Motherland

by G. D. Abson

  ‘Yulia Federova is dead.’

  Dostoynov pushed his lips together then nodded solemnly. ‘Sergeant, please record the Captain’s confession.’

  Rogov left the cigarette in his mouth and patted his pockets before coming away with a pen. He pulled a notepad from his shirt pocket and leaned over the table.

  ‘Good, now we can begin,’ encouraged Vasiliev. ‘Captain, how did it happen?’

  ‘Yulia Federova is dead,’ she repeated.

  She watched Rogov scribble in the pad. ‘Am I going too fast for you?’

  He scowled.

  ‘You see that?’ – she pointed at the screen – ‘Yulia is wearing the Ulyana Sergeenko trouser suit and her hair looks perfect. She was going somewhere.’

  ‘A date?’ asked Vasiliev.

  ‘Or a modelling assignment. She was beautiful and needed her luck to change. She was murdered an hour later, then her killer used her keys to enter her apartment and make it look like she’d run away. That’s why it looked staged.’

  Rogov looked up. ‘Keep writing,’ she urged, ‘there could be a confession at the end of it.’

  ‘Continue, Captain,’ said Dostoynov, ‘but be aware you’re digging a hole.’

  ‘Yulia was Zena’s only friend in Piter. I wonder if she was killed for discovering something. It could be those ZAGS records that she was helping Zena with.’

  Dostoynov put a hand on Rogov’s arm to stop him writing. ‘I thought you said you were no good at stories.’

  ‘Then let me tell you another one, it’s a mystery called “The death of Zena Dahl”. First question: why does a murderer burn a body?’

  She looked to Rogov but he was hunched over his notepad, writing.

  ‘To destroy physical evidence,’ volunteered Dostoynov.

  ‘Then the killer was an idiot – he left her handbag behind at the scene.’

  ‘This is old ground and your description of an idiot matches either of the gopniks. In case you have forgotten, it was your husband who arrested them.’

  ‘Here’s another theory. The body in the park was burned, not to destroy evidence but to disguise the victim. The killer needed to destroy the hair and face, and to make those long legs curl up. Zena Dahl was adopted and we don’t know who her natural parents are – that means we can’t match on DNA.’ She smiled sweetly at Rogov. ‘Make sure you write this in capitals: The body in the park is Yulia Federova, not Zena Dahl.’

  There was silence in the room, then ‘That’s some imagination,’ said Dostoynov.

  She shook her head. ‘Yulia Federova left the Krestovsky Island Metro an hour before witnesses reported seeing smoke. And no one puts a body in the Maritime Victory Park unless the purpose is to draw attention to it.’

  Dostoynov snorted. ‘So someone killed Yulia Federova and turned her into Zena Dahl. You expect me to believe that?’

  ‘Zena had been missing for nearly four days by then. All we needed was a burned body and a handbag to be convinced it was her.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Vasiliev, tapping his cigarette over an aluminium foil ashtray.

  ‘I don’t know yet, Colonel, but it’s easy enough to prove. Yulia Federova’s father is in prison, you can compare his DNA to that of the body in the woods.’

  Dostoynov grinned. ‘This is better than Koschei the Deathless. Aren’t you forgetting the two gopniks? Setting a murder like this is beyond their intellectual capacity.’

  ‘Rogov?’ she waited until he lifted his head. ‘You questioned the two boys.’

  ‘Scum,’ he spat.

  ‘Before you forced a confession out of them, what was their story?’

  ‘Colonel, Major,’ he blustered, ‘I didn’t coerce them.’

  ‘Sergeant, answer the question,’ said Vasiliev.

  Rogov put his hands on his hips. ‘They told me lies. Popovich found their fingerprints on the purse. They told the truth soon enough.’

  ‘Sergeant, answer the question,’ Vasiliev repeated.

  ‘The gopniks told me they found her on the street and robbed her.’

  ‘We know that, then what?’

  ‘They heard someone coming and ran away. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘It does if a kidnapper was tracking Zena’s movements,’ she said. ‘Whoever abducted her saw the robbery and decided to intervene. They knew the boys would have left fingerprints behind on her handbag.’

