The storm was coming close now, and under the tree it was very gloomy.
‘What happened to the girl?’ asked Erika, softly.
‘Igor sent me upstairs. He told me to stay in my room or there would be trouble. I heard the girl screaming and crying. It went on for what seemed like hours . . . And then it went quiet. Igor opened the door and asked to go to my mother’s room. She smiled when she saw him. She’d slept through it all. He asked for my sports bag, the big one I used when I went away. I went to the wardrobe and I pulled it out and he took it . . . He was so calm. I went downstairs a few minutes later and he was leaving with the bag over his shoulder.’
‘What was in the bag?’ asked Moss, even though they knew the answer.
‘The girl,’ said Barbora. ‘She was in the bag, and he just left.’
‘What did you do?’ asked Erika.
‘I cleaned up the mess in the cupboard. There was blood and other stuff . . .’
‘And then?’
‘He came back later, and he told me I’d done a good job. He even gave me some money . . .’ Barbora’s voice was full of self-loathing. ‘And then we carried on again, as if nothing had happened. But he started to tell me about his work. How he’d meet girls from the buses at Victoria Coach Station; how they came to work for him.’
‘To work as what?’ asked Erika.
‘Prostitutes. The more I knew, the more Igor kept giving me money. He bought my mother a new electric wheelchair she could use herself. She didn’t have to be pushed anymore. It changed her life.’
‘And how is Andrea part of this?’
‘I was so stressed I couldn’t eat; my periods stopped. Igor just didn’t look at me that way anymore, so Andrea took over. She provided him with that service.’
‘Was all this going on when you went on the family holidays with Andrea?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know that later on, Andrea got engaged?’
Barbora nodded, and accepted another cigarette.
‘And did Andrea know about Igor? Did she know what kind of work he did?’ asked Erika.
‘I don’t know. I never discussed it with her. We’d been close at first, and we still were weirdly close on the holidays with her family, but I withdrew into myself. I think Andrea had this romantic notion that Igor was some kind of roguish London gangster, like in those stupid Guy Ritchie films.’
‘So how did you come to be in the witness protection programme?’ asked Moss.
‘The body of the girl was discovered in my bag a few months later.’
‘Where?’
‘A landfill in East London. The bag had an old store card belonging to me in the inside pocket. It led the police to my door. They said they’d been watching me for a long time, and that I could strike a bargain for giving evidence.’
‘And you did?’
‘Yeah. My mother, she died just before this. Thank God. She never knew . . . Igor seemed to trust me by now. He wanted me to start coming to Victoria Coach Station to meet the girls. They thought they were coming to England to work as housekeepers. He figured if I was there they’d trust me, and get in the car . . .’
‘Igor was trafficking women to London, to work as prostitutes?’ asked Erika.
‘Yes.’
‘Was he working alone?’
‘No. I don’t know; it was all so complicated. There were other men involved, and their girlfriends.’
‘Where were the girls taken? How many girls were there?’ asked Moss.
‘I don’t know,’ Barbora started. She broke down, heaving and crying.
‘It’s okay,’ said Erika, reaching out across the dark table to take Barbora’s hand. She flinched and pulled it away.
‘So what happened?’ Erika continued. ‘Igor was arrested?’
‘Yes. It went to trial,’ said Barbora. Erika looked across at Moss. Even in the darkness, she could see the shock registered on her face.
‘Trial, what trial? We have no record . . . What happened?’
‘The prosecution’s case collapsed. There wasn’t enough solid evidence. The jury couldn’t rule either way . . . I think Igor got to some of the other witnesses. He . . . he knows too many people.’ Barbora now looked blank. ‘I realise how I must come across; the terrible things I’ve done. I know what a terrible person I am. All from loving a man,’ she said. Erika and Moss were silent. ‘When I saw those girls on the news, when you made your appeal, I remembered one of them – Tatiana. When she arrived in London. She was so excited, and . . . I had to speak to you. You have to get that bastard.’
‘Have you seen Andrea since?’ asked Moss.
