Motherland: A gripping crime thriller set in the dark heart of Putin's Russia

by G. D. Abson

  She contemplated going back to sleep but had no desire to return to her dark dreams, so she got dressed. It was already Wednesday, the last of the two days’ compassionate leave Colonel Vasiliev had authorised. Early on Tuesday morning, when Mikhail had got home after the arrests at the old schoolhouse, she had told him to leave. She arranged for him to stay with Rogov and Oksana until he was ready to tell her the truth. He had protested meekly but nevertheless had packed a bag before work – another indication of his guilt considering it was his money that had bought the apartment and, by rights, she should have been the one to move out. Unfortunately, on the few occasions she had spoken to him on the phone, Mikhail had stuck rigidly to his story and she had to make a decision soon whether to take him back and ignore his dishonesty or make the separation permanent.

  The buzzer sounded again. This time, it was the one on her apartment door.

  She squinted through the eyepiece to see Mikhail wearing a suit; he had also shaved. After a quick check in the mirror, she smoothed her unironed checked shirt before opening the door.

  ‘Misha, what a surprise.’

  ‘I left my keys.’ He looked around and rocked on his heels awkwardly.

  She let him in. ‘Take off your shoes, you’re making me nervous.’

  He did, then craned his neck as he looked around. ‘I like what you’ve done with the place.’

  After two days, the sink was overflowing with dirty dishes and there was a heap of clothes piled up on the sofa near an ironing board. Mikhail was the tidy one in their relationship. ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘I can tell.’

  She stared at Mikhail’s discarded shoes; a hint that he was beginning to outstay his welcome. ‘How can I help, Misha?’

  ‘Did you see Channel One?

  ‘Last night and yesterday. You looked a real hero. I reckon they might offer you the Medal for Valour.’

  Somewhere between her first bottle of Satrapezo and an old episode of Spets, a news item had shown him shoulder-barge the kitchen door of the schoolhouse. Inside, he confronted two teenage boys in their underwear cooking up the dirty opiate junkies call krokodil that was supposedly more addictive than heroin. The report had included a slow motion action shot of Mikhail pulling out his gun and forcing the two boys to the floor. The camera panned to show packets of codeine pills and industrial chemicals.

  ‘Thanks… reports going to the prosecutor’s office. I can’t see them objecting. Early this morning they both confessed to killing the Sven.’

  ‘Did Rogov handle it?’

  ‘Yeah, but don’t get down on Stepan. We found pictures of Zena Dahl on one of their phones with her dress around her waist.’ Mikhail’s mouth twisted into a grimace. ‘You can only imagine what the sick fucks did to her.’

  ‘Still, I’d like to read their confessions.’

  She thought of the two boys withdrawing from the krokodil and Rogov offering to give them whatever they craved as long as they put their names to a statement – one that he’d probably written himself. Mikhail had a point though, suspects were convicted on less and they were a pair of nasty shits that the world wouldn’t miss.

  He snorted and pulled out a packet of Sobranie Classics. ‘It’s been two days now and I still can’t get the damned smell of iodine out of my nose. Jesus, Tasha, have you ever seen kids on krokodil before? When Bezzubtsev put his hands up I could see his actual arm bone moving inside – the phosphorous rots their flesh. It was the freakiest thing I’ve ever seen. Don’t be surprised if he’s dead before trial.’

  Mikhail tapped the end of his cigarette and looked around; she pointed to the balcony door.

  He frowned. ‘You’re banning me from smoking in my own apartment?’

  ‘Just clearing the air.’ She followed him out and pulled the handle behind her to keep the smoke out. ‘So who was his friend?’

  ‘Stanislav Stanislavovich Mamanov. Called himself Stas. He has a juvenile conviction for indecent assault.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Looks like they had a charming double act going – one robbed and the other raped. Poor Zena, it’s terrible to think they were her last experience on Earth. The two of them stank like railway tramps too…they hadn’t washed in weeks.’

  ‘What did they smell of?’

  ‘Just unclean, why?’

  She watched him tap the ash of his cigarette over the balcony and waited until she had his attention. ‘You didn’t notice wood smoke or petrol?’

