorry, Angel.’ He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
‘So you’re taking driving lessons now.’ Mikhail swigged on the Ochakovo. ‘If I don’t pay the examiner he’ll fail you no matter how many times you take it. But if I slip him ten thousand, he’ll pass you even if you’ve never been inside a car.’
‘Yeah I know this.’
She scraped the knife under another fingernail. ‘And you can be as smart as Andrei Sakharov but you won’t get into university without your father opening his wallet.’
‘So?’
‘So’ – she glared at Mikhail – ‘your letter means someone forgot to pay them. Incidentally, you ought to be more grateful. Your father bought your entrance exam results too. It cost him fifteen thousand roubles. Your real grades wouldn’t get you into a state orphanage.’
Anton looked dejected. ‘I told you, it doesn’t matter. I’ll get a job.’
‘Then you’ll end up in the army. At least they won’t have to cut your hair.’
‘They won’t find me.’
Mikhail’s fist gripped the edge of the table. ‘Are you going to hide until you’re twenty-nine? Don’t be stupid.’
Anton looked stung. ‘All right, then there are other ways.’
Natalya looked at the dumpling dough. It was getting warm; soon it would stick to the mould then turn to mush when she dropped the pelmeni in boiling water.
Mikhail opened the fridge and reached for a second bottle of Ochakovo. ‘No son of mine is going into a lunatic asylum. People will think you’re crazy.’ He picked up the creased letter and waved it. ‘I’m sure this Professor Litovkin is just telling us we’re late with the payment.’ He frowned, showing uncertainty. ‘And if not, there are places.’
‘We’re not going through that again, Misha.’ She finished scraping dough from under her nails and dropped the knife in the sink. ‘It took us weeks to set up a meeting with Litovkin.’
‘OK, OK. Leave it with me, I’ll check my accounts but I’m sure I paid the money-grabbing bastard.’
Natalya picked up the pelmeni mould and strode towards the pedal bin; she pressed the foot lever to open the lid then tipped the dough inside. She let the lid fall with a clang. Mikhail and Anton looked relieved and she hated them for it.
Chapter 3
She awoke to Mikhail’s crushing weight; his armpit hairs irritating her nose. He was stretched over her diagonally, talking to someone on her mobile.
‘No, this is Major Ivanov. Just give me the address, I’ll pass it on. She’ll be there.’
He hung up. ‘For Christ’s sake, Natalya, answer your goddam phone next time.’
She pushed her hands underneath his girth to prise him off. ‘Misha, you’re squashing me.’
His crushing weight lifted as he rolled back; the tang of his armpit lingering in her nostrils. She checked the clock radio, it showed “07:08”. For a second she wondered why her alarm hadn’t gone off then she remembered, with a sinking feeling, that it was Saturday and she was on call.
‘Who was it?’
He turned his back on her. ‘Domestic. Some teenager in uniform from Vasilyevsky District; he’s waiting for you. The address is on the table.’
Mikhail had always been a lighter sleeper than her. She blamed it on his constant, low level drinking that made him get up several times in the night to urinate and left him tired until midday; yet another reason to stay childless – he would struggle with the demands of a newborn.
From the living room, the day looked bright and she decided on a peach blouse over dark blue jeans; something informal and feminine to narrow the distance between an official and a victim of domestic violence. As an afterthought she grabbed a brown leather jacket from her wardrobe. Whatever she chose, it seemed the city’s maritime climate always had other plans.
She climbed in her ancient Volvo and left Tsentralny – one of the four districts that formed the historic heart of the city. As she crossed the Palace Bridge to Vasilyevsky Island she had an unpleasant memory of being eigh
teen and getting permission to go out drinking with her friends for the first time. The bar had been on the island and she had decided to walk home, forgetting that all the bridges to the mainland transformed into drawbridges in the early hours of the morning. She had spent the night shivering in a doorway, shooing away drunks who tried to pick her up. It was almost seven when she made it home, her mother adding to her misery by grounding her for a fortnight. Every kitchen noticeboard in the city had the bridge timetable pinned to it but after a few drinks it was easy enough to forget.
It was a little before 8 a.m. when she parked on Sredny Prospekt. The sky was still clear and she locked her jacket in the car boot before checking the address on the slip of paper Mikhail had given her. She hadn’t needed to: a uniformed ment was waiting conspicuously outside the entrance to an apartment block. On closer inspection, he looked a year or two older than Anton except he had a hardness in his eyes and she wondered momentarily if it had come from military service, a tough childhood, or more likely, both. The policeman had been smoking a cigarette; he tossed it to the pavement and ground it out with his shoe when she stopped at the main door.
‘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.
Chapter 4
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.
‘Yes?’
The door was opened a crack by an old lady with a hooked nose, clear plastic glasses, and a red and white patterned headscarf.
‘I’m calling for Zena.’
The woman fiddled with a hearing aid, twisting it around her ear. Natalya presumed she must have been watching her from a window because she wouldn’t have heard the bell. She waited as patiently as she could manage for the brown earpiece to be fixed in place.
Natalya resisted taking her ID card out. Especially with the citizens who’d lived through the Soviet era, a call from the police was something to fear and their mouths shut faster than rabbit traps. Another reason for subterfuge was obvious: if Zena had been kidnapped, and for a rich kid it wasn’t an unreasonable supposition, the release of information had to be carefully controlled.
‘I’m calling for Zena Dahl. Is this her place?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know where she is.’
‘I know,’ Natalya thought on her feet, ‘she’s gone away for a few days. You know what these young girls are like.’