Barbora shifted uncomfortably. ‘Yes.’
‘Was it the night of the eighth of January, in a pub called The Glue Pot?’ asked Erika.
‘Yes.’
‘Was Igor with her?’
‘What? No! I never would have gone near her if . . . Was he there?’
‘No,’ said Erika. Moss shot her a look. ‘Why were you there in London? You’re in the witness protection programme.’
‘I go to London every month, to visit my mother’s grave. I tidy, and I lay fresh flowers. Do you know how hard it is to be a stranger, to have a new identity? I texted Andrea thinking we could meet for coffee. I know it was stupid. But Andrea kept changing where we were going to meet and . . . I know I shouldn’t have gone, but I missed her.’
Moss was finding it hard to mask her disbelief.
‘We only met for a little bit. She was on her own. She said she was meeting a new boyfriend later on . . . It was like nothing had ever happened with her. She wasn’t surprised that I’d vanished and that now I was back. She didn’t care.’
‘When did you leave The Glue Pot?’
‘I don’t know. Before eight. I knew there was a train from London Liverpool Street just before nine.’
‘And you didn’t see anyone else?’
‘No, Andrea said she was going to have a drink at the bar. There was a girl working . . . I wanted to say to her, watch out, that was me once, but I didn’t.’
‘But all this, we’ll need you to go on record, Barbora.’
Barbora was suddenly silent. When she spoke, her voice sounded far away. ‘I’ve had my mobile phone on, recording this,’ she said, handing her phone over. ‘I have a little more to tell you, but first I really need to use the bathroom.’
‘Really? It’s dark and . . .’
‘Please, I have to,’ she repeated, urgently.
‘Okay. Well, don’t stray too far . . . We’ll be here,’ said Erika.
‘Here, use this little torch,’ said Moss, pulling one out of her coat pocket. Barbora took it, got up and went off into the undergrowth. The thunder was rumbling now with increased frequency. A flash of lightning lit up the inside of the clearing.
‘I’m calling Peterson,’ said Erika. ‘When she comes back we should make a move. Take her back to London. I mean, she’s just revealed herself so the new identity is no use. I don’t know the procedure for any of this.’
‘Jesus, boss, what about that trial? There is no record of George Mitchell or Igor Kucerov. And when they ran the photo of him through the national database, nothing came back . . . I don’t like it; this is getting weird.’
Erika nodded and lit a cigarette. ‘We need to confirm her new identity. Then cross-check all she’s told us . . .’
‘Another complex twist in the murder of Andrea Douglas-Brown,’ said Moss. Erika looked at the phone for the first time and fiddled with the buttons, managing to play back a little of Barbora’s voice.
‘We’ve got her on record. It’s grounds to bring this George Mitchell, or Igor Kucerov, in. We need an address from her when she gets back,’ said Erika.
Moss got on her phone and called Peterson, trying to explain where they were, but the signal was bad.
‘It’s breaking up, boss; I can’t get through.’ Thunder rumbled and a flash of lightning lit up the sky above. ‘Jesus!’ she cried. ‘I’m not u
sing my bloody mobile when there’s lightning above. Peterson can wait.’
‘Okay, okay, calm down; let me try,’ snapped Erika. She tried her phone and then Moss’s again, but there was no signal; the call wouldn’t even go through.
A strange creeping feeling was crawling over her.
‘She’s been gone a long time for a pee,’ said Moss. The light from Erika’s phone cast a glow across their faces.
They jumped up at the same time, and moved in the direction where Barbora had left the clearing, ducking under a large branch. They pushed through some dead brambles and came back out onto the long track.
Rain began to pelt them as they left the shelter of the trees. Lightning flashed, and then they saw, up ahead, a tall tree with several long branches.
A rope creaked and swung, and on the end of a noose hung Barbora. Her feet were still, and her body swung in the breeze.