  ‘Don’t think so, why?’

  ‘Misha, if they hadn’t washed in weeks how did they get the smell of wood smoke and petrol off without washing away the rest of their stink?’

  ‘You got a better idea?’

  She leaned on the railings and stared at the street below. The light was sharp and it brought a pain behind her eyeballs.

  ‘So why did they kill her?’ she asked.

  Mikhail stared into space and puffed on his cigarette thoughtfully. ‘Prison rules, perhaps? Raping a stranger carries a death sentence inside. By killing her then burning the body I guess they wanted to improve their chances.’

  ‘What’s the timeline? Where did they hold Zena between Friday morning and Sunday evening? Did you check with the others at the squat to account for their movements?’

  ‘We don’t need to. Are you saying they didn’t do it?’

  ‘Anything’s possible,’ she said, realising how absurd it sounded.

  ‘Sure, so is teaching a dog to tap dance.’

  ‘So they raped and robbed Zena, kept her for three days, then took her to one of the most public parks in the city. They got the fire going with petrol, threw her on, and then hurried back to their squat. Right?’

  He nodded. ‘If you’ve got more questions you can file them under “Who gives a shit about a pair of gopniks?”. The prosecutor has the case and Dostoynov won’t thank you for interfering. That’s why I’m here.’

  He looked at her so gravely she wanted to burst out laughing.

  ‘What is it, Misha?’

  ‘You remember asking me to find out about Dahl’s visa?’

  ‘Sure, you said you knew someone from law school at the Big House.’

  ‘Viktor.’ He puffed on his Sobranie and stared thoughtfully at the pedestrians posing for photographs by the stone lions on the opposite side of the Griboyedov Canal. ‘He was waiting for me outside the car park this morning. There was this look on his face you don’t often see outside an interrogation room. Like a tough guy who knows he’s in the shit. Only when these guys get in the shit it can end very badly for them.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  Mikhail took another drag. ‘A woman – an FSB major from the Economic Crimes Directorate – called him from Moscow.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Basically, thieves. She wanted to know what business he had checking the manifest of Dahl’s Gulfstream. He made up some excuse but he could tell she didn’t believe him. Natasha, if the FSB have an interest in the Zena Dahl case then wash your hands of it, and don’t look back. I’m telling you’ – he gave her the earnest look again – ‘for all our sakes.’

  ‘Did Viktor warn you off?’

  ‘That’s why I came here. I assured him the case was already closed and I was the only one asking, but…for Christ’s sake, Natalya, leave it alone.’ He stubbed the cigarette out on the underside of the railing then held it in his palm and flicked it into space.

  Chapter 25

  She parked her Volvo on Vosstaniya Ulitsa and strolled past the street’s shop fronts inhaling deeply the fresh, if fume-tinged, air to help shake off her hangover. Officially she was off duty until Thursday but she owed it to Zena to find a few more answers and put the case to bed. The FSB involvement intrigued her as much as it scared her, but she reassured herself that they would have no interest in a police murder investigation. Most likely it was high politics that had drawn them in, and she could keep her distance from anything that smelled dangerous.

  The business card Anatoly Lagunov had
presented to her in his BMW displayed no company name or logo, and neither did Thorsten Dahl’s headquarters – there was only the number etched in black on a brass plaque. The doors were locked and she noticed a slot where a swipe card allowed the employees to gain entry. She rang the bell then heard a click and went inside.

  As much as the building was anonymous on the outside, inside it was stunning. An atrium extended to the full height of the six-floor edifice. Under her feet there was an ancient map of the heavens tiled in brown and blue marble. Ten metres above her head hung a chandelier, its yellow and orange crystals forming a sun. Even the reception desk was a greyish-white and shaped to resemble a crescent moon. A security guard-cum-receptionist watched her calmly from it. His fine hair was red and she wondered how much he must hate putting on his chocolate-brown uniform each day.

  She pulled out her ID card. ‘I’d like to speak with Anatoly Lagunov.’