  Rogov wobbled his jowls as he shook his head. ‘Why bother?’

  ‘Because someone has made the daughter of a billionaire disappear and all you can think of is how to frame the only person trying to solve the case.’

  ‘What about the gopniks?’ asked Rogov.

  ‘Knowing our justice system they’ll be stuck in pre-trial detention for months. They were a pair of nasty shits though, so I’m not going to lose sleep over it.’ She paused for breath. ‘So, gentlemen, do you want me to find Zena Dahl, as well as Yulia Federova’s killer, or would you prefer to keep me here on false charges?’

  Vasiliev patted his Teddy Boy quiff. ‘Thank you, Major…Sergeant, I wish to speak with the Captain alone.’

  ‘I don’t think you realise—’

  ‘That’s enough, Major Dostoynov.’

  Vasiliev waited until the door was closed. ‘I apologise for all that unpleasantness… it’s not what I wanted.’ He stubbed his cigarette out in the foil ashtray. ‘Natalya, did you ever hear of an Aleksey Mikheyev?’

  ‘No, Colonel.’

  ‘It’s a true story.’ Vasiliev pulled his chair opposite hers. ‘Mikheyev was a traffic ment in Nizhny Novgorod who offered a girl a lift out of town. Soon she is reported missing. The local police discover Mikheyev was the last person to see her so they charge him with her rape and murder. He refuses to admit what he did with her body so they put a few volts through his brain to improve his memory. Mikheyev thinks they are going to kill him so he jumps out of a third floor window and breaks his back in the fall. Now he’s in a wheelchair for life. Two weeks later, the girl turns up unharmed – she’d been staying with friends.’

  If the case was a jigsaw, it would go back to the shop minus its missing pieces. Colonel Vasiliev wasn’t helping either.

  ‘You’re saying the uniform won’t protect me.’

  ‘Well, it didn’t do a lot for Mikheyev. What is your objective?’

  ‘I want to find Zena – if she’s still alive – and get the bastard who killed Yulia Federova. It would be nice to stay alive too. The FSB want me to leave it alone.’

  ‘Dostoynov’s one of them of course.’

  ‘But not you?’

  ‘Listen.’ Vasiliev leaned forwards over the desk. ‘You ever seen this?’ He tapped the United Russia pin badge on the lapel of his jacket.

  ‘Yes, Colonel.’

  United Russia was the political party created as a vehicle to keep President Putin in power. It was Vasiliev’s way of informing his subordinates that he was plugged in to the administration.

  ‘You breathe a word of this, Ivanova, and I’ll let the FSB do whatever they want with you – is that clear?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, Colonel.’

  He opened his wallet and removed an ancient piece of card; he held it up for her to see. ‘Now, look closely.’

  Some of the lettering had disintegrated but it was still readable. ‘You were in The People’s Freedom Party?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

  ‘My father supported them too – weren’t they one of the early pro-democracy movements?’

  Vasiliev returned the tattered card to his wallet with care. ‘That’s who I am; one of the original members too. I kept my head down when they were de-registered.’ He tapped the pin badge. ‘How could I join the party of crooks and thieves for God’s sake? I’m a policeman.’

  ‘So you’re helping me?’

  ‘Helping, but mostly arse-covering. If I let you walk out of here, the FSB will know I helped you and I could lose my pension… or worse. Dostoynov has raised a criminal case again
st you, but until he presents evidence to the prosecutor it’s just a number, nothing more.’

  ‘So I’m screwed.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Vasiliev smoothed the sides of his quiff. ‘I think there’s a way out for all of us. I want you to sign something.’

  ‘You’re still after my confession?’

  ‘Why would you say that?’ He removed a sheet of paper from a manila folder and passed it to her.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Take a look. It’s your resignation. I had it typed this morning when I heard Dostoynov was looking for evidence against you.’

  She scanned it quickly, unable to believe what she was seeing. ‘I won’t sign it.’

  ‘Look at the top.’

  Her eyes flicked upwards. ‘It’s backdated to last Saturday.’

  ‘The day you walked into Zena Dahl’s apartment.’

  ‘You’re forcing me out?’