59
The rain had become torrential, roaring on the treetops and turning the muddy track to a blur of white. Thunder rumbled, and flashes of lightning illuminated Barbora where she hung with her eyes open, folds of skin around her neck bunched up by the rope under her chin. Moss attempted to climb the tree, but the rain hampered her efforts.
‘Stop, come down!’ shouted Erika above the noise. ‘It’s too late . . . She’s dead. Go back to Peterson and call for back up. I’ll stay here.’
‘You sure, boss?’ shouted Moss, above the roar of the rain.
‘Yes, go!’ shouted Erika.
Moss ran off into the trees, and Erika waited. She paced up and down in the mud, not caring that she was getting wet. Her mind was whirring. The further they dug into this case, the more complex it became.
The storm seemed to be right above; the rain roared and the air fizzed with electricity. Erika was forced to stand under the tree, putting the thick trunk between her and the body.
Eventually the rain slowed, and storm began to move on. She was trying to find a signal on her phone when she heard the sound of a police siren. A squad car appeared far up the track and slowly made its way towards her, its wheels churning up the waterlogged mud. Two young male officers got out, and Erika walked to meet them, holding up her ID. They looked up at Barbora’s body.
‘You haven’t touched anything? We need to secure the area,’ one of them said.
‘It was suicide,’ said Erika. ‘She was with us before she did it.’
It was several hours before Erika, Moss, and Peterson were cleared to leave the scene. The fact that Barbora had been in witness protection had hampered efforts to discover who she was. It was getting dark as they drove back towards London. Erika and Moss filled Peterson in on the details.
‘So, this Igor Kucerov is responsible for the deaths of Andrea, the three Eastern European girls, and Ivy?’ asked Peterson.
‘And the girl he killed at Barbora’s house. The one he stashed in the sports bag.’
‘He was arrested for this and went to trial, and he’s not in any system or database?’
‘He’s not in any system as George Mitchell,’ said Erika. On cue, there was a hiss and a beep as Crane came over the radio.
‘Boss, we found an address for Igor Kucerov from the council tax records. He lives in Kilburn; he’s thirty-seven, of Romanian-Russian descent. He’s married, too. House is in the wife’s name, a Rebecca Kucerov. They’ve got a five-year-old son.’
‘Jesus,’ said Moss.
‘How long has he been married?’ asked Erika.
‘Ten years,’ said Crane.
‘Any employment history?’
‘He runs a landscape garden maintenance business. He’s down as director, but the company is in his wife’s name. We’re just running our computers to find out if he had any contracts in the locations where the dead girls were found.’
There was a pause.
‘Do you want us to bring him in?’ asked Crane. Erika looked at the clock glowing on the dashboard. It was past five pm.
‘We should be back in London in about two hours,’ said Peterson, reading her mind.
‘No. Hold off bringing him in. I want to be ready for him. Put a surveillance team outside his house. Don’t let him know you’re there. And keep him in sight.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘We’ll be back at Lewisham Row in a couple of hours. In the meantime I want everything you can find on him: bank statements, emails, companies he owns, any bankruptcy. Also, check out the wife – full profile. I bet anything else he’s hiding stuff in her name too. And try to unlock the new identity they gave Barbora Kardosova. Now she’s dead it should be easier.’
‘We’re already working on it,’ said Crane. He added, ‘Are you all okay? We heard she topped herself right in front of you.’
‘We’re fine,’ said Erika. ‘Now get off this radio and concentrate on Igor Kucerov.’
Outside the car it was pitch black. The fields and fens around them were invisible. There were no moon or stars, and barely any light pollution; just the road in front, illuminated by the arc of the headlights. Erika longed to get far away from the bleakness of the fens, from where Barbora’s body had swung creaking from the tree. She needed to be back in the city, where buildings crowded around her; where there was noise, and time didn’t stand still.
She pulled down the mirror above the passenger seat and its light flicked on. She saw she had mud on her face. Peterson’s reflection stared back from behind, bathed in the light.
‘It doesn’t get any easier, does it, boss? Seeing a dead body,’ he said.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Erika. She wiped at the mud with a tissue, and then snapped the mirror shut, plunging the interior of the car back into darkness.