  While he picked up the phone she examined an aluminium wall mosaic of Yuri Gagarin peering through his Vostok-1 porthole from half a century ago.

  Two minutes later, a set of Art Deco varnished doors parted, and a woman exited a lift on the far side of the crescent-shaped desk. She had a blonde bob and curves accentuated by a tight red suit, making her the image of an Aeroflot flight attendant. A swipe card hung on a lanyard and swung between her breasts,

  ‘Hello, I’m Daria, Anatoly’s secretary.’ She held out her hand to Natalya.

  They crossed the expanse of marble to the Art Deco lift. ‘Nice place.’

  ‘We like it here.’

  The lift opened on the second floor into a large office where around fifty people, mostly men, were sitting in cubicles staring at computer screens or talking.

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘This floor it’s the accountants; above us is marketing, below is IT. Don’t ask more than that, I couldn’t tell you.’

  They weaved through the cubicles to a smoked glass wall and Daria pulled on a door handle. Inside was a narrow reception area containing a small desk and three swivel chairs. Beyond it, there was a closed door. Daria knocked on it lightly and Anatoly Lagunov emerged, beckoning Natalya inside.

  On the wall was a framed certificate of a law degree from Leningrad State University that dated Lagunov’s student days to the premiership of Yuri Andropov, the Butcher of Budapest.

  ‘I can barely remember my time there,’ Anatoly Lagunov said, noticing her gaze at it. He held out his hand.

  She shook it and studied the lawyer, realising he must be older than he looked. A grey silk shirt showed off the contours of his physique and she felt his sharp eyes study her in return, no doubt reaching a less favourable conclusion after a night of drinking fine Georgian wine.

  ‘Captain Ivanova, it’s nice to see you.’ Lagunov flashed those small teeth. ‘Something to drink?’

  ‘Coffee: black, no sugar. Thank you.’

  Daria had been hovering in the background and turned smartly, closing the adjoining door. Natalya took a cappuccino-coloured rocket chair that put her several inches below the lawyer’s, then pulled out her notepad.

  ‘How can I help?’ Lagunov took up his seat and she noticed the framed portrait of the president adjacent to a wall safe.

  ‘Are you sure your money is secure next to him?’

  He laughed, baring his teeth, then leant forwards and planted his elbows on his desk. ‘Quite secure…I must congratulate you on the resolution of your case.’

  ‘Thank you. Please pass on my condolences to Mister Dahl, I haven’t spoken to him since the evening we found Zena.’ She edged forwards in the chair. ‘If you don’t mind, there are a few loose ends I need to tidy up.’

  Lagunov pressed his hands together. ‘Please, Captain, whatever I can do.’

  ‘We haven’t been able to speak to Mister Dahl recently so perhaps you can pass on any questions that you are unable to answer?’

  He shuffled in his seat. ‘As long as you don’t ask about Zena’s adoption again.’ He gave her a tight smile. ‘That’s a private matter I’d prefer not to be discuss again.’

  She maintained a neutral expression. ‘First, I’d like to explain what will happen to Zena’s body. There’s a backlog for autopsies but due to the importance of this case, it’s likely the state pathologist, Doctor Fedyushina, will want to start this week. After that, Zena will be held until the identification process is complete. A dental specialist will be called once we have her records.’

  He unclasped his hands. ‘I’ll pass that on and make sure Thorsten expedites your request for her records.’

  ‘Thank you. I imagine he’ll want to start making funeral arrangements soon.’

  ‘Yes, he will.’ Lagunov looked flustered and she watched his hands knit together again.

  ‘Also, I’ll be happy to escort him to Zena’s apartment to retrieve her belongings. In cases like these, I hear it helps family members to accept the reality of the situation.’

  ‘That is kind. Again, I’ll pass it on.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Now the niceties were over she asked, ‘Has Thorsten been to Zena’s apartment before?’

  ‘I don’t believe so.’

  ‘As I said, I’d be happy to take him there. Unless you want to do it yourself…I assume you know where she lives?’ She glanced at him casually.

  ‘No…but I have the address somewhere.’