  ‘No, disowning you, and I’ll only do it if the FSB catch or kill you. I’ll show the letter to Dostoynov too and tell him exactly the same. He won’t like it any more than you but the FSB will be off my back, and if you sign it’ – Vasiliev extended his hand towards the door – ‘you’ll be free to go.’

  ‘Why are you helping me?’ she asked, suspicious that Vasiliev could process her resignation the moment she walked out.

  ‘Because I think you’re right. Find Zena Dahl and get Yulia Federova’s killer.’

  For the first time in several hours she smiled, then picked up Rogov’s discarded pen and signed the letter.

  Vasiliev took it from her and placed it inside the manila folder. ‘And for God’s sake, Ivanova, keep away from the FSB.’

  Chapter 33

  She counted the floors of the building, stopping at the fourth. The living room window had drawn blinds and heavy curtains to block the daylight entering Sergei’s bedroom while he slept off his nocturnal activities. Below his apartment, there were no lights. Not that she could see anything inside it from the coffee shop on the opposite side of the street.

  If they hadn’t already, the FSB men would soon find her iPhone in its hiding place on the elektrichka. She lowered her line of sight to the pavement and watched a white van with “Vadim’s Art Collective” stencilled on the side and a woman with unkempt red hair in the driver’s seat. It was parked where the grey BMW X5 had been earlier and she wondered if it was there innocently or the FSB were taking a stealthier approach. She dismissed the idea; the woman looked more likely to be an agitator than an agent.

  She ducked down as she approached her Volvo, five cars behind the van, not caring how conspicuous she looked to passers-by. Her door opened with a clunk that echoed down the street and she lifted her head momentarily to check for activity then removed her Makarov from the glove compartment. She fixed the holster to her belt, then, on impulse, lay down on the pavement and examined the underside of her car, running her hand against the dirt-crusted metal to check for a tracking device. There was nothing she could feel, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t something there.

  There were footsteps behind her and she turned abruptly, her thumb touching the top of her belt for the Makarov.

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘Jesus, Leo.’

  Primakov, for once, was dressed to unimpress, his jeans were dirty and frayed at the bottoms, and he wore a T-shirt with a green, circular Starbucks logo beneath an open, flapping anorak with the hood pulled over his blond hair.

  She wrapped her arms around him without thinking. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  He patted her back stiffly. ‘You too, Captain.’

  She let go and stepped back. ‘What’s with the clothes?’

  ‘Disguise. There are a lot of strange people around.’

  ‘You mean FSB?’

  ‘Yes,’ he fidgeted with his car keys, looking more anxious than she had ever seen him before, ‘one of them came to my apartment – a major from Moscow. She was asking questions about you. They scare me; she scared me.’ Primakov looked around. ‘The fact is, we should get away from here. Far away.’

  They jogged to his Samara.

  ‘You had any offers?’ she pointed at a “For Sale” sign taped to his dashboard. Above it, dangling from the mirror, were a collection of air fresheners in the shape of pine trees.

  ‘We don’t need to talk about it.’

  ‘I’d prefer a little distraction.’

  ‘Oh, well, one man was interested.’

  ‘Until he took it for a test drive and complained it smelled like a toilet?’

  ‘Exactly that.’

  ‘You bought it in winter, try selling it then.’ She climbed in and immediately wound down the window.

  He started driving. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To Zena’s place.’

  ‘What were you doing outside my apartment?’

  ‘Major Ivanov asked me to find you. He told me not to call you.’

  ‘The FSB have my phone.’

  He nodded, satisfied. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s something to do with the Zena Dahl case. They want me out of the way, I don’t know why. Also, I think—’

  ‘She’s alive? I heard. Do you know where she is?’

  Natalya shook her head. ‘No idea.’

  ‘I also heard the body in the woods is her friend, Yulia Federova.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Major Ivanov.’

  ‘Leo?’

  Primakov nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, Captain?’

  ‘You can call me Natalya, I don’t think I’m going to be in a job much longer.’ – or alive, she thought – ‘If it’s not a rude question, why are you helping?’ She leaned out of the open window to suck in sweet air as they crossed Blagoveshchensky Bridge to Vasilyevsky Island.

