The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster crime thriller novel Book 1) (26 page)

‘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 using 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.

T
he 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.’

I
t 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.’

O
utside 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.

E
rika
, 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 about 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.

‘Krispy Kreme. You have free reign to order,’ said Erika. ‘Where’s Marsh?’

‘He left early. He’s got the weekend off; taking his missus to some kind of art retreat,’ said Crane.

‘I didn’t know he was into painting, too,’ said Erika.

‘No, he’s dropping her off; it’s in Cornwall. I think he’s getting some tonight though; he’s told us he’s not on call . . . under any circumstances.’

‘Typical; we’re at a crucial point in our investigation and he decides to bugger off on a mini-break.’

‘You want me to get him on the phone?’ asked Crane.

‘No, hold off on contacting Chief Superintendent Marsh,’ said Erika, realising that this could work to her advantage.

T
he next morning
, Chief Superintendent Marsh lay with Marcie in a beautiful hotel room – the name of the hotel escaped him, but he knew it was far from London with a sweeping view of Dartmoor. Her head lay on his bare chest, and he had that warm post-coital rush. The feel and smell of his wife’s skin was intoxicating. It was now light, and they’d woken from a night of repeated lovemaking, something unheard of since the twins had come along.

The phone beside the bed screamed out, breaking the silence. Marsh rolled over and saw it was nine-thirty in the morning. He reached over, lifted the receiver, and dropped it down into the cradle again.

‘Did you order a wake-up call?’ murmured Marcie.

‘Course not,’ he said.

‘Ooh. That turns me on the most, you not answering the phone,’ purred Marcie. She kissed him, sliding her hand down over his stomach . . .

The phone rang again. Marsh cursed, rolled over and yanked the cord from its plug on the wall. He rolled back to her and grinned. ‘I believe you were about here,’ he said, placing her hand on his growing erection.

‘
Again
? Chief Superintendent.’ She grinned.

Suddenly, there was a hammering on their door. ‘Sorry, hello . . . it’s the front desk,’ came a voice.

‘What the hell!’ exclaimed Marsh, as Marcie was poised to unroll a condom over the head of his stiff cock.

‘Tell him to piss off; this is the last one in the pack,’ said Marcie.

The hammering came again. ‘Sir, sir?’ quavered the voice of the young boy from the front desk. ‘I know you said not to bother you under any circumstances, but there’s an Assistant Commissioner Oakley waiting on the line. On your phone . . . Sir? He says if you don’t pick up there will be consequences . . . That’s me quoting him . . . that’s what he said.’

Marsh leapt up out of bed and scrabbled to reconnect the phone into the wall socket.

‘Where the hell have you been, Marsh? We have a situation!’ snapped Oakley when Marsh picked up the phone.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know it was you . . .’

‘One of your officers, that bloody Foster woman, showed up on Sir Simon Douglas-Brown’s doorstep at five this morning with an armed response unit. She’s taken him and his daughter Linda into custody. She’s taken Giles Osborne into custody too.’

‘What the hell?’

‘Now I’m up in Scotland, Marsh, on a much needed bloody holiday and I do not want to have to return to London. I trust you will rectify this.’

‘I will, sir.’

‘You’d better. I don’t often get woken up before nine by someone from the bloody cabinet office. Heads will roll on this one if we’re not careful, Marsh.’

The call was abruptly disconnected. Marsh stood there, naked, his penis now shrivelled to nothing. He picked up the phone again and dialled, shouting that he wanted to speak to DCI Foster. Immediately. Marcie pulled the bedclothes up around her, and bit back her tears. This would be yet another holiday ruined by her husband’s work.