They rode the rest of the way back in silence, conserving their energy for the night ahead.
60
Erika, Moss, and Peterson arrived back at Lewisham Row Station just after seven pm. The torrential rain had moved with them during the journey back from Norfolk, and was pelting the car park as they dashed into the reception area. They were met by Crane, who buzzed them through from reception. Erika was impressed to see that the full team had stayed, and the incident room buzzed with activity.
‘Good evening, everyone. I take it that Crane has briefed you on what happened?’ said Erika. There was a murmured nodding. ‘Good. Now, what can you give me?’
One of the officers had brought up some towels from the police gym in the basement and threw one each to Moss, Peterson and Erika. They took them gratefully.
‘We’ve gone back through records and found that the girl who was found dumped in the sports bag was seventeen-year-old Nadia Greco. A trial was held in Southwark Crown Court,’ explained Crane.
‘And?’ asked Erika, rubbing at her hair with the towel.
‘And this is where it gets weird, boss. The trial records have been marked as CMP – closed material procedures.’
‘What?’ asked Erika. ‘Why would Igor Kucerov’s trial be put on the same legal footing as a classified secret intelligence trial?’
‘I don’t know; as I said, very little is available. The transcripts have been redacted, names blanked out,’ said Crane.
‘How do we know it’s his case then?’
‘It matches the keyword search I did for the murder – the location where the body was found and the details of the victim weren’t classified.’
‘Are there any details of the trial verdict?’ asked Erika.
‘It says that the trial collapsed due to insufficient evidence.’
‘And there’s no record of an arrest for an Igor Kucerov or a George Mitchell?’
‘No. We’ve done a Google search on Igor Kucerov, and several of the search results have been removed under the European data protection law. And if Igor Kucerov had a record, it’s been wiped. There’s nothing for him, or for a George Mitchell, in the database.’
‘I don’t like the sound of this.’
‘We’re gonna keep working, boss.’
‘What abou
t unlocking Barbora Kardosova’s real identity?’
‘We’re working on it now, but the courts won’t open until nine am tomorrow. Witness protection is a highly secretive department; they work on a different computer network.’
There was a silence. Erika stood and went over to the whiteboards, where photos of all the victims were pinned up. There were also CCTV stills of Andrea’s last sighting, when she had boarded the train, and next to these was the photo taken of her with George Mitchell, now known as Igor Kucerov. There was also a new photo of Igor Kucerov taken from his driving licence, and at the end were family photos of the Douglas-Browns on holiday with Barbora Kardosova, before she’d cut her hair short and dyed it blonde, and vanished in the witness protection scheme.
‘Okay. I know it’s been a long day,’ said Erika, turning back to face the room. ‘But we need to get out our spades and start digging. I’m asking a big favour of you all, and I’d like to work on for a few more hours. I want to go back to basics and go over everything to do with this case with a fine-tooth comb. Everything. I’ll order in food, coffee; I’m buying. We just have to find something. There’s a link between Andrea Douglas-Brown, Igor Kucerov and the rest of the murders. We need to find it, and it could be the tiniest thing we’ve missed. As I always say, there are no stupid questions.
‘Now, with this trial being classified, we’re dipping our toes into dangerous waters here, but don’t be afraid to dig deep, in particular with Sir Simon. He was off-limits before, but he isn’t now. We have Barbora Kardosova’s recorded statement; I’ll get it uploaded to the intranet. Now, who’s willing to stay?’
Erika looked expectantly at the full incident room. Slowly, people put their hands in the air. She looked at Moss, who grinned and raised her hand, as did Peterson.
‘If I wasn’t such a bitter old cow I’d kiss you all. Thank you. Right. Let’s make the next few hours count and get to it.’
The officers in the incident room sprang into action.
‘Where did you get those doughnuts from last time?’ asked Crane, coming over with a pile of files.
The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster crime thriller novel Book 1) Page 26