  She pulled her head back in to hear him.

  ‘Scales of grey,’ Primakov was saying. ‘I have a mild obsessive compulsive disorder. It’s simpler to keep things as black or white. Tidier.’

  ‘And poorer.’

  He smiled. ‘That too. Dostoynov is trying to throw some dirt on you.’

  ‘You don’t believe him?’

  ‘Major Ivanov moved in with Rogov after I sent you that keylogger. My conclusion is you found something you didn’t like. That makes you more honest than most. Also, the FSB aren’t interested in conspiracy theorists but they are very interested in you. Unfortunately for me, wanting everything black or white means a sliver of white and a whole lot of black.’

  She took a breath, inhaling pine and an undercurrent of urine.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He waved it away and they lapsed into silence. Primakov checked his mirror nervously, driving twice along Veselnaya Ulitsa before pulling up outside the eighth block. He stopped to tie his shoelace and she went on. The curtains in the apartment of Zena’s neighbour twitched before she could climb the steps to the metal door; it opened as she took out the key.

  Natalya peered at a pair of burgundy eyebrows and burgundy hair scraped back into a bun. ‘Mrs Kuznetsova, do you remember me?’ she asked, reached for her identification card.

  ‘Yes, I’ve been expecting you.’

  ‘And this is Expert Criminalist Primakov.’

  Lyudmila Kuznetsova gave him a flirtatious grin, showing teeth that were too white and even to be real.

  ‘Come in, he’s been here all afternoon.’ The old woman pulled the door open wide then turned for her apartment, calling out to Primakov behind her: ‘And close it behind you, handsome.’

  Natalya followed the old woman, half-listening to her voice as it competed with the high volume of the television. ‘He speaks Russian like a donkey but he bought food and vodka.’

  Kuznetsova was animated and, coupled with the flirtation over Primakov, Natalya reached the conclusion the old woman had already started drinking.

  The door to the apartment was ajar. She watched Thorsten Dahl climb out of the armchair facing the television. He bent down to kiss Natalya’s cheek then thought
better of it and offered his hand. ‘Captain Ivanova, it’s good to meet you again,’ he said, raising his voice to be heard over the current affairs programme on TV.

  ‘You made it alright?’ she asked.

  He moved away from the television to speak. ‘I flew to Helsinki then took a hire car. I’ve been driving all night.’

  ‘Thorsten. Let me introduce,’ she stepped aside, ‘Expert Criminalist Leo Primakov, a crime scene investigator.’

  Primakov held out his hand to Dahl. ‘Pleased to meet you and before you ask,’ he said drily, ‘it’s nothing like CSI.’

  Kuznetsova tried to beckon them all towards a table laden with food but Natalya resisted; she moved her head from Primakov to the old woman as a hint he should go and keep the old woman happy.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said to Dahl, taking out Zena’s key. ‘It’s too noisy with that TV.’

  Dahl yawned. ‘Yes, I think her hearing aid is broken.’

  They walked into the landing. ‘Have you ever been here before?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘What about Anatoly Lagunov?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ The Swede shook his head. ‘Anatoly barely knew Zena. Perhaps he met her once or twice at my house in Stockholm.’

  Natalya turned the key in the door and pushed it open. ‘Well, I thought you might appreciate seeing her place.’

  ‘Yes, I do. Thank you.’

  She stepped into the living room and drew the curtains, scattering dust and clearing the gloom.

  ‘It’s not what I expected.’

  ‘Trust me, this is upmarket for a student – I shared with four girls who swore like sailors and drank like it was their last day on Earth.’ Her hand went to her mouth. ‘Sorry, poor taste.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  She sat on the edge of Zena’s sofa. ‘Thorsten, I wanted to speak to you privately.’ She touched his arm. ‘I found camera footage of Zena’s friend, Yulia Federova. She was walking towards the park where the body was found.’

  ‘You think she’s implicated.’

  ‘No, this happened an hour before smoke was seen.’ She spoke carefully, ‘I must tell you some of my colleagues have a different opinion but I have reason to believe it was Yulia Federova who was killed, not Zena.’