The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [27]
In the simple kitchen, working on the scrubbed wooden table that stood in the centre of the black-and-white tiled floor, Irina handed Stevie eggs, one by one, and Stevie broke them into a large ceramic bowl. There were nine eggs—just enough. They would be six people if the daughter was home. Irina watched her work, eyes like a sleepwalker. Stevie decided she had better take over the cooking.
She asked for directions to a frying pan, a wooden spatula, a bread knife. Irina answered in careful, soft monosyllables, as if she were afraid of her own voice. But at least she was speaking.
Irina went to the window and drew back the curtains. In Russia, the windows have two panes, to keep out the cold. By opening the inside pane, you can get a little fresh air without inviting in the arctic temperatures outside. There is also a space between the panes—a ledge—that is used as a cool box in winter. Irina opened the inside window and pulled out a bottle of vodka, completely chilled. She poured two glasses and gave one to Stevie.
‘Nazdarovye.’ Cheers.
She would get good value from vodka on a desperately empty stomach.
Behind Stevie, Irina was setting the table. She had poured two more glasses of vodka. As Stevie set down her second empty glass—now feeling rather warm inside—she counted the plates.
‘Is your daughter not joining us for dinner?’
This was not, apparently, the right thing to ask. Irina mutely shook her head. She sat down at the kitchen table and began to weep.
So that’s it. The daughter.
Stevie turned back to the frying pan.
Kozkov, Vadim and Henning walked in; Kozkov laid a hand on his wife’s bent shoulders and kept it there. No one mentioned the weeping.
‘You haven’t been introduced to my son, Vadim,’ Kozkov said, gesturing for Vadim to offer Stevie a greeting. They shook hands.
Up close, Vadim was even more ghostly. His hair and skin were almost the same colour; even his eyebrows and eyelashes were blond. It was as if the boy had been completely drained of pigment.
Stevie had read that loss of pigmentation was a common side effect of being hit by lightning, but surely . . . A long scar over his eye—badly stitched at the time—made violence of that sort seem almost possible. She served the omelette, hot and soft and buttery, then watched Vadim pour the vodka into every glass. His voice, his scar, his pallor made her wonder whether he were a boy at all and not some weary old man.
‘Nazdarovye,’ said Kozkov, eyes on his son.
Stevie took a breath. ‘Where is your daughter tonight?’
Vadim refilled the glasses. ‘To Anya,’ he whispered.
‘Our daughter Anya is missing.’ It was Irina who spoke, as if her daughter’s name had jolted her from her torpor. Stevie shot a glance at Henning who still refused to meet her gaze.
‘What happened?’
Irina took a quick breath and the words poured out in sharp bursts.
‘She went to GUM, the department store, with her friend Petra, to do some shopping. They went to a café. Petra went to pay for coffee at the counter. There was a line and she had to wait a while. When she came back, the table was empty and Anya was gone. No one has heard anything from her since.’
‘When was this?’ Stevie asked quickly.
‘Four and a half days now.’
Too long. Far too long.
‘And you’ve asked Petra—’ ‘Of course.’
‘How old is Anya?’
‘She’s fifteen.’
‘And you’ve spoken to Anya’s school teachers?’
‘Her physics teacher suggested she might have run away to America with a secret boyfriend.’ Irina blinked twice. ‘Her teachers live in a world that has long gone. They don’t understand.’
‘This is the new Russia—the era of the Novi Ruski.’ Kozkov’s voice had a bitter edge. ‘Sudden unexplained absences are seldom voluntary.’
‘So you think she has been kidnapped?’ Stevie was dreading the answer.
Kozkov nodded. ‘But there has been no word, no ransom demand.
Nothing.’
‘Have you told anyone, the police?’ Stevie asked, although she feared she knew the answer. ‘It’s been four and a half days—’
‘It is too risky. We didn’t know what to do. The security forces, the police could be cooperating with