was her godmother’s, Katia. She drowned when she fell though the ice one spring.’
Stevie carefully took the necklace from Irina and examined it. ‘It was ripped from her neck, I’m guessing. The clasp is a little bent. Gold is soft.’ She looked closely at the blue glass eye that twisted slowly this way and that.
‘People usually wear an evil eye to keep people’s bad thoughts away,’ Stevie said, half to herself.
‘The eye was a new thing,’ Vadim broke in. ‘I think it’s from a night club—like a membership badge or a promotion.’
‘It’s quite beautiful. What is the club called?’
‘Zima. These promoters run a new club named after each season:
Zima in winter, Leto in summer, Vesna in spring and Osen in autumn.
People in Moscow have very short attention spans. The nightclubs have to reinvent themselves every few months.’
‘Does Anya go to nightclubs often?’ Stevie was surprised. She was only fifteen.
‘It was her first time,’ Vadim said. ‘They run some model night there. Girls go to get discovered. She went to the club two nights before she disappeared, I remember. She told me afterwards or I would have stopped her.’
‘I didn’t know.’ Irina shook her head. ‘Anya likes classical music.’
‘Irina,’ Stevie asked gently, ‘can I see Anya’s room?’
It was a comfortable room, a teenage room, with photos of her school friends, animals, a Coldplay poster, one of Vanessa Mae, signed. The single bed, neatly made with a pale pink quilt, reminded Stevie how young Anya was; and how horribly afraid she would be feeling right at this moment.
‘Was Anya happy? Did she mention any new friends, ideas, places in the last few weeks?’ she asked Irina.
It was Vadim who answered. ‘She always talks about moving to America, or Paris. Living real life. She wants to be famous.’
‘I don’t suppose she keeps a diary?’
‘No. She expresses everything through music. She always says words deform true meaning.’
Anya had papered the entire wall next to her bed with the covers of fashion magazines. Sandy Belle was on several of them. Her face stared down at Stevie, with her perky nose and flaming hair. Stevie wondered what dreams Sandy Belle had inspired in Anya.
‘Did Anya want to be an actress?’
Vadim looked at his mother. She was far away, staring out the window at the white winter fog.
‘A model. But my parents thought it was a bad idea.’
‘She is too young.’ Irina woke from her reverie. ‘It’s not a nice world for her. She doesn’t need to do that. Modelling here is for girls who have no choices.’
Anya’s music stand stood by the window like a lone winter tree.
A violin case sat at the foot of the bed. Irina went over to the stand and started turning the pages of Anya’s sheet music.
‘She loves Tchaikovsky, and Shostakovich. She stands by the window here and plays over the people rushing below. Her godfather, Kirril, used to say that you could never be a truly great violinist until you experienced pure sorrow and pure joy. He said it changes the quality of the notes you play forever. Anya believed that, too.’
Stevie knelt and opened the violin case, took out the elegant instrument. ‘Is she close to her godfather?’
‘She was once. He’s a conductor and he introduced Anya to music.
Neither Valery nor I are musical.’ Irina gave a wry smile. ‘When she was younger, they would listen to music together and talk about it for hours.’
‘Where is he now?’
Irina shook her head. ‘It has been years since any of us spoke to him. He no longer lives in Russia.’ She seemed about to say more but then just bowed her head and reached for the edge of the pink coverlet.
Stevie suddenly felt like an impostor. ‘Irina, Henning tells me your husband doesn’t want to hire anyone local to help.’
Irina shook her head. ‘It’s too dangerous. Everyone is corrupt.’
‘But when we start to negotiate, you need a trained professional. Do you
Stevie carefully took the necklace from Irina and examined it. ‘It was ripped from her neck, I’m guessing. The clasp is a little bent. Gold is soft.’ She looked closely at the blue glass eye that twisted slowly this way and that.
‘People usually wear an evil eye to keep people’s bad thoughts away,’ Stevie said, half to herself.
‘The eye was a new thing,’ Vadim broke in. ‘I think it’s from a night club—like a membership badge or a promotion.’
‘It’s quite beautiful. What is the club called?’
‘Zima. These promoters run a new club named after each season:
Zima in winter, Leto in summer, Vesna in spring and Osen in autumn.
People in Moscow have very short attention spans. The nightclubs have to reinvent themselves every few months.’
‘Does Anya go to nightclubs often?’ Stevie was surprised. She was only fifteen.
‘It was her first time,’ Vadim said. ‘They run some model night there. Girls go to get discovered. She went to the club two nights before she disappeared, I remember. She told me afterwards or I would have stopped her.’
‘I didn’t know.’ Irina shook her head. ‘Anya likes classical music.’
‘Irina,’ Stevie asked gently, ‘can I see Anya’s room?’
It was a comfortable room, a teenage room, with photos of her school friends, animals, a Coldplay poster, one of Vanessa Mae, signed. The single bed, neatly made with a pale pink quilt, reminded Stevie how young Anya was; and how horribly afraid she would be feeling right at this moment.
‘Was Anya happy? Did she mention any new friends, ideas, places in the last few weeks?’ she asked Irina.
It was Vadim who answered. ‘She always talks about moving to America, or Paris. Living real life. She wants to be famous.’
‘I don’t suppose she keeps a diary?’
‘No. She expresses everything through music. She always says words deform true meaning.’
Anya had papered the entire wall next to her bed with the covers of fashion magazines. Sandy Belle was on several of them. Her face stared down at Stevie, with her perky nose and flaming hair. Stevie wondered what dreams Sandy Belle had inspired in Anya.
‘Did Anya want to be an actress?’
Vadim looked at his mother. She was far away, staring out the window at the white winter fog.
‘A model. But my parents thought it was a bad idea.’
‘She is too young.’ Irina woke from her reverie. ‘It’s not a nice world for her. She doesn’t need to do that. Modelling here is for girls who have no choices.’
Anya’s music stand stood by the window like a lone winter tree.
A violin case sat at the foot of the bed. Irina went over to the stand and started turning the pages of Anya’s sheet music.
‘She loves Tchaikovsky, and Shostakovich. She stands by the window here and plays over the people rushing below. Her godfather, Kirril, used to say that you could never be a truly great violinist until you experienced pure sorrow and pure joy. He said it changes the quality of the notes you play forever. Anya believed that, too.’
Stevie knelt and opened the violin case, took out the elegant instrument. ‘Is she close to her godfather?’
‘She was once. He’s a conductor and he introduced Anya to music.
Neither Valery nor I are musical.’ Irina gave a wry smile. ‘When she was younger, they would listen to music together and talk about it for hours.’
‘Where is he now?’
Irina shook her head. ‘It has been years since any of us spoke to him. He no longer lives in Russia.’ She seemed about to say more but then just bowed her head and reached for the edge of the pink coverlet.
Stevie suddenly felt like an impostor. ‘Irina, Henning tells me your husband doesn’t want to hire anyone local to help.’
Irina shook her head. ‘It’s too dangerous. Everyone is corrupt.’
‘But when we start to negotiate, you need a trained professional. Do you
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