  Now she studied his face for the lie; it was impassive as he contradicted Zena’s elderly neighbour. ‘Then perhaps you could accompany Thorsten.’

  ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘How will you get in? I presume someone has a set of her keys?’ Again, she behaved nonchalantly. If Lagunov had been the one inside Zena’s apartment, then he had got her keys from somewhere. Was it possible he had hired the two boys to kill his boss’s daughter?

  He shrugged with his mouth. ‘We don’t. Could you arrange for a copy to be made?’

  ‘I can do that. Incidentally, how will you get hold of Thorsten? We’ve been trying since Monday and it seems all roads to him go via you.’

  ‘He’s grieving the loss of his daughter and prefers not be disturbed. I will pass the message on.’

  ‘Mister Lagunov, where is he?’

  ‘I don’t see what relevance—’

  She decided to go in as heavy as a steel pile driver. ‘You can answer the question here or in an interview room. If you remember, on Saturday I said the same. You’re wearing my patience.’

  Lagunov’s face blanched. ‘But that was before Zena was found – I assumed that changed everything. Thorsten’s a busy man; he could be anywhere.’

  ‘Yet a moment ago you said he didn’t want to be disturbed. Which is he – busy or seeking solitude, and how do you know if you’re not in contact with him?’

  Daria entered with a coffee. She handed it to Natalya, and Lagunov waited until the door was closed again. ‘Is this another interrogation?’

  She shuffled forwards and put the cup on the edge of his desk. ‘There’s always a journalist or two waiting outside headquarters, if I bring you in it will be hard to avoid them. I imagine someone like you must hate to be seen by the press.’

  Lagunov bared his little, neat teeth again. ‘I’m cooperating, aren’t I?’

  ‘I hope so. Tell me, is Thorsten in Sweden?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She sipped her coffee. ‘You don’t know which country he’s in?’ She frowned. ‘I thought you were cooperating. Aren’t you supposed to be his right-hand man?’

  ‘I’m his lawyer which means I don’t have to answer these questions under commercial secrecy.’

  ‘So the abduction and murder of his daughter is a commercial secret?’

  ‘Why are you being so difficult, for God’s sake? I’m trying to help you but my hands are tied. I can’t say anything. He’s lost a child. Try to have some sympathy.’

  ‘No need to be bad tempered. We all want to get to the truth, don’t we? The fact is, I already know Thor
sten is somewhere in St. Petersburg. He’s with a man called Felix Axelsson who works as a freelance security advisor. So I have two questions for you – think carefully before you answer: where is he, and what is he up to?’

  She watched Lagunov squirm. ‘He’s not doing anything illegal.’

  She scribbled in her pad. ‘I’m noting that you refused to answer both questions.’

  ‘I’m not refusing, I’m not allowed to.’

  She nodded as if satisfied with his answer – which was far from the truth. ‘Then whatever he’s doing, ask him to call me. I’m sure you can do that. My sole interest is making sure the case against Zena’s killers is watertight. I have no interest in any minor laws he may have broken. What’s that expression?’

  Her question earned a frown from Lagunov.

  ‘You must have heard it: “The severity of the law is offset by its lack of observance.” In other words, I can be unobservant when I need to be. I my mind, there is a difference between citizens who break minor laws as a matter of necessity and those who commit acts of serious criminality. Removing a child from an orphanage without the requisite paperwork’ – she waved her hand dismissively – ‘doesn’t interest me at all.’

  ‘I’ll pass your message on.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Lagunov leaned back in his chair. ‘Honesty is admirable in an honest society but here’ – he snorted – ‘it destroys you. As you say, everyone breaks the law sometimes; it’s a matter of doing what your conscience allows.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t want to open a newspaper and read how those boys burned Zena to destroy the physical evidence of a rape. Journalists pay well for insider knowledge like that: the tragic life and death of a billionaire’s daughter. If I told you Thorsten was willing to protect Zena’s dignity would you be surprised?’

  ‘He’ll pay me not to talk to the press?’

  ‘You don’t need to do anything. Honesty ought to be rewarded. The Svens are very big on that kind of thing